On Zion's Hill

by Anna J. Small Roseboro

  Some of the Saints may think it’s an inappropriate song choice now, not because of the lyrics, but because Elvis Presley and Johnny Cash have both recorded this Thomas Dorsey gospel favorite. The song, however, is just right for Angie this evening. She’s in the valley of decision and would welcome the peace. Ken too. Randy too.

  In the vocal style of famed social activist, Paul Robeson, in a deep belly bass and dramatic phrasing, the soloist sustains the whole notes with just a little extra pulse. On the promise of the closing line, “There will be peace in the valley for me,” his rich vibrato evokes quiet, reflective tears and soft verbalized “Amens”. He stands there as the sense of the song sinks in and the usher comes for him.

  Rather than taking him back to a seat on the main floor, the thoughtful usher escorts the soloist to a seat with the choir. Reverend Morris rises to introduce Reverend Clarkson, the speaker for the evening, who really needs no introduction.

  “…and to present to those who don’t know him, our very own Reverend Peter Clarkson, long time pastor of First Church in….”

  Angie doesn’t hear the rest; her mind keeps flitting back to this afternoon at work. Angie groans. It’s unsettling to have to spend another shift with Stella’s son in that cramped ice-cream stand. After shaking him off and seeing the questioning look when she moved in to sit with Ken, Angie isn’t sure how collegial they’ll be later, even with his mom here.

  Randy has a temper. She’d seen it flare up when they’d worked together in years past, and based on his behavior this afternoon, he’s not outgrown his tendency to take advantage of a situation in ways that meet his own agenda. If he’s upset with her sitting with Ken instead of him, she’ll pay.

  Angie jerks her attention back to refocus on the preaching that is to come and hears, “Please welcome, our own Reverend Peter Clarkson!” It’s a sacred service and not a secular convention, so instead of a welcoming burst of applause, Reverend Clarkson gets a resounding round of Amens!

  Focus, Angie. Focus. Listen for the Word. But she doesn’t until several minutes into the sermon when she senses the tempo change. She gazes up and forward.

  Reverend Clarkson paces from wing to wing of the rostrum, sweating and wiping his forehead with one of his many large, bright white handkerchiefs. At the start of his sermons, he is known to stack five or six on the lectern next to his Bible, and, as he preaches, he lets three or four flutter to the floor in a heap next to the pedestal of the podium.

  SEEING THE MOUND OF HANKIES, Angie mentally drifts to another time, but the same place. She remembers men and women snagging those used handkerchiefs like groupies at a rock concert. Apparently they believed Reverend Clarkson’s sweat would have the power of the Apostle Paul’s.

  The New Testament describes early Christians clutching Paul’s handkerchiefs and aprons and praying for healing. And, according to the book of Acts, many were healed and freed from demons. Angie is a little dubious about the same being true in the case with Reverend Clarkson. But you never know. God’s the same, yesterday, today and tomorrow. Still, who’d want a sweaty hankie, even from a celebrated religious leader?

  AS USUAL, BEFORE THE ALTAR CALL, Angie excuses herself and tips down the aisle, out the rear door and over to duty in the ice cream stand. Maybe the weather will stay clear and not rain as predicted with the high temperatures Stella mentioned earlier. Angie’d heard rain in the weather report on the radio when Ken was driving her back up the hill. She had described to him what happened in years past when rainstorms had nearly wreaked havoc on the grounds.

  Even though the Saints have been coming to Zion’s Hill for nearly fifty years, the Zion’s Hill Association has never been able to put aside all that much money. Though it is in their plans, they’ve not yet accumulated funds to bring in the heavy equipment to grade and re-sculpt the hills and then install sufficient drainage to accommodate heavy downpours.

  After all, they rationalize, the grounds are only in use for two weeks for youth camp and one week for services when grown-ups arrive. It has taken most of the registration fees and collected offerings to install and keep the electricity, plumbing, and food services up to code. The Zion’s Hill campground has to pass inspection every year, and every year something has had to be repaired or upgraded.

  Angie has seen some of the drawings of boulders creating retaining walls behind the cottages lining the road winding around the tabernacle. One rendering includes pictures of paved lanes, landscaped postage stamp yards with small shrubs, pots of blossoming plants, and even a memory garden to honor the Brothers and Sisters of Love. Word is some wealthier members have promised to name the Association as primary, or at least secondary beneficiary of their life insurance policies. Apparently not enough have done so. The re-grading hasn’t yet begun. That is the future. This is now.

  So now, whenever it rains hard for more than fifteen minutes, Zion’s Hill becomes a sluice. Without fail, paid groundskeepers and male volunteers who’ve been coming for years bring their high top galoshes and work pants, ready to pitch in to help. Without fail, some careless drivers slip on the rain-slicked, tar-topped road, skid, and slide in the ditches. When the men hear the call over the tabernacle’s loud speakers, a squadron of the galoshed men scrambles to the rescue. Few drivers have had to call down to town for a tow truck.

  Maybe tomorrow will be both factually and metaphorically sunshiny, and all will be well. But she has to get through tonight.

  THE COOLNES BETWEEN KEN AND RANDY CHILLED THE AIR in the service and trails along when Angie leaves and returns to the stand. She and Stella are alone. Angie mutters, “I’m not surprised. Randy isn’t here yet. So typically thoughtless.” Busy, Stella doesn’t hear or doesn’t comment. The two of them stand aproned and waiting with scoops in hand for nearly fifteen minutes before anyone even approaches the booth.

  On the weekend, the ushers usually direct the crowds unable to get into the filled-to-the-brim tabernacle to the overflow auditorium. There they experience the service through speakers set up for that purpose. Others unable to get into either place usually sit on the outdoor benches and listen to the exterior speakers broadcasting across the grounds. These extra folks ordinarily head over to the concession stands as soon as the preacher finishes the sermon. But not tonight.

  Reverend Clarkson has that appeal. When he’s the preacher, few want to miss a word he utters, even if they can’t see him. Most curiously await the congregation’s response to his passionate delivery. He may put on quite a show, but compelled by the Holy Spirit, hundreds respond, enthralled and blessed by the power of the spoken Word. That apparently is the case tonight.

  THIS EXTRA TIME GIVES ANGIE A LITTLE TIME TO TALK with Stella on a touchy subject, her son. Angie approaches the subject indirectly.

  “Stella, you want me to sit outside to take orders and make change tonight? Randy and I can alternate working inside and outside when it gets busy.”

  “Why you wanna do that, Angie. You and Randy are young and strong. I’m the old lady who needs to sit down.”

  “Not you, Stella!”

  “And anyway, you two are good with the customers. I’ve never seen it busier than when the two of you are on duty. I don’t mind sitting out there and letting you two work in here.”

  “It’s not that, Stella.”

  “Then what is it? You both college students and have lots you can talk about when it slows down in here.” Stella notices the grimace on Angie’s face. “What’s the matter, Angie? Don’t you feel well? I know I’ve had you working long hours this week. But you’ve seen how it’s been. We’ve been real busy.”

  “No, that’s not it, Stella. I feel okay.”

  “Well, why do you think you and Randy can’t keep working inside together? I know he’s my son and can be distracting with his good looks and chatter, but you gotta admit, he’s smart and going places.”

  Angie says nothing.

  “I thought this would be a perfect time for you two to get to know each other better. He did
n’t come up here last year at all. And this summer, he’s been working down there at the college, you know.”

  “Stella, you know I’m not interested in men right now. Even your son, Randy,” she says, but thinks, especially your son, Randy.

  “Yeah, I know that, but he’ll be graduating next year. He may be ready to settle down once he gets himself a job. You’re a nice girl, and I like you.”

  Angie says nothing.

  “What‘s the big deal? Girls your age don’t usually finish college anyway. Most of you all are married by the time you’re nineteen or twenty. How old are you now?”

  “I’m nineteen. Right now, all I want to do is focus on finishing college! Anyway, Randy may not be interested in me. No offense, Stella, but I don’t….”

  “Hold on, Angie. Looks like we’ve got a customer.” Stella steps closer to the window and leans down to greet the chubby boy at the window. “Hello, young man. What can we get for you?” And so it begins.

  Angie is never able to explain to Stella why she doesn’t want to be inside with Randy anymore, nor is she sure she should even bring it up again. After all, he is her son.

  Looks like the stand will really be busy tonight. She’ll probably be so bushed that all she’ll want to do is head up to the dorm and crash on her cot. In the meantime, she only has to put up with Randy today and tomorrow. She guesses she can handle that. She hopes.

  NEARLY THIRTY MINUTES LATER, RANDY SAUNTERS in and pulls an apron from the nail next to the door. By the time he’s finally made his way through the crowd, the customers already have queued all the way back up to the tabernacle. As he turns around, tying the strings and greeting his mother, he notices the look in her eye.

  “What’s up, Moms? I came straight over just as soon as service let out. You see the crowds. It took me a little longer to get over here. I saw Sylvia and Claudine back there. They stopped to say hello. Did you know Sylvia’s getting married next month?”

  “Randy. You know we needed you back here to help open up and be ready before service ended! I don’t have time for this now. Get to work.”

  “Chill, Moms. I’m here now. Get your stool and get outside so Angie and I can take care of the customers. Right, Angie? We got this covered, don’t we?” He winks at Angie.

  Stella doesn’t want to make a scene, and letting her eyes do the chastising, she takes the cash box with extra rolls of quarters and exits the stand. True to his word, her son gets right to work. Despite her distaste for her co-worker, Angie and he soon are in rhythm, pulling cones, dipping called out flavors, rounding scoops into perfect spheres and settling them firmly on their customers’ choice of cone or cup.

  Teens and tweens stroll across the grounds in hordes of guys and bevies of girls, each pretending to be oblivious to the other. Angie recalls her pre-teen years when it wasn’t cool to show interest in the opposite sex. Instead, gangs of guys just followed as gaggles of girls led them around the campgrounds weaving in undulating lines like the dragon in a Chinese New Year parade.

  No one was fooled then, and Angie is not now. She’d waited on gender clusters all afternoon. Tonight, she sees the girls torn between their craving for double scoops of Conley’s black cherry ice cream and their desire to appear to be dieting. They pretend not to notice the attention they secretly crave from the guys standing in line just in front or just behind them. Angie listens to their chattering and recalls when she was their age, just a couple years ago, and spent so much time talking about the preachers and their preaching.

  “Did you see Reverend Clarkson in there?” one of the guys asks his pal. “Man, he was dynamite. All before I come up here this year, I was wondering was he gonna put on a show.”

  “That watn’t no show, man. Who told you he gonna put on a show?”

  “Yeah, it was. I never seen no preachers jump all around like he do when they preaching. ‘Course we got people in our church that dance when they shouting during a rockin’ song. But what he done in there tonight was different.”

  “But that watn’t no show. Don’t you know the Holy Spirit make some ministers act like that when they preach? And didn’t you see all those people going up to the altar.”

  “Yeah I did. I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that in my church. A couple of them people up front was even slain in the Spirit. Ain’t that what you call it when somebody fall out like that when the preacher be praying for them?”

  “Yeah. They so full of Holy Ghost fire they just can’t keep still. Some of them can’t stand up neither. But, man, I’m telling you. That watn’t no show.”

  “How you know? Sometimes at our church when the altar call is going on too long, one of us just go on up there so the pastor’ll think some of us been listening.”

  “Y’all do? Why y’all do that?”

  “We know as soon as at least one somebody go up there, he gonna stop the call and start praying. Then he signal for the benediction song, and we outta there.”

  “Y’all do that? That ain’t giving much respect to y’all’s pastor.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “Don’t you believe the Holy Spirit make people feel something after the preaching?”

  “I guess so. Like in there tonight. I almost went up there myself.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t want nobody thinking I been doing something sinful, so I just stayed in my seat. But I almost went up there, too.”

  “There was ‘bout a hundred people up there already. Nobody woulda thought nothing ‘bout you being up there with them.”

  “I know now. But I’m just sayin’. It look like a show, and I didn’t wanna be in it.”

  “Man, I done tole you. That watn’t no show. Reverend Clarkson, he just let the Holy Spirit move him like He want to. He just that kinda preacher. Now, the Reverend Doctor Jamieson. He different.”

  By this time the boys have their ice cream and move on, trying to look cool while gobbling their confection.

  WAS RANDY ONE OF THE HUNDRED at the altar tonight? He certainly returned in an altered state. He didn’t get all uptight and react when Stella gave him the mom-stare for coming back late. And, he didn’t use every opportunity to touch Angie nearly as much as he had during the afternoon.

  At first, Angie put it down to their having established a rhythm that worked. During the earlier shift on, whenever she’d hear a request for one of the special flavors stored in the middle of the freezer, she’d step aside to avoid him. She’d done that all afternoon, but it hadn’t really made much different. He found some reason to keep touching her, accidentally of course. This evening, Randy is more somber and detached. Less pushy and less brushy, too. It’s strange and Angie feels little of the tension between them she’d experienced all afternoon before the service.

  It’s nearly eleven o’clock before the last customer leaves and Stella closes the window. She sends Angie off to bed saying she and Randy will stay and clean up. Angie doesn’t argue. With heavy feet, she trudges across the lawn to the dorm passing groundskeepers already clearing the trash with those pokeyend poles and emptying the trash cans into the back of an old pick-up truck. Zion’s Hill is not yet on the route for town refuse pick-up. They’ll drive up to the dump where they’ll burn as much trash as can be consumed by flames. What’s left is buried.

  Conscientious, aware that most residents are in bed and may even be asleep, Angie closes the outside door so it won’t slam, and walks down the hall to her room. As quietly as possible, she opens the dorm room door and tiptoes past her grandparents, even though her grandmother doesn’t really sleep until Angie is tucked into her own cot.

  She slides her nightgown from under the pillow, pulls the suitcase from under the cot to get to her toiletry bag, and tiptoes out and down the hall to the bathroom. Thankfully, there is no one there and Angie heads directly to the toilet and plops down. Ah…at last. She sits there, in peace, staying longer than necessary, just to rest a bit. She finally pulls the handle to start the flush, stands up,
steps over and rests her hands on the rim of the sink and looks up into the narrow mirror.

  “Ugh! I look a mess! No wonder Randy didn’t come on to me tonight! Not that I mind. I was actually dreading this evening, but it actually worked out okay. I’m glad Ken didn’t hang around till I got off tonight. I’d scare him away with this flying hairdo!

  “It’s a wonder Stella didn’t make me put on one of those hair nets Brother Patmington used to make us wear in the dining hall. And, I’ve been trying to keep my hair neat looking all week. Good grief! The combs are even hanging loose. Oh well. Just one and a half more days.”

  Angie’s not sure if it’s a good thing or not, but Ken will not be back for Saturday evening service. As a going away treat, his step-dad bought a pair of tickets to a pre-season Cleveland Browns football game. But Ken assured her he’d arrive early on Sunday to get in and save her a good seat in what is sure to be a packed sanctuary to hear Reverend Reeves.

  Saturday

  14 - SATURDAY with Angie

  SHE WRINGS OUT THE SOFT CLEANING CLOTH and wrinkles her nose at the acrid odor of bleach. She’d dumped rather than measured the Clorox into the bucket. She sniffs her fingers. Oh, they are going to stink all afternoon! Angie’s been tapped to be on hand for the emergency delivery called in after they nearly sold out of ice cream Friday night. Was it Randy’s presence or just the increased number of folks for service for Men’s Day? Even more arrivals are expected today, in time for Youth Day and the concert to follow the evening service.

  To keep from signaling that the stand is opened for business, Angie has kept the serving window closed. But needing fresh air, she’s propped open the back door and can hear chartered buses grinding up the hill and a continuous cavalcade of cars with tails dragging, loaded with luggage. She shakes her head judgmentally at the thought of weekenders who bring as much stuff as those folks who come for the whole week.

  Cars coming for the weekend are larger, newer, and cleaner. It’s as though the drivers stop by the car wash in town before heading up the hill. Angie can’t imagine why. The overflow parking lots still are gravel, and the sparkly clean Lincolns and Cadillacs will be dull and dusty within an hour.