Jack Umstead came in quietly and sat down on the back row. He was getting to know his way around. He was trying to remember that joke about the fiddle player. What was it? This fiddle player ... Oh yes. This fiddle player plays a solo in church. It's awful. Sounds like a cat dying. Somebody says out loud, "The fiddle player is a son of a bitch." "Who said that?" says the preacher, standing up, looking. Silence. The preacher continues, "Who was sitting beside whoever said the fiddle player was a son of a bitch?" Silence. "Who was sitting beside whoever was sitting beside whoever said the fiddle player was a son of a bitch?" Silence. A man stands up. "Preacher, I didn't say the fiddle player was a son of a bitch, and I ain't sitting beside whoever said the fiddle player was a son of a bitch, and I ain't sitting beside whoever was sitting beside whoever said the fiddle player was a son of a bitch. But what I want to know is this: Who said that son of a bitch is a fiddle player?" Umstead smiled.
Crenshaw sat at his desk in his office. It was almost time to go in. He looked out the window at the uneven paint job on the side of his garage, at the grove of pines beyond that. The shadow of the church moved halfway up the pines and the sun shone dull orange on their top halves.
In the end, he'd not written to Cheryl Daniels. He had found victory, had repented, and had prepared a major sermon for tonight. He hadn't been able to wait until next Sunday. Mrs. Clark had been a part of his getting turned around. She had written him a note saying she had accidentally seen his letter to a young lady of the church, and had turned it all over to Jesus. She wouldn't tell anybody. Jesus, thought Crenshaw, had seen to it that Mrs. Clark see that letter, and had seen to the right obstacles being put in the right places on his journey down the first mile or two of a very low road. Mrs. Clark would hear his sermon—and would understand. She was slow, but not dumb. She would understand that he had been sorely tempted by the Devil, had almost fallen, and was now back on track with the Lord. It all could have, if not terminated, led to an outrage—the breakup of his marriage, even. The loss of his church! He had been brought by the living spirit of Jesus Christ through prayer to know that. Mrs. Clark would get the message of his turnabout—loud and clear—and then afterward there would be no mention of that letter, no need for explanations. Would there? What if she didn't believe him? He'd never took the time to get to know Mrs. Clark very well. She was odd somehow, with her marriage to Claude T., and her medicines, and this way she had of living in her office. He never quite knew what she might do next. Plus he kept forgetting she was over there. And he'd already gotten a call from Donna Walker asking if the church should be getting rent from Mrs. Clark.
Cheryl would be out there in the congregation in a few minutes. And if she had been thinking what he thought she had been thinking, through the influence of the Devil, then tonight—through his sermon—she would get the message; yes, by golly, it was necessary that she get the no message loud and clear. Prayer—and circumstances planted by God—had saved him, were in the process of saving him as he sat staring through the window at good wholesome church people, the Livingston family, walking from the parking lot behind his garage to prayer meeting. His call was from God and unto them, not to himself and the sinful impulses fed to him by the Devil.
Stephen toomey already knew in his young life that if he heard the call, a call that all people received at some time in their lives, then he should walk down front and tell Preacher Crenshaw that he believed in God and Jesus. That was how you got saved—but only if Jesus called. Jesus called everybody at one time or another and those who didn't answer, those who didn't go down front and accept Jesus, were going to hell when they died. His mama had told him that. Mr. Sellers, his Sunday school teacher, had told him that, and Mr. Crenshaw had told Stephen's whole Sunday school class that, twice. Getting saved was a little bit like another kind of once-in-a-lifetime chance that would come when he grew up: there was that one woman in the world made for each man. You would find her and marry her and have children. His mama had told him that and read to him about it in Aunt Margaret's Bible Stories, and she'd told him some other things, too. But first you had to answer Jesus—that came first—and you'd better be ready when He called. He was out there somewhere, just beyond the walls of the church, deciding who to call. And when He came through the church wall and called you, all you had to do was believe and go down front and say so. Believe in God and the Lord Jesus Christ and you go to heaven when you die.
Stephen had spent pieces of many days driving his cars and trucks in the dirt out back at their garage. He'd built roads and hills. The trucks turned around, backed up. They turned over. They had bad wrecks. It all might as well have been true—the roads and hills—and then ... then he'd learned the very first for-real-sure-true thing in the world. Heaven. And to get there you had to be good, but that wouldn't do it. You had to believe in Jesus. And this he did. To not believe meant eternal death for sure. All he had to do now was wait to be called down to the front. If he missed the call, God would call him once again maybe, but if he refused to answer, then ... in his almost seven years on earth he'd looked into burning grass, piles of burning wood. He'd even looked into the big fire of burning tires and felt the awful heat. He knew about hell.
Crenshaw walked IN, onto the podium, and sat down in his chair. He scanned the congregation. His own family was in the right place, second row left. Paul was too fidgety. Marjorie would get after him.
He looked for Cheryl. She didn't always sit in the same place. He saw Mrs. Clark behind Alease Toomey. There was Cheryl coming in the back, almost late. His eyes had minds of their own. He pulled them back to his wife. Temptation comes to every man, over and over, and every woman—it came to Eve, but she failed—and it came to Jesus and Jesus stood strong. Think of what-all Jesus could have had as a man. He could have had the world and everything in it. He could have had a thousand Cheryl Danielses, for a thousand nights each. But He had not allowed that to interest Him the least bit.
There was a new face—a man in wire-rimmed glasses.
Talmadge Scully, down front, brought the congregation to its feet to sing the opening hymn.
As he sang, Doug Harmon remembered that he'd forgot to buy his daddy a pack of Dr. Scholl's small corn pads that afternoon. / Fred Quin visualized the long bent nail he'd pulled out of his tractor tire with his pliers. He worried about Bob Sanders not seeming to want to come over and help him load the tire into his pickup to take up to Puttman's Tire. / Irene Rogers shifted her weight so that her left knee hurt less. She wondered why that new woman had looked at her funny when Irene told everybody in Sunday school she'd been in every state except Delaware. She looked like she resented it. / Little Zalph Loggins finally found a piece of gum under the pew that he could get his fingernail under. He popped it off, looked at it, and decided not to chew it. Then he wondered what kind it might be and decided to go ahead. He put it in his mouth to see if it was Juicy Fruit. It was Dentyne he believed, so he took it back out and tried to stick it back under the pew. It wouldn't hold. He put it in a hymnbook. He looked up at one of the hanging lights and held his eyes to it so everything in the big room would finally whiten out. / Little Tina Pascall swallowed her Life Saver and wondered if it could get around her heart and stop it from beating. Her mama was always saying, "Bless your little heart. Bless your little heart." She tugged at her mama's skirt. Her mama gave her a hard look. She tugged again. Her mother bent down to listen.
Crenshaw's text was Matthew 4:1—11. He led in prayer, read the Scripture, then preached:
"Jesus had been in the desert for forty days and nights; He was tired. Tired and hungry. Famished, in fact." Crenshaw's body tensed and he clenched his fist on the word "famished."
"The Devil tempted Him to turn stones into bread. Jesus refused. The Devil tempted Jesus to throw Himself off the temple, and show everybody that God was protecting Him. Jesus refused."
Long pause. He walked from behind the lectern, to the edge of the podium, paused, looked out at all the faces looking back. They were
listening well. The Spirit was speaking through him. "The Devil showed Jesus all the kingdoms of the world"—arm sweep—"and said that if Jesus would simply worship him, worship the Devil, then he would give those kingdoms to Jesus. Jesus refused, the Devil left Him, and angels—angels administered unto Jesus." Crenshaw returned to the pulpit, looked at Cheryl, gathered himself together, said a short, hard, silent prayer to God. Cleared his mind of her.
Stephen remembered the picture of Jesus standing on the hill looking at all the cities the Devil owned. The Devil was standing behind Jesus. The Devil, mean and evil and nasty and blue, was offering gentle white Jesus the whole world, just to do something wrong. And Jesus held strong even though He was weak and tired and hungry from forty days in the desert without anything to drink or eat. Not the first little cracker crumb. Stephen loved Jesus for being so strong, for saying no. Jesus was perfect—He could have been a prison guard one time.
Crenshaw felt the power of his redemption, his rededication, his partnership with Jesus. He looked briefly at Mrs. Clark. Would God touch her, tell her it was okay to never for sure mention that letter? He would have a brief word with her after the service and explain—if she didn't get it—his redemption in ways connected to that letter. Clearly connected. She would understand.
He preached of temptations that all men, all women, all children face every single day of their lives. Christian, sinner, Gentile, Jew. The temptation to do wrong. Some people fight it, some don't. And God's messengers—preachers—face it too. They get it just like everybody else, sometimes worse. They get temptation dressed in all kinds of tempting colors and, and flavors. "The Devil is not unschooled, the Devil is not ignorant, the Devil is smart, smart as a whip. The Devil was once Ga-hood's right-hand angel. The Devil knows the human mind and the human heart and can pa-lay it like a fiddle."
Fiddle, jack umstead thought. I won't sitting beside ... and I won't sitting beside...
"I ... I ... even I have wrestled with the Devil—today. I came to a draw. To a draw, dear friend, because dear friend you do not beat the Devil. The Devil bounces back ... and back ... and back again ... But finally, dear friends, with the help of Jesus Christ, I won. I won the battle, but only for a while. The Devil will be back. Yet again." Pause. "Yet again," he said softly. Then he whispered: "Yet again. The tragedy will be played again, and again. And without Jesus, without"—he shouted, now—"Jesus in your heart you will lose the battle, and the price of that loss will be an eternity in hell, where thirst is everlasting, where hunger is everlasting, where poverty is everlasting, where pain is everlasting, where darkness ... and horror ... and sadness are everlasting. Everlasting ... even unto everlasting."
Crenshaw—pacing, pointing to heaven, to hell—spelled out, spilled out the awful love of Jesus, the awful need to come to Jesus, the awful need to place your hand in the nail-scarred hand.
Mrs. Clark felt Preacher Crenshaw's torment. He had been through an event that brought Jesus to Listre, and Jesus had saved his life. That had to be it. Preacher Crenshaw had clearly had a visit from Jesus, too. No man could preach like that if he hadn't been visited by Jesus. Preacher Crenshaw was on fire for God. Yes, Jesus was in Listre. And she had talked to Him. Even if He was there to talk to Preacher Crenshaw, she had been just as privileged as he had. Jesus had come all the way from the Middle Ages straight to her and her pastor. What a wonderful world it had turned out to be. Claude T. might even back off his Cadillac and diamond ring a little bit what with Jesus nearby and all.
Crenshaw, during the invitation hymn, asked the choir to hum the second stanza of "Just as I Am." Holding his hand in the air, he told the congregation how much Jesus loved them each and every one. He could feel Jesus stirring among them. The congregation was mostly silent—only the slightest rustling of handheld fans. Two people had come down to give their lives to Jesus and there had been three rededications. "Jesus is here among us. Will you come? Will you come?"
And then the third stanza started ... so slowly, oh, so slowly: Just as I am...
Stephen felt Jesus' fingers gently touch his heart. The music was touching his cheeks, his whole face. The whole big room was full of Jesus and music. The color of Jesus was a smokey gray. Jesus was there in his head and in his heart, floating around, calling out—Come, come, come. It was happening. He could almost, but not quite, see Jesus. Jesus was whispering into his heart, words that were not words, words that acted, tugged at him, drawing him down toward the front, down to give his heart to Jesus, down toward Preacher Crenshaw, God's man on earth. Mrs. Clark with her four-footed cane started a slow hobble down to the preacher, who extended his arms to her, hugged her. She whispered into his ear. He whispered back. She whispered again. He whispered back and smiled at her and hugged her again.
Stephen watched. Mr. Crenshaw said to the congregation, "Take that first step, take that first step, take that first step." The gypsy man brushed by, walking down the aisle, his head down. Stephen stepped into the aisle and Jesus was in him, leading him every step of the way. He was in Jesus. He felt like he was going to cry because he loved Jesus so much. Jesus was saving him.
Jack umstead had joined churches before. He'd even got on a committee one time.
Stephen, standing behind the gypsy man, was crying. Jesus was all around him. Mrs. Clark was hobbling past him back to her seat. She put her hand on his shoulder, bent her head to his, put her mouth to his ear. "God bless you, son. God bless you." He looked into her eyes, through the thumb-printed glasses that made her eyes look as big as her head.
Crenshaw put his arm over the shoulder of the new man. God was surely moving in this crowd. A stranger—come to Jesus.
"Preacher, I'm a lost soul. I want to give my heart and soul to Jesus. I'm a sinner and I want to be saved of my own free will."
"Do you believe, friend, that God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son, that—"
"Whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. I do, Preacher. I do."
"God bless you. Just have a seat. Fill out the form on the clipboard there. God bless you." A little boy was next. The Toomey boy. God was moving in this crowd. Praise God.
"Yes, son. Steve, is it?"
"Yessir. I love Jesus so much that I know he loves me too."
"Do you accept Jesus as your personal saviour—believe that God so loved the world that he gave His only begotten son that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life?"
"Yessir, I do." The boy was crying.
"God bless you, son."
Alease moved down onto the front row to be with Stephen. Her main prayer in the world had been answered. Her son had been saved. She had dedicated Stephen's life to Jesus Christ just after he was born and now God's will was being shown. The final act had happened. Her son was saved. Now all that awaited was his living his life as Jesus led him.
Now what could it mean that Mr. Jones was down there, too? When he came for yard work, would they talk about this?
"Stephen, honey, don't cry. Jesus loves you. I'm so proud of you. Jesus loves you."
WHERE TROUBLE SLEEPS
Friday noon at Train's Place, Jack Umstead asked Blake where Trouble took his morning nap. Inside.
Just after the first distant thunder on Friday afternoon, Umstead pulled into the driveway at the Toomey house. The sun was still shining, but that dark cloud was sitting heavy in the west and moving in low and slow. The time had come. He almost wasn't glad. And he wanted to finish his work in the flower garden by the garage, get another glass of iced tea.
Then he'd stop by Train's Place for a Blatz just for the hell of it, and then on over to the grill to see Cheryl. By then it would be raining and he could make his move. He might as well tell Cheryl that they'd get married soon. That would give her something to look forward to for the rest of her life, and if he didn't have all his mental and nerve problems, by God he would marry her. She didn't have no connections, she liked dirty movies, she was beautiful to look
at, she'd had sense enough to graduate from high school, she loved to choke his chicken, and it seemed like she really meant what she said.
Seven-year-old Sally Creightenberry was starting her piano competition down at Mrs. Williams's house. Listening was a judge from Memphis, Tennessee, and some other students. Her song was "In Frog Land." The first six notes were two C major chord triads, starting on the C below middle C. The next three notes were the first triad repeated. Then the tenth note was to be a low G, a fourth below her first note. However, for some reason she hit a low C, an octave below her first note. It seemed the correct thing to do, but was clearly and horribly wrong. She'd never done that in her life—that is, made something sound as if the whole piano had changed on her. Something had gone wrong, something had changed, but she couldn't understand what. Surely she'd hit the right note. But it sounded completely out of whack. She sat for a few seconds, started again. The same thing happened again! Her neck was suddenly very hot and the little musical village in her mind crumbled, pieces completely out of place, strange pieces in view. She brought her hands to her face and cried as silently as she could, knowing Mrs. Williams would be right there in a few seconds to get her out of this awful mess where other students and a judge all the way from Memphis, Tennessee, had listened and heard, and seen. / Mr. Weams had eaten everything on his dinner plate and Mrs. Weams was trying to get him to eat more of everything. He was saying no, no, no. She said, "Don't you want some more pintos? I didn't give you but about six." "Well, yes," he said, "I'll take another six."
After stopping at the Toomey house, Train's Place, and the grill, tending to business at all three places, and with the rain pounding—Trouble was right again—Umstead drove by the Blaine sisters' garage to be sure their car was gone. It was, and the crossroads seemed fairly deserted except the damn Toomey kid was sitting on the grocery store bench and several beer drinkers stood under the shelter at Train's, so he parked out of sight beyond the Blaine sisters' store, walked around behind it, and trudged up through the gully back there, kicked in the downstairs door, splintering it at the lock, and entered their living quarters.
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