by Leah Weiss
“I’d like to stay to teach your children. I believe I’m where I’m supposed to be.”
Kate Shaw sits and folds her hands in her lap.
Awkward tension strains the walls of my little church. No one knows what to do with this odd turn of events, so I say, “Soup is served.”
• • •
Outside the church door, Kate stands one step down from me, and I introduce her to the parents of her students and to her close neighbors. Widow Jolly lives to the right of the school. Lila Moon, Mooney’s reclusive sister, lives to the left. Both are old and feeble, and neither one comes out except to go to church and the Rusty Nickel. The others I introduce are equally shy and don’t want to say the wrong words. They look at their feet, at Miss Shaw’s trousers and short, gray hair, and raise a tepid hand to hers, but for the most part, they muddle through.
When Sadie steps forward to introduce her aunt Marris to Miss Shaw, I want to fold the child in a hug and cry for her. She casts a glance across the clearing into the shadow of the tree line and to Roy Tupkin. He leans against a tree and smokes a cigarette, his sights tight on Sadie. He tips his hat to me and I want to throttle him. No surprise that Billy Barnhill is there, too.
What I really want to do is send Sadie home with Marris, to her tender care, but I can’t make decisions for the girl. The line between duty and what’s right isn’t always clear-cut. All I whisper today is, “I’ll keep you in my prayers, child.” I know that’s not enough.
Twenty minutes later, only Kate Shaw and I remain in the churchyard. She stayed behind and now faces me and fills in the missing pieces without me asking.
“I helped a girl get an abortion,” she starts. There’s a hard glint in her eyes, defensive. “She threatened to kill herself if I didn’t. Even without the threat, I would have helped. Women have a right to make their own decisions about their bodies. The law on the books is archaic.”
I look to heaven before I give the standard answer. “God and the law know killing an unborn baby is wrong. It’s murder.”
“I disagree.” She shakes her head both in sadness and fatigue. “Anyway, that’s the action that got me dismissed.”
Physically we stand four feet apart, but ethically and morally, a million miles. One long moment rolls into two as we sort the deliberations before us. Lord knows Baines Creek has its rash of babies born to girls too young, in some cases fathered by incest, but the issue with babies is clear when I trust the Bible’s law: killing a helpless fetus is murder.
“I won’t sanction abortion, Kate,” I say, knowing full well that pennyroyal and blue cohosh grow on these mountains and can end early pregnancies. I’m not naive. I am consistent.
“I’m not asking you to sanction it, Eli.” There’s respect and compassion in her tone. I see in Kate’s eyes she’ll never change her mind, but neither will I.
We call a truce and lay it to rest.
Eli Perkins
Today, on a Saturday lit with the gold of autumn, I sit in Kate’s cabin and she pours tea. Her first three weeks of teaching have gone well and attendance numbers are up. I drop two sugar cubes in my cup and stir with a teaspoon. There’s a brightness to the air here in her cabin where thoughts breathe and expand. Despite our differences, I’m content here like nowhere else.
“Well, Kate Shaw.” I clear my throat. “I can’t quite tell from the bits and pieces I’ve collected about you. Are you an atheist or an agnostic?”
“To the point, Preacher Eli Perkins,” she counters with an easy smile as she drops two sugar cubes in her own cup and stirs. “I call myself an agnostic. From as early as I can recall. I never saw the need for blind faith, nor am I patient with man-made rules.”
I lift my bushy eyebrows. “That’s self-evident considering your history, don’t you think?” and we laugh as easily as the friends I want us to become. “No formal religion in your background? No miracles? Spiritual quests? Moments of wonder? Cries to God in your dark hour of need?”
Kate says, “I understand the relief your faith provides. You think it is the foundation for hope and comfort. The cause and effect you believe in are sin and reformation. Fear plays a big part in encouraging people to take the high road. I don’t believe faith or fear lifts people to a better life. The cause and effect I believe in are education and opportunity. Those actions and goals elicit positive change. A god monitoring my days seems naive at best and dangerous at worst.”
“Kate. Oh, Kate.” I chuckle at her heartfelt tirade, and blessedly, she’s not offended. “You are a seeker whether you admit it or not. An angel of God. I’ve watched the miracles you perform. Your faith in these children’s possibilities brings about change. Sadie Blue is overjoyed you’re teaching her to read. The knowledge is secondary to your faith in them. You lift them up. Not education. Whether you believe in God, He believes in you.”
“I love to teach, and I love to learn.”
“And God is Love.”
Kate laughs without judgment and pours more tea in our cups. “Eli, we’re not on different sides. I just don’t know what you say you do know. You believe in the purity of a god and the evil of a devil, conjured creatures that serve your need.”
“Kate”—my voice turns stern—“don’t speak lightly of these things you know little about. I’ve witnessed battles between God and the Devil, and I’m here to tell you those battles are real.”
Her bright face settles into serious, and she props her chin on the palm of her hand to listen. “Tell me, Eli. Tell me what you know.”
This unguarded spirit of exchange has cemented our friendship so easily, yet these are inky waters I will wade in today and carry Kate with me—if she wants to come.
“We need another pot of tea.”
• • •
“I was nine years old when I met the devil face-to-face.”
As expected, Kate’s eyes widen, and she leans forward. I take these as good signs.
“You never forget something like that. I went with Daddy and Granddaddy to call on Pharrell Moody. The devil had crawled right into his skin.
“Pharrell had been a peaceful hermit until the day his eyes turned red and a foul smell filled his body. Hair dropped off his scalp, his arms and legs. His skin was bare, and he looked like a newly shed snake wet with a tinge of green. Some folks think he sold his soul the winter before when the blizzard blew long and trapped men in desperate places, caught between life and death. Whatever the reason, when his frightful story filtered down to church, Daddy went to check on this struggling soul.”
Speaking of the devil always dries me out. I down my tea and Kate fills my cup.
“When Daddy got back from Pharrell Moody’s place that day, he walked in, gripped Mama in his arms, and whispered long in her ear. Her backbone went rigid and she clutched Daddy tight while he whispered. When he stepped back, she dropped to her knees and started praying, her lips moving, her body keening, but no sound came out. Daddy said, ‘Everything’s going to be okay, little Eli. Stay with Mama while I get Granddaddy and the deacons for a talk. We got the Lord’s business to tend to in the most urgent way.’
“Mama stayed on her knees until the pain of kneeling made her cry out. When Daddy came back, he helped her to her feet and told her a stranger was coming to drive the devil out.”
Kate breaks in. “Eli, are you talking about exorcism?”
“Yes. I’ve witnessed others since Pharrell Moody. He was my first and the most sinister.”
“In what way?”
“It’s what I saw when Daddy, Granddaddy, the deacons, and the stranger arrived with me in their midst. Pharrell Moody, a man in his late fifties with old-man ailments, was on the mossy roof of his hut, naked, coated in mud and blood. He howled like a panther. His fingers were claws. He moved to the edge of the roof and urinated a long blue arc to mark the stranger, then cackled and hopped from foot to foot in glee.
“Confident we were no match for him, Pharrell leapt off the roof and landed in our midst. I stood behind Daddy, shielded from the devil. The foul air around him stung my nose. The beast rumbled with cunning. The seven men encircled Pharrell Moody, Bibles open toward the devil. They spoke in unison. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…’”
“Psalm twenty-three,” Kate whispers, captivated, eyes wide behind glasses.
“Yes.” I steeple my hands in prayer with fingertips to my lips. “Simple, sweet words everyone says often without knowing their power. The devil hates those words. Those words are acid poured on the devil’s brain. Do you want to know what those words did to the demon?”
She nods like a schoolgirl.
“The demon inside Pharrell Moody was trapped in this circle of seven believers armed with the Holy Word. The stranger raised his voice. ‘In Jesus’s name, I command all demons to leave at once! In Jesus’s name, I command all demons to leave…’ Pharrell Moody clutched his head, writhed in pain, and fell to the ground while the seven holy men drew closer, chanting tirelessly. The creature cried red tears. He clawed at his body. I didn’t think anyone could survive what I saw.”
I drink more tea and take out my handkerchief to wipe my brow. Kate stays respectful and quiet.
“The sun set when Pharrell Moody lay on the ground emptied. Daddy turned him over so we could look upon his face. The fight was out of him. The devil had departed for easier prey. We watched Pharrell Moody heal, and right before our eyes his muscles knit back together and skin grew over wounds. Hair grew back as white as chestnut blossoms. The claws retracted and his humped back melted away. We stepped back, and Pharrell Moody sat up, dazed and liberated.”
I end wearily with, “That day, I answered the call to serve God the rest of my days.”
Kate sits back in her chair with her arms folded across her chest. She takes a deep breath and lets it out. I worry I’ve gone too far in my ancient tale of good versus evil, but she surprises me and says, “I understand. You wanted to be on the Good Guy’s side, right? I don’t blame you.”
• • •
The end of September grows close, and against my heart’s odd hesitation, I decide to go to the Baptist Convention. I rationalize that my new knowledge will give Kate and me something different to talk about. How erudite I’ll sound with altered perspectives to old debates!
I’ll spend time with Henry Clayton. We’ll stay at the Howard Johnson Motel and I’ll eat my fill of hot fudge sundaes. Henry and I always share a room to be frugal and to feel like boys again. It is four blocks to the convention center, and the walk to and from is when a lot of stuff gets sorted out. I need to talk to my old friend. He’s a good listener. He knows me better than anybody.
The day before I leave for convention on Sunday afternoon, I go see Kate. The stray dog that came and stayed is at her side with a grin on his face. I’m thankful he is here as company or to protect her in my absence—as if me staying ever protected her.
The dog and the woman have come down from the summit. Her face is flushed and open and happy. When I didn’t find her home, I waited. I didn’t want to leave a note. I wanted to tell her firsthand I’d be away for five whole days.
“I head to the Baptist Convention tomorrow after church,” I say, like it’s a regular commute for me and she cares. “I’ll be back Friday. Need anything from the valley?”
“Would you like tea while I make a list?” she asks and heads inside with me right behind. I’m used to the long shadow she casts. While the tea steeps, Kate checks her few cupboards, tears a page from her journal, and makes a list, writing in bold strokes. The sun finds the silver strands entwined in her dark hair growing on the head that holds the brain I admire.
“This should do.” She hands me the paper. “The big thing is my supply of penny candy. Don’t want to run out. And, if you find a new Country Song Roundup with a Loretta Lynn article in it, I’d love that as well.”
I fold the list and put it in my shirt pocket over my heart.
“I envy you walking through a grocery store with stocked shelves,” she says, laughing.
I almost say I’d love you to be with me but stop myself from sounding silly.
• • •
Henry never changes. He walks across the parking lot toward me, long strides, coattail flapping, toothy grin, old leather briefcase clutched under his arm because the handle broke long ago. He’s the same height as Kate, and I mildly wonder about my comfort and attraction to tall people. We hug and clap each other roughly on the back, and grin like the boys we used to be.
“Made it another year, brother,” Henry says. “Lucky for me when I consider the people I’m around. I opened my mail last week and found an envelope with a single sheet of paper in it. It had only one word on it. FOOL.”
“You don’t say…”
“So last Sunday, I said to my congregation, ‘I’ve known people who’ve written letters and forgotten to sign their names. This week I got a letter from someone who signed his name, then forgot to write the letter!’”
That’s how it always is. Henry and I pick up where we left off, easy as pie. Henry supplies the entertainment and I give him my good ear and file away the wit.
It isn’t until later that evening, as I enjoy my first hot fudge sundae while we sit in a Howard Johnson red leather booth and I babble on about Kate Shaw and inspired students, that he asks, “Is there something I should know, buddy?”
“What do you mean?” I’m puzzled. I wipe whipped cream from my chin with my napkin.
“Come on, Eli. You can confide in your oldest friend.”
When I shrug my shoulders and keep eating, Henry sits back, lays both palms on the table, and studies me. “I got it.” He slaps the table. “You’re in love.”
Whoa! What did he say? “Love?” I put my spoon down and shake my head at this ludicrous thought while Henry laughs and nods.
“No, no, no,” I say, completely out of my comfort zone, pushing away my empty sundae glass. “Why in the world would you say that?”
Henry studies me like I’m an insect trapped under a magnifying glass until I squirm. I don’t know what I’ve called these weeks with Kate. Intellectual? Stimulating? Marvelous? But in love? That’s too priceless a gift for me to receive or give or even name. I’m too old. Too set in my ways…
“If you could see the look on your face, Eli Perkins. It’s a first for you. Talk to me.”
Henry holds up his hand and signals to the waitress another round, and I get a second hot fudge sundae and he a Coke float. We skip the lecture “When Hell Freezes Over.” Convention lectures can be predictable.
Where to start? When Kate first said my name and I had my head down in the soup pot, unprepared for a flush of dizziness? When I saw her sitting on the quilt in the sunshine surrounded by children? Or when she argued the misplacement of women in religious history?
“She’s tall,” I say.
“Uh-huh…and?”
“Old.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And fifty-one. Name’s Kate. She’s tall…”
“Eli, I’ll clock you side the head if you tell me one more statistic that could apply to half the people in this restaurant, considering you’re a runt.”
“No, I mean she’s really tall. Okay. Okay… She’s that teacher I told you about from Ravenscroft. The one who saw your index card. She got fired and came to Baines Creek. She’s fifty-one,” I fumble, completely bad at this and truly unaware of my repetition until Henry stops me.
“Well, you’re sweating, your sentences have been reduced to repetitions, and you haven’t touched your second hot fudge sundae. Therefore it’s official: you stink at love.”
I laugh halfheartedly, feel sick to my stomach, and think part of this is a joke and part of th
is is serious and all of it will end poorly if I allow myself to dream. A preacher’s life isn’t about dreams. It’s about garnering strength to face an arduous life, to prepare souls for the afterlife, and hold people’s hands on the rough rides when it all tumbles down.
“Henry, you’ve got to talk me out of this. I’m too old to court. I’m a preacher to Kate, one who comes by to talk. That’s all. She’s never even been to my place. Prudence thinks poorly of her.”
Henry roars at that declaration, and people turn to look. “Your sister thinking poorly of Kate is a huge plus in my book. But let me get this straight.” Henry actually wipes tears from his eyes with the palms of his hands he’s laughing so hard. “This Kate’s tall and fifty-one, and love isn’t possible for an educated woman who’s never been to your home, and of whom your sister doesn’t approve. I get it,” he chides me. “You came all the way down off the mountain and carried this as a burden, didn’t you?”
He turns serious on me, and I feel my lungs have collapsed and I’m a puddle of hot fudge oozing out onto the table without a vessel to hold me together.
“I’m lost, Henry. Hopelessly, totally lost…and sick inside.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a novice. You’ll flounder like all mortal men, ill-prepared. That’s part of the initiation.” His voice turns to preacher comfort. “I remind you of Deuteronomy 31:8. ‘And the Lord, he it is that doth go before thee; he will be with thee, he will not fail thee, neither forsake thee: fear not, neither be dismayed.’”
“How can I not?” I wail on low volume. “Kate Shaw’s an agnostic!”
• • •
While I was in the valley struggling with the strange matters of love, a tragedy came to my mountain. Prudence meets me at the door with news. She never meets me at the door. But today, a sick joy glints in her eyes as she rushes to spill news about a girl who has been missing the past few days.
“She’s a sinner, trampy and cheap, Brother.” She wrinkles her nose. “Surely the Lord had a hand in her dismal fate. She’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere.”