When the preacher came, no lie any adult could tell would put me at ease. Preacher Cur­ley was bald, per­pet­u­ally red-faced, and short. On Sun­day morn­ings he was all fire and brim­stone and Bap­tist, deliv­er­ing bale­ful ser­mons to a flock eager for chas­ten­ing. On Sun­day after­noons, he had din­ner with my grand­par­ents, and some­times I was there too, cowed into polite­ness by my mem­o­ries of ear­lier in the day. But it was a Sat­ur­day this time that Preacher Cur­ley drove up. There’s no church on Sat­ur­days. Papaw died that after­noon, in the mid­dle of Preacher Curley’s prayers. […]