Little Red Lies by Julie Johnston

Author:Julie Johnston [Johnston, Julie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-77049-314-8
Publisher: Tundra
Published: 2013-09-09T12:00:00+00:00

Tuesday it pours rain, so I don’t go. Ruthie is still away, so on Thursday after lunch, I say I’m going back to visit Hazel Carrington. Who needs lipstick called Little Red Lies? Not me. I walk swiftly to the park, hoping to get a chance to talk to the preacher before he starts healing people. The tent entrance is closed. I walk all the way around it, looking for another way in. The flap at the back is also closed, but behind the tent, I discover a trailer attached to the back of a truck.

From inside I hear voices getting louder and louder. Before I can knock on the door, it bursts open, and one of the singing girls storms out, almost stumbling on the three steps to the ground. She calls back into the trailer, “I’m a singer, not an actress!” Behind her, the door slams. She notices me then and says, “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. He’s liable to bite your head off.”

I take her advice and wait for the show to start. It’s much the same as the last one—not as crowded, but just as smelly. This time I find a seat closer to the front. Both girls are in place, ready to warble their song accompanied by Mrs. Lasco at the piano. When the line forms, they take their places behind the sufferer. I don’t recognize anyone in the line. There’s one gray-haired woman with glasses who is terribly hunched over, her chin almost on her chest. After her shake-up, she stands nearly straight and returns to her seat, glowing with surprise and relief and looking years younger.

I’m determined to talk to Reverend Lasco. I make my way with difficulty against the throng pushing their way out of the tent. By the time I reach the front, Reverend Lasco is nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Lasco is at the piano, gathering up her sheet music and putting it into a carryall. I quickly squeeze past the last of the audience and manage to catch her. I know how hot and sweaty and red-faced I look, but she’s mopping her face, too. She’s a fleshy woman with a cinched-in waist that makes her look as if she’s wearing a corset a couple of sizes too small. Coils and waves of blonde hair are intricately pinned up on top of her head, but a few wisps have escaped.

“I need to talk to Reverend Lasco,” I blurt.

“He’s resting,” she says. “He’s always done in after these sessions. It’s hard work, you know.” She edges away slightly.

“But I just need to ask him something.”

“And what do you want to ask? Perhaps I can help.”

“Well, um …” I need to get right to the point. “Can a person, a sick person, my brother, actually, be cured by long distance?”

“Why? Is he too sick to come here?” She screws up her face as if it this is the stupidest question she’s ever heard.

“Not—not so far, but—”

“He has to attend.

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