by Cathy Gohlke
“Would you take it, Miss Lill? I need to see to something—about the play.”
Miss Lill gave Celia the stern look Celia knew was meant for Ruby Lynne. “Don’t be late to the service. I’m here because of you, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Celia waited until Miss Lill had gone in; then she slipped in the back and up the outside aisle to the pew the Wishons frequented. She plunked down beside Ruby Lynne, who still sat alone, but Ruby Lynne turned frosty and looked straight ahead. “Ruby Lynne,” Celia whispered, keeping her own eyes forward, “I overheard something last night—a man brag what he’d done to you. It wasn’t Marshall, and he wasn’t sorry. He said he’ll do it again and again.” Celia left off the part about the baby’s life, knowing that might be more than Ruby Lynne could bear.
As it was, Ruby Lynne began to tremble.
“Ruby Lynne, I can find that man. I saw his shoes—different from everybody else’s and new. I know I can spot him. I’ll back you up—every word—I swear. You won’t be alone. Miss Lill and me, we’ll take on your daddy or whoever we need to.”
Tears filled Ruby Lynne’s eyes and Celia knew she’d made her point. She pressed Ruby Lynne’s arm and slipped from the pew, keeping her eyes on every man’s shoes till she reached the pew up front where Miss Lill and her mama and Chester already sat.
“Where you been?” Chester asked.
“Nowhere, that’s all.”
It was a mercy Pearl Mae began singing “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.”
The church was packed. Celia was fairly certain that wasn’t just because it was almost Christmas. More like they want to see what Reverend Willard preaches on and to show they’re God-fearing and couldn’t possibly have been traipsing through the woods in bedsheets, burning down barns, tying up women and caught red-handed stringing folks up.
Each time folks stood up to sing and brought their feet from beneath the pews, Celia strained to see what they wore. She saw nothing but brown work boots for the boys and most men and black leather for the fancier men. Maybe it was somebody from the next county. But how would they get over here to bother Ruby Lynne? Unless her daddy led them to her.
That idea sickened Celia all the more, but she held a low enough opinion of the Wishons to know it wasn’t far-fetched. My daddy’s bad for bootlegging and getting caught and living the life of a jailbird, but he’s not that low. Compared to that, he’s not low at all. It was a new thought to Celia, and she pushed it away, not quite willing to forgive her daddy—not yet—and intent on the worries at hand.
•••
Jesse set his prepared sermon aside, fairly certain that preparation for the baby born in Bethlehem wasn’t on the mind of his congregation. Yet nothing short of the peace that baby brought could heal the hate he’d seen in the woods last night.
He could still smell on his hands the stench of the gasoline he’d washed from Marshall’s body as Dr. Vishnevsky treated the bloody lacerations. Anger and grief had warred inside him through the night. What they needed, to a man, was the man Christ Jesus. Jesse knew he needed Him most of all.
He understood that the men of No Creek were bred and nurtured with the foundation of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Those were words they understood, took to heart and lived by.
He could think of nothing more to the point of their need than a message by Oswald Chambers that he’d encountered in his seminary days and again in My Utmost for His Highest.
“Lord,” he prayed as he stood at the podium, “fill me with Your Spirit, and give me the words You want me to speak. Let Your Spirit find willing hearts and open minds in this room to receive those words. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, amen.”
“Amen” resounded through the church as the congregation sat.
“The text for this morning’s sermon is meant as much for me as it is for each of you. These are not my words but our Lord’s words from the first of the Gospels, Matthew 7:1. ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’”
Feet shuffled beneath the pews. Backs straightened, and mouths turned grim but eyebrows rose in curiosity.
Jesse ignored the lifted chins. “This morning I’m going to read words written long years ago by another pastor, words that speak directly of this Scripture.” He opened his well-worn copy and read directly from Chambers’s writing, infusing his first line with thunder, giving long and pregnant pauses where they were due.
“Jesus says regarding judging—Don’t. The average Christian is the most penetratingly critical individual. Criticism is a part of the ordinary faculty of man; but in the spiritual domain nothing is accomplished by criticism. The effect of criticism is a dividing up of the powers of the one criticized; the Holy Ghost is the only One in the true position to criticize, He alone is able to show what is wrong without hurting and wounding. It is impossible to enter into communion with God when you are in a critical temper; it makes you hard and vindictive and cruel, and leaves you with the flattering unction that you are a superior person. Jesus says, as a disciple cultivate the uncritical temper. It is not done once and for all. Beware of anything that puts you in the superior person’s place.
“There is no getting away from the penetration of Jesus. If I see the mote in your eye, it means I have a beam in my own. Every wrong thing that I see in you, God locates in me. Every time I judge, I condemn myself.”
He stopped now and took a long breath. “Oswald Chambers, the writer of these words, inserts a Scripture here. Romans 2:17-20. Would someone like to stand and read that for us?” He waited, his head down and intent on his own Bible, but no one stood. No one spoke. The creak of a pew sounded loud in the church.
“Sister Pearl, you bring your Bible to church. Will you read for us?”
Pearl Mae gasped. It was not a normal thing to ask a woman to read Scripture when men were present, but this was not a normal day and Jesse was determined to shake them from their sleepy forms.
When no one spoke, Pearl stood, face flaming, and fumbled through her Bible for the page. She lifted her voice, stood ramrod straight, but stumbled over the first line. “‘Behold, thou art called a Jew . . .’” She glanced around, but still no one spoke. Pearl drew a deep breath, then read clearly, though her shoulders hunched. “‘. . . and restest in the law, and makest thy boast of God, and knowest his will, and approvest the things that are more excellent, being instructed out of the law; and art confident that thou thyself art a guide of the blind, a light of them which are in darkness, an instructor of the foolish, a teacher of babes, which hast the form of knowledge and of the truth in the law.’” Tears pooled in Pearl’s eyes as she looked at the preacher. Jesse nodded, and she sat down.
He took up his book again and continued to read Chambers’s words, more quietly now, so people leaned slightly forward to hear.
“Stop having a measuring rod for other people. There is always one fact more in every man’s case about which we know nothing. The first thing God does is to give us a spiritual spring-cleaning; there is no possibility of pride left in a man after that. I have never met the man I could despair of after discerning what lies in me apart from the grace of God.”
When he’d finished, heads were bowed. You could hear people breathing—not moving, but breathing, barely.
At last Gladys Percy stood to sing. “‘O holy night! the stars are brightly shining . . .’” After the first verse a few more people stood, brought out of their stupor, and then a few more and a few more.
Before the last verse finished, Jesse noticed Celia Percy slip from her pew, tiptoe down the outside aisle, and slide through the back door. Celia had become very good at slipping around unseen, as she’d done last night. He needed to have a talk with the girl or her mother. Things could have gone so differently last night. He’d not be able to forgive himself if anything had happened to Celia. What she’d seen was beyond anything a child should ever see or know. Celia Percy might not like to hear it, but even at nearly twelve, he still counted her a child.
•••
Celia took her post outside the church door, freezing though it was. She hoped the preacher wouldn’t start another sermon in the midst of his goodbye prayer. Her nose might form icicles if he ran on and on.
But it wasn’t long before the doors opened and the congregation poured out—a little quieter than usual, a little slower and more thoughtful, as if they feared to break the preacher’s spell or maybe find fingers pointed their way. Celia stood with her back pressed against the church to get a good view of each and every person’s feet as they stepped down the outside stairs.
The church had nearly emptied and the line of those leaving had dwindled to a trickle when Ruby Lynne stepped outside, followed by her father in his brown leather lace-up shoes. “Not him,” Celia whispered, turning away when Rhoan and Ruby Lynne Wishon looked her way.
Confused and nearly disappointed, Celia felt herself blush and leaned down to retie her saddle shoes. Rhoan and Ruby Lynne walked on toward the parking lot. Nobody else came out the door. Celia sighed, uncertain, wondering how she’d ever get to the next county to look at the shoes on men’s feet and where she’d do it, or who’d believe her enough to get her there.
Just inside the church door she glimpsed the pant leg of a tan suit. Beneath that suit leg peeked the front toe of a tan- and brown-tipped shoe. Celia’s breath caught. She gulped, cold caught in her throat. The foot stepped back inside the church. Celia thought she might faint—or lunge after the shoes.
A few moments later the shoes emerged again—this time both of them. A woman—Pearl Mae—stepped between Celia and the man just before Celia’s eyes reached his face. Pearl took the man’s arm, leaning into him as they walked down the stairs, blocking Celia’s view. It was all Celia could do not to push Pearl out of the way. When the two reached the bottom step, the man pulled away, Pearl still chattering. Celia saw the man lift his fedora above the crown of Pearl’s perky, feathered hat, but Pearl and her Christmas bonnet stood between Celia and the man.
Celia nearly tripped down the stairs, past Pearl, in time to see the man walk away—nothing but his back and fedora visible to her through the stark branches of the elm outside the church until he reached the parking lot. His swagger looked familiar, but she had to be sure. There were only five vehicles there: Farmer Drew’s wagon, two faded pickups, Rhoan Wishon’s black sedan, and a two-tone brown and wood grain sedan with a roaring engine—the same two-tone color as the shoes. Celia knew that car—everybody did. Just before the driver pulled open his front door, he turned, looking back at the church with a grim mouth and deep freeze in his eyes. When he caught Celia staring, openmouthed, he blinked, climbed into his fancy car, and started the engine.
“Ruby Lynne!” Celia called, running toward the Wishons’ car.
Ruby Lynne turned, flushed, and glanced worriedly toward her daddy, making Celia stop in her tracks.
Celia mouthed, “I saw!” She pointed toward the two-toned car.
Ruby Lynne didn’t answer but nodded once, her eyes on Celia as they drove away.
Celia didn’t even try to talk to her mother. She went straight to Miss Lill, catching her hand before the family group reached Garden’s Gate.
Chapter Sixty-Four
“YOU’RE ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN? And you promise you’ve not exaggerated anything—not one word?” I grasped both of Celia’s arms and locked eyes with her.
“Every word I said is the gospel truth, Miss Lill. Every single word. And it was his shoes—the only shoes like that in the whole church, in the whole of No Creek. They match the colors on that car of his. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”
“Still, we must get Ruby Lynne to say.”
“She nodded when I called to her, but she’s afraid. She’s right—her daddy won’t believe her, and he’ll beat the tar right out of her till she lies, till she says it was Marshall.”
“Not if we take Dr. Vishnevsky and Reverend Willard. He won’t touch her in their presence.”
“They can’t stay with her forever.”
“They won’t need to. Safety in numbers, remember? If Rhoan threatens her, we’ll bring her here.”
“He’ll never allow it, don’t you see?” Celia pleaded.
“We have to make him.”
Celia was scared, and so was I—with good reason. But it meant life or death, sooner or later, for Marshall and probably Olney and maybe even his family. I knew the fire in the barn had been a warning to me of what would come next. If they’d burn me out, they would surely burn out the Tates, and they’d proven they could do worse. We couldn’t wait. “We’ll go now. Reverend Willard’s probably still at the church.”
“Sometimes he takes Sunday dinner with one or another of the congregation.”
“We have to try.”
“I’ll go for Doc Vishy.”
“No, Celia. I’m not letting you out of my sight.” It might have been the better part of judgment to send Celia home and do this alone, but I knew her account of what she’d seen last night would validate everything I said, the cause of Reverend Willard, and the influence of Dr. Vishnevsky. Celia’s presence might also help persuade Ruby Lynne to tell the truth. If the younger girl could be so brave, perhaps Ruby Lynne could, too.
Chapter Sixty-Five
CELIA COUNTED IT A GOOD THING that Miss Lill was the one who took the word to Reverend Willard. He’d believe her quicker than he’d believe Celia. And he loved Miss Lill in his way. Even Celia could see that.
“This is quite an accusation, Celia. You’re certain you can identify him? It was dark out there in the woods.” Reverend Willard held Celia’s eyes.
“There was torchlight enough and that burning cross made it bright. I saw his shoes when the horse reared. Why a fellow’d wear fancy shoes to do such a thing, I don’t know, but he did.”
“Arrogance, because he believes he can get away with it,” Miss Lill said as if she knew.
“The quicker we get him behind bars, the better for everyone.” Reverend Willard pushed long fingers through his hair. “But I’m not sure about pressing charges. Ruby Lynne’s still a minor. So much depends on Rhoan.”
“I was wrong about Rhoan Wishon—at least about that. But he’s her father; he’s got to step up, for his daughter’s sake. We can’t let this go on longer. Ruby Lynne’s vulnerable every minute. That wicked man will just hurt her again and again, don’t you see that?”
Miss Lill’s combination of anger and fear overwhelmed and perplexed Celia. She half feared she’d set them all on a wild wagon ride down a steep and rutted mountain trail that they’d never get off. What will Ruby Lynne’s daddy do to keep us all quiet? What won’t he do?
Celia worried about that from the moment Reverend Willard telephoned Doc Vishy, asking him to bring his car and medical bag to the parsonage, but not saying why. She knew he didn’t trust their “tele-Mae” operator to keep quiet, and quiet was of the essence if anything good was to be accomplished. It was clear they couldn’t count on the sheriff. How they’d stop things with no authority—and Rhoan Wishon the most powerful man in No Creek—Celia had no idea.
By the time Doc Vishy drove Reverend Willard, Miss Lill, and Celia into the lane at the Wishon farm, it was well past one. Apparently the Wishons had already enjoyed their Sunday dinner, as Rhoan and Troy were leaning against the front porch steps smoking Camels.
“What brings you all out here, Reverend?” Rhoan’s voice took a sharp edge.
“We need to talk, Rhoan. I’m glad you’re both here.”
Troy straightened up. Rhoan tossed his cigarette into the shrubbery.
“Might we come in?” Doc Vishy asked as politely as if he’d come to make a house call. “The ladies ought not to stand in the cold.”
Rhoan glanced at Miss Lill, took in the bandage on her head and the way the reverend guided her up the stairs. He looked as if he was about to object but saw no way clear of letting a bandaged woman escorted by the preacher inside his house.
Celia scooted close after Miss Li
ll.
Ruby Lynne came out of the kitchen, her eyes wide, drying a skillet and wrapped in an apron that pulled too tight across her growing middle.
“You go on, Ruby Lynne,” her father said. “This won’t concern you.”
“As a matter of fact,” Doc Vishy said, “it most concerns Ruby Lynne.”
“I believe you’ll want Ruby Lynne to stay, Rhoan.” Reverend Willard spoke as if they were friends.
“Don’t you reckon you’ve all done enough damage?” Troy stood unwavering by the door. “Buttin’ into things not your business—”
“The welfare of members of the church is my primary business,” Reverend Willard cut him off. “And I believe Ruby Lynne’s condition requires the attendance of Dr. Vishnevsky.”
“Why’d you bring this woman to my home?” Rhoan lit another cigarette and blew smoke right at Miss Lill. “You know what I said about her.”
Celia could feel Miss Lill tense for a fight. Every word from Miss Lill—even her presence—rubbed Rhoan Wishon the wrong way. Celia slipped her hand into Miss Lill’s palm and squeezed, hoping to settle her down, persuade her to let Reverend Willard do the talking. They needed Ruby Lynne’s daddy to listen.
“We’ve learned the father of Ruby Lynne’s child, Rhoan, and we’re here—”
“We all know the father!” Troy shouted. “And it would have been taken care of if you and your Jew friend didn’t butt into things not your business.”
“Marshall is not the father.” Reverend Willard held firm.
“Says you,” Troy snorted.
“You say you’ve learned who the father is,” Rhoan challenged. “Ruby Lynne tell you?”
Ruby Lynne cowered by the door.
“No,” Reverend Willard continued, “but I’m hoping she’ll verify the truth we all know.”
Everyone stared at Ruby Lynne, who stepped back, looking like she might puke. “Don’t ask me. I won’t say. I’ve told y’all that. I won’t say.”
“Because it’s that thievin’ n—!”