“I’m missing The Partridge Family,” I protested.

Mama tugged me out of the car. We rushed up the steps and opened the door into the cool, dark sanctuary. There was a light under the door of the conference room next to the pastor’s study on the far side of the space. I could hear murmurings and then a muffled laugh. Mama knocked on the door and Reverend Horace Manning himself opened it.

“Sister Sanders, you can leave Kellie June with us and come back at seven a.m. She’ll be fine, and I’ll make sure she’s okay.” He wore a faded, striped short sleeve shirt tucked into everyday twill pants, and his brass Masonic tie clip—just like my grandfather’s —winked in the bright light as it held his ugly puke green tie onto his shirt. I could see rings of sweat under his arms from the oppressive late summer heat that hung over the land like a steaming, wet wool blanket. His lips curled over his teeth and the orange tint to his scalp where hair dye had stained his skin glinted under the harsh glare of the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

He pulled me into the room that was too bright and hot and closed the door in Mama’s face. I was always leery of his overzealous countenance and the look in his eyes made me shiver. Mr. Jackson who lived down the road from us and Mr. Howard who fished with Papa on Saturdays were standing against one wall as the preacher pushed me into the middle of the room. There were a few other men in the shadows where I couldn’t see.

“Why am I here and why do I need praying over?” I asked as the men closed in around me. Reverend Manning pulled off my glasses and pushed me to my knees in the center of the room. There was a grainy substance that felt like dried grits under my knees on the old hardwood floor. I looked around in blurred confusion as the men gathered close enough for me to smell Old Spice, stewed cabbage and Winston cigarettes.

Reverend Manning bent over me in that hot, brightly lit room and placed his hands on top of my head as I blinked at the men around me. His breath was in my face, reeking of onions. He pushed hard on my head and began to pray out loud.

“Forgive this willful child of her disobedience,” he rasped in my ear. “I ask your guidance in bringing her to an awareness of her sins.”

The men said amen and stirred around me. I tried to look up at the preacher, but he held my head still between his hands.

“I’m not a bad girl. This grits hurts my knees, and you need to let me up.”

I reached out to push away but the men moved in and I couldn’t go anywhere. The preacher leaned down, pushed even harder on my sweat dampened head of long blonde hair and whispered in my ear.

“Kellie June, this is for your own good. You have to learn to submit and never question the authority of a man. Now be still or I’ll make you.”

I leaned back on my heels and tried to think this through. I was used to Papa. I knew to stay out his way, and when he took the belt to me I knew that as soon as I cried he would stop. But I didn’t think the preacher would let me up even if I did cry. So I knelt there in the grits and tried to think of a way out. Reverend Manning was still praying loud and hard on my head, and the men around were chanting softly along with him.

“Lord, you shed your blood for all our sins and iniquities and to redeem the fall of woman.” Preacher Manning blathered on over my head as sweat trickled down my back and forehead and dripped into my eyes, making them burn. It was hot when I arrived but the humid heat of August soon had the space sweltering. After an hour of this I was having a hard time breathing and the praying was still going on above me. My knees were really hurting, I was thirsty and hungry, and I needed to pee.

“Reverend Manning,” I interrupted him mid-sentence. He popped me sharp against my lips, then leaned down to pat my head and whisper at me to hush my mouth or there would be more of that. His slap made my teeth cut my bottom lip, and I could taste blood in my mouth. I gagged on the blood but swallowed hard. His prayers got louder, the men around were beginning to lean over and put their hands on my head and shoulders. He asked God to forgive me again for speaking out of turn. The men began to sing an old hymn, which echoed against the wooden walls of the room.

There is a fountain filled with blood
drawn from Emmanuel’s veins
and sinners plunged beneath that flood
lose all their guilty stains
and sinners plunged beneath that flood
lose all their guilty stains.