Other Voices, Other Rooms

by Truman Capote

Missouri emptied her coffee into a saucer, blew on it, dumped it back into the cup, sucked up a swallow, and smacked her lips. ‘ This here’s the Lord’s day,’ she announced. ‘You believe in Him? You got faith in His healin power?’ Joel said: ‘1 go to church.’ ‘Now that ain't what I'm speakin of. Take for instance, when you thinks bout the Lord, what is it passes in your mind?’ ‘Oh, stuff,’ he said, though actually, whenever he had occasion to remember that a God in heaven supposedly kept his record, one thing he thought of was money: quarters his mother had given him for each Bible stanza memorized, dimes diverted from the Sunday School collection plate to Gabaldoni’s Soda Fountain, the tinkling rain of coins as the cashiers of the church solicited among the congregation. But Joel didn’t much like God, for He had betrayed him too many times. ‘Just stuff like saying my prayers.’