January 15, 1939

The church was tiny and cheap, with plastic stained windows instead of glass. Instead of pews, metal benches ran across the room. With a shiny tiled floor and the smell of old cigarette smoke, it was practically a dump. I managed to snag my coat and boots from Aunt Judy before she managed to ask me questions about my moms friend. Speaking of the devil, my mom's friend had not come last night, so we were forced to eat dinner alone. Instead, she told me that he was going to meet us at church. We did not go to church unless it was Easter or Christmas, so walking into the chapel seemed rude with all eyes were on us.

My mom and I were wearing matching clothes. She wore a light blue dress with pairing flats. They complimented her eyes. She had her hair curled for the first time in forever. She looked nice. I wore a baby blue shirt, with tan pants. I looked like a worked at a factory. My mom had purposely slicked my hair back to freshen up the look, but she couldn't hide the bags under my eyes. Not even with makeup.

"There he is," she exclaimed, pointing to a tall man dressed in a sharp suit. Behind black-rimmed glasses were grey eyes, if they had ever been blue it must somehow dulled over time. He looked as cold as the dirty snow on the bottom of his shoes. He walked over to our pew, grabbing at my mom's waist.

"Babe, I am sorry that I didn't make it for dinner. My job kept me late. I swear I'll make it up to you, tonight." I quickly butted in, pushing him away. The top of my head reached his belly button. 

"Who are you?" I stuck my hand out, waiting.

"Hugh Burns. Nice to meet you...?" He took my hand with a firm grip.

"Nickolas Focker." After letting go of my hand, he wiped his hands on his pants. My mom did not seem to notice, her eyes gushing all over Hugh. It was disgusting. She never acted this way, especially not toward Dad. She kept twirling her hair with her point finger. 

Someone cleared their throat in the background, forcing everyone to sit. The service was starting. If I were being honest, I did not listen throughout the service. I may go to Hell, but I wanted to make sure my mom was safe. Hugh repeatedly put his hand on my mom's thigh, calling out her name 'Luisa' this and 'Luisa' that. Like c'mon, you are supposed to be listening to the pastor.

The church service was over within an hour. Many children were starting to complain, mostly falling asleep. Attentive adults became bored after the first half hour. I closed my eyes at least twice. My mom popped the back of my head again and at this point I would have called it abuse. 

"Do you want to go out to eat?" He was looking at me.

"Where to? It is as cold as a polar bear's butt. I would rather eat my mom's warm home-cooked meal." He practically rolled his eyes.

"We do not have to go to a penny restaurant. How do you feel about lima beans with tomato soup with a side of crisp bacon?" Hugh said, squeezing my mom's hand. She smiled at him, all thirty-two teeth showing. 

"How did you know about the lima beans and the crisp bacon?" I narrowed my eyes at my mom. You do not go and tell strangers about your kid's favorite food. It's against the Family Policy. At least, that's what I heard.

"Your mother, of course. She's a doll, isn't she?" He planted a kiss on her lips, her face cupped in his hand. She smiled at him, again. Bleh. The pastor began walking toward us, swift on his feet. He placed his hand on the small of my back.

"Welcome. I hope you enjoyed our service today. We would love to see you next week." There were wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. He seemed genuine. We all shook his hand and walked out the main door. Hugh's car was awaiting us just a few feet down the road.

"Mom, I'm not hungry. I did not finish my homework yet, but it's due tomorrow."

"It's not mine. Hugh and I can go to lunch without you."

"But I need help."

"Really?"

"Really." I lied. Twice.

"Okay, fine. Hugh, I am sorry. We can go to lunch next Sunday. I promise that Nickolas will have his homework done by tonight." He nodded, kissing the back of my mom's hand. He gave me the death glare and got into his car. He road off silently, not even looking back to acknowledge us.

"He's a bitch."

"Ms. Moore is a bitch," she replied. We went back home on foot. She had the cigarette and I had the lighter. She did not go to bed happy that night and neither did I. My mom was cranky.