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at 5 am on the dot Sunday morning, Moralton begins to stir.
orel was always early to rise, but every saturday night, he set his alarm back an hour to give him extra time to get ready for church. most days, he was awake before his alarm even rang; his parents weren’t too fond of waking up at the crack of dawn with him.
the actual service didn’t begin until ten, but by six am, orel had already prayed, showered, and ironed his suit for the day ahead of him. he took the time until his mother woke to start breakfast to himself; sometimes he would reread his favorite scriptures, or he would find another book that had caught his interest for a bit. occasionally he would busy himself with his figurines, playing by himself to his heart’s content until his mother peeked into his bedroom to call him to breakfast.
often, it came with a chide to not wrinkle his good sunday suit by laying on the floor.
bloberta knew her son woke early. she wasn’t one to wake too late anyway, but even so, it was hard to keep up with him. during the days when he was still five years old and rowdy, she tried to wake up with him, to calm him down and calm the new baby down and cook and clean all while her filthy, lazy, good for nothing husband slept his life away and didnt once offer to help.
anyway.
she usually set her own alarm to seven am. there was no waking clay from his drunken sleep, so she never quite worried about how loud the ringing bells might be. she was never happy to be up so early, but it wasn’t too big of a struggle to get up to start breakfast for her boys. shapey didnt usually wake until he caught the scent of bacon from his room; once he realized breakfast had started, there was no getting him to lie back down, no matter how tired he was. it was obvious when he didnt sleep the night before; his screams were louder, his pulls were harder, and smaller things would irritate him. he would usually circle her legs until she finally picked him up, just to get him to sit still and to hopefully get quiet.
by the time she finally fetched orel, she had three plates set out; two for her and orel, and one for the days that shapey decided bacon and eggs looked appetizing. there was no point in wasting time and food on clay. rarely did he decide to eat breakfast with the family, and when he did, he was more than capable of making his own plate.
on mornings like these, bloberta let her guard down, just a bit. she would pretend to take a bite just to hear her oldest fuss about grace, to listen to his million thanks to God and his mother and his father for everything they gave him.
bloberta tended to ignore the parts about his father.
her and orel would talk quietly over breakfast; sometimes speculation about the day’s sermon, sometimes about what orel was learning in school. without the constant presence of clay, bloberta felt like she could really get to know her children, without the crooked idea of what a son should be when clay was around.
on sunday mornings, bloberta felt like she could breathe.
that is, until she finally had to pull clay out of bed, to chide him that it was a bad look if he didnt come to church. it was the same pattern every sunday, bloberta dragging clay out of bed around nine am with just an hour until the doors closed. it was a fight every sunday, to get him dressed and presentable. it almost felt like she had a third son.
by the time everyone is corralled into the car, clay is usually two or three drinks in. its a shock he’s never driven them off of the road in his drunken state.
somehow, they always make it to church in one piece. despite how many times she’s seen it, blorberta will always love her child’s excitement as he pulls them towards the front doors.
across town, rod putty shares a routine not unlike orel’s. he’s early to rise, taking his time a shower and breakfast. it’s usually lonely, but this week, he’s lucky to share it with someone new.
instead of heating up a cheap breakfast burrito from the freezer, he’s meeting stephanie at a diner not too far from the church before his service. he’d asked her to come back over and over, but she insisted she was fine. she found what she was looking for anyway.
from there on, the reverend’s sermons are just a bit more enthusiastic. they’re more optimistic, more inspirational and inquisitive. orel is the only one to notice.
sunday mornings find orel out in the sun with his best friend doughy, shedding the nice suit coat his parents warned him not to ruin to dig in the sandbox and see who can build the tallest tower. some sundays find them throwing a ball, or bothering mrs. censordoll in the library, or getting into trouble around town.
no matter what they did, orel always came home with the tip of his nose sunburnt and his suit jacket slung over his arm, covered in dirt and mud and whatever he had gotten into that day just in time for dinner.
when orel turns in for the night at nine pm, the rest of moralton follows with him.