Thomas knew to slide his bottom forward and reach his arms to the pew in front. He could not yet lay his forehead on it, so he was to hold his arms straight and look down.

          He would hardly have looked up anyway. Old Mrs. Amory always sat in the pew in front of theirs. He was scared of the stringy gray hair that showed below the edge of her bonnet. It looked like worms. Her neck had brown moles on it, and scaly patches that made him get the feeling of throwing up. He wouldn’t, but still his stomach would not be free of the feeling until after church, when he could get away from her.

    From the front, Mrs. Amory was even scarier. When he and his family entered the pew she had turned to watch, and her cold blue eyes seemed to bore into each one of them—his brother, stepmother and two sisters—as an awl punctures leather.

          His father, in his black robe, led the opening prayer:

 Almighty Father, We have erred, and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done; And there is no help in us. But thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable sinners….

          What had all these people done that was so bad? he wondered. Their neighbor Mrs. Sedgwick had stayed up all night bathing the face of her youngest, and he’d heard cook say she had likely saved his little life. 

          Mr. Staunton, the blacksmith, could calm down a jittery horse just by talking to it. And his school mates, in pews behind him, worked and worked to learn their lessons. Were they sinners too? Was he?

          “Amen.”

           Thomas slid back into the pew and raised his head. A tepid November sunlight shone somewhere beyond the dark, leaded windows of the church. If he closed one eye, then another, he could make the window come closer, then farther away. Out there somewhere was also the sea air, which his family often blamed for illnesses.

          In the pulpit, his father began his sermon. Recognizing its theme, Thomas carefully stifled a sigh. It seemed his father had spoken of the same thing last week, and the week before: How the wicked are tempted. The Rev. Edward Wigglesworth, with his prominent, hooked nose, was heir to an unbroken line of doomsday New England clerics, starting with the 17^th century Puritan firebrand, Michael Wigglesworth. Thomas had been made to memorize some of his “Day of Doom,” the very first poem printed in the New World.

            Wallowing in all kind of sin,

vile wretches lay secure:
The best of men had scarcely then
their Lamps kept in good ure.
Virgins unwise, who through disguise
amongst the best were number’d,
Had clos’d their eyes —

He couldn’t remember what came after that.

          His father had taken the same divinity degree at Harvard as his father, Edward, and lived the same life of penance and devotion. Thomas’s older brother, Edward, just 10, was expected to take up the mantle, preaching against earthly delight and the lure of sin.

            Thomas sometimes wondered, as his father enumerated these sins, why he needed to describe them again and again.

          What he wanted to hear about was George Washington’s battle at Yorktown. The schoolmaster had said it ended in a great victory for the rebs. But his father didn’t mention it.

          “Man is frail in the face of temptation,” his father preached. “His sloth and wickedness will meet their reward in the eternal flames of hell.”

          Thomas thought about the Charles River that flowed through Cambridge and into the Boston Harbor beyond. What if he jumped into that water? If he stayed wet in the sea, could the flames of hell not reach or scorch him?

          “Yea, God condemns Man’s boldness. He extends his Mercy, but man looks away!” The Reverend was warming to his Sunday message. “He stops his ear. He does not hear!” The Reverend shook a raised fist.

          Thomas slid forward to allow his knees to bend. His small calves began to swing of their own accord, in rhythm with his father’s voice.

          “God will visit his power upon the ungrateful!” His father spat out the words. “Yea, even unto the end of time! The ungrateful will burn for eternity!” His father’s voice rose half an octave at least. “There is no help for him!”

          Faster and harder went Thomas’s legs as his father’s tempo increased. Begging angels to deliver them, the guilty screamed and howled in hell, and Thomas’ legs ached to outrun the flames, swinging wider and longer.

          There was a terrible bang, like a musket firing. His father paused, glaring out at the congregation with his thin mouth firmly set. A second passed before Thomas realized the source of the sound. He had kicked his boot into the pew in front, right into the back of Mrs. Amory’s seat. The bare wood amplified the raw chunk of sound before utter silence descended.

          The discreet eyes of the congregation flickered towards him. Mrs. Amory’s head began to swivel on the skinny axis of her wrinkled neck. He half rose in an effort to flee before his stepmother’s bony hand reached over his sister Mary’s lap and landed on his knee, sticking it to the wooden seat. He didn’t breathe while it stayed there; not another breath until, after an eternity of agony, there was a slight rustling in the pulpit to tell that the sermon would now proceed.

          Mother Sparhawk reached further over Mary to put both her hands under his armpits and lift him backwards. Like a baby. Mary, who was 13, squeezed his hand but would not look at him. He stole a glance at Mother Sparhawk and saw her eyes were pale and pained. For a moment he thought she wanted the sermon to be over too. But probably that wasn’t it. Probably she wanted to twist his ear for kicking Mrs. Amory’s seat.

          Thomas’ face burned until the sermon’s end. When he heard the final blessing, his stomach twisted in anticipation.

          The congregation began to file out. When it was their turn his family rose and walked single file down the central aisle, after the Amorys. His brother Edward, narrow and pale, led the procession, followed by their stepmother in her black cloak and bonnet, her pinched face staring furiously ahead. Behind Mother Sparhawk came Mary, dainty and pretty at 13, the only Wigglesworth with a cheerful disposition. Thomas was escorted down the aisle by his eldest sister, mouse-haired Margaret, who had his hand firmly clamped in hers. She was 15. She was usually nice, but he knew she was mad.

          Sure enough, “You humiliated us,” she hissed, as soon as they emerged from the vestibule, before turning a different, pleasant face to greet Mrs. Amory. His older brother gave him a sly grin and then ignored him. Thomas did not take this to be any sign of sympathy. He thought Edward was glad to have the attention taken off of him for a while.

          When his father finished greeting his congregation, he sent the older three ahead with Mother Sparhawk and he walked Thomas home.

          “I will say only, my son, that a house of God is a place to listen and learn. If you continue to act in such childish ways, we will have you attend the children’s service with the four- and five-year olds. Would that suit you better?”

          “No sir.”

          “Are you certain?”

          “Yes sir.”

          “You will study your Bible after dinner for two hours. I shall select the passages and have Mary read them to you.”

          “Yes, sir.”

          “Then I will expect perfect comportment from you next week and every week thereafter.”

          “Yes, sir.”

          That was all his father had to say until they arrived at the brown, gabled house abutting Harvard Yard, where the Wigglesworths had lived for three generations. 

          There was Sunday dinner to come. The Coolidges were invited. His brother would attend to old Mr. Coolidge, who was hard of hearing. Mrs. Coolidge would be seated next to his father. Margaret was to assist their cook, Mrs. Inglesby, with serving. Thomas was to remain quiet and keep out of the way.

          The only consolation was Mary. She would be seated next to him and could be counted on to take unwanted vegetables into her own napkin when their stepmother’s back was turned. Mary had nodded solemnly when their father instructed her to read him the Bible after dinner. But as soon as their father left she burst out in giggles. “Did you see Mrs. Amory’s face, Thomas?” Mary’s eyes were sparkling with amusement. “She could make codfish swim the other way!” Then, “Hsst, Thomas,” she’d clapped a small hand over her rosy mouth, waving the other rapidly in front of her. “Oh I shouldn’t be unkind. I take it back!” But she’d touched her blond head briefly to his forehead and rubbed a circle on his back. Mary was his salvation.

          Mrs. Inglesby called that the roast was ready.

          Thomas had recovered his appetite. In fact he was very hungry. They always had potatoes and a joint of meat on Sundays, and beans from a jar in the cellar. He scarcely cared how it was served, but still he must attend the prescribed order: first the guests were served, then his stepmother, his brother, on down to him at the very end, when the best portions were gone. Grace went on forever. The adults conversed and chewed very slowly.

          This Sunday he actually ate the green beans in their watery gravy. He left the table almost an hour later after a small cake dessert, still hungry, for what he did not know.

          Mary did the washing and then came upstairs to the bedroom he shared with Edward. With a quick lift of her eyebrows, she began reading the selected passages, Genesis 1 and Corinthians. Thomas tried to listen, but his mind strayed to the battle at Yorktown. 

          They heard their father and stepmother bid goodbye to the Coolidges. The door opened and shut again as Margaret and Edward went out. Their stepmother gave instructions in the kitchen in her quavery voice, and then ascended to her room. Their father’s shuffling footsteps ended in his first-floor study.

          Thomas guessed his father was dozing at his desk. His stepmother would be resting too. A late afternoon sun struck the window, creating different colors of light. Thomas slipped from his stool, and Mary marked the page before closing the Bible. In silence he opened the bedroom door. His sister followed. They crept down the stairs and into the empty parlor. A dark brown sofa, worn with age, a breakfront and four upright chairs were the only furnishings. Colorless muslin curtains covered most of the windows. There was a small orange light from the embers in the grate.

          Mary remained by the door, but Thomas tiptoed to the breakfront and opened it as carefully as he could. Gingerly, slowly, he pulled out the cup on the middle shelf, took it in both hands to the window.

          The careful stillness of his body as he examined it was like the swell of the tide under wooden piers. It had some unnamed movement to it. Something stirred in here.

          The translucent rose-hued nautilus shell glimmered in a silver mount. He was always amazed at the light in it. The shell was etched with intricate leaves, hummingbirds, and whooping cranes. On one side, his favorite, two dragons bared rows of pointed teeth and breathed a delicate pink fire.

          The Nautilus cup had been their mother’s prized possession, a wedding gift from her father. The silver was forged in New England, his grandmother had told him. The shell was sent to China where it was inscribed by people Thomas could not begin to imagine. Were they talking in Chinese as they held the fragile shell in their hands and ran tiny metal tools over it? Were there real dragons in China? Did trees grow that way? Were insects so beautiful in China? And then they sent it back, and it fit exactly, perfectly, into the silver holder. The stem was a clawed eagle’s foot with four curved toenails that sat upon the table.  At the top was a carved silver messenger, running across rocky land carrying a trumpet.

          He imagined his mother, who died a few weeks after he was born, in a dress the color of the nautilus, brocaded with the same designs of insects and graceful ferns. The dress would rustle as she walked and fall in folds across her lap when she sat. She would have silver jewelry at her neck that would jingle as she pushed his hair back from his forehead. Never mind that his mother had never had such things, but if she was with him in this room the embers would flare up into a fire to warm the corners. She would reach up her arms and pull the drapes apart so that sun and sea air would enter their house. He could lean a little against her, even a boy of six could lean against his mother’s skirts on a Sunday afternoon, and maybe she could tell him how the nautilus cup was made, and how it came to her.

          Thomas was startled by a shadow in the parlor door. It became his father.  The Rev. Wigglesworth might have been standing there for some time, the way he was looking now. One blue eye gazed steadily at Thomas. The other, shaded in the doorframe, seemed to be looking onto another world. His father crossed the room to where Thomas stood and took the Nautilus cup from his hands.

          “Mary, did your brother escape your supervision?” he said sternly. “I think it is time we put this away.” He held the cup so it hung upside down in one large hand. “We don’t want to display such opulence. It was a weakness in your pious mother,” he continued. “And I am sure she would not want your head turned by it.”

          Thomas said nothing. “And it is best for you to forget your mother,” his father continued. “You have a new mother now, Mother Sparhawk, to whom you owe all obedience. She would not want you diverted by such things.”

          His father touched him on the shoulder to steer him out of the parlor. “I believe you and Mary have not finished your Scriptural readings for today.”

          Thomas rose and started out, but he kept his eye on the Nautilus cup. His father gave him a push between his shoulder blades but nonetheless he paused.

          “What will you do with it?”

          “I think we might sell it,” his father answered.

          “Please, can we keep it?”

          “I think not,” his father replied.

          Thomas thought of the man who had come once before to purchase their better teacups and saucers. Mary had explained. They were poor and could not afford to keep them.

          Thomas resolved that one day he would find where the man took the Nautilus cup and reclaim it for his family and himself.