Storming Heaven

by Denise Giardina

  “Oh,” Flora crooned, “I love a little lamb.”

  “I’ll bring you some of the wool offn it.”

  “You work that place all by yourself?” I asked.

  He seemed touched that I had finally shown some interest, which irritated me further. “Hit aint a big place,” he said. “You wouldnt think it was much.”

  I was supposed to say that I’d like to see it, but I didn’t. After a pause, he said, “You’ll have to come visit.”

  “Wouldnt that be nice?” Flora exclaimed. “Carrie, you should go some Sunday and hear Albion preach.”

  “I aint much of a preacher,” Albion said. “But I sure would be tickled ifn you’d come visit.”

  “Flora and Ben would have to go too,” Aunt Becka said. “Hit’s a long ways. You’d have to stay the night Saturday.”

  “I’d be honored,” Albion said. “And hit would mean a lot to introduce you to my congregation.”

  “How about Sunday next?” Ben asked.

  “Fine. We’ll kill a chicken and have a big dinner after church.”

  “I’ll bake a cake,” Flora said. “Wont it be fun, Carrie?”

  I crossed my legs and folded my arms. “Sure,” I said.

  His farm was a cabin, barn and thirty acres tucked away in a cove on Kingdom Come. It had belonged to an old man who died without heirs and it had stood empty for a year before Albion arrived.

  “Hit was a crazy man lived here,” Albion explained. “Went out of his mind after his wife died of the childbirth and kilt his own baby son. That was back during the War Between the States. He come back here after he got out of prison. He was allays standoffish with folks, wouldnt give no help nor ask for any hisself. Come time for him to die, no one knew he was gone for two weeks. Family up the road, Thornsberrys, say he come a tapping on their window late on Halloween. Next day they found him in the barn. Hung hisself from the rafters.”

  “Oh, lordy,” Flora said. “I aint going in the barn.”

  “No need to.” Albion patted her hand.

  “Aint you scairt of being haunted?” I asked. I tried to sound like I didn’t believe his story.

  He smiled. “I am haunted. But I aint scairt of it. Sometimes I feel an uneasy spirit, but I speak to it, sooth it. I tell it to talk to that baby. Folks hereabouts are happy to have a preacher living here.”

  The night was unusually warm for April and we sat on the front porch. A chorus of peepers cried from the creek.

  “Frogs is hatched,” Ben said. He smoked his pipe contentedly.

  I sat on the step with my knees drawn up under my chin and studied the barn. It was like a dark portal in the gathering dusk, a doorway to perdition.

  “Do you think that man is in Hell?” I asked Albion, who perched on the bannister.

  “I reckon I aint told you. I’m a No Heller.”

  “A what?”

  “A No Heller. Hit’s a kind of Hardshell Baptist. The Hardshells, you know, they believe God has it all set out who will be saved and who wont. Some go to Heaven, some to Hell, and they aint nothing a body can do about it. Me, I’m a No Heller. That’s why I left Knott County, because they didnt want to hear the No Hell preached. They reckoned they was bound for glory and they didnt want to hear about no sinners coming with them.”

  “You mean you dont believe in Hell?” I was shocked. “What about the bad people?”

  “Who is the bad people? Hit’s us, Carrie. I believe in the Fall. I believe in the first sin, that it taints all of us.”

  “What about the man that kilt his baby? You and me wouldnt do that.”

  “Who’s to say what we wouldnt do? We aint lived our lives yet. We had it easy compared to some folks.”

  “What about the coal operators that stole your daddy’s land?”

  “What about Miles?” he said softly.

  I stiffened, stared into the darkness. “What about him?”

  He came down to sit beside me. Ben and Flora had gone inside without my noticing.

  “I shouldnt say I dont believe in Hell,” Albion said. “Hit’s real. We all of us live in it sometimes, and maybe will after we die. Oh yes, hit’s real, and hit burns, just like the others preach. But one day Jesus Christ will wade right into Hell and haul out the sinners. Haul them out kicking and screaming. And I’ll tell you what. The folks that stays in Hell the longest will be the ones that vow they dont belong there.”

  “I dont know,” I said. “When I think on dying, it’s Heaven scares me more than Hell. Hit allays has worried me that Heaven sounds so dull. Nobody does nothing wrong, which means we aint got no choice but to do right, and everybody sits around staring at them golden streets and twiddling their thumbs. Hell sounds a lots more interesting.”

  “Naw,” he said. “I dont reckon that the God who thought up all this here peculiar world would come up with nothing dull. Think of what would make you content.”

  “I’d be content ifn everybody I loved was together in one place.”

  “But aint you been hurt by the ones you love?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “See there. And ifn them people hurt you ever day for all eternity, you wouldnt care, because they’d always be there. Even that man that kilt his baby, he’ll be with that baby for all time. I tell him that, and he moans about it. But ifn it werent so, he would vanish in the twinkling of an eye. That baby wont let him go, though. That baby has got a toe hold on him.”

  “And the ones that wander all alone on this earth? The ones that lost their faith to believe?”

  “Jesus will haul them out,” he insisted. “Jesus will save ever last one. That there is Jesus’s job. When this feller here died, hit were Jesus took him to tap on the Thornsberry’s window. Hit were Jesus brung me to soothe him.” He stood up and stretched. “We’d best git to bed. I got to bring the word tomorry, and you got to hear it. I aint sure which takes more strength.”

  He slept in the loft and I had a cot in the main room where Ben and Flora shared the only bed. I drifted off to sleep but was awakened by Flora’s anguished cries from some nightmare. Ben murmured to her, and then I heard the comfortable sounds of lovemaking. I fell asleep.

  Church met in the Kingdom Come schoolhouse one mile up the creek. The congregation consisted of only three families, but all with numerous children. Altogether there were perhaps thirty people.

  Albion’s preaching style was strenuous, but not as much as a Holy Roller. He waved his arms and paced back and forth, but he didn’t leap. When he stood still, he had a way of cocking his head to one side that I had not noticed before.

  He preached from the eighth chapter of Romans.

  “‘For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope. Because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God.’”

  He cradled the Bible in his big hands, glanced up at us as though he would ask some question. But he read further, and his voice rose.

  “‘For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now.’”

  He rocked back on his heels.

  “Gro-oaneth and travaileth in PAIN!” He whacked the Bible. “Together! Until now! Until now! And now—now Jesus saves the sinner. He saves the earth. He puts back what has been tore up. He heals what has been broke. He makes all things new. He drags the sinner outen Hell and arms him with truth and justice and righteousness, and together they storm the very gates of Heaven!”

  “Amens” rose on all sides. Albion set down the Bible, clutched both hands to the sides of his head and paced. He halted.

  “You say ‘Preacher, how do you know this?’ But dont the Bible say, ‘the Kingdom of Heaven suffereth violence, and the violent take it by force?’ The violent have took this here earth, but the meek shall have it by and by. And first, the groaners and the travailers must take Heaven. Hit wont come easy to them, oh no. But Jesus Christ shall lead an
d no mountain shall hold them back, brothers and sisters, even if it were ten times the height of these hereabouts. No flooding river shall keep them from crossing. Neither height nor depth”—he flung his arms wide—“shall separate them from the love of God, nor keep them outen Heaven.”

  He wiped his face with a red bandana when he was done and sprawled back in his chair, his arms dangling over the sides. A thin-faced woman with a plum-colored birthmark on one cheek stood to lead the singing.

  “We’re floating down the stream of time, we have not long to stay,” she called out in a practiced monotone, and we took up the tune, repeating her words after she lined them.

  “Then cheer my brothers cheer, our trials will soon be o’er. Our loved ones we shall meet, shall meet, upon the other shore. We’re pilgrims and we’re strangers here, we’re seeking the city to come. The lifeboat soon is coming to carry the jewels home.”

  After church the four of us ate a big dinner at the farm and sat out on the front steps. Albion dragged a large box filled with dusty bottles from beneath the porch.

  “What’s that?” Ben asked. “Cider?”

  “Wine. I make wine.”

  “Law,” Flora said, “I aint never had wine except some dandelion oncet at Clinard Slone’s.”

  “I didnt think preachers drank,” I said.

  “Now, now. Jesus changed the water into wine, didnt he? I reckon he dont mind ifn I make a little myself.”

  He ranged the many-hued bottles from deep purple to pale yellow along the porch railing. They glowed in the sun like they were lit with electric lights.

  “This here is wild grape.” He read the labels from the darkest to the lightest. “Blackberry. Huckleberry. Plum. Peach. Pear. Dandelion. Rosehip. Watermelon.”

  “Watermelon?” Ben laughed.

  “That there come all the way up from Georgia. Hit is strange, I’ll guarantee.”

  “Think you got enough kinds?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Ifn hit rots, I make wine outen it.”

  He opened a bottle of rosehip, pear and blackberry, and we took turns sampling. The rosehip, pale yellow, tasted strong and medicinal. The pear was better, pink-tinted and sweet. But the blackberry was best of all. I drained my cup and asked for more.

  “Tastes better the more you drink,” I said.

  Albion filled my glass. Soon we were all giggling. Ben told a preacher story.

  “They’s a preacher at our church over on Tater Nob that cant read. Name of Peter Rowe. Old man. Has a brother name of Kenzebee that has been to school. Peter, he is a proud man, wants to read his own scriptures, lead his own singing. After all, it was him the Lord called, he says. Lord dont make no mistakes. So Kenzebee, he stands behind Peter and whispers what Peter ought to read out. Peter, he lines the hymn and they sing it back to him.

  “‘I am a poor pilgrim of sorrow,’ Kenzebee whispers.

  “‘I am a poor pilgrim of sorrow,’ Peter hollers out. The congregation sings it back to him.

  “‘Cast out in this wide world to roam,’ says Kenzebee. Peter hollers it and the folks sing it. They just sing to shake the building down.

  “Then Kenzebee cant see the words.

  “‘Move your finger, Peter,’ he whispers.

  “‘Move your finger, Peter,’ hollers Peter.

  “Folks sing about half the line and start looking at each other. Kenzebee’s all het up.

  “He says, ‘Now you played Hell!’

  “Old Peter sings out, ‘Now you played Hell!’

  “They just stopped the service right there.”

  We hollered laughing.

  “Pull our leg again,” I said to tease Ben.

  He raised his hand. “I swear it happened. I was right there in the pew.”

  “You and everbody in east Kentucky, many times as I heard that story,” I said.

  We laughed again and Albion poured more wine. Then Flora remembered that she and Ben had planned to stop at the mouth of Marrowbone to visit friends.

  “But you stay here, Carrie,” she said quickly and stood up. “You just come on before sundown and meet us there. Yall have fun now.”

  I started to protest but Ben was up as well, he had their hats. They were both grinning like sheep-killing dogs.

  “I’ll walk her down to where yall are when the time comes,” Albion said.

  I sat still in the rocking chair and watched them weave their way across the bottom. Flora clutched Ben’s arm as they crossed the swinging bridge.

  “You want to go for a walk?” Albion asked.

  “I’d rather sit. My head feels like it might float off somewheres.”

  “Dont have no more wine.”

  He pulled up a chair and sat beside me.

  “You didnt want to stay, did you?”

  “I aint sure what I want. I’m all confused.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I aint sure what you want. Because I cant think straight with all this wine in me. Ben and Florrie think they know what’s good for me. But I dont know myself. How can they?”

  He held up his hand. “Hold on. That there is too much to chew offn one plate. Now, in the first place, all I want is to git to know you again. As to what Ben and Florrie want, I reckon they want you to be happy, that’s all.”

  “They want me to git married.”

  “And you dont want to?”

  “I told you, I dont know what I want. Only thing I know is I wouldnt marry just anybody.” I clutched the arms of the rocker and pushed back and forth.

  “You’re a-missing somebody, aint you?”

  I nodded my head and started to cry. He took my hand, held it between his two rough ones.

  “I allays knew you’d love fierce,” he said. I leaned against him and wept on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Hit’s that ole blackberry wine.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “They was a feller I met on Pond Creek when I worked for Miles. A union organizer. I aint never heard from him. I dont even know where he is.”

  “He aint never forgot you.”

  “Course he has. He dont love me. He said so.”

  Albion leaned over and kissed the top of my head.

  “You air a silly,” he said.

  I took the hiccups and he fetched me a dipper of water.

  “I’d like to court you,” he said. “Ifn you’d allow me to.”

  “I cant allow you. Hit wouldnt be fair to you. They’s things you dont know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I aint the kind of woman men expect to marry. Especially not a preacher.” I looked over the blurred green and brown landscape. “I aint pure. I done give myself to someone else.”

  “I dont care about that.”

  “Well, I do. I couldnt be all yourn. They’s a part of me that will allays belong to him. Hit’s a part you wouldnt never share. I cant help it. That’s just the way I’m made.”

  “I dont want to take away the part that’s hisn. I want my own part. Hit will be mine because I’ll share your life different than he did. Carrie, I been watching you this live long day, and I know I can love you.”

  “I dont know if I can love you back.”

  “Let’s court. Hit can be slow. They aint no need to rush.”

  I was trapped. “Let’s walk to Marrowbone,” I said.

  It was almost four miles to the mouth of Marrowbone. Albion told me about Georgia, and I talked stiffly about nursing school, about Pond Creek. I kept stepping on rocks and turning my ankle. When we reached the mouth of the creek, I stopped and folded my arms across my chest.

  “They’s a lot of water passed under the bridge since we was younguns,” I declared. “You see how I changed. I dont know why you’d want to court me anyhow. I’m gloomy a lots and stubborn, and bad moods come to me. I reckon they’s plenty of girls in that church of yourn that would be proud to have a preacher.”

  “May I kiss you?”

  “No!”

  He looked
hurt and I was shamed at my own coldness.

  “You can come see me,” I said.

  “When? Next Friday night?”

  “All right. But I wont have nobody mooning over me like an old puppy dog.”

  I walked away toward the cabin where Ben and Flora waited and left him standing in the road.

  Albion visited the Homeplace every week, or else I saw him on Kingdom Come. I made it clear that there would be no kissing, only hand-holding. I thought he would give up and go away, but he didn’t. After three months of his kindness and patience, I let him kiss me, and to my surprise I enjoyed it. By Christmas I began to think that I might want to love him after all. I looked forward to his visits and came to acknowledge the quiet contentment I felt when I was with him.

  Still I was uneasy, and told myself I must study him some more. I was not sure what he felt for the Homeplace, how he would act when the companies came for it. He did not even own his own place at Kingdom Come, but spoke of God owning it. When American Coal or Imperial Collieries stripped it away from him, would he turn the other cheek? And sometimes he spoke of God calling him to preach in the coal camps of Justice County, his father’s home. I could not imagine him in such a place. He would preach Jesus dragging the coal operators out of Hell and die of broken down lungs before he reached the age of forty. That might please Jesus, but I could not bear it.

  I forced him to court me longer while I fretted and waited for something I dared not name.

  Sometimes I was called out to nurse at Henryclay or Kingdom Come. At such times I would board with the Thornsberrys. We decided we were distant kin, for my grandmother Bishop had Thornsberry as a maiden name, and Aunt Becka bore some resemblance to old Pappy Thornsberry.

  “Reckon my paw and your mamaw was sprung offn brothers,” Pappy said. “My papaw was Lonzo Thornsberry.”

  “That might have been her uncle,” I mused. “I heard the name. But that one aint in our cemetery.”

  “Lonzo’s buried with my people,” Pappy agreed.

  I was staying at the Thornsberry’s in May of 1917 when Albion brought word of a dance at Kingdom Come schoolhouse to raise money for new books.