David takes a seat on the couch.
“We’ll just let you two get acquainted,” her father says, taking Emma’s mother by the arm and leading her out of the parlor.
Emma pours two cups of coffee.
“Do you like cream and sugar?”
“Both," David says. "You?"
"Cream," Emma says. "Just cream."
She stirs each into one cup, handing it to David. She puts two cookies on a napkin and hands those to David. She takes the other cup of coffee and one cookie on a napkin and sits on the other end of the couch, to David’s right, as her father instructed. She crosses her legs, puts the napkin with the cookie in her lap, and takes the cookie directing it toward her mouth for a bite.
“Let’s bless this food,” David says.
Emma’s father has never even blessed cookies. But David wants to bless the cookie.
“Okay,” Emma says.
“Dear Father, we thank you for letting us breathe on your Earth. We ask you to guide us, to show us the path so that we can serve you. Bless this food. Bless Emma. And bless the good work that her father does, leading his family and his church.
“Amen.”
Emma thinks he forgot to mention the cookie.
Emma takes a bite of one. David takes a sip of his coffee.
“Only on Saturday night,” he says.
“What?”
“Only on Saturday night. Coffee. Only on Saturday night, and not every. It’s the caffeine. God gave us coffee, but God gave us the strength to avoid it. Too much makes me jittery. So only on Saturday night, and not every.”
“I have coffee every day,” Emma says. “Father doesn’t say it’s a bad thing.”
“Nothing God gave us is bad. It’s how we use it.”
“That’s true, I guess,” Emma says. “I don’t have too much. Just mornings. Sometimes in the evening.”
“Only on Saturday night,” David says, sipping from his cup.
Emma understands he is giving a command rather than making a proclamation. She changes the subject.
“Did you drive here?” she asks.
“Yes. In my father’s car. He’s working on the sermon for tomorrow morning and didn’t need it.”
“I see,” Emma says. “I don’t have a car. I’ve never driven.”
“It’s not hard. You just put your foot on the brake. Start the engine, ease your foot off the brake, steer, look where you are going, and ease your foot on the gas. That’s all there is to it.”
“I see.”
“Did you go to school?” Emma says.
“Yes.”
“Oh?”
“I learned from the Bible. It’s the only schooling anybody needs.”
“You didn’t take classes at home?”
“Yes, my father taught me. From the Bible. I learned to read from the Bible. I learned to count from the Bible. I learned about how the world was created from the Bible. I learned to fear God from the Bible.”
“I see. So you didn’t do the state classes?”
“No,” David says.
“Your dress is nice,” David says, changing the subject. “Did you make it?”
“Yes.”
“You sew well.”
“Thank you.”
He takes a bite of a cookie.
“Mmmm. Did you make these?”
“Yes.”
“They are good. Do you make other things this good?”
“I suppose,” Emma says. “I just cook for my mother and father. They’ve never said if it was good. But I suppose.”
“Did you go to school?” David says.
“Yes. At home. My mother taught me. I did the state plan for home schooling, except for science. No science.”
“You’ve read the Bible haven’t you?”
“Of course.”
“That’s all the science you need. That’s all the reading you need. It’s the only book the world needs. If everybody just read the Bible, wouldn’t be any Devil-loving people.
“It’s crazy. Men sleeping with men. Folks pouring poison into themselves. Dancing with each other like they are crazy. Fornicating when they are not married. Stealing from their neighbors. All these crazy ideas they get don’t come from the Bible.”
“You won’t need any more books. Let a woman learn quietly with all submissiveness. First Timothy, verse two eleven.”
“I’m sorry?” Emma says, seeking clarification.
“You won’t need any more books.”
“I see,” she says, looking down at the remaining half of her cookie.
David sips the last of his coffee. He puts the cup on the table. He gets quiet, and is looking at his empty cup.
“I’m sorry,” Emma says. “Would you like some more?”