Puzzled, Cleav finished his business with his current customer and then headed across the room.
He'd hardly spoken a word to his former sweetheart since his marriage. It wasn't that he felt he should. His break with Sophrona had been clean and well understood between them both. He knew she'd been embarrassed by his apparent fickleness, but she was clearly not pining away for him. He wondered, in fact, if she'd cared for him at all. They really had very little in common and even less to say to each other.
"Afternoon, Miss Sophrona."
"Oh!" The young woman startled as he reached her side. As she turned and quickly recognized him, she sighed with relief.
"Oh, it's you, Cleav," she said softly. Recovering herself, she made a swift restatement. "Good day, Mr. Rhy. It's so pleasant to see you."
Cleav gave her a polite bow. If she preferred to act like an acquaintance, Cleav was certainly courteous enough to allow her to do so. "It's a lovely afternoon," he commented.
"Yes," Sophrona agreed and quoted piously, "This is the day the Lord hath made.'" Then halfheartedly she added, "That is, if it doesn't rain."
"Of course," Cleav answered politely and secretly reminded himself that he'd developed a new appreciation for rain.
Miss Sophrona seemed distinctly uncomfortable and that distressed Cleav. More than likely they would both live in Vader for a long time. It was best for all concerned if they could forget their courting, or at least to look back at it as a useful folly.
"Were you looking for something?" Cleav asked her. He was almost certain that she intended to answer negatively when the customer bell rang softly behind him.
An anxious, almost frightened look came over Sophrona's face. She rubbed her hands together nervously and then focused on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, Cleav, as if unsure where to look next.
"Yes, I want to purchase this!" she declared with more decisiveness than was necessary.
Hurriedly she directed her attention to the merchandise on the shelf behind her. Cleav followed her gaze. Puzzled, he glanced back to her face. "You want to buy a washboard?"
Sophrona's cheeks were flaming, and Cleav sensed that she was looking at something behind him. Glancing back, he saw only Armon Hightower, totally absorbed in the week-old newspaper lying on the rack across the room, oblivious to them.
"Yes, I want a washboard," Sophrona said, capturing Cleav's attention once again. "Our old one is nearly worn out."
His expression even more mystified, Cleav replied, "I can't imagine why it's wearing already. Mrs. Tewksbury bought it just last month. A washboard's meant to last a lifetime." Nodding firmly, he added, "Tell your mother to bring it in, and I'll make good on it."
A chuckle from behind him made Sophrona's cheeks flush even more scarlet. Cleav looked back at Hightower. Still reading, Armon had obviously found something amusing in the newspaper.
The week was a busy, hectic one. The store was so crowded, Cleav had to call upon both his mother and Esme to help him.
His mother's neuralgia was much improved. But rather than being more help in the store, she became increasingly less. To her son's amazement she had taken a sudden interest in planting flowers all around the house. That was where Cleav discovered her one afternoon, wearing an old faded calico dress and a straw hat that was easily as old as Cleav himself.
"Surely, Mother," he said, "you don't have to spend your days crawling around on your hands and knees in the dirt."
She looked up at him, slightly bemused. "I've always loved to garden. I know it's not as genteel a vocation as embroidery or tatting, but truth is, I never was much good at either one." Sighing, she added, "Growing things was always a special gift to me. But if it truly embarrasses you, I won't do it."
"Embarrasses me?" Cleav was dumbfounded.
"I know you want me to be the lady and all," she said. "And I've truly tried. But all this beneficial conversation and delicate living can wear a body down." Mrs. Rhy wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve.
"I was just the helpmate that your father needed me to be," she said. "After he died, I tried to be the partner that you needed, also. I gave up my way of living to follow yours. I knew that you needed me to do that." Eula Rhy reached a dirty-gloved hand toward her son, and he didn't hesitate to take it.
"You needed me but not anymore. You've a woman of your own now to be beside you," she said. "So if it's all the same to you, I'd like to get my life back to where it used to be."
"Mother," Cleav said, genuinely appalled. "You know I would never ask you to give up anything. I only want what's best for you. This heat and the dampness of the ground could ruin your health."
Eula waved away his concern. "I've never felt better in my life. Besides," she added, "Brother Yo tells me it's a sin in this world to go counter to my own nature."
Cleav's eyes widened in shock. "Since when has Yohan Crabb become your spiritual adviser?"
"I am my own 'spiritual adviser,' young man," his mother snapped. "Now, if it shames you to see me with my hands in God's earth, say so."
Disconcerted, Cleav answered contritely, "Of course I'm not ashamed. Mother. If you truly enjoy gardening, certainly you should do it," he answered her honestly.
Giving his mother a kiss on the cheek, he started back toward the store, wondering if he could have said the same thing a few months ago. Somewhere in the last few weeks the demons that had plagued him since his days in Knoxville had gotten misplaced.
Even when trying, he could hardly conjure up any concern at all about the opinion of people who hardly knew him.
With Eula otherwise occupied, Esme was called upon more and more to help out in the store. She didn't seem to mind; in fact, she seemed to thrive on talking and joking with the customers, sorting and stacking the merchandise, and delighting herself with a difficult sale.
On Thursday and Friday she'd worked right beside Cleav from daylight until dark, even spelling him when he left to take care of the fish.
Cleav worried that she was working too hard.
"Your father could lend a hand down here," he suggested gruffly.
Esme shook her head. "Pa's just Pa," she told him. "We've got no right to expect him to be anything else."
Cleav looked at his wife and thought about his mother.
"That's really the way you feel, isn't it?"
Esme looked at him curiously. "That's the only way there is," she told him honestly. "People are just who they are. The only one you can change is yourself, and it takes a good deal of sweat and worry to even make inroads there."
Cleav reached over and pulled his wife into his arms. Tenderly he brought his lips down to taste the sweetness of her own.
"Ain't it a sight!" Denny hollered to Tyree, who dutifully squinted at the embracing couple.
"Who's it?" he asked.
"The newlyweds!" Denny yelled back.
The revival's finale on Saturday night had all the makings of a true camp meeting. A half hour before the singing started, every seat under the brush arbor was filled, and all around the space outside families sat together on blankets covering the grass to hear Reverend Wilbur Boatwright's sermon.
Eula, who had arrived early to visit and gossip, saved half a pew for the rest of the family.
Esme and the twins had hardly sat down before Mrs. Tewksbury approached them. "Have you seen Sophrona today?" she asked.
Esme was momentarily startled. "No," she answered. "Well, maybe," she said thoughtfully. "She might have been in the store this morning. I'm not sure. Why?"
"Oh, no reason," the preacher's wife said. "She left early this morning to visit a sick friend. I just expected her to be back by now."
"Who's sick?" Agrippa asked tactlessly. "I ain't heard of nobody sick with the revival in town."
"I'm sure she'll be here shortly," Mrs. Tewksbury replied, carefully dismissing the question as she turned to return to her seat.
Esme's curiosity was piqued, but after several nonchalant perusals of the cro
wd, she gave up. Sophrona was probably there, she decided. She just had the good sense to get some visiting in before the sermon started.
The sermon did start, on time. And to Esme's mind, it ran on forever. It was clear, almost from the start, that the evangelist was not in his best form.
As is sometimes the case, the freshest, clearest, most important sermon can be presented at the wrong time and fall flat upon its face. Esme was quite sure that that was what was happening.
The crowd stirred restlessly. Babies cried. Toddlers whined. Several boys in knee-pants were called away from the service by fathers, presumably for a visit to the woodshed.
The crowd out on the grass, who would have had trouble hearing the best of orations, quickly lost interest in this one and began to visit among themselves. The low buzz of consistent whispering soon escalated to a clatter of voices that even distracted the "amen corner."
Having seen a preacher lose a crowd before, normally Esme would have felt sorry for Brother Wilbur. It was difficult, however, because the stout, red-faced little man refused to accept defeat. On and on his sermon went. Screaming at the top of his lungs, one hour passed and then two. It was as if he was punishing the congregation for their inattention.
Esme squirmed uncomfortably in her seat and glanced over at the twins. Both sat with elbows on their knees, bored but bravely holding their chins in their hands.
She glanced over at Cleav. He carefully stifled a yawn by turning it into a little cough. Their eyes met and silently communicated their agreement that a week of fine sermoning had fizzled into a final fiasco.
Though the evening got later, the temperature seemed to grow hotter. Esme was handed a fan, a triangular piece of paper attached to a stick. One side read "Moreley Undertaking and Mortuary; Russellville, Tennessee." The other side had a Bible verse: "Whatsoever ye ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive." Esme began asking that the service would end. She didn't, however, believe that it ever would. So it didn't.
As if sensing Esme's annoyance, Cleav sneaked his hand into her lap to grasp her fingers. Esme looked up at him, but his gaze was focused straight ahead and his expression was one of rapt attention.
Slowly the softly callused pad of his thumb began making lazy circuitous rounds across her palm. The tender touch had a strange, sensual effect on Esme. As if the hot room had suddenly become chilled, she felt her nipples tighten and glanced down quickly to assure herself that no evidence of that effect was visible.
She tried to pull her hand away, but Cleav's stayed her. With a quick glance down into Esme's eyes, he gave ho- a knowing smile that flushed her cheeks as bright as berries.
He was teasing her! The reality was simply shocking. Right here in the middle of a sermon, he was doing this on purpose!
Esme couldn't quite stop the naughty grin that curved her lips. Slowly, surreptitiously, she crossed her legs in a very unladylike fashion and began to stealthily caress the back of his calf with the top of her new high-buttoned shoe.
Cleav looked at her again, his eyes wide with surprise at her attempt to turn the tables.
Esme immediately turned her attention to the preacher, seeming to hang on his every word as her husband squirmed somewhat uncomfortably beside her.
She should be ashamed of herself, she thought with a momentary flash of guilt But the self-reprimand quickly faded.
Whyever would heaven give the evangelist such a boring sermon if they were expected to actually listen?
The Rhys' momentary diversion lightened the evening to some extent but could not eradicate the long, wearying evening completely. The increasingly loud sound of a quartet of snores from the "amen corner" was the only other diversion.
Esme spied Mrs. Tewksbury in the first row, nervously making an almost continuous survey of the crowd.
Pearly Beachum also seemed to have her eyes constantly scanning the rest of the congregation. Probably taking notes for tomorrow's gossip, Esme thought unkindly.
Eula Rhy was carefully examining the cloth on her second-best black silk gown.
The lantern to the left of the pulpit sputtered sporadically, threatening to give up the meager amount of light it was throwing on Brother Wilbur's insistent pacing back and forth.
It was nearing midnight when the exhausted, sweating, and genuinely petulant preacher finally called for the invitational hymn. "Just As I Am" had never sounded so good.
The old men in the "amen corner" came awake with the typical coughing and hacking of aged lungs. Esme almost giggled as she watched Pa, bleary-eyed, shake his head like a wet dog, trying to clear his brain.
As the congregation raised their voices in song, the preacher compelled any sinners present to come forward and "make themselves right with the Lord." Esme almost groaned. That type of invitation could last for hours if enough people felt led to make their way to the altar. Even non-sinners could be moved to come forward to confess troubles and ask for prayers and guidance. A good sermon could set dozens of repentant feet in motion.
With tonight's message, however, even the most pious among the crowd didn't budge.
The congregation, standing, was pitifully warbling out the third verse:
"Just as I am! Tho tossed about,
With many a conflict, many a doubt . . ."
when a stir started in the back of the crowd.
Like everyone else, Esme turned. Could someone be coming forward? Esme couldn't imagine it after that sermon, but the Lord did work in mysterious ways.
Craning her head to peer around the dozens of others straining for a look, she finally saw the instigator of the excitement: Armon Hightower.
Her mouth dropping open in surprise, Esme heard a little huff of disbelief from Cleav.
With Sophrona Tewksbury at his right, Armon was making his way down the outside aisle to the front of the brush arbor. Speculative murmurs ran through the crowd.
The singing slowly faded to silence as Armon reached the front and spoke a word to Brother Wilbur, who seemed as surprised as everyone else. Sophrona stood in the background looking distinctly ill at ease, avoiding a glance to the side of the room, where her parents sat.
The preacher nodded at the younger man several times during their discussion and then stepping away from him, raised his arms. "Brothers and Sisters," the preacher began, "this young man has come forward this evening, wishing to address the crowd."
The stunned silence was broken by a whispered flurry of voices, each asking the person beside him, "What does it mean?" "What's this about?" "Young Hightower getting saved? Unbelievable!"
As the rustle of quiet questions began to fade, Armon gave a hasty glance at Miss Sophrona before stepping forward.
The handsome young man cleared his throat nervously. "Lots of you folks were here on Monday," he began. "And those that weren't, well, I suspect you heard that my granny got up here to ask you all to pray for the salvation of my soul."
There were nods of agreement throughout the room.
Armon's darkly attractive good looks were enhanced by the bright blush of embarrassment that flushed his cheeks.
"Truth to tell," he admitted, "I never really thought much about getting saved. It always seemed kind of contrary to my nature."
A chuckle of agreement was heard from the "amen comer," and Esme gave her father a disapproving look.
Running a worried hand through the thick hank of hair that crept toward his brow, Armon forced himself to scan the crowd bravely.
"I've been studying on it a bit more lately." His eyes stopped at the sight of the bent and aged woman who sat on the far right end of the second pew. "Granny," he said, his voice lowered slightly in tenderness, "I know you been praying for me, steady, for a lot of years now."
He swallowed visibly. "I want to thank you for that. And for everything else I got in this world," he added. "You done kept me clean and fed most of my life. And that ain't easy for a widow woman, and we all know it."
Catching his upper lip between his teeth, he rubbed his
hands together as he contemplated his next words.
"I'd like to tell you, Granny, that I've done made a decision for the Lord," he said. "But it'd be a lie."
A ghost of a smile curved his lips as a memory wafted across his thoughts. "If you remember, I promised you years ago, when you told me your old arms were too tired to take a switch to me no more, that I'd never lie to you again."
The old woman smiled back at him with love.
"I ain't been saved yet," Armon declared honestly.
A strange sigh went through the crowd, as if a hundred people had been holding their breath.
"I'm thinking on it, real serious," he said. "And I want you, and everybody else here, to remember me when you're a-praying to God. I'm sure going to need all the help I can get."
Another chuckle filtered from the "amen comer," and Armon, himself, was able to bring forth a slightly jittery smile.
"The good Lord seems to know that," he continued more calmly. "'Causing he done sent me the best kind of help that a man can have."
Turning his head, he gave Sophrona a glance.
"I ain't been saved," he told the crowd. "But I have decided to change my ways."
With a warm smile he held out his hand, and Reverend Tewksbury's daughter stepped up to his side. The big-bosomed beauty was flushed and pretty as she shyly kept her eyes down, holding Armon's hand tightly, as if for strength.
"I done give up being a wild hill boy," he announced. "No more liquor, cards, or ladies for me. Now I'm just another dour-faced old married man."
Sophrona grinned broadly.
"I want you all to be the first to meet my new bride, Sophrona Hightower. We was married in Russellville this afternoon."
If the boys in knee-pants on the back row had been waiting for excitement all evening, they got it now.
Granny Hightower clapped her hands above her head and cried, "Hallelujah!"
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