Gap Creek (31 page)

“I do,” I said. It sounded like a marriage ceremony.

“Do you dedicate your life to his will and glory and his work?” the preacher said.

“I do.”

“Do you wish to join the fellowship of this congregation?”

“I do,” I said. I hadn’t thought about joining the church. I had only thought about rededicating my life to the Lord. But I seen it was the thing to do. Since I was living on Gap Creek I should belong to the Gap Creek church. Our fellowship could only be with those around us.

What I felt as I looked out into the faces of the congregation was not any sweeping whirlwind or flash of light. The joy I felt was steady as music you hear behind you, sustaining and clear. The faces looking at me was not of saints, but ordinary people. And that was the congregation I wanted to be a part of, just ordinary people like myself. I didn’t need to be part of any special group. I was just a sinner that had accepted grace, and I needed the fellowship of other sinners.

“Shall we open the doors of the church?” the preacher called out. There was nods and several of the deacons said yes. “All opposed?” the preacher shouted. Nobody spoke up.

“Do you come to us on profession of faith?” Preacher Gibbs said.

“I do,” I said.

“Let’s all come forward and give Sister Julie the right hand of fellowship,” Preacher Gibbs said.

I stood there beside the preacher while the organist played “By Jordan’s Stormy Banks.” And one by one the people in the room come forward. The women in the choir come first, and some shook hands with both hands and looked me in the eye. And some only shook with one hand and didn’t look me in the eye. Some of the older women hugged me, and some of the younger women had tears in their eyes. I looked into their faces as each one come up. I didn’t usually look people I didn’t know right in the face. But I wanted to stand closer to them and be close to them. I wanted to be near people. There was young boys that come up, so young you wouldn’t hardly think they was members of the church, and they
wouldn’t look at me. They shook hands with faces turned aside and hurried on. And some big old boys that had outgrowed their clothes so the pants come up to their ankles grinned and looked like they would like to kiss me if they dared. And older men wearing overalls and flannel shirts, and blushing because they was not used to shaking hands with a young woman, come forward and took my hand for a second. The only grown person left standing in the church that didn’t come forward was Hank. He stood by hisself and looked down at the bench in front of him.

The last people to come forward was the elders, the deacons on the right side of the church. Some of them was very old, and stumbled up to the front of the church with their canes. Some had long white beards stained around the mouth with tobacco juice, and some had not shaved in a week and looked grizzled. Some was clean shaved and their faces was weathered like shoe leather. Some of the old men’s eyes sparkled, like they was young boys looking out of their wrinkles at a pretty girl. And some had cloudy eyes, like they didn’t see too well and wasn’t even trying to see.

As I shook all the hands I had a sweet, calm feeling. In front of everybody, I didn’t feel exposed. I felt the warmth of their attention and acceptance of me. The church was a warm and welcoming place. In the cold January day the warmest place was in the fellowship of the congregation. It was the place of music, the music of fellowship and communion.

After I went back to my place beside Hank, he didn’t look at me. He looked straight ahead like he didn’t even know I was there. But I wasn’t sure why. After all, he was a member of the church at Painter Mountain, and he had been baptized and he liked to sing hymns and lead in prayer. He looked off into the dark corner of the church like he didn’t hardly care, or was still thinking of the night of the flood.

• • •

AFTER I JOINED the church I felt better about living on Gap Creek. We didn’t have no money, and we didn’t have a cow, and Hank didn’t have a job. But there was a fellowship at Preacher Gibbs’s church that made you feel connected. In the worst times there is, you can get through with the support of other people. In fact, you can only get through with the help of other people. When I lived at home I had always been helped out by Mama and my sisters. I had never really been left to the mercy of myself before.

Every time I went to church after New Year’s, to a prayer meeting or a preaching service, to a singing, I felt better. And when one of the women from the church, Mrs. Gibbs or Elizabeth Rankin or Joanne Johnson, come to visit and set with me in the kitchen or by the fireplace talking, I felt like a human being again. A woman has to have a woman friend to talk to.

“I didn’t think you wanted to join the church down here,” Hank said. “Does that mean you think we’re going to stay here?”

“They are mighty friendly people here,” I said.

“If they are so friendly why ain’t they helped us find Mr. Pendergast’s heirs?” he said.

Sometimes Hank acted like he didn’t care what happened, but his worry always circled back to the house and finding out who owned it. We couldn’t afford to move nowhere, unless he got a new job, and we could only stay in the house until the real owners showed up. The uncertainty of it wore Hank down, that and the worry about the baby coming. It was like a man to show his worry but never talk much about what was making him angry.

BUT FOUR WEEKS after I did, Hank joined the Gap Creek Baptist Church too. I knowed he would change his mind, because he loved going to church and singing just as much as I did. And I knowed he would change his mind without telling me, that he would not admit that he
was wrong but would go ahead and join. I had learned Hank’s ways and I thought that was what he was going to do, and it was.

It was late January and we was attending Sunday service though the road was froze and there was ice in puddles and along the edges of the creek. The air in the church was toasted by the little stove in front of the choir, and the church was filled with the smell of hot metal and burning oak and the lift of the preacher’s voice. When Preacher Gibbs called out the invitational hymn and give the altar call, Hank stepped out in the aisle and went to the front of the church. He done it like he had planned for days to do it. He had made up his mind without telling me. That was his way.

Hank didn’t kneel down at the altar like he was praying. He stopped in front of the preacher and said something to him. And I seen him reach out his hand like he was going to shake hands, like he had said he wanted to join the church by profession of faith. And then I seen him fall forward like he was going to lean on the preacher’s shoulder, but he sunk out of sight.

I must have hollered, for I heard somebody cry out as I run down the aisle to see where Hank had fell to the floor. I’d heard a knock like a rock hitting a block of wood, which must have been Hank’s head hitting the floor. He sprawled in front of the altar just like he had fainted. I bent over him and the preacher rolled him over. “Hank,” the preacher said.

Hank’s face was white as a pocket handkerchief, and his eyes was rolled back. I wondered if he had died or had some kind of fit. “You folks stand back,” the preacher said. The singing had stopped and people was gathering around to look at Hank.

“Bring him some water,” Preacher Gibbs said. Somebody brought a dipper of water from the bucket at the back of the church. The preacher lifted up Hank’s head and I held the dipper to his lips.

“Wake up, Hank,” I said. I tipped the dipper against his lips and
water spilled down on his chin. Hank opened his eyes and some color come back into his cheeks. There was a startle in his eyes when he seen all the people gathered round and looking down at him.

“Stand back,” the preacher said and waved his left arm.

“What …,” Hank said.

“You must have fainted,” I said. “Have a drink of water.”

“Don’t want a drink,” Hank said. He put his hands back against the floor to push hisself up. The preacher and me helped him to his feet. There was a red mark on his forehead that was beginning to swell to a pumpknot. Hank took a deep breath like he was trying to catch his wind after a struggle. He grinned and looked embarrassed. Everybody was gathered round and there was no way he could escape their attention.

“Brother Hank has asked to join our church by profession of faith,” Preacher Gibbs called out. “How do you vote on his membership?”

“Yea!” several voices called.

“All opposed?” the preacher said.

Nobody said nay and the preacher declared the yeas carried the motion. “Let’s all come up and give Brother Hank the right hand of fellowship,” he said. He motioned to Linda Jarvis at the organ and she begun playing “Bringing in the Sheaves.”

People formed theirselves into a line and come forward to shake hands with Hank. He grinned cause he didn’t know what else to do, after fainting in front of the whole church. But I think he was relieved too. For he wanted to sing with the congregation and pray with the congregation as much as I did. For Hank liked to lead in prayer, and he knowed as well as I did it was better to sing with others than to stand off silent by yourself.

Eleven

I
t was a good thing Hank and me joined the church and had the support of the church, for things got harder that winter. Along in early February it come the hardest freeze I had ever seen or heard of. It reminded me of Cold Friday.

The sun come out on Gap Creek but it didn’t do much good. The sun was little and cold in the sky as the tip of an icicle. The ground was set like steel. It got so cold frost started growing like white ferns and fancy lace on the windowpanes, and fire in the fire-place couldn’t heat the house enough to make it melt. It got so cold the mud puddles and low spots in the road set hard.

“Can’t stay this cold for long,” Hank said when he come in with his face and hands red.

“What if it snows?” I said.

“Too cold to snow,” Hank said.

“How can it get too cold to snow?” I said.

“It can’t snow when it gets near zero,” Hank said.

Almost all our taters had been ruint, and some of the canned stuff. The flood had rotted all the meat on the lower shelves of the smokehouse, and we had eat up most of the rest of the meat by the
beginning of February. The cow was gone and there was no milk or butter. It was too cold for Hank to want to climb up on the ridge looking for turkeys.

“Everything is hiding away in thickets,” Hank said.

We had some cornmeal and grits and a little bit of shoulder meat left. But we was fast running out of coffee and sugar and things that had to be bought. We didn’t have but a few cents of money. By early February my belly was beginning to show. Everybody could see I was expecting.

“You should eat more than you do,” Hank said.

“I eat plenty,” I said.

“You ought to eat more to grow a strong baby,” Hank said.

The thing I begun to crave in the cold weather was jelly, hot biscuits and cold jelly. I had eat all the jelly Mama had sent with Lou and Garland. There was still a few jars of blackberry jelly and grape jelly and apple jelly in the basement, but only a few. I brought them up one at a time and wiped off the dust and eat jelly three times a day. I had to stop myself from eating jelly between meals. I put jelly on cornbread, and I put it on oatmeal. I wanted jelly so bad I could have eat it with a spoon. I thought constantly about the cool quivering softness of jelly melting on my tongue. There is something about the firmness of jelly that makes it taste better. Jelly has body and has to be cut; it won’t pour like honey or molasses. Jelly is soft rubies or amber. Jelly is almost alive. I craved jelly so bad I put it on grits and mush when I run out of biscuit flour. I wanted jelly so much I smeared it on whatever else I was eating.

I dreamed about jelly and imagined I was eating it with butter and toast, long after we didn’t have any butter. I dreamed I was eating jelly and drinking milk, and that was the perfect thing for the baby. I dreamed about jelly and feared we would run out of jelly before the baby was born. I counted the jars; there was only four left.

• • •

ON THE FOURTH day of the cold spell, when the sky was clear as a big bubble the sun played its light on, there was a knock at the door. I wondered who could be out in such withering cold. I prayed it wasn’t Timmy Gosnell. It was Elizabeth Rankin and Joanne Johnson. They had scarves wrapped around their heads and around their faces. Their noses was red as coals.

“Come on in before you freeze,” I said. Even after I closed the door I could feel the cold air falling off their coats. I led them to the fireplace.

“We wanted to see how you was doing,” Elizabeth said and looked at my belly.

“Takes all my strength just to stay warm,” I said.

They unbuttoned their coats but didn’t take them off. I asked them to please set down.

“We can’t stay but a minute,” Joanne said.

“I’m mighty glad you come,” I said.

Elizabeth opened her coat and took out a bag she had been carrying beneath it. “Here is a few things I thought you could use for the baby,” she said. She opened the bag and took out a little flannel jacket that looked small enough for a doll.

“Most of these is for a bigger baby,” Elizabeth said. “But you’ll need a few things for when it is first born.”

“And because it’s yellow you can use it for either a boy or a girl,” Joanne said. I took the little jacket and it looked no bigger than a glove. The flannel was soft as velvet.

Elizabeth reached into the poke and pulled out a little gown and another jacket. She took out a coat and cap. “My Jessie wore these a few years ago, but they’re practically new,” she said.

“I certainly do thank you,” I said. I felt my eyes get moist. I’d never had many women friends and I was touched that they had walked in the cold to give me the baby clothes. They made the cold February sweeter, and the heat from the fire sweeter.

Joanne reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out something wrapped in tissue paper. “I have brung you this,” she said. It was a pair of knitted booties and a cap to match. They was made of lavender and blue yarn, in a pattern that reminded me of a picture I’d seen of stained glass windows. The yarn was so bright it seemed to glow.