Enduring

by Donald Harington

  Hush! she said to herself, and hushed, thinking, There’s nobody listening. Nobody listens to those bugs and frogs except their mates. No reason to talk to anybody except somebody you want.

  She began to rock slowly in her rocking chair, and let Time fall back into its timelessness.

  Sometime later a figure riding a mule came trotting by, and turned down the main road into the village, spurring the mule for all it was worth. As the mule and rider disappeared into the darkness down the main road, Every reappeared.

  “Who was that?” he asked jerking his thumb in the direction the mule and rider disappeared.

  “I think that was Sarah Chism,” she said. “Yes, it looked like Sarah Chism.”

  “Hmmm,” he said. “A woman riding a mule. I wonder what that signifies?” He came and sat back down in the chair he had vacated some time ago.

  “Sarah Chism riding her mule signifies Sarah Chism riding her mule,” she said. “Though I’ve never seen her out at night before.”

  “Hmmm,” he said. “Is that a fact? Then it must signify something.”

  “Maybe the mule needs exercise,” she said. “The way she was running it, she really looked to be giving it a work-out.”

  “Hmmm,” he said again, and seemed to be in deep thought.

  After a while, she asked, “Well, did you reach the Lord?”

  “I did,” he affirmed. “But He sure didn’t have much to say to me.”

  “Who can blame Him?” she said. “The poor Fellow’s trying to get some rest in preparation for His big day tomorrow of listening to billions of church services.”

  “Now you just might be right,” he said. “Leastways He didn’t seem much inclined to give me much of His time.”

  “What did He say?” she asked.

  “Strangest thing,” he said. “He just said one thing. All He said was, and I quote, ‘Straightway will I show thee thy true vocation.’ That’s all. Now what do you make of that?”

  “Oh, come on, Every,” she said. “You’re just making that up.”

  “No, now,” he said. “I swear. I heard it in me as clearly as I’ve ever heard Him in me. And that’s what He said, word for word. Straightway will I show thee thy true vocation. As if I hadn’t already found my true vocation a long time ago. What do you reckon that could mean? That He was going to give me some kind of sign right away? Then what kind of sign is Sarah Chism riding a mule?”

  “Maybe He wants you to be a muleteer, or a mule trader,” she said, thinking I’d lots rather be married to a mule trader than to a preacher.

  “Why would He want that?” Every said, in an obvious turmoil of perplexity. “What does He mean by ‘true vocation’ anyhow? I’ve got a true vocation, darn it, and why doesn’t He know it?” Every suddenly sprang up out of his chair. “Land o’ Goshen!” he cried, pointing. “Yonder she comes again!”

  Sarah Chism on the mule came back up the main road, riding not as fast as she had headed into the village. Sarah caught sight of them silhouetted against the light of the windows and turned her mule toward them and rode up to the porch.

  Sarah squinted at him and asked, “Is that you, Every? Is it shore-enough a fact what they say, that you’ve become a preacher?”

  Every seemed reluctant to answer, as if to do so would bring down upon him that awful sign he anticipated. Finally he mumbled, “Yeah, Sarah, that’s right.”

  “Then pray fer us all!” Sarah wailed. “My man Luther’s done went and shot a revenuer! I’ve went to git Doc Swain, and he’s a-comin to try and fix him. He aint kilt dead, but he’s all full a buckshot. Pray fer im, preacher! Pray fer us all!”

  She jabbed her heels into the mule’s belly, and rode away.

  “Tarnation!” Every exclaimed.

  “That’s it, Every!” Latha said to him. “That’s your sign. That’s what the Lord wants you to be.”

  “What, a revenuer?” he asked.

  “No, a moonshiner,” she said.

  “Aw, heck, Latha,” he said. “You can’t read signs. Don’t you know what this signifies? Sarah asked me to pray, didn’t she? That means the Lord is telling me that my true vocation is praying for folks! That means He wants me to pray for that poor revenuer, to strengthen my true vocation as a preacher.” And Every knelt immediately on the porch and thanked the Lord for the sign, and asked Him to save the poor revenuer’s life. But the words of his prayer were nearly drowned beneath the sound of Doc Swain’s car roaring up the road. The engine roared, then coughed, then roared again, spluttered, belched, roared, coughed: the car came into view, jerking and bucking. It came abreast of the post office, roaring, then spluttered and died. Doc Swain tried to start it again. It would not start. Doc Swain jumped out of his car and kicked it viciously with his foot. “Goddamn scandalous hunk of cruddy tinfoil!” he yelled, and kicked it again. “Sonabitchin worthless gas-eatin ash can!”

  Then he turned wildly about, yelling, “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!”

  “Here’s your true sign, Every,” Latha said to him. “The Lord wants you to be a doctor.”

  “Naw,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s something else.”

  “A horse?” she said.

  “Get me a lantern, quick,” he said. She went into the house and brought out a lantern. He took it and ran out to Doc Swain’s car. He gave the lantern to Doc Swain, saying, “Hold this.” Then he opened the hood of the car and bent over into the car’s innards. A minute passed. He said to Doc Swain, “Just set the lantern down on the fender and get in and try to start it.” Doc Swain did so.

  The car started right up, and the motor ran evenly. “Hey!” Doc Swain hollered. “Thanks a load, Every! What’d you do to it?”

  “Distributor cap had worked loose,” Every said.

  “Well, lucky you were here!” Doc Swain said. “I got to get out to Luther Chism’s. He’s shot a revenuer, the damn fool.” Doc Swain let out the clutch and roared away.

  Latha and Every returned to the porch and sat down again. Every was in a morose mood. She let several minutes pass before saying, “So that’s it. The Lord wants you to be an auto repairman.”

  Every said, “Maybe,” and nothing else.

  “Well,” she observed, “I guess it ought to be a good-paying line of work.”

  “Oh, it’s good-payin enough, all right,” he said. “Worked my way through Bible College working nights in a garage in Nashville. And I’ve had to do a stretch of car work hither and yon from time to time, just to make ends meet. Preaching don’t pay enough to be called a job of work, ’less you settle down in a good-sized city with a big congregation, and I wouldn’t care for that.” He was silent again for a while, then he threw his head back and raised his voice so loudly she jumped. “Lord, what’re You tryin to tell me, Lord?” he demanded. “Don’t You want me, Lord? Don’t You need me anymore? Have I not been living up to Your expectations? Do You honestly want me to be nothing but a grease monkey?”

  He was staring so fixedly up at the sky that she let her own gaze follow his, as if she might find Somebody appearing up there. The sky was mulberry purple, and star-spattered. A star fell. Or a piece of one, a flaming fragment, leaving a trail. A falling star always means that somebody is dying. Maybe that poor revenuer. No, maybe it was—

  “What’s that mean?” Every asked her. “You remember all those old-time signs and portents, Latha. What do folks think a shooting star means?”

  “Falling, not shooting,” she corrected him. “Means somebody just died.”

  “That revenuer…” Every said. “Why, if he’s dead, then it means that me fixing Doc Swain’s car didn’t do any good anyhow, so that wasn’t the real sign the Lord meant to give me. Maybe there’s going to be another sign, the real one. I just caint believe the Lord would want me to fix cars the rest of my life.”

  “Maybe not the revenuer,” she said. “Maybe the one who just died was Preacher Every Dill. The preacher’s dead in you, Every.”

  “Don’t say that!” he proteste
d. “That gives me the creeps.”

  She had an idea. “Let’s go to bed,” she suggested.

  “It’s still kind of early,” he observed.

  “For sleep, yes. But let’s not go for sleep.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Every,” she said in exasperation, “if you won’t sleep with me first I won’t marry you.”

  “And I tell you again,” he said, “that I will not sleep with you until I’ve married you.”

  “Well,” she said, “that’s that, I guess. Nice to’ve seen you again, Every. Come back again some time.”

  But he did not leave. Nor did he say anything. They just sat and sulked, both of them, for many minutes.

  By and by Doc Swain returned, and stopped his car in the yard and got out. He came up and sat with them on the porch. “Every,” he said, “the United States government ought to pin some kind of medal on you. Providing, of course, that that poor bastard ever gets back to tell them about it. Pardon my language, Reverend. Well, I declare, if you have learned to save souls the way you’ve learned to fix automobiles, I reckon it’s true enough that you’ve honestly been transformed and revamped.”

  “Is he all right?” Every asked.

  “Well, he won’t be sittin down for a right smart spell, but he can just lay on his belly. I dug about twenty 12-gauge shot outa his ass-end—pardon me, Latha—his backside is shore peppered up, but, all considering, he’ll live—though for what I don’t know, ’cause Luther still aint figgered out what to do with him.”

  “Why did Luther shoot him?” Latha asked. “That was plain stupid.”

  “Haw!” Doc Swain exclaimed. “Lost his temper momentarily, I imagine. Seems what happened was, he caught that revenuer right in the old act of carnal congress with his gal Lucy. Caught him really with his britches down, and let fire with his shotgun before thinkin about it. Even nicked Lucy on the thigh too.”

  “I thought the revenuer was tied up,” Every said. “How could he have seduced Lucy if he was tied up?”

  “By dang if he aint still tied!” Doc Swain laughed. “He aint never been untied! Reckon Lucy had to unbutton his britches for him. But Luther claims the revenuer must’ve talked her into it, and that’s just the same as seducing her. I don’t doubt it, for that revenuer is shore a talkin fool; he could talk the hind leg off a donkey. No trouble talkin his own britches off. He come mighty near to talkin me into sendin him to a hospital, so he could get loose from Luther.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “And betray my own people!” Doc Swain demanded. “What do you think I am?”

  “Well, Luther can’t keep him forever, can he?”

  “Noo, but he aint about to let him loose before studying on the problem. Luther’s brains is kind of slow, you know.” Doc Swain stood up. “Well, I’m out way past my bedtime. Sure obliged to you, Every, for that quick repair job.”

  “Doc,” Every asked, “are you still the justice of the peace for Swains Creek township?”

  “I fergit,” Doc Swain said. “Seems like I am, but I aint jay-peed in so long I fergit whether my license is still up to date. But yes, come to think on it, I reckon it is. Why?”

  “Can you issue a marriage license?” Every asked.

  “Sure,” Doc Swain said. “Who for?”

  “Us,” Every said.

  “Who’s ‘us’?”

  “Me and her.”

  “By jabbers, it’s about time!”

  Chapter thirty-eight

  So that is how Gran and Gramps came to get married. It didn’t happen that night, nor the next day, nor the day after. For one thing, Dawny turned up missing. The whole population of Stay More, 112 that summer, went out looking for him, scouring the hills and woods and dragging the streams. In fact there were 113: Dolph Rivett went home to Spunkwater to fetch his bloodhound and came back to add that talented dog to the search. Everybody forgot that it was Sunday, and Every’s intended revival meeting was never held. Latha bent down a mullein stalk and named it Dawny. Every had to interrupt the search just once briefly at the request of Luther Chism to perform what would be his next-to-last act as a minister of the gospel: to officiate the quick nuptials of Lucy Chism and an agent of the U.S. Revenue Department, who agreed on condition that he be untied, freed and then hitched to Lucy for life, that he would never divulge the location of Luther’s still, or of Luther, to his employers. Thus Luther was able to go on for the rest of his life manufacturing Chism’s Dew, a supply of which he furnished to the searchers fanning out from Latha’s store porch. The men dragging the grappling hooks through Swains Creek and Banty Creek did not turn up any sign of Dawny or his body but they caught so many fish that an enormous fish dinner was made possible, with all the women contributing cole slaw and hush puppies. The search for Dawny became the single most significant social event in the history of Stay More since The Unforgettable Picnic so many years before.

  Dolph Rivett, despite the admiration that his bloodhound raised, was not so lucky. In order to put the dog on Dawny’s trail, he had to employ a used handkerchief (“snotrag”) thought to belong to Dawny but which, as it turned out, belonged not to Dawny but to his Uncle Frank Murrison, who was found by the bloodhound in the Stay More schoolhouse in a compromising position atop Miss Estalee Jerram, schoolmistress, and at just about the same time Dolph discovered the uselessness of the bloodhound he was accosted by his grown son Purdy Rivett, who was armed and who had trailed him from Spunkwater because Dolph had taken the dog, whose name was Gloomy, without permission, from Purdy, to whom the dog belonged, and furthermore Purdy and his brother Duke were sick and tired of their father gallivanting around the country to the neglect of his chores and his wife. So Dolph Rivett at gunpoint was eliminated from Stay More. When Latha heard about it, she was relieved.

  The search for Dawny also uncovered half a dozen abandoned cabins that no one had known about, three waterfalls that had not been seen before, the mouths of two deep caves, and a cow that Silas Duckworth had been missing for a year. They also found, here and there, five Stay Morons who had been searching for Dawny but had become hopelessly lost in the woods.

  It was late afternoon before Every himself, remembering that Dawny had always been accompanied by a dog, asked Latha for the name of this dog, and then asked himself if he were Dawny where would he go and, having himself been so much like Dawny at that age of five-going-on-six, hiked off north beyond Ledbetter Mountain, not calling “Dawny!” as the others were doing, but calling “Here, Gumper!” and in time, almost lightning-bug time, the dog came to him, and right behind the dog was Dawny, who said he had been found in a dark glen of a waterfall by the hermit known as Dan, and that Dan had persuaded him to come down the mountain and had walked partway with him. Dawny was afraid that he’d get a worse licking from Rosie and Frank. “You let me handle them,” Every told him and led him by the hand, but the poor kid was worn out and had to ride the last mile atop Every’s shoulders. When Latha saw them coming down the trail behind her house, she loved Every more than ever, and Dawny too for that matter, and gave them both huge hugs and kisses. But she knew her mullein stalk had risen up and she’d been confident that Dawny would be found.

  Indeed, Dawny’s Aunt Rosie yelled at the boy, “Just what do you mean, anyhow, you rapscallion, putting all these folks to such bother?” and she drew back her hand to smack him a good one, but Every stopped her hand and pulled her close and whispered something into her ear so fiercely that she nearly fainted, and did not protest when Latha fed the boy some supper and then fed Gumper too, and then allowed Dawny to sit in the porch swing while all the folks came to look at him and admire him and congratulate Every for finding him. Dawny was also permitted to spend the night, not in Latha’s bed but atop a pile of calico Purina feed bags in the store, with Gumper just outside the door. Every kept him company, sleeping on a pile of gingham Nutrena feed bags.

  The next day everything was back to normal…to the extent that anything in Stay More was ever normal.
Latha and Every argued about when and how and where they would have their wedding. Latha continued to insist that she didn’t want to marry him until she’d slept with him, and Every continued to maintain that, even if he wasn’t a preacher any more he still “followed” the Bible and didn’t want to sleep with Latha until they were married.

  An even greater problem for Every was that if he stayed in Stay More and no longer preached (even though preaching had never been very lucrative), what would he do for a living? Raise chickens? No, the Lord had told him to become an auto mechanic, so he was determined to follow the Lord in that respect also. He converted his father’s wagon-making shop into a garage for servicing automobiles and trucks, with a gasoline pump out front. Latha pointed out that it wasn’t exactly on the main road. “The main road to where?” Every said, and he had a point: Stay More wasn’t really on the road to anywhere, although it was possible to get to other towns over the hills beyond it. In that year of 1939 there weren’t a lot of motor vehicles in the neighborhood, but those that were, had, like all machines, a tendency to break down, stall, and go awry. His best business would continue to be the selling of gasoline to make the engines run. But he would always have hanging from a mighty oak tree in the garage’s yard one or more automobile engines that he was taking apart to repair.