Good Heavens

by Margaret A. Graham

  “Now, that’s the man to vote fer. For shore he’s the man Jesus voted fer. Jesus said that Republican went home saved.

  “Now I’d like to go on a spell ’bout this, but we ’ave got more of the Lord’s business to tend to today. We have got dinner on the grounds and a baptizin’ to boot.” Raising both his long arms and with a twang in his voice, he laid out the blessing: “The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up . . . lift up . . .”

  Some man in the congregation prompted him, “‘His countenance,’ preacher.”

  “Ah, yes, his countenance . . .” But the poor preacher couldn’t remember the rest. “Amen!” he hollered, and the men answered back, “Amen.”

  The preacher came off the pulpit and was down the aisle and out the door in less time than it takes to tell it.

  As we stood up, the ladies in the trio came over to me and Ursula. I introduced the two of us as well as Martha and Nancy and told them we were from Priscilla Home. They invited us to stay for dinner, but Ursula politely declined. They insisted. Nettie, the alto, said, “We have got more food than we’ll ever eat.”

  I can tell you right now, we were in no position to turn down a free meal, and when the women repeated their invitation, Ursula gave in and said we’d stay for dinner.

  Since church let out, the men’s outhouse was doing a steady business, but before any of the ladies used theirs, they asked us if we’d like to go. I needed to go bad so I went first.

  The women’s outhouse was a two-holer, but I didn’t expect to have company in there. There were lids for the holes; at least no snake or varmint could crawl in thataway. There were spiderwebs in there that I had to knock down before I could sit. From what you’ve probably heard about outhouses you might expect a Sears catalog to be in there, but this one had three rolls of toilet paper wrapped in plastic. I laughed to myself. I bet Ursula would have a accident before she’d use a outhouse.

  When I came out, Nancy manned the pitcher pump for me to wash my hands, and I told her to pass the word that the outhouse was a two-holer. That would speed up the process of getting everybody comfortable before we ate. Ursula looked nervous about the girls waiting in line, taking turns, but they were all giggling, having the time of their lives going in and out the outhouse.

  The men stood around talking to each other while the women brought out platters of fried chicken, potato salad, green beans, corn pudding, pickled peaches—you name it, they had it—piles of food. When the girls saw Ursula and me helping with setting out the dishes, they joined in, carrying cakes and pies to one picnic table and cold drinks to another. Portia was unwrapping paper plates and cups. Her tattoo was pretty well hidden by her coat, but when it peeked out, Nettie caught a glimpse of it and I saw the shock on her face. To her credit, Nettie got over the shock right away and started talking to Portia about how glad they were to have visitors.

  Once everything was ready, Preacher Bailey made quick work of blessing the food and dived right in to help his plate. Looked like he was starved. The ladies ushered those of us from Priscilla Home in line behind him.

  Ursula and I served our plates, and Nettie asked us to sit at her table with the other ladies. As our girls came from the line they found tables in the sun. All the men and boys were going over to tables on the other side of the church. That was good. Drugs make some women man-crazy, and it would’ve been bad if they took to flirting with those mountain men.

  As we were eating, one of the women in the trio brought up the subject of the preacher, sort of apologizing. “Preacher Bailey has been preaching since he was a young boy,” she said. “It used to be there was not a preacher around could hold a candle to him when it came to preaching and living a God-fearing life.”

  Heads nodded in agreement.

  “But as you can probably see, he’s failin’. Gets a little mixed up. But we all love Preacher Bailey. He baptized all my people back to my granddaddy. Funeralized them, too. Baptized me when I was ten years old, right here in the river. Remember that, Nettie?”

  The lady across the table chimed in, “Me, too.”

  Nettie wiped her fingers on the napkin and reached for another piece of fried chicken. “Most churches in this district have let him go for one reason or another—age maybe, or maybe because they’ve taken on town ways. We keep him because we love him.” Heads nodded again. “Being as how so many of our members have moved to town,” she continued, “it doesn’t really pay Preacher Bailey to come so far for the little bit we can give him.”

  At that point I put my foot in my mouth, saying, “I noticed that you didn’t take up an offering in the service.”

  “Never have, never will,” Nettie replied, stiff as a poker. “We go by the Bible: ‘Don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doin’.’”

  “I see,” I said, and shut up and ate.

  Food never tasted so good. When our plates were nearly empty, one of the ladies went to the dessert table and brought Ursula and me each a slice of caramel cake and blackberry pie. Now as far as sweets go, I might as well rub them on my hips because that’s where they’re going, but I ate every crumb.

  When Ursula and I were taking our plates to the trash can, she said we should remember this kindness—if we got the money from the bank, we should invite the Valley Church people to dinner at Priscilla Home. I thought she might be whistling Dixie, but I went along with her, saying that was a good idea.

  Everybody pitched in to clean up after the dinner. There was chicken and potato salad left over as well as two cakes half eaten. The church ladies went into a huddle and when they came out, one of them told Ursula they wanted us to take the leftover food to Priscilla Home if we could use it.

  Ursula protested. “Oh no. Surely you can share this good food among yourselves.” But the women insisted and, under the circumstances, Ursula had the good sense not to refuse again.

  While things were winding up there, Martha came over to me and whispered, “Miss E., I need to talk to you.”

  “All right.”

  “Could we sit in the van? This is not for anybody else’s ears.”

  “Okay,” I said, and we went back to the van and climbed in.

  “It’s about last night,” she began and then hesitated. “This is hard for me to talk about, Miss E. You’ll just have to bear with me. . . . I’m ashamed to tell you this, but I didn’t come to Priscilla Home for the right reasons.” She took a deep breath, her voice not quite steady. “Miss E., when I came to Priscilla Home it was not to get help for my drinking problem; I came here to kill myself.”

  “Kill yourself!”

  “Yes, to kill myself. I’d been thinking about it for a long time. For months, in fact. But I didn’t want to do it at home where my little five-year-old daughter would prob’ly find my body. Even if she didn’t find me dead, I didn’t want her to ever find out that I had killed myself.

  “For a long time my husband had been after me to come to Priscilla Home where I could get help for my drinking problem, and I finally decided this would be a safe place to do it. Nobody up here would know me, and if I did it right nothing could stop me. I didn’t want to botch it, you know. Doing it up here away from home would help my husband keep the truth from Samantha. He’d just tell her I got sick and died, something like that.

  “That’s why I was sitting up last night. I was waiting for everybody to get to sleep, then I was going upstairs to the bathroom, lock the door, and cut my wrists. But then you came downstairs and kept sitting there. I waited and waited until finally I decided you weren’t going to leave; I’d have to go on upstairs and do what I had to do.”

  Locking her fingers together, her knuckles white, she whispered, “Miss E., as I was about to go up the steps, I saw Jesus.”

  Jesus? Good heavens, was this girl having the D.T.s?

  With her eyes looking desperate, Martha searched my face. “Maybe you don’t believe me, Miss E., but I saw him, pl
ain as day.” Her chin was quivering. “I saw Jesus. He was standing in the door of the laundry room.”

  I tried to get the picture, but for the life of me, this was beyond anything I could imagine! Whatever it was, it was real to her, and I would’ve liked to believe her, but it was a bit much. I was about to ask her what he said, when she told me, “Seeing Jesus, I knew I was not going to kill myself. I can’t tell you how I knew that or anything else about it, but I know I saw him—it wasn’t a dream. I saw Jesus just like I’m seeing you right now. It wasn’t a dream, Miss E., it was Jesus himself.”

  Never before in my whole life had I heard anything like this, except maybe on those televangelist TV shows, so I had my doubts. But I wasn’t ready to put the kibosh on what she was telling me, not just yet. I needed to hear her explain what all that hullabaloo was that went on in her room. “What about that racket in your room?”

  “Miss E., that was the devil! I was never so scared in my life! If you had not come in there when you did, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me.” That girl was trembling all over; even her voice shook. “Did you hear the voices?” she asked me.

  I shook my head.

  “The voices were telling me, ‘Kill yourself! Go ahead, do it! Do it!’ All the time they were attacking me, throwing me around, they were screaming. You mean you didn’t hear them?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I thought they were going to kill me!”

  Ursula was coming toward the van with the leftover food; we would have to stop talking. “Martha, I think it would be wise for us to keep this business to ourselves, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes, Miss E., this was something just between the Lord and me. The only reason I’m telling you is because you were there. And believe me, Miss E., I’ll never drink another drop so long as I live!”

  I opened the door for Ursula. “Esmeralda, these people have been so nice to us I think we should stay for the baptism, don’t you?”

  I agreed and we stashed the food in the van. “Looks like they’re ready to begin.”

  We walked down to where the people were gathered at the water’s edge. Preacher Bailey had taken off his coat and was standing barefooted with one of those young boys half naked and shivering in the cold. The old man who had sung the solo in church heisted the tune, “Shall We Gather at the River” and sang so loud he drowned out the rest of us.

  I couldn’t get my mind off what Martha had told me. I didn’t know what to think, and it’s hard for me to put stock in things I don’t understand. Of course, it’s like Pastor Osborne says, when we measure what we do know against what we don’t know, we find we’re much more ignorant than smart. I think that’s especially true when it comes to spiritual things. Sometimes I watch them TV preachers and see all the things they claim as gifts of the Spirit, miracles and so forth, but I don’t see none of that going on in Apostolic Bible Church. I’m satisfied with what we have got at Apostolic, but who am I to say that the Lord is not working in different ways with other people. As for Martha’s experience, I would have to let it rest. It was beyond my understanding.

  When the man was done singing, Preacher Bailey, with his thumbs in his suspenders, had words to say before he went on with the baptizing. Placing one hand on the head of the shivering boy, he started in talking, his voice as solemn-sounding as a judge giving out a death sentence. “Charles Allen Hughes, have you come to the light? Do you know you are a borned sinner?”

  With his arms wrapped around his naked chest and shaking all over, the boy nodded his head.

  As well as freezing, he’s probably scared out of his wits, I thought.

  “Say it, boy!” the preacher shouted. For an old man he had a booming voice.

  “I am a sinner borned,” I heard the boy say.

  “Charles Allen Hughes,” Preacher Bailey shouted again, “holler it out loud an’ clear fer all these hyar witnesses to hear an’ believe ye to be honest in yer callin’!”

  I felt sorry for that young’un. Looked like he might pass out. With teeth chattering, he hollered, “I am a borned sinner, Preacher Bailey!”

  “A sinner needs a Savior. Have you got one, boy?”

  “I have, sir,” he screeched.

  “And who mought that be?”

  “Jesus Christ the righteous.”

  “How did Jesus save you, son?”

  “By dyin’ on the cross an’ a-sheddin’ his precious blood.”

  “Did you lay all yer sins an’ miseries on him?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Was yer heart in it?”

  “It was, Preacher.”

  “Before all these witnesses a-gathered here this day, I declare you borned again,” the Reverend boomed. “Charles Allen Hughes, you have been borned into the family of God. Walk in the light, keep your eyes fixed on Jesus, hold fast to the cross, and serve the Lord with gladness.”

  With all of that said, the two of them waded into that icy water, all the way to the middle where the stream was deepest and the current swiftest. Holding Charles Allen Hughes with one arm under him, the preacher clasped his hand over the boy’s face and shouted, “I baptize thee in the name of the Father . . .” Then he ducked him under the water and up again. Spluttering and strangling, the boy did not have time to recover before Preacher Bailey was shouting, “And in the name of the Son,” dipping him yet again. The boy floundered in the stiff current but surfaced, blue-lipped and snatching at Bailey’s suspender. The third shout went forth, “And in the name of the Holy Ghost!” Sousing him good, the preacher brought Charles Allen Hughes up again, held onto him until he was upright, then let go.

  The boy looked dazed; he slipped and floundered but found his footing before the current got hold of him. White-faced and blue-lipped, he stumbled ashore where his mother stood holding a towel. Giving a quick wipe of his face and hair, she wrapped the towel around him, handed him his shoes and clothes, and told him to hurry and get dressed. He struck out running for the church.

  The preacher was not far behind him with his wet clothes clinging to his sparse frame and a towel around his shoulders. In back of him must have been a deacon, carrying his shoes.

  The baptism over, I was ready to leave, but the girls were wandering down along the river where it curved to go around a big rock. The stream was wider there, making a pool, and the flat rocks that had been washed ashore formed a little beach. The girls were moseying around, curious about the stones, picking them up and examining them. I was surprised to see Ursula join Lenora exploring the beach. I guessed we wouldn’t be leaving right away. Watching the two of them, I thought about Lenora’s mystery man. I wished I knew when Albert Ringstaff would come back, and I hoped I could make good on the rain check for dinner I had given him.

  Dora commenced skipping small rocks, sending them over the flat surface to the other side. Emily tried her hand at that; then Wilma and Melba took turns. Emily got the knack of it quicker than the others. There was a gracefulness about that girl. Maybe she was, after all, an ice skater.

  Seeing them all enjoying themselves in God’s creation made me feel good. I bet most of those girls had never seen a place like this—never known the first thing about enjoying something that don’t come from a bottle, a needle, or a pill.

  Thank you, Jesus, I prayed. Thank you for giving us Sunday dinner and supper, too. Thank you, Jesus.

  For the moment, my cup was full and running over.

  11

  The visit to the Valley Church set the house buzzing about all that went on there. They all wanted to know if we could go there the next Sunday. “Maybe,” I said and let it go at that. Unless we got money for the gas before the weekend, we would be going to the Valley Church. Even though the preacher wouldn’t be there, that trio would sing and maybe there would be praying.

  All afternoon the girls sat on the porch talking about it—the trio’s singing, the preaching, and the baptizing in the river. Most of them had never used an outhouse before, so Wilma kept us in stitches ab
out learning the art of “out-housing” as she called it. Melba asked me if we couldn’t invite the trio to come for a singing at Priscilla Home, and I said Ursula and I had already talked about having them come for a meal so maybe that would work out.

  Monday morning we used the last of the dry milk for breakfast and had just about finished up everything there was to eat. Ursula called the bank, and they told her the computers were still down but to come in anyway and wait in case they got them up and running again. Even if they got things fixed, there was only a very slim chance that the loan would come through and the money be deposited in time to buy groceries for dinner. I was wracking my brain trying to think of something we could have for lunch. We could make pancakes if I could scrounge up enough syrup.

  Ursula was over in her apartment getting ready to go to the bank and I was on my way to the day room for a Praise and Prayer session when the phone rang. I answered, and it was an attorney whose name I didn’t catch. He wanted to speak to the director, so I asked him to hold while I went over to the apartment to tell Ursula to pick up her phone.

  On the way I figured some creditor had set a lawyer on us to collect a bill or file a judgment against us. Well, Ursula couldn’t blame me if that was a creditor whose name she had not given me when I went asking for extensions.

  Ursula let me in. She was dressed and pulling on her jacket. When I told her a lawyer was on the phone, her face fell and I could see she dreaded picking up that receiver. I started to leave but she motioned for me to stay.

  After identifying herself to the caller as the director, all she did was listen, so I didn’t have a clue as to what this call was about. In a minute or two Ursula began scrambling through papers on her table to find information he must have asked for—numbers, things like that—and she was nervous or excited, one.

  I hardly dared hope it was a foundation calling.