Good Heavens (17 page)

I didn't say another word until we got to the turnoff to Lester's place. “Where are we going?” Ursula asked, and I told her we were taking Lester some fish.

When we got to Lester's, I let Dora off. While she took him the fish I drove down past the apple tree and managed to turn the van around okay.

“You mean somebody lives in that shack?” Ursula asked.

“Sure. It's small, but Lester has a nice little place there—told us we can pick blueberries and grapes when they come in.” Even as I said that, I thought to myself,
That is, if we're still in business come July or September
. I didn't even know where Sunday dinner was coming from. There was nothing in the kitchen to make even a halfway decent meal.

From Lester's place it wasn't far to the Valley Church. As we were pulling into the lane, the church bell was ringing, and we could see this little white church with
its steeple and bell tower. It put me in mind of that old song about the church in the wildwood. Picnic tables were about the yard, and I spotted two out houses, one on either side of the church and half hidden in the willows. We rolled up in an area near the stream, and I parked the van where a couple of pickups and a car were parked.

Opening the van door, Ursula got off first. As the girls were piling off, I stopped Nancy and asked her to wait a minute. After everybody was off the van, I told her it would be best if we kept to ourselves what had happened the night before. I also asked her if, when we went inside, it might not be a good idea for us to sit on either side of Martha in case something else happened. She agreed.

The shallow river running in back of the church and the morning mist floating above it made me shiver in my sweater. A breeze rustling the willows had a chill in it, but despite the cool weather, wildflowers were blooming blue all over the meadow.

Our group stood around together while a few people were making their way inside. Linda pulled out her cigarettes and lighter, but I shook my head. She scowled and put them away.

I was pretty sure we wouldn't hear a sermon such as Pastor Osborne would be bringing at Apostolic Bible but, like Splurgeon said, “Carry an appetite to God's house, and you will be fed.”

After it looked like everybody was inside the church who was going inside, we trooped in. Our group swelled attendance to twice the number sitting there—men on one side, women on the other. Most of the men wore
white shirts buttoned to the neck, and there wasn't a necktie among them. A couple of them wore overalls. Two young boys sat with the men and turned around to gawk at us coming in. None of the grown-ups turned around to look.

I managed to steer Martha in between Nancy and me with Ursula on my left. The rest of our group ranged over several pews on the women's side. Once we got settled, I enjoyed sitting there, waiting for the service to begin. Although there was a musty smell from the church being closed up all week, the walls and rafters were of pine; if they would open the windows, we'd get a strong, clean smell. The old benches were made of long-gone chestnut, and with the sun streaming in, they had a soft, warm look about them. Square in the middle of the aisle was a pot-bellied stove smelling of the ashes left over from winter use.

I could hear the stream flowing over the rocky riverbed; as I listened, I heard one rock thumping, thumping, thumping as the water poured over and around it. I wondered how many years that thumping had been drumming a rhythm, keeping time with the flow of the river.

There was no sign of a preacher anywhere. The only creature on the platform was a wasp buzzing about the window. I picked up a fan that had fell on the floor. The fan had a picture of the Good Shepherd holding a lamb in one arm and a shepherd's crook in the other. It was exactly like the ones we used to have in our Apostolic Bible Church before it was air-conditioned. I wished Beatrice could see it—it would give her a trip down memory lane. Next time she called I was going to ask
her to give me the name of a town where I could write to her in care of general delivery. Then I could write little things like that and not waste our telephone time.

Looking at my watch, I figured it would be two or three hours before Beatrice and Carl would stop for church out there in Arizona or wherever they were. And it was past time for the W.W.s to be starting class. Poor Clara would be up front trying to make the announcements, and the rest of them women would not shut up and listen until they got finished telling all the news in town. Then Clara would have to repeat what she had already said. She'd give all the lowdown on who was sick and what was wrong with them. There'd be a lot of talk about every case while Thelma counted the collection. Somebody would pray, and then they'd get down to the Bible study. By then half the time would be spent.

I had to hand it to Clara, she had patience. Of course, she grew up with most of those W.W.s. They may not have had all the smarts in the world, but they did have a heart for the Lord. No matter how much they squabbled over something, when the chips were down, they came together and did what had to be done. In my book, hearts meant more than smarts, but for the most part the W.W.s were took for granted. I knew it would mean a lot to them to get to come up here—they didn't get to go many places. And I hoped Priscilla Home got straightened out before they came. It would be so good to see them. But, I tell you, as much as I missed the W.W.s' fellowship, I would not have changed places with a one of them. Never in my life had I felt more needed than I did right then.

Still waiting for something to get started, I thumbed
through the hymnbook. It was one of those that has shaped notes. I had never seen that kind, and it made me curious to know the why and wherefore for shaped notes.

Finally, three women on the front pew stood up and turned around to face the congregation; nice-looking women in house dresses and wearing cardigans. One of them had a pitch pipe, and she blew on it to find the note for each of the singers. They all hummed their note, then began singing. “Some glad morning, when this life is over, I'll fly away . . .”

It was country singing at its best—“I'll Fly Away” in three-part harmony. It's hard to hear music like that and not pat your foot, but nobody did that I could see. The ladies sang all the verses, and when they ended, I could have clapped. I tell you, that trio was not half bad.

But they weren't done. Going through the same tuning business, they sang out on “Unclouded Day.” The gospel singers I'd see on TV slapped their thighs, snapped their fingers, and wiggled, keeping time with the music, but not this trio. Neither did the congregation show any enthusiasm; they just sat there being respectful, or bored, one.

I wondered how Ursula was taking this music. I knew the girls liked it. Even after all Martha had been through, she would glance at me, smiling, showing she was enjoying every minute.

Nobody seemed concerned that the preacher had not showed up. No doubt the regulars were used to him being slow in coming. If he was a circuit preacher, there was no telling how far he was traveling to get there. For me,
I was enjoying the singing and didn't much care that he hadn't showed up.

When “Unclouded Day” ended, the pitch pipe came out again, and in a few minutes we were hearing, “We'll Understand It Better By and By.” That one I took to heart. With little or nothing to cook for dinner, no money coming in, our not selling that old piano, it was something in the way of comfort to know that some day we would understand why.

There seemed to be no end to the songs those ladies knew by heart. By the time they had sung several verses of “I'm Bound for the Promised Land,” we could hear a pickup rattling down the lane. The trio took their seats, and an old man in overalls stood up, raised his face toward the rafters, and commenced singing in a throaty voice:

On the chorus, men chimed in doing the bass parts. It looked to me like having that old man sing that song was a regular custom in the church, something he did at every service, probably at the sound of the preacher arriving.

The truck came to a screeching stop by the creek, and in a few minutes somebody was coming onto the porch, scraping his shoes on the steps before coming inside. I
had a hard time resisting the urge to look around. In a minute, he strode down the aisle, tall as a Georgia pine, with a shock of gray hair and a flowing beard. Hugging a black Bible the size of a wallpaper catalog and holding a bundle of clothes in the other arm, he could have passed for any one of them Old Testament prophets.
He's eighty-five if he's a day
, I thought. Dressed in a white shirt that could've used a little bleach, a suit coat, work pants and brogans, he mounted the platform and stashed the bundle behind the pulpit. Without apologizing or saying anything, he lit into praying. It was a long, loud prayer mostly thanking God for letting him live to see another day. Then he commenced his sermon.

“God has give me a word,” he announced. “Hit's about the Pharisee and the Republican. Now you know me to be a all-out Republican, but all politicians be sinners a-plenty, and I don't put one mustard seed of my faith in them. Ever' bit o' my faith is in the Lord God Aw'mighty, maker of heaven an' airth.”

An amen came from the men's side of the room, then all the men amened him.

“My papa told me we was once Democrats; always had been, even when Democrats lost ever' election. But when a Democrat made it to the White House, he bein' president, promised not to send our boys into war and then he done it. Next day, my papa marched over to the county courthouse and signed up Republican, and we Baileys 'ave been Republicans to this day. You'll not never find no Bailey man a-votin' any ways but Republican.

“Now, brethren, you all know Rockville's newspaper is Democrat on ever' page, up one side and down t'other.
Papa would not have that paper in his house. He sent away for the
Union Republican
, an' ever' week that paper come to our mailbox aside the road. I took hit myself as long as it was wrote.

“One day Papa was a-fightin' the mud on the Old Turnpike. You know when the road's knee-deep in mud it can be the mischief of a way to get to market with a load o' corn. Old man Rivers told him, ‘Bill, if you was to vote the Democrat ticket, they'd pave this hyar road for you.' Well, sir, my papa told Rivers in words I dare not use from behind this sacred desk, ‘Rivers, I have waded this mud all my life, and I'll wade it up to my armpits afore I'll vote the Democrat ticket!'

“Enough o' that,” the preacher said and thumped his Bible, rolled it open on his forearm. “Now this hyar story about the Pharisee and the Republican has got to be a true story, no question ast. I take hit that Pharisee must 'ave been a Democrat; he put on a good show, took ever' opportunity to let folks know how good a man he was. Prob'ly sat on the front row in the biggest church in town, a deacon or elder, one—paid his tithes, wrote big checks, and waved 'em about so ever'body could see. Prayed a good deal—out loud an' long prayers, the kind you fall asleep on. That's the kind o' feller he was. But human nature bein' what it be, most folks would vote for him over that God-fearin' Republican.

“Well, I tell you right now, as for me an' my house, we vote fer the Republican. He know'd he was a sinner, an' he done the only decent thang a sinner can do—he felt so bad about it, he beat his bosom an' ast the Lord to be merciful to him fer he was a sinner.

“Now, that's the man to vote fer. For shore he's the man Jesus voted fer. Jesus said that Republican went home saved.

“Now I'd like to go on a spell 'bout this, but we 'ave got more of the Lord's business to tend to today. We have got dinner on the grounds and a baptizin' to boot.” Raising both his long arms and with a twang in his voice, he laid out the blessing: “The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up . . . lift up . . .”

Some man in the congregation prompted him, “‘His countenance,' preacher.”

“Ah, yes, his countenance . . .” But the poor preacher couldn't remember the rest. “Amen!” he hollered, and the men answered back, “Amen.”

The preacher came off the pulpit and was down the aisle and out the door in less time than it takes to tell it.

As we stood up, the ladies in the trio came over to me and Ursula. I introduced the two of us as well as Martha and Nancy and told them we were from Priscilla Home. They invited us to stay for dinner, but Ursula politely declined. They insisted. Nettie, the alto, said, “We have got more food than we'll ever eat.”

I can tell you right now, we were in no position to turn down a free meal, and when the women repeated their invitation, Ursula gave in and said we'd stay for dinner.

Since church let out, the men's outhouse was doing a steady business, but before any of the ladies used theirs, they asked us if we'd like to go. I needed to go bad so I went first.

The women's outhouse was a two-holer, but I didn't expect to have company in there. There were lids for the holes; at least no snake or varmint could crawl in thataway. There were spiderwebs in there that I had to knock down before I could sit. From what you've probably heard about outhouses you might expect a Sears catalog to be in there, but this one had three rolls of toilet paper wrapped in plastic. I laughed to myself.
I bet Ursula would have a accident before she'd use a outhouse
.

When I came out, Nancy manned the pitcher pump for me to wash my hands, and I told her to pass the word that the outhouse was a two-holer. That would speed up the process of getting everybody comfortable before we ate. Ursula looked nervous about the girls waiting in line, taking turns, but they were all giggling, having the time of their lives going in and out the outhouse.