Rising Above Shepherdsville

by Ann Schoenbohm

  I closed my eyes, my throat closed so tight, I could barely breathe. When I opened my eyes, she’d hung your robe back in the wardrobe. “That’s yours, honey. It will be here when you want it. You need comfort where you can find it.”

  • • •

  Evangeline brought me a cup of water and sat me down in the chair in front of her. She waited with me, the quiet surrounding us. She didn’t coddle me, just held my hand under hers and talked to me in her low, rich voice.

  “Sometimes you might feel like you are drowning in a deep, dark pool. Loss might threaten to grab you and sink you. What we feel for those we lost is still love. Love isn’t all pretty feelings and promises of no heartache. But love is what you have to grab ahold of and use to pull yourself up and out of it, as best you can. The love is what you hang on to, hear?”

  Evangeline knew the language of heartache, Mama, and she was teaching it to me.

  She patted my arm. “Understand?”

  I did my best to smile.

  “Now grab those pins and follow me.” I picked up a pincushion shaped like a strawberry. Evangeline positioned pins in her mouth and then pulled them out one by one as she attached the patterns to the cloth spread out on the table in front of her. She moved quickly, pushing each pin in and another behind it, following along the blue line at the edge of the pattern.

  “See?”

  I nodded, doing my best to follow along with her.

  “That’s good.” She watched me for a minute, humming under her breath.

  Then Evangeline said the strangest thing, Mama.

  “I expect you did some visiting this morning, judging from the state of your shoes.” Evangeline smiled and kept pinning robes.

  I looked down, and sure enough, my Keds were tinged green from the field and were wet at the toes.

  From a large basket Evangeline brought out scissors, then cut along the edge of one of the patterns, all neat and crisp. Her fingers were long and delicate, the nails short.

  “Now, since you’re curious, I’ll tell you what you need to know. There are mute swans, and then, there are trumpeters who honk as loud as a truck horn.” Evangeline bent over the fabric, talking while she worked. “The mute ones are the kind that nest in this part of the country.” She handed me pattern scraps, gesturing for me to drop them into an old ice cream bucket under the table. “But you best be careful if you happen upon swans. You don’t want to get too close to their nest.”

  She pointed the scissors at me. “They’re mighty fierce if riled up. They can take a man down if he threatens them. Uh-huh, I’ve seen it, you best believe.”

  Evangeline looked over to check her pinning. “Swans are protective of their young ones. They’ll fight to the death if they have to.”

  She smoothed out fabric and cut patterns as she talked, her voice silky. “They do love a little corn muffin or a bit of greens. A moist crust of Wonder Bread. Not too much though. Just a little, now and again.” She handed me a pair of scissors.

  “Here. Ready to cut. Just follow along the edge.”

  Evangeline guided my hand with hers, leaning next to me, her breath warm with the scent of apricots and coffee. “There you go.”

  She watched me for a moment, then pulled paper scraps out of the ice cream bucket. Using her scissors, Evangeline snipped delicate edges and rounded corners, her fingers nimble and quick—transforming the paper into the shape of a swan. She placed it flat against the windowpane. The sunlight glowed like gold through it.

  “The female swan is called a pen, and the male is a cob.” She cut out another paper swan, followed by tinier ones. “The babies are cygnets.” Evangeline seemed to understand what I wanted to know about the swans as she unraveled their mysteries to me. She told me how to communicate to them and how to signal with my body that I meant them no harm.

  “Swans are apt to mate for life and are the most faithful of God’s creatures. They’re smart, too. They remember human faces and know who has been kind to them, and who hasn’t.”

  It was clear that Evangeline, like Reverend Love, knew about the swan nest out behind the church. Knowing she might have been to my secret place made me feel closer to her. Evangeline commenced with humming again, the melody light, a good accompaniment for the task.

  By the time Faith finally arrived, we’d already cut out five robes in different colors.

  Reverend Love poked his head in the door.

  “My apologies, Evangeline. We were running late this morning. Mary didn’t feel up to making breakfast. The baby kicked up a fuss all night and kept her awake. Getting ready to make an appearance, I expect.” He yawned. “I’m not much at pancake-making. I burned a few, didn’t I, Faith?”

  From the look on Faith’s face, I gathered more had gone on than pancake-making—more like clothes-changing and face-scrubbing. She wore an ugly cast-off dress, obviously another from the church giveaways. Without her eyeliner, she appeared to be a different person altogether—less defensive, less definite. Tender, somehow.

  Reverend Love raised one brow as he surveyed the bolts of fabric laid out before him.

  “Evangeline, those robes are going to be something, all right. I appreciate you going to all this trouble.”

  Evangeline harrumphed. “No trouble at all.” She pointed to Faith and me. “I’ve been blessed with some mighty fine helpers. Anyhow, now the ladies of the church got no reason they can’t put that new robe money toward fixing the furnace. No sense you working, come wintertime, with your overcoat and gloves on.”

  Reverend Love considered this. “I think it’s a better use of our budget. I appreciate you finding a way to get us the fabric without spending a penny of church money. Come wintertime, we’ll be grateful for it, and we’ll have new robes, too.”

  Evangeline indicated the old garments we’d folded into the box. “Well, hand to God, these poor robes are moth-eaten and threadbare, not fit to sing hallelujah. These gals can sew up new ones in no time.”

  Reverend Love tilted his head, not trying to hide his smile. “I’ll be upstairs in my office if you need anything.”

  He gave Faith a little push. “Go on now.” She frumped into the room, with a sour face.

  Evangeline put an arm around Faith and tucked her in under her wing like a duckling. “I just about gave up on you. Thought we’d lost you already.”

  Faith allowed Evangeline to guide her over to a table, next to me.

  “Wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun.” Faith smirked and sat down with a plop.

  “Dulcie will show you how to pin and cut the fabric.”

  Faith reluctantly took the scissors and pins, her face a scowl. “What’s all this for anyway? Looks like a circus rode into town and left the tent.”

  “You ever hear of the robe of many colors?” Evangeline asked. Faith shook her head.

  “Back in Bible days, folks all wore the same dull robes. Until one day, a favorite child named Joseph was given a robe of many colors by his father to show honor. These colors will speak out and show that we are all God’s favorite children. With your help, I aim to have new choir robes ready for Baptism Sunday in a couple of weeks.”

  “Baptism Sunday?”

  “The day we start as fresh as a newborn baby. As clean as a whistle.”

  Faith looked positively horrified. “Sorry. I’ll miss it. I’ll be long gone by then.”

  Evangeline smiled, something hidden in the spread of her lips. “You reckon so?”

  Faith leaned back in her chair. “I know so.”

  Evangeline put her hand on Faith’s shoulder. “All we’re going to worry about right now is pinning and cutting. When we use our hands for good, the world falls away.”

  Faith shook her head, not buying what Evangeline was selling.

  After a few attempts at following along the pattern, Faith accidentally jabbed herself with a pin and yelped. She mouthed a word you wouldn’t find in the Bible and stuck her finger into her mouth, then sucked on the pinprick of blood. Evangeline r
etrieved the pincushion from the floor where Faith had dropped it and set it down beside Faith. “Breathe. Slow down. We’re in no hurry.”

  Evangeline returned to snipping fabric, the sound of her humming and the swish of her scissors whistling an accompanying rhythm.

  Then she said to nobody in particular, “No use running from things, anyhow. You just bring them troubles right along with you wherever you go. They get mighty heavy, those troubles. Sometimes you just have to set ’em down.”

  14

  v-e-n-g-e-a-n-c-e

  vengeance (n.)

  the return of an injury for an injury

  The sun hit me full in the eyes when Aunt Bernie swept the curtains open in my room the next morning. Her particular Sunday fury was a mission of utmost importance—to get to church early before everybody else. She wanted to make sure that the flowers were positioned on the altar and the after-church coffee was brewing in its pot.

  She also liked to beat everybody else there so that the casseroles, Jell-O, and cookies that came into the basement kitchen would be arranged on the tables and placed in the icebox as she wished them to be. It made her happy to oversee each and every aspect of the social hour that followed church services. She fulfilled these obligations, Mama, as if it were her rightful place, her God-given duty, like the queen of England’s job.

  I bumped into Mrs. Swinson and Loretta prancing into church, carrying a fancy cream concoction in a pie tin. Mrs. Swinson shot me a wicked-stepmother smile. The red lipstick from her lips stuck on her teeth, making her look like someone who ate children for breakfast.

  “Well, if it isn’t Dulcie Dixon. Thank you ever so much for your cherry pie. Unfortunately, our little dog, Pepper, got at it and we had to throw it away. I’m sure”—she patted my arm—“it was delicious.”

  Loretta guffawed. “Poor thing puked all night.”

  Mrs. Swinson laughed. “Oh, honey, that’s what happens when you eat out of the trash.”

  She thrust out her cream-topped monstrosity. “If you would be so kind as to take this down for us. We don’t want to miss the beginning of services.” They sashayed away, their tails wagging.

  By the time I’d finished helping Aunt Bernie arrange foil-wrapped plates and casseroles, we barely had enough time to find seats in the sanctuary.

  Aunt Bernie handed me a church bulletin with a picture of Redeemer Baptist on the front, its giant white cross even more outsize than the one in real life. I was happy to see that Reverend Love’s sermon was on a subject near and dear to my heart.

  Redeemer Baptist Church

  Sunday, July 10, 1977

  Pastor—Zachariah Love

  Choir Director—Evangeline Tucker

  Sermon: Does Church Have to Be Boring?

  Soon enough most of the church bulletins became fans in the heat; the entire congregation transformed into an undulating sea of white paper waves. Evangeline was up at the altar, her arms waving in flight, palms up to the heavens, leading the choir—those few souls who’d decided to show, despite the heat and any misgivings about her. As the new choir robes weren’t ready yet, only perspiration decorated the choir’s Sunday best. The organ downright drowned them out, shaking the windowpanes.

  For the beauty of the earth,

  For the beauty of the skies,

  For the love which from our birth

  Over and around us lies.

  Aunt Bernie sang out of tune next to me, as loud as a trumpet. I mouthed the words, imagining my voice drowning hers out. When the hymn ended, she looked in the Swinsons’ direction, and whispered, “People seem to be boycotting choir this morning.”

  It did seem like a few folks were missing from the choir; in particular, the Swinsons. I hoped Aunt Bernie wasn’t fixing to join up, because that would have required earplugs for the whole congregation.

  Reverend Love leaned into the pulpit, issuing forth words of good and evil, salvation and righteousness, but if he got to the heart of the matter, I never did know, for my mind had since left the building.

  Mama, I don’t know what happens to time in church, but everything slows down. Each second becomes a year, and each minute becomes an eternity. Church is a perfect haven for daydreamers and doodlers, and I took advantage of it.

  I took one of the little pencils out from the back of the pew in front of us, and on the cover of the church bulletin, I sketched a lone swan in flight next to the cross, wings outstretched, its long neck reaching toward the heavens, soaring into my daydreams.

  The little pond beyond the church beckoned me. The swans, their elegant bodies sliding through the water, called me to worship their beauty. I ached to go to them and leave the confines of this human sea of starched shirts and perfumed smiles.

  When the service ended, I wandered down to the basement, making my way to the long banquet table set out with food. I filled my pockets with corn muffins, then sneaked out to the parking lot with a cup of fruit punch.

  Poor old Marlow sat chained to the door handle of the Burdine’s truck, his tongue extended, panting in the sunshine. I put the punch cup down in front of him, and he gladly lapped up the contents, slurping with pleasure. Coat dirty, nose warm, he let me pat the top of his head, then flopped back down in the dirty gravel, seeking shade under the truck.

  Loretta and her girl-gaggle came out of the church. Jason, Matt, and the other boys followed behind. They were balancing cups and plates piled with food in their hands as they made their way to the picnic tables—away from the basement and the eyes of their parents.

  I made sure they didn’t see me as I sneaked around the other side of the building.

  I hurried through the field, clutching my Bible bag, the muffins wrapped in a napkin inside. At the broken fence I climbed over and into the clearing, to the place where the swans nested.

  It seemed a world away, Mama.

  Just beyond the bank the swans floated, gliding with ease through the brackish water. I ventured a bit closer. The one I presumed to be the male, because of his size, I knighted with the name Mr. Cobb. He raised his wings as if to warn me not to come any closer. His snow-white feathers caught the sunlight, his beak appearing hard and dangerous.

  I was mindful of Evangeline’s warning and didn’t venture too close. I tossed a corn muffin toward the swans. They swam warily to where the soggy pieces floated, and nipped them up rapidly. I tiptoed over to the tree limb of the weeping willow and watched them.

  Cobb was twice as big as his mate, the pen—I named her Penny Lane—like that Beatles song you always sang, Mama. Mr. Cobb had a thicker neck, the black knob above his orange beak bold and imperial. When the birds waddled out of the water, I noticed that his feet were black, while Penny Lane’s appeared gray. Penny Lane followed Mr. Cobb everywhere he went, as did their little cygnets, who stayed close, often hopping onto Penny’s back for a ride.

  I wanted so badly to stay and watch them, but I figured I’d best get back to the church before Aunt Bernie noticed my absence. She expected me to help clean up in the kitchen after social hour.

  Moving closer to the edge, I held out another corn muffin for Mr. Cobb. Disturbed by my gesture, he swam closer, moving defensively, eyeing me with caution. I tossed muffin pieces to him, and he caught them neatly, crumbs falling into the water around him. Penny and the babies glided over and helped him devour them.

  Mr. Cobb elongated his neck and bowed his delicate face my way, a thank-you of sorts. I left the rest of the muffins on the ground—an offer of friendship—and vowed to visit them again.

  I hurried to the rear of the church building by the picnic tables, careful not to draw attention to myself. Loretta’s voice reached my ears. I flattened myself against the back wall and listened.

  “She not only tried to poison us with that pie, but she hawked an ice cube right at me, spit it directly into my face, right in our own house.”

  I crept around the corner and headed to the vestry door only feet away from where they were sitting. Matt Jensen noticed me. “Hey
, dummy!” He lumbered toward me like a grizzly bear.

  Lerman got up and followed him. “Well, if it isn’t the ventriloquist’s dummy.”

  They blocked my way, Lerman’s face a wicked snarl. Matt and Jason loomed behind him. Loretta and Missy stayed at the tables, giggling like two nanny goats.

  Lerman grabbed my arm. His fingers dug into my skin, his nails sharp as razors. “If I stick my hand up here”—his other hand threatened to go up the back of my dress—“can I make you talk?”

  Jason said, “Lerman, that’s enough.”

  Matt got his face right up to mine. “You need to apologize to Loretta.”

  Lerman pushed me toward Loretta, hand on my back, hard. As I stood my ground, he pushed harder, and I fell. I hit the gravel, tasting dirt, hard pebbles digging into my hands.

  Suddenly Matt cried out, “Ow! What the . . .”

  Faith’s voice came from up above us. “Leave her alone.”

  I got to my knees and stood up.

  Faith stood on the flat part of the roof, the cross behind her, her pitching arm back, a sizable piece of gravel in her hand. She aimed and hit Lerman right in the chest. He cried out in pain, too stunned to move.

  Faith yelled, “Touch her again, and I’ll take out your eye.”

  She dug into her dress pocket and threw a few more rocks, demonstrating the precision of her aim.

  Missy and Loretta screamed and ran into the church, covering their heads.

  Soon after, Reverend Love came busting out through the church doors. He was followed by a crowd of folks holding on to their Sunday Bibles and paper plates full of half-eaten food.

  Faith continued to pelt the boys with insults and rocks. Some crouched under picnic tables or ran out of range. But Jason didn’t move. He stood still, hands in his pockets, eyes down.

  Reverend Love’s face was red, his eyes wide.

  He called, “Faith! Stop!”

  He walked to the edge of the building, looking up at her, as mad as a badger. “Get down here. Now.”

  Faith shouted, “You tell those hick meatheads to back off and stop pestering Dulcie. Then I’ll come down.”