Grace picked up a watering can and turned her attention to the plants that lined the shelves and windowsill of her office, then said, “What were you asking about Roscoe?”
“Yeah, you mentioned Roscoe earlier. Putting me in my place, something like that. What’s so special about him?”
She let the water dribble into a couple more plants then set the watering can down on a magazine on the corner of her desk, wiped her hands together briskly, then placed them on her hips. “You mean besides the fact that he’s on his back again?”
“Well, yeah. There must be something we can do about that, isn’t there? Don’t we have a mason around here? Someone who works with stones and bricks and such?”
“I know what a mason is, Pastor Colonel,” she said.
Pastor Colonel? “Grace, why don’t you settle on something to call me? You don’t have to be so formal, you know. Hugh is fine, or Pastor, or Hey You, for that matter. After all, we’re friends.”
“Can’t do that, Pastor Colonel. Wouldn’t be right.”
“But why on earth not?”
“’Cause I don’t know who you are ’til I see you. For instance, right now, you’re Pastor Colonel. Earlier today you were something else. Right now, there’s just something about you, I don’t know, kind of “man of God” and military-like. It’s just of a picture of you that shows up when I see you. Yesterday you were just plain Hugh—all day long. Don’t ask me why. Just the way it was.”
“Do you do that with everyone? I mean, does everyone have a different look about them every day?”
She nodded. “Yep. Everybody. I never know who somebody is ’til I see ’em. Take your wife, for instance. If I see her later on today, she might be Melanie. Maybe Mel. Could be Mrs. Foster. Hard to say right now.”
“How about your mother?”
“Ruby Mae? Oh, to her face, it’s always Mama. I tried calling her Ruby Mae once in front of her, and she liked to knock me straight into Richmond.”
“But you just called her Ruby Mae.”
“That’s ’cause she’s not here. I call her Ruby Mae when I’m speakin’ about her in front of other people...”
“But not in front of her?”
“You got that right.”
“Well, I like your mother, Grace. She’s a mighty nice-looking woman. Always wears a hat, right?”
“Yep. That’s her trademark. She’s a vain one, Ruby Mae is. And she’s convinced she gets better-looking every single day. Thinks the Good Lord wants beautiful souls up there with Him and that He’s gettin’ her ready to reside with Him for all eternity.”
“Well, she certainly has a beautiful soul, but …” I said.
“No, she’s talking about her physical self. She’s bound and determined she’s just about the most beautiful creature God ever put on earth. ’Course her hats are a big part of it.”
Yes, I’d noticed. “Well, they are magnificent.”
Grace looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “You could say that, but you’d be lying. They’re monstrosities, and everyone except her knows it. But it makes her happy. She makes them herself and frets over them all. Says each one has to be better than the last and let me tell you, that’s saying something. We’ve got hats piled all over that house. You should see her grave hat.”
“Her grave hat? You mean the funeral hat… the one that Dewey blew up?”
She nodded then reached up to water a hanging philodendron plant that dangled nearly to the floor. “Yeah, the one she’s going be buried in. She’s been working on it, fixing it up. Says it’ll put the angels to shame. That’s what she’s counting on, at least. She’s got … well, had, since it’s not there anymore—wisteria cascading over the edge, a lot like Briscoe has back there by his house, and roses and daisies and little vines draped over the brim.”
She turned back to me and set the watering can down on the desk. “’Course she won’t be able to actually wear it in her coffin. Wouldn’t look right on her head and all. All lopsided and such. But she wants it planted right on top of her. Don’t know how she thinks she’ll balance it once she’s upright again, but that’s her problem.”
“Too bad it’s in pieces now. But what was she doing with it at the inn if it’s her funeral hat?”
Grace laughed. “She brought it with her because she thinks Pewter hates her. When we went to the inn to stay during the storm, she was bound and determined to bring that hat with her. Said Pewter would eat it out of spite.” She shook her head. “Probably would have, too. She and Mama don’t get along all that well. So what happens instead? It gets shot.” She chuckled. “What are the chances?”
“Around here? Pretty good, I’d say.” I leaned against the edge of the desk and crossed my arms over my chest. “She realizes she can’t take anything earthly with her into Heaven, doesn’t she? That her hat won’t be on her head when she enters Heaven?”
“Well, she’s a smart woman and she ought to know that. But who knows? She tells me she’ll knock ’em dead when she gets up there. Thinks that’s real cute. Knock ’em dead.” She shook her head. “Good grief.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good goal for your mama to have. Have you considered telling her that God doesn’t look at our external appearance? That it wouldn’t matter to Him if she were the homeliest woman on earth?”
Grace gave me a frustrated look and shook her finger at me. “You try telling her that, Pastor Colonel. Go ahead. I dare you.”
She had a point. I tried to clear my head; this was distracting. “Okay, back to Roscoe. I’m sure the congregation will come together to do something about fixing him up, won’t they?”
She harrumphed. “Don’t be too sure of that. I don’t think the congregation much cares for Roscoe—he was a mean one, you know.”
“Actually, Grace,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “I didn’t know that about Roscoe. How does anyone know he was mean?”
“News gets around, Pastor Man. News gets around. Besides, he’s Lawrence’s cousin and everybody knows Lawrence was meaner’n a skunk.” Grace picked up the watering can again and moved over to a Christmas cactus.
“You mean Lawrence over in the corner back by that redbud tree? But they’re dead, Grace. Both of them. They’ve been dead for 200 years. Lawrence and Roscoe haven’t been mean, if that’s what they were, for two centuries now. Doesn’t anyone ever forget anything around here?”
“Not if you’re mean, they don’t. And folks in this town, well, they don’t forget a thing. Ever. Besides, it was Sadie Simms’ great-great-great-great-great-is that five?—grandma’s house girl who dated Lawrence for a while and that’s how we all know he was mean. Why, she ended up marrying Roscoe, that’s how mean Lawrence was. And since everybody knows how mean that Roscoe was, Lawrence must have been awful mean for her to switch to Roscoe over it.”
She had me. I didn’t know what to say. After a while I managed, “But what’s that got to do with the church not wanting to pay for fixing Roscoe’s headstone?”
“Nothing really. Just stubbornness, I suppose. Folks around here don’t take to anybody who’s mean and ornery and that old Roscoe …”
“I know, I know. He was a mean one.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Three hours later, I stood in the sanctuary in front of what was, according to Grace’s estimation, a record-breaking crowd. Winnie, in her black, long-sleeved dress, sensible black shoes, and black hat with a black net veil drawn over her eyes, was howling up a storm in the front row. Dewey had one arm around her ample shoulders and tried with the other one to find a place to pat her in a comforting manner without getting smacked in the head by her flailing hands.
Given Winnie’s theatrical tendencies, her brother’s funeral was the perfect place to demonstrate the love she felt deep down—way, way, way deep down in some folks’ opinions—for her dear, departed brother. She alternately sobbed into her hands, wailed inconsolably with her head thrown back and her hands flapping every which way, or sat demurely
wringing the daylights out of her handkerchief while she caught her breath in anticipation of her next great outburst.
I was already exhausted trying to talk over Winnie, and I wasn’t yet three words into my prepared sermon. I waited a few seconds for her latest wail to die down then gave it another try.
“Let me repeat that, folks. Bill Manning was a good man, a good, good man.” I glanced at Winnie.
She was nodding her head like one of those wobble-headed back window puppies. She was going to sprain her neck if she wasn’t careful.
“And although I didn’t know him for that long, I did talk with him at some length on numerous occasions. Bill was always ... uh, passionate about his views.” I cleared my throat. “Bill was …”Lord, please help me through this. I want to be truthful “... he was ... he was fervent. Yes, that’s the word for it. Bill was a good, fervent fellow. And did I mention he was full of passion?” Several heads bobbed. “Okay then.”
Winnie started to howl again, and I raised my voice to compensate for the racket. “As you all know,” I said, “Bill had a deep and abiding interest in our church, and in particular, in the Christ Is Lord Church choir.” That was true enough. Bill spent the last three months of his life trying to eradicate it from the face of the earth.
At my remark, Winnie rose from her pew, drew the veil back over the brim of her hat, threw back her shoulders in a theatrical gesture worthy of a Shakespearean actor and walked slowly to the front of the church. Like a herd of obedient penguins, four similarly-clad women and two dark-suited men joined her at the front and to my horror, circled Bill’s coffin like a flock of vultures. I looked on as they perched themselves on the two steps leading to the pulpit in a semi-circle around the coffin at the base of the steps and faced the congregation. I tried not to look appalled at what I knew was coming.
I rushed on, hoping I could forestall the inevitable. “I believe I was the last one to talk to Bill that morning before he died. Our conversation revolved around this very choir, in fact,” I said, gesturing to the somber group below me. “As I said, he was a passionate fellow, that Bill. And it was with great, uh … passion that he spoke that day about the choir, and in particular about his sister’s participation in it and her ... her voice and ...” I could have cried with relief when Winnie’s renewed bawling interrupted my blabbering.
The truth was, I had nothing good whatsoever to report about Bill’s view of the choir and everybody—aside from the folks in the choir, of course—knew that. What could I possibly say to these people? I cringed, thinking of Bill’s very last words to me—to anyone, for that matter. Well, here you go, Bill. Happy now?
The group looked as though they were ready to burst into song, or caterwauling, depending on a person’s viewpoint, and I knew I had to finish up before I lost my chance to be truthful about the dearly-departed Bill—whose own funeral was turning into a mockery by the very thing that probably helped kill him.
I looked at Winnie; the women on either side of her were hugging her and she seemed to be back in control for the moment. “Let me just say this, folks, before the good folks in our own Christ Is Lord Church choir begin their ... uh, their very own rendition of a medley of Bill’s favorites. To be perfectly honest with you, the last thing Bill said to me the other day, with passion like I’ve never heard before ...” I cleared my throat, stalling—for what? The Rapture maybe? I waited, but no such luck.
I plunged ahead. “Bill said this choir ...” Lord, please give me the words. I took a deep breath and spit it out. “Bill said this choir would ... sing at his funeral.”
That was more than poor Winnie could take. She threw her arms over her head and cried, “This is for you, Bill!” and began to sing—well, to make noise.
Later that afternoon at the luncheon there would be several arguments in the small groups that gathered to eat the ham sandwiches, coleslaw, baked macaroni and cheese, relish tray, eight gelatin salads and seven chocolate cakes—two with chocolate, one with peanut butter and the other four with vanilla frosting—whether or not Winnie was actually singing with the choir or just moaning out of tune. Either way, it was a funeral tribute the townspeople of Road’s End would never forget. Nor would I.
Bristol, all scrubbed up and wearing his version of a winter Sunday suit—clean, pressed khakis and a long-sleeved, white cotton shirt with a navy blue V-neck pullover sweater—wandered over to me during the luncheon, which we held at the inn. He carefully balanced a red plastic cup of iced tea and a foam plate that threatened to split right down the middle with its load of food. He nodded at me then set his plate down on a table nearby and took a sip of tea.
“Nice service, Pastor,” he said. “Made me proud to know Bill. That must been a tough sermon, with Winnie so close to her brother, but you pulled it off.” He crunched on a piece of celery and was quiet for a moment, concentrating on his chewing and scanning the room.
I ate some macaroni and cheese.
Finally, Bristol swallowed and continued, “Nice touch, too, with Winnie and the choir singing.” He looked at me innocently, but I saw his eyes crinkle at the edges. He knew as well as I did that Bill probably died trying to prevent that very event. “Nice of him to invite them to sing at his funeral, wouldn’t you say?”
I looked around to make sure no one could hear me. “In a manner of speaking.” I lowered my voice another notch and leaned toward Bristol. “His exact words to me that day were: ‘I’m telling you, Pastor, that choir will sing in our church over my dead body.’”
Bristol tossed a baby carrot into his mouth and thought for a moment. Then he said, “Wow. Nice recovery, Pastor.” He wandered off toward the buffet table, shaking his head. “Really, really nice recovery.” And then he laughed for ten minutes straight.
Chapter Forty-Five
The days after the funeral were a little less frantic, for me at least. I can’t speak for our prisoners. While the men and I spent most of our time outdoors shoveling, the women took turns witnessing to, or badgering, as some would say, depending on which side of the pulpit one was on, the much-humbled thugs.
The men were helped to their feet and led to the pews. There they sat, still bound hand and foot, at the mercy of whichever lady—Sadie, Winnie, Martha, Hazel, or Ruby Mae—was doing what could only be described as tag-team preaching. In the event the men felt compelled to shout “Hallejulah!” or “Praise the Lord!”—a possibility I found nearly impossible to comprehend, but one that Hazel Parry and Winnie Wyandotte assured me would happen—their gags had been removed. At first I worried about the men abusing the women verbally, but then I remembered who we were talking about here and decided that I.B. and his men were without a doubt outmatched, outwitted, and out of luck. Why the ladies were so convinced the men would need to shout in wonder and praise, I’m not certain. Torture briefly crossed my mind, but I didn’t ask. I doubted even Sadie would resort to torturing someone in the Lord’s House.
Frank was assigned to guard duty. There was no guarantee he’d stay awake, but the mere presence of the axe he borrowed from Guthrie Jones (being the nit-picky pastor I am, I’d banned firearms from the church for all eternity) would probably be enough to keep the bad guys in line. I know I’d behave if I were in the same room with an axe-wielding Sadie Simms. Just seems prudent. As an added precaution, Joe Rich and Rudy Wallenberg took turns sitting with Frank.
Occasionally I’d stop in to warm up, return any phone messages, and more importantly, check for blood, fractured skulls, or assorted broken limbs. You know, the usual stuff pastors around the world have to worry about their congregations inflicting upon hapless felons. But I had to give the ladies credit. I.B. and his buddies might have been unwilling listeners, but Winnie and her righteous gang gave it to them with both barrels. Short of putting their fingers in their ears and singing “La-la-la-la-la-la,” the men had to have at least heard the message even if they didn’t believe it. And when you think about it, that’s all God asks of us. Just get the message out; the seeds will
flourish in fertile minds, fail in those that are barren. I didn’t hold out much hope that our convict congregation would leave Road’s End with the Lord in their hearts, but that wasn’t for me to determine.
About six hours later, the men decided to call it a day. Bristol and I walked into the foyer, stomped the snow off our boots, and peeled our gloves from our frozen hands. “Whew, it’s cold out there,” I said, cupping my hands and blowing some warmth into them. Bristol grunted. “What do you think?” I said, cocking my head toward the closed doors ahead of us. “We have four converts in there?”
He snorted. “I don’t know about you, Hugh, but if anyone could convince me to believe in something, it’d be Sadie Simms and her scary band of lady hoods.” He gestured toward the door. “After you.”
We peeked into the sanctuary. No bodies, no unattached limbs; so far, so good. I noticed the Christmas tree, glowing with blue and white lights, had been brought in and set up in a corner behind the pulpit. Winnie was playing the piano, and the rest of the ladies were supervising the men as they tried to hang the ornaments with their hands tied. Frank sat in the front pew, head bobbing on his chest, his snores competing for attention against Winnie’s tinny, though thunderous rendition of “Joy to the World.” Thankfully, she wasn’t singing. There’s only so much a man—felon or not—should have to endure, even one under house arrest. All seemed well.
But not for long. “I said the white one, mister!” Whack! Sadie slapped Benjamin on his bald head; he ducked. Then, in an apparent attempt to regain a measure of dignity, he tried to glare a hole into her forehead. “Don’t you look at me in that tone of voice, buddy,” she said, “or I’ll give you something worthwhile to think about, by golly—you with that snippy attitude and your bald head and your ‘I don’t care where I put this ornament’ attitude of yours.” Even from that distance, I could tell Benjamin had no idea what she had just said; neither did I. “White ones go next to the blue ones. Got it?” Benjamin shrugged and moved the ornament.
Misstep (The Road's End Series Book 1) Page 25