Feast for Thieves

by Marcus Brotherton

  “Oh, yeah …” I said. “We’re gonna read the Bible now. I reckoned we’d start with Genesis. So I’m gonna read from this here Bible I got in front of me, and um … maybe you’d like to listen.”

  I flopped open the Bible, paged through to where I was supposed to read, and read the first chapter as clear as could be mustered. Sweat poured off me. Drops ran down my nose and onto the page. There was a strange tingle in the tips of my fingers too, like no blood was reaching my extremities. I felt like hightailing it for the back door, but it was time for me to say some more words. I cleared my throat again.

  “Um … reckon this chapter’s all about God making things outdoors,” I said. “Uh … you like to do things outdoors, because I like the outdoors real fine.” I glanced around at the congregation; they was all giving me blank stares. “Like … uh, after you get your first deer … or … uh … after you … shoot a squirrel. You … uh … remove all four paws at the wrist joint. Then … uh … you make careful cuts around the belly skin.” I paused for emphasis and wrinkled my forehead, picturing that dead squirrel in my mind. “When that squirrel’s cut open you … you don’t want to nick into the muscle wall neither. No, and, uh … you want to cut down the insides through all four legs and around to the … uh … rectum … the base of the tail. So that’s how you skin a squirrel. There’s real good eating on a squirrel, and I hope you’ve tasted it … uh … before.”

  I glanced at the sheriff. His mouth hung open.

  I glanced at the clock. I had twenty-seven minutes to go, I was completely out of material, and my mind was blank. A long, awkward silence filled the room. I decided to quit while I was ahead.

  “So … um, that’s what the first chapter of Genesis teaches us, I reckon. It’s that God’s creation is a good thing, and … uh … it’s good to be out in the woods as much as a fella can muster. So the next time you’re cleaning a squirrel, you think about God and do some praying. Okay? That’s the end of my sermon. Um …” I glanced at Bobbie. Creases of pain lined her forehead. She stood and walked onstage, led the congregation in a closing hymn, dismissed the service with a benediction, then turned around and hissed at me, “Go to the back of the room as quick as you can. The people will want to shake your hand before they leave.”

  I hightailed it to the door. Mert was still standing there. She wasn’t glaring at me no more. She was looking at the floor, shaking her head. “Stand on the steps outside,” she said. “Air’s not as thick out there.”

  First person out the door I didn’t recognize. She looked about ninety and mostly dead, although there was fire in her eye. “Worst … sermon … ever,” the woman said, and walked by with a humph.

  A second elderly lady walked outside the door. She took one look at me then slapped my face. She slapped it again, then kept on walking to her car.

  A third elderly woman sized me up and down with eyes of scorn, let out a long disparaging sigh, and said, “Well, at least there’s no danger of burning the roast in the oven today.”

  Fourth person out was Augusta Wayman. She gave me a little hug, and said, “It’ll get better, Rowdy,” then headed out.

  Deputy Roy came outside, shook my hand warily, said nothing, and left in his squad car—the same one he’d shot at me from.

  The sheriff shook my hand in the same motion he shook his head. “Deacon meeting. Tuesday morning, seven thirty a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.” He headed for his car.

  Bobbie tried to smile at me, but it was hard for me to look her in the eye. She headed for her jeep and was soon gone.

  One by one the rest of them filed out. None were happy. None were smiling. I knew I was the worst preacher they’d ever heard. Maybe the worst in the world. It was my first sermon, and all I knew to talk about was how to field-dress a dead squirrel.

  The last person out the door, however, gave me a grin and a little poke in the ribs. It was the fat cat in the white suit. His painted ladies had all walked ahead of him, and all six were wedged into a shiny Cadillac parked near the front of the church. He was a tall fella with a large ruddy face. It was a cruel face, I could see in an instant, and I wondered what a fella with eyes so full of quiet hatred was doing in church. To my surprise, he gave me a hearty slap on the back.

  “Young fella—that was exactly the type of message our folks need to hear. It was so down home, so honest, something we could all relate to. And the length of message was exactly correct. If I were you and knew what was best, I’d keep preaching exactly like that—” Here he laughed. It was too long of a laugh, I thought, and it didn’t seem kindly. “Yes, my boy, if you keep your quality of preaching on that level, then we’ve got nothing to worry about as far as this church is concerned. Nothing to worry about indeed.”

  I didn’t rightly know how to answer the man. On one hand, it sounded like he was complimenting me. On the other, it sounded like he was saying to keep my sermons muddled and hopeless.

  “Didn’t catch your name, sir,” I said.

  “Oris Floyd. I’m town mayor, as well as a church deacon. We’ll all meet again Tuesday morning. I also own the building that rents to the tavern and a good many other real estate ventures throughout the county, so you’ll find most folks know me real well, as I’m sure you soon will, too.” He’d been holding his Stetson in his hand all throughout church, and now he set it on his head, touched the brim with his fingers as if in dismissal, and headed toward the Cadillac.

  After the mayor of Cut Eye left, all was quiet. I had no idea what to do next. I felt like lying down. Or throwing up. Instead, I walked to the parsonage, changed my clothes, grabbed the axe, and headed out to the tree stand.

  I was doing this job to stay out of jail, that was true. I was also doing this job for the sake of my daughter. The quicker I paid my debt, the quicker I could get Sunny back and living with me, back to where a child belonged with her father. With the first stroke of the axe against the tree trunk, I vowed I’d learn this preaching job. I’d learn it real good. I’d last out the year and give my daughter a safe home.

  The big tree I picked to fell was solid, I soon found. I hacked and sweated, chopped and blustered. I knew that tree wasn’t going down without a fight. It was gonna be a long and large fight, I reckoned, and the top of the tree hardly swayed except when I thudded the axe against the base. If I wasn’t careful with that big tree, I got to thinking, it might well cost me my life.

  THIRTEEN

  Monday, my day off, I cut wood all morning at the tree stand.

  At noon I left a note on Mert’s desk, asking her if she knew any folks who wanted to buy firewood. At suppertime I checked back. She’d swung by the church in the meantime and left a note with a hundred names and addresses on it, and also a directive to keep track of which trees I cut so as to replant them with seedlings from the hardware store next spring. I’d have no problem selling all the firewood I could cut, she reckoned. I went back to the stand and cut wood until darkness fell.

  Tuesday morning dawned bright and early. The deacons met in a back room off the Pine Oak Café, and I filled a plate with eggs and bacon, grabbed a cup of coffee, and headed inside the back room. The sheriff was already there, plus Deputy Roy, Oris Floyd, and a sickly looking fella who introduced himself as Clay Cahoon, Mert’s husband. I counted four men total plus me.

  “Ain’t there supposed to be five deacons?” I asked. “I thought that’s what you said once, Sheriff.”

  “That’s first item of business.” The sheriff took a long swig of coffee. “Got word early this morning that Woburn Jones passed away during the night—you met him—the mercantile owner. Old age got him, and we all knew the day was coming soon. He was our fifth deacon. God rest his soul.”

  A moment of silence went around the room. The fellas all looked at the floor, although I shot a quick glance at Oris Floyd and saw him stifling a smirk.

  “Woburn has kin out east who’ll be here later in the week to pay their respects and settle his estate,” the sheriff said. “Emma and her child
ren will mind the store in the meantime. His funeral is set for Thursday, Rowdy, so you’ll need to handle that. Meet with Bobbie and she can fill you in as to how to conduct a memorial service.”

  Deputy Roy chewed on the side of a doughnut. “We need to find a fifth deacon,” he insisted. “It’s right there in the church’s constitution. We need five deacons or else we can’t continue.”

  Sheriff Barker scowled at him, but Oris Floyd smiled. “Roy’s right,” Oris said. “And I got just the fella in mind who can fill the job.”

  “Bet you do,” the sheriff muttered under his breath.

  “Deuce Gibbons.” The mayor ignored the sheriff and said the name triumphantly, almost like he’d been planning for this moment for a long while back.

  “Deuce Gibbons?!” The sheriff’s eyes flashed contempt. “The man’s a can of gasoline just waiting for a lit match. He’s got a problem with the bottle, too. Just last week he fell over drunk and cracked his head in my jail cell.”

  “Deuce Gibbons listens to me,” Oris said. “He’s a hard-charger to be sure, but he’s been doing some odd jobs around my place lately, and I like the man. Besides, he’ll clean up his act soon enough.” The mayor chuckled. “That is, under the good Bible teaching of our new reverend.”

  “I move we table the motion until next week,” the sheriff said. “That’ll give us some time to think things over. Do I have a second? Rowdy, as church staff you don’t vote.”

  “Second,” said Clay Cahoon.

  “All in favor?”

  “Aye,” said the sheriff and Clay Cahoon in unison.

  “All opposed?”

  “Nay,” said Deputy Roy and Oris Floyd.

  “Hmm, split board,” Roy said, looking bemused. “What’s our constitution say about that?”

  “It means we table the motion until we can vote in a fifth deacon,” the sheriff said. “Let’s close this meeting. I’ve got work to do.” The other fellas nodded their heads. It looked like they all reckoned the meeting wasn’t going anywhere, and it was too early in the day for a fight. The sheriff turned to me. “Rowdy, you stay behind. I’ve got a few more things to say to you directly.”

  One by one the other men finished their last swigs of coffee and bustled out, leaving me sitting alone with the sheriff. My mind had been churning all through the deacon meeting. I decided to ask questions first.

  “Why’s Oris Floyd on the board, Sheriff? It’s plain you don’t think much of the man.”

  “Well, when a man’s got as much money as Oris Floyd, there ain’t much he can’t do in a small town.” The sheriff let out a belch. “That’s the problem, Rowdy. Whenever we vote, Deputy Roy and Oris Floyd always vote together. Clay Cahoon usually thinks things well through and votes along with me. So did Woburn Jones before he passed. That’s why we can’t let Deuce Gibbons on the board. He knows nothing about church, that’s for sure, and it’s a downright certainty he’ll be bought by the mayor. That will make three against two, and then Oris Floyd runs the church—along with everything else in this town.”

  “I reckon that’s a problem.”

  “Rowdy, there’s some important things you need to know about Oris Floyd.” The sheriff looked like he was going to say more but stopped and added, “All in due time. No sense in alarming you about the job more than you already are. Let’s talk about your sermon first. Bottom line is you need help, son, which doesn’t surprise me any considering where you been. From here on out until you get the hang of it, I want you to meet weekly with Bobbie and have her teach you about public speaking. The gal’s a bit flowery sometimes, that’s true, but she can speak with an eye to folks listening, and you’ll do best to do as she says.”

  I forked up the last of my scrambled eggs and took the last sip of my coffee. I wasn’t sure how I felt about meeting each week with the sheriff’s ornery daughter, but I figured if I could follow the orders of a drill sergeant in boot camp, then I could learn to work with Bobbie Barker. I swallowed my breakfast. “Be glad to, Sheriff. You mentioned a few more things.”

  “Well …” He appeared to be thinking long and hard. “Another item is why I hired you in the first place. It’s about the men of this town. There’s a heap of them, and they all make trouble, and you need to figure out how to get them in church. That’s all.”

  I shook my head. “I meet a number of them each morning at breakfast before they head out to the plant. They know I’m a reverend and they don’t have nothing to do with me.”

  “That might be true. But you’ll never get them to fear Jesus if all you do is say hello at breakfast. You need to go where they like to go. Talk to them in a language they can understand.”

  “What you saying, Sheriff?”

  Halligan sniffed and looked off into the distance. “Your best bet’s the tavern come Friday night.”

  I was silent a moment, contemplating the ramifications of what the sheriff was instructing me to do. “Sheriff, all due respect, but I’m no stranger to what goes on in such a place. Surely there’s a better plan.”

  “No … really there ain’t. I’ve given thought to it over the past while, and this plan is exactly why I hired you. You can get started end of this week. In the meantime, I’ve been thinking about Cisco Wayman as our new fifth deacon. He’s the only man in town eligible. Clay’ll vote for him in a heartbeat, and I’m pretty sure I can swing Deputy Roy on this one—Roy’s awful partial to Augusta’s cooking. Oris won’t vote for him because the café’s one of the only things he don’t own in this town, but I don’t care. Oris won’t get his way as long as Cisco’s on the board.”

  “You think Cisco can handle it, sir?”

  “Cisco’s grieving in a powerful way right now, that’s true, and he’s known around town for his anger. But the man’s got a base of understanding about God, one of the only fellas in this town who does. Beggars can’t be choosers, and when it comes to God-fearing men in Cut Eye we’re beggars on this church board more days than not. You talk to Cisco next chance you get, and I’ll talk to him, too. See if we can’t convince him to get over his grieving enough to come on board.”

  I nodded. “Anything else, Sheriff?”

  Halligan scratched behind his ear. “There’s one more thing, Rowdy, and it’s a whopper of a project, but you best get started on it as soon as you can. Bottom line is the church building’s fit to be condemned. It was built in a jiffy and hasn’t hardly seen a lick of repair work since 1900. I went over there the other day along with Chance Farley, fella who runs the lumberyard, and we made an inspection. Foundation’s cracked. Walls are warped. Roof’s about ready to fall in. Outbuildings are set to topple over. Driveway needs new gravel. Everything needs paint. We really should put in a septic field one of these days, and all the repairs needed are doubled when it comes to the parsonage. Plus all that, we still owe on the deed to the tree stand. Farley added it all up, and all that plus paying off the land deed totals ten thousand bucks.”

  I let out a low whistle. “How you ever gonna come up with that?”

  “Not me, Rowdy. You. That’s the question. One of your jobs is to spearhead the vision when it comes to the church building and grounds, so you’re in charge. What we need at the Cut Eye Community Church is a building program.”

  “A building program?” My coffee was empty, and I wished for another cup.

  “Call it a fund-raising campaign if you like. Give yourself a stretch of time. Maybe six months. Maybe a year. Lay out the vision to the folks. Ask them to give to a worthy cause. Urge them to volunteer their time. If the building’s in top shape, then that’s only good for the community. We can help lead this town with an eye to the future. You can gather a crew of men and do some selective tree harvest, that’ll help raise funds. Men like to be given a task anyway, something they can see take shape with their eyes. That’s your job, Rowdy—raise ten thousand dollars and get the building and grounds in top shape. Start as soon as you can. If you raise more than that you can always give it to Bobbie’s missionary fund.
Any questions?”

  My mouth opened but nothing came out. This job was becoming more impossible with each passing conversation. Ten thousand dollars was a fortune. Why, to raise that kind of capital, it would take a fella robbing a bank.

  FOURTEEN

  Well, all the rest of that week went smoother than not. Bobbie met with me Wednesday morning and explained how a lot of the work of being a preacher was relational—there was a whole heap of folks in this community and I needed to learn who they were, what they cared about, and how they could best move forward. She sat outside the parsonage alongside of me on the steps and looked mighty fine in her gray skirt and a blue top. She gave me a carefully scripted-out eulogy to deliver for Woburn’s funeral the next day.

  When service time came around on Thursday, I read Bobbie’s words to a T, then added a few words on my own. I know a few things about men dying and just spoke as plain as I could. Afterward at the reception, I ate cake and sipped fruit punch, and talked to as many people as I could, just asking them questions and listening to their stories. Folks seemed to go away from the church that day thinking the funeral was a fitting tribute to the man. Given that I hadn’t said nothing about field-dressing dead animals, it felt like a small success for me too.

  Bobbie met with me again Friday morning and we worked from scratch on how to prepare and deliver a sermon. She talked about watching closely the text first—how a preacher needs to read and reread straight through a passage ten or more times to grip it firmly in mind. Then a reverend will study to interpret the passage correctly—he’ll want to make sure he knows what he’s talking about so he can explain it to folks. Last in the outline, but perhaps most important, he’ll make an appropriate application to people’s lives. Folks need to know that the Bible tells them something about God’s character, or how he relates to them, or how life will be different for them come the next day. She showed me how to settle down and deliver a message calmly and clearly, and yet with passion, how to tell stories and ask questions of the folks from within my preaching, and then she made me go outside and practice giving my next sermon to the woodpile first, promising she’d come by next week and teach me more.