Garters.htm (31 page)

"I know you'd never ask me to take it on, Esme," he whispered. "But I hope you'd ask me to share it."

Like the renewal of crops and trees all around them, spring was also the time for renewal of the soul. The Reverend Wilbur Boatwright, an itinerant evangelist, arrived for the annual Vader revival, known as a week of nightly hellfire and brimstone preaching.

Because the church could be a mite stuffy, and revival meetings were famous for running long into the night, the men of the congregation constructed a
brush arbor on the little knoll overlooking the church.

Six sturdy posts were driven into the ground and connected to each other with two-by-fours. A few crosswise slats were nailed as roofing and were covered with fresh-cut pine, fern, and sumac. The open area allowed cooling breezes to pass over the congregation and the makeshift roofing shaded them from the late evening sun.

Usually Esme found the sweet smell of freshly cut brush soothing, but this time she was too excited and wary to appreciate the setting. Revivals were times for reunions with old acquaintances, high entertainment, and spiritual reevaluation. While she looked forward to the fun and friends, Esme was not anxious to look closely at her life.

She'd accomplished what she'd set out to do. Her family now had a decent roof over their heads and new clothes and plenty of food. But the man she loved, the person who was now most important to her, had she made him happy?

"Why should he be?" she asked herself as she brushed his good black suitcoat. "He was tricked into marrying a woman whose ignorance and countrified ways would surely weigh him down for a lifetime!"

Esme was doing her best to learn ladylike behavior. She listened avidly to her mother-in-law's directions on keeping the house up to fashion. And she severely rebuked her sisters and father for bringing "cave manners" into Mr. Rhy's fancy house. With her sisters she pored over the ladies' magazines to ensure that their new clothes were neither immodest nor out-of-date. But the fact was, she couldn't change herself. She was still Esme Crabb, the same Esme Crabb that God had created. And she hated to face her Maker so disappointed with the job he'd done.

"Are you about ready?" Cleav asked from the doorway.

Esme nodded. "I'm just brushing your coat."

Cleav shook his head and looked at her curiously. "I wasn't planning to wear it. It's quite warm out tonight, and the crowd will be very close."

"Of course," Esme answered, blushing with embarrassment at her own stupidity. She'd thought gentlemen always wore coats. "I'll just hang it back in the wardrobe."

Cleav could see that Esme was upset.

"Do you want me to wear the coat?" he asked her. "I'd be happy to do it, if it pleases you."

"No! Certainly not."

"I just want to make you happy," he said quietly.

"I just want to make
you
happy," Esme answered him with a curious look. "I should have known that it was too hot to wear the coat."

Cleav reached out and took her hand. He held the palm in his own for a moment and then squeezed it encouragingly.

"I don't expect you to know everything I want, Esme," he said.

Esme nodded. He didn't expect her to know what he wanted, she thought, because he realized a woman like her, an ignorant hill woman, could never understand his needs.

"Come on, you two," Eula called from the hallway. "If we don't hurry, we'll be late for the foot washing."

Free Will Baptist, usually abbreviated with the initials FWB, were oft referred to in the mountains as the "foot-washing Baptists." The denomination, founded in Tennessee, was more famous for its insistence on foot washing as part of the communion service than for its adamant opposition to the concept of predestination, for which its name was taken.

The foot-washing ritual was performed much as it was done on the night of the Last Supper. Men and women were separated for the task. Each participant brought two clean towels: One towel was wrapped around the waist and the other hung down from it in front like a long sash. One by one the members of the congregation would perform the humbling task of washing the feet of another in a shallow basin and then drying them with the towel they wore.

Eula wasn't afraid of missing the event, rather she wanted to get the washing done before the "foot water" got too dirty. As usual, she was not the only one with this idea. More than half the congregation was better than a half hour early.

"Come on now, Esme," Mrs. Rhy urged. "I don't want a dozen people ahead of me."

"I'm not going to wash feet tonight," Esme told her and then glanced at her husband.

"All right," Cleav answered, patting her reassuringly on the shoulder. "Go on ahead, Mother."

As Mrs. Rhy hurried down the aisle, Cleav turned back to his wife. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," she told him easily. "I just thought I'd skip it this time."

Cleav nodded his agreement and gave her a chaste good-bye kiss on the cheek.

"I hate to leave you alone up here," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the circle of men already forming in the clearing, their water buckets and towels in evidence.

"I'll be fine, go on," she said.

"You sure, Esme-girl?" her father interrupted.

"Yes, Pa," she said. "Go on now with Cleav."

As she watched the retreating backs of the men, she heard a giggle behind her. Turning, she saw the twins coming up the hill with Armon. He had one arm around the waist of each.

Seeing Esme, the two broke away from their sweetheart and hurried toward her. "Are you waiting for us?" one asked.

"What are you
both
doing with Armon?" Esme asked, looking over her sisters' shoulders to the culprit, who was now leaning so negligently against a tree trunk.

"Armon says that since we're going to the revival instead of walking out, the rules don't count," Adelaide answered with unconcerned openness.

"The rules
always
count," Esme said firmly. "Adelaide, this is your night, so I'll expect you, Agrippa, to walk home with me and Cleav."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Agrippa gave her sister an exasperated look. "Well, can't I at least sit with them?"

Esme started to say no and then held her tongue. "All right," she said finally. "But you find me as soon as the service is finished."

"Thank you." Agrippa gave Esme a grateful kiss on the cheek.

Esme hugged both girts warmly."Now, you'd best hurry or you'll be late," she told
them.

"You're not coming with us?"

"Not tonight."

As Esme stood on the hill watching the twins scamper toward the women's group, she folded her arms across her chest. Her sisters were sweet and pretty and such precious little feather-heads. She'd always thought that she would provide for them. But it was Cleav who had given them a decent place to live and furnished them with clothes to wear. Could she expect Cleav to protect them from the human dangers in life as thoroughly as he protected them from the elements? Cleav wanted to share her responsibilities, but she still felt that she should handle this one herself.

Turning, she looked at the object of her sisterly concern. Armon Hightower stood, like a wolf in waiting, grinning at her. She felt the rise of powerless ire inside her. Oh, how she'd like to slap the self-satisfied smile right off his face! But she'd never slapped a man in her life.

Suddenly an idea came to mind. As her plan hastily took shape, she slowly made her way toward Armon Hightower.

He stood, a sprig of straw stuck in the side of his mouth, and his movements were lazy and casual as he watched Esme approach. "Evenin', Miz Rhy," he greeted her politely. "What you doing up here with us sinners?"

With a hasty glance around Esme realized that virtually everyone who had chosen not to go foot washing was either a mother with a quartet of children or a wild young man.

"Actually, I wanted to have a word with you," Esme lied.

Armon raised an eyebrow warily."If you're fit to be tied about me escorting both them gals up here," he said, "I warn you that I already mentioned it to your pa, and he didn't care nohow."

Esme accepted his statement with a nod. "This has nothing to do with the twins." She stated the bald-faced untruth without flinching. "This is something else entirely."

Pushing off from the tree, Armon stood straight before her, his interest obviously piqued.

Allowing the suspense to gather, Esme hesitated. "There is… I have a friend here who… well, has indicated an interest in you."

His eyebrows raised in surprise, and then he shrugged with studied unconcern. "Lots of young gals hanker after me," he admitted without an overabundance of pride. "I choose the gals I want, they don't choose me." His words were accompanied by a slight tilt of his head toward the circle of men, where her husband now stood ready to take his turn.

If Esme had any qualms about her plan, Hightower's implied criticism of Cleav quelled them. She nodded slowly. "This young woman," she said with careful reluctance, "the one I'm speaking of, is not one that would be considered 'one of the bunch.'"

"Oh?" Armon wasn't exactly sure what she meant. His expression was now openly curious. "Well, who in the world is she, this special female?"

Esme smiled slyly. "I'm really not at liberty to say."

"Why not?"

With a deep, heartfelt sigh, Esme continued with feigned hesitance. "This young woman confessed to me how she has loved you from afar for years."

Esme stopped momentarily to let her words sink in. "For years she's been dreaming of you, but you've never approached her."

"So now she wants to approach me?"

Esme appeared horrified. "Oh, no! She's much too genteel to ever speak to you herself."

Armon's eyes brightened. "So she asked you to speak for her?"

"Certainly not!" Esme's tone indicated that she was appalled at the suggestion. "She would be horrified if she ever learned that I'd mentioned this to you." And then more quietly she added, "You must never breathe a word of it."

Armon began to tire of the game. "How do you expect me
not
to tell her, when I don't even know
who
she is?"

"Well, you don't expect me just to blurt out her name, do you?" Esme asked.

"How about a hint, then?"

Esme considered his suggestion carefully, as if she'd never thought of it herself. Finally she sighed, as if losing a battle with her conscience. "All right," she said. "I'll give you some hints, but I will not tell you if you are right or wrong."

"Fair enough." Armon struck the bargain easily.

"Let's see," Esme began. "She's a young woman who is exceptionally attractive."

"Must not be from Vader, then," Armon joked. When his chuckle was met by Esme's stony look, he backed down. "Okay," he said noncommittally.

"She's not seeing anyone at the present time, but she suffered a very recent loss of a sweetheart."

Armon's brow furrowed as if deep in thought. Esme looked at him hopefully, but the young man shook his head.

"Could be a lot of gals," he said.

"She—" Esme tried to think of something else to hint. Armon was dense. "Oh, she plays the piano."