by Lisa Smartt
There’s something everybody needs to know about country churches. Country churches are about connections. So I knew, I absolutely knew, what was going to come next. Jake was going to explain to his small congregation just how he knew us and how we knew him. Or at least he was gonna die trying.
“Mr. Bart here is Debbie’s uncle and he’s married to Mrs. Charlotte and Mrs. Charlotte’s sister was Doug’s mama. And Doug is someone I’ve known most of my life. His mama and daddy were farmers there in Sharon and he works at the bank and has done some business with my daddy and helpin’ with the bean fields and all. Carlie is Doug’s new wife and Clara was Carlie’s roommate back when Carlie lived in Georgia. Clara still lives in Commerce, Georgia, and is here visiting the Jamesons for the weekend.”
Whew! That’s one intelligent country boy wearing khaki pants. The fact that he could keep all that straight without ever stuttering made me realize that ol’ Jake Smith was more than just a looker. The man’s got skills.
I knew the first song was going to be “Trust and Obey.” Mrs. Emerson looked like her days on earth were numbered so it was wise for Jake to prioritize what could be her last request before Glory.
He wasn’t much of a song leader though. I mean, he just stood there, held open the book, and sang. He looked out at the congregation pleasantly but he didn’t do all that other “song leader stuff” that people do sometimes. I always thought it would be fun to be a real song leader and get to do that right-handed musical sign language and everything. Jake Smith might be good at keeping people’s names straight but clearly he didn’t know musical sign language. That’s okay, Jake. I don’t take off points for musical talent or lack thereof.
After a few people shared prayer requests, Jake prayed and began his sermon. I was glad he wasn’t a yeller. I don’t like preachers who feel the need to yell. Plus, I think we all knew that Clara Johnson had a timid countenance and a yelling preacher would not help to alleviate that timidity.
Jake brought a simple message from the book of Romans. God’s grace. Christ’s payment. Our thankfulness. We sang all the words to “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus” and then an older man wearing brand new overalls closed in prayer. I deemed it a blessing from beginning to end.
Jake walked to the back of the sanctuary to greet the 30 or so parishioners as they filed outside. Now it was time for my matchmaking to go into overdrive. I’m glad Clara ate bacon this morning. As a big game hunter would say, “It’s time to go in for the kill.”
Doug walked up to Jake first and told him how much he appreciated the sermon. I nodded my head in agreement. Aunt Charlotte asked for directions to the bathroom and Uncle Bart unfolded a bag of Red Man chewing tobacco and headed to the church yard.
But Clara? Clara had gotten sideswiped on the way to the back of the church. Mrs. Emerson had taken it upon herself to explain to Clara that all her daddy’s people had come from northern Georgia. She began to go into detail about who lived where and who married who and who went west to find their fortunes. It was time for an intervention. I graciously waited for Mrs. Emerson to take a breath.
“Mrs. Emerson, my name is Carlie. We sure did enjoy being with all of you today. Sure did.”
“Well, we was glad to have you, ever last one of you. Why, you nearly doubled the congregation.”
I laughed and patted her shoulder. “Yeah, I guess we did. We’re lookin’ forward to eating with you. But Clara and I need to go out to the car to get our food. We’ll see you downstairs.”
I grabbed Clara by the arm and gently led her to the back. I was glad that the night before I had taken it upon myself to explain stuff to Clara about men, other than just the scarf thing. I like to think of it as a matchmaking tutorial. Men love respect. It’s a good idea to compliment them on things they do rather than the way they look. I mean, I could tell Doug that he has a cute butt and that’s fine. He does have a cute butt and I’m sure he’s happy to know that every now and then. But what he loves, what he craves, is for me to tell him how much I appreciate his ideas, his strong leadership skills, his ability to keep our new little family afloat. The way to a man’s heart is with respectful words. Well, that and a well-crafted sweater minus the chunky scarf.
Jake was now in the church yard discussing soybean farming with Uncle Bart, between spits. This gave me a chance to whisper one final admonition to Clara, “Initiate some conversation, Girlfriend.”
Clara walked up meekly and stood next to Uncle Bart and Aunt Charlotte. I prayed that just this once the Lord would shut Aunt Charlotte’s mouth, just like He did for Daniel in the lion’s den. The Lord saw fit to answer.
There was a moment of silence and then Clara spoke softly. “Jake, that was a powerful message on forgiveness. Really. I want you to know that I took notes. Thank you. It was really an honor to be here today.”
I could not have been prouder of Clara Johnson if I had given birth to her on a Sunday. She hit a homerun. Knocked it out of the park. She hit that ball so hard it was unraveling and traveling to a neighboring town.
Jake smiled. “Thank you, Clara. I’m glad you were here too. You guys are staying for lunch, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Carlie made chicken and dressing and I know Mrs. Charlotte brought something too. So, yes, we’re staying.”
“Good. I’d love to hear more about your life in Georgia.”
Score one for the home team. I wondered what color bridesmaid dress I would wear in the wedding. I hoped it wouldn’t be yellow as that had never been a good color for my skin which is a shade lighter than school glue. No. I look best in blue or some decent shade of pink as long as it’s not that gut-wrenching Pepto-Bismol color. Jeannie Parker (a girl I went to high school with) made her bridesmaids wear that loathsome Pepto-Bismol color and several of them still hold a grudge against her to this day. I’m not supporting that kind of bitterness but I also don’t support Jeannie’s flawed decision making. Asking your closest friends to wear the color of a well-known stomach remedy in front of the whole town seems unusually cruel.
As we headed to the basement stairs, Doug was engaging Jake in some heated discussion about crop pesticides. I gave him the look that says, “Stop talking to Jake and push Clara into the picture.” We’ve only been married seven months so he didn’t read my look correctly. He just went right on talking about bug killers and sprays and those little planes that dust the crops. Finally, I hurled myself into the conversation like an atom bomb. “Jake, Clara’s grandparents lived on a farm outside Birmingham. Yeah, I think they grew turnips or beets or…I forget.” I put my arm around Clara and shoved her up between Doug and Jake and then asked, “Which was it, Clara? Turnips or beets?”
“They were hog farmers.”
“Oh, yeah, I always get turnips and bacon mixed up. Crazy me.”
Jake and Clara laughed and then immediately started talking about farming and I was happy. It didn’t matter that I had made a blunder. My blunder got them talking. I was crazy alright. Crazy like a fox.
The church basement was small and smelled like every country church basement I had ever experienced; a musty combination of old crayons, Lysol, and cheap dusting powder. When you add the smell of chess pie, field peas, fried chicken, and baked beans…well, there’s only one word for it. Comforting.
Sadly, the members of the church were uninformed about the matchmaking purpose of the potluck dinner. They all sat around Jake and left no room for the visiting kindergarten teacher. I wanted to stand on a metal chair and make a simple announcement. Excuse me. Uh, this meal is intended to eventually bring these two adorable young people into holy matrimony. I really do want to wear that blue bridesmaid dress with the dropped shoulder so you guys need to all back off and give ‘em some room. But I’m sure that kind of announcement would not be considered “appropriate” plus I wasn’t sure the metal chair would hold me. So I just politely asked Mrs. Emerson if my friend, Clara, could squeeze in between her and Jake. Mrs. Emerson seemed delighted and so did Jake. Mission accomplished. I
need to put that little move on my matchmaking resume.
By 2:00 everyone seemed ready to go home and take a nap. The little kids were crying and the grown-ups were gathering trash. Jake was saying his good-byes but, sadly, he hadn’t yet given Clara that knowing glance. You know, the glance that says, “If all these people weren’t here, I’d move those Sunday School tables up against the wall, spritz myself with Drakkar Noir, put on some Lionel Ritchie, and we would dance the night, I mean afternoon, away.” No. No such glances. Maybe it was the Lysol that was killing the mood. But I was getting a weird vibe that made me wonder if Jake was really interested at all.
Jake and Doug talked pleasantly about local football rivalries while they folded up the tables. Mrs. Emerson interrupted their work to say good-bye and to kiss Jake on the cheek which I chose to find charming because she was old enough to be his grandma. The experience did kind of remind me though of that elderly Baldwin sister on the The Waltons. You know, the one who was always dreaming that Ashley somethin’ or other was going to come back and claim her for his bride. I mean, I did catch a little twinkle in Mrs. Emerson’s eye. But I chose not to over-analyze it. Watching Jake bend over and gently remove her from her wheelchair and carry her up the stairs while a teenage boy carried her wheelchair, well, it was inspiring. I thought Clara would have married him right there on the spot, had he not been the only one in the room qualified to do the ceremony.
But my matchmaking inexperience was on display because I didn’t have a way to close the deal. Everyone knows you have to have a clear exit strategy. Finally, in desperation, I spoke. “Jake, if you’d like to get Clara’s number or e-mail address, I’m sure she’d be glad to give it to you.”
Silence. Deafening silence. May I share a word of counsel with all potential matchmakers? The words, “Finally, in desperation, I spoke.” are words you should always avoid. If the situation becomes desperate, whatever you do, don’t speak.
I had put Clara in an embarrassing position. Again. The worst part? This time the real Clara had shown up. She talked about hog farming on the way to the church basement. She made eye contact and asked Jake about insurance and family. She drove eight hours to come with all of us to a tiny Baptist Church…when everyone in town knew we were Methodists. She didn’t wear the chunky scarf because I told her not to… and she trusted me.
Jake finally spoke timidly, “Sure. That’d be great. Do you have a card or something?”
Clara turned red and scribbled her phone number and e-mail address on the back of a Taco Bell coupon Aunt Charlotte found in her purse. Jake put the coupon in his pocket and I had a sneaking suspicion that it was going to “accidentally” go through the wash. I also had a terrible feeling that Jake was going to feel a sense of relief when he pulled those khaki pants from the dryer and realized the opportunity to call Clara Johnson had been magically eliminated.
When we reached the top of the stairs, Uncle Bart pulled the bag of Red Man from his pocket. The rest of us shuffled our feet nervously until all the good-byes had been spoken. I dreaded getting into the truck.
Doug remained silent as he pulled out of the church parking lot. So did Clara. I’m sure they were waiting for my verbal assessment of the situation…that or they were both silently plotting a way to kill me.
I broke the silence. “That went well. Clara, you really were very engaging. It was a lovely afternoon.”
Clara spoke softly, “I guess.”
“Look, if he calls, great! If he doesn’t, well, it’s not like he’s the only nice-lookin’ insurance-sellin’ Baptist preacher in the world. Good golly, no. There’s a whole sea full of fish like him. Absolutely.”
She smiled and patted me on the arm.
The quiet ride home was painful. I remembered something Doug had said about people eventually hating the matchmakers. He was right. Clara should hate me. But she won’t. She’s kind and loving and she’ll forgive me. That almost made it worse.
When we arrived at the farm house, Clara tried to muster a smile but said she needed to leave in order to get back at a decent hour. We understood. She drove away and Doug and I got into the biggest argument of our newly married life. I don’t even remember what it was about. I just remember feeling sad and miserable. I lashed out in horrible anger. I even broke a plate on the kitchen floor. Ridiculous. I guess I wanted Doug to be miserable too. I apologized for such childish behavior and suggested he watch the game in the living room while I took a nap. I laid on the bed and cried like I had lost my best friend. I was mad at Jake Smith. Mad at Aunt Charlotte and Debbie Walker for thinking he was such a catch. Mad at myself for being such a rotten matchmaker.
I was almost asleep when the phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Carlie, it’s Clara. I’m stuck on the side of the road. I don’t know what happened. The car made this rattling sound. I pulled onto the shoulder and opened the hood. The oil is fine. I just had the belts checked. But now it won’t even start.”
“Don’t worry, Clara. We’ll come get you. Where are you? Are there any signs around?”
“I just passed the Bradford city limits.”
“We’ll be there in 20 minutes.”
Chapter 13 CLARA LOUISE SPEAKS: Accidental U-Turn
I can’t cry. I won’t cry. If I start crying, I’ll never stop. Jake’s rejection was one thing. But now my car is broken and it’s probably going to cost a fortune. And I’m stuck in Tennessee for at least another day. I’ll have to get a substitute. Oh, and I’m not letting Carlie Jameson fix me up ever again. Ever.
Oh no. Now some crazy man is coming up to the car.
Tap. Tap. “Ma’am, can I help you with the car?”
“No. No thank you. I’m fine. My friend is on his way.”
Oh my gosh. He’s gonna kill me. He’s gonna break the glass and kill me right here in Bradford, Tennessee, home of the Doodle Soup Festival.
He determined to speak through the glass. “Ma’am, I’m a mechanic by trade. And really, I could just give it a look. I’m not a criminal. I promise.”
Oh my gosh. Everyone knows the first thing a criminal would do is deny bein’ one.
I felt nervous and afraid. “Uh, no. That’s fine. Really. You can just go on.”
He leaned in closer to the window. “Did the car just stop? Or did it make a lot of noise first?”
“I’m not sure. It rattled a little and then I pulled over. Now it won’t start at all.”
“It’s probably the alternator. I can go get my tow truck and take it in, if you want.”
“No. I’ll just wait for my friend.”
He stood up straight and said, “I’ll just wait here with you then until he comes.”
“No, you don’t have to. Really. He’s not that far away.”
“So he lives around here?”
“Sharon. He lives in Sharon. Doug Jameson.”
“Yeah, I know Doug. I know his aunt and uncle real well. Used to live next door to them.”
For the first time, I studied his face. He was dark but I couldn’t tell whether it was sun or whether he just had a dark complexion. There was a black patch over his left eye and he had a scar on his chin. His hair was dark and thick and long enough to be seen under a Titans ball cap. I couldn’t tell whether he was 30 or closer to 40.
“Really. You don’t have to wait. Doug will be here any minute now.”
“I don’t mind. I’d never leave a lady with car trouble on the side of the road. I wasn’t raised like that.”
“Well, okay then.”
He stood there silently in the cold. Stood right there by my car window. He didn’t get back in his truck. He didn’t try to look under the hood because I had asked him not to. He just stood there occasionally rubbing his hands together and looking at the highway.
I felt ridiculous with the car all locked up like I was afraid of him. But I couldn’t bring myself to unlock the door. I was afraid. But not for the reason he might think. Not because he had an eye patch or a scar or be
cause his face looked weathered. No. I was afraid of him because he was a man.
He looked into the window and said, “Sure been havin’ some cold weather lately. Yeah, sure have.”
“Yes, it’s been pretty cold.”
He then looked straight ahead and didn’t even lean toward the window when he spoke. “Do you live in Sharon? Is that how you know Doug?”
“No. I live in Georgia. His new wife was my old roommate and I was here visiting them.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Saw in the paper where he married that famous girl from TV. Some kind of writer, I believe. Yeah, that was big news round these parts. Big news.”
“Yeah. It’s really somethin’ cause when we roomed together, she worked at the dollar store. I mean, sometimes I even lent her money for the electric bill. And now she’s famous. But really, it hasn’t changed her that much. I mean, she’s still nice and kinda fun and crazy. Everybody likes her.”
“So, you were just here for a visit, huh?”
“Well, not really. I mean, not just a visit.” Good night. What am I thinking? Am I honestly getting ready to open up to a stranger wearing an eye patch who’s hovering over me and my disabled car? Don’t do it, Clara. Don’t do it.
He rubbed his hands together, adjusted his cap, and said, “Can’t imagine much that would bring somebody out to these parts.” He chuckled and looked down at the ground.
It was shocking how we managed to have a conversation through the glass of the car window. I don’t know why but I opened up and told the truth. It was so unlike me. “Carlie, Doug’s wife, well, she’s determined to be my matchmaker. She’s determined to find the right guy for me. But she’s struck out twice now. So I don’t know. Maybe she’ll throw in the towel this time.”
He laughed and when he did I saw that his teeth were perfectly straight and white. He took off his ball cap and straightened his hair before putting it back on. The navy blue coveralls had a few grease patches and his tan Carhartt coat was worn around the sleeves. But despite the scar and the grease and the eye patch, there was something about him that was handsome.