by Lynn Pruett
“God is forgiving,” said Stelle. She pressed a button with a click, and the noise of a tape rewinding came up from her desk.
“He is?” I said. I’d never been forgiven anything. In my chest, a dark hard knot, weighty and familiar, contracted. For a second or two, the knot dissolved. “Your revival is for forgiveness and new life?”
She did not answer right away and I felt mistaken. The knot returned and I lashed out. “It’s bullshit, you know. This church stuff, all those hateful ladies making up lies. Is Richard Reynolds forgiven for lying about me?”
Stelle placed her hands together as if in prayer. She held them to her lips in an attitude of thought, but really she was hiding a smile. “I don’t know who God forgives or why. I just know He does.”
A little smile grew on my face too. Maybe Richard was not forgiven. Maybe he was going to Hell.
“Forgiveness and rebirth are the way of the Lord. I believe He has led you to our door.”
Sunshine swelled through her stained-glass window, muted reds, blues, and golds, draping us in soft color. The river tape clicked on again and gentleness slipped into my ears. “Can I come tonight to the revival?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I will give you a ride.”
REVEREND MARTIN PETERSON
Thirty minutes from now Stelle would arrive home. Martin bathed his face in water he had delivered in blue four-gallon bottles. Stelle drank it. She didn’t know he washed in it.
He toweled his face and then went for the concealer, yellow to cover the purple shadings under his eyes. “Purple mountains’ majesty,” he sang, as he dabbed on concealer. He took a mascara wand, dark black, and touched up the gray hair around his ears. It wasn’t much, a strand or two, but he couldn’t stand to pluck them out. Last he found Stelle’s eyeliner pencil and drew in brown lines to make his brows fuller. The revival required more from him than usual, more vigor and stamina, more sermons, one for every night of the week.
Last night after the service, Stelle had come down hard on him. He’d been feeling tiptop and exhausted in the rightness of his message, Eve’s great transgression in the Garden.
Stelle had not hummed them home as she usually did. Instead she spoke to him unmusically, as if rocks had taken up residence under tongue. “Adam ate the apple too. You cannot blame it all on her.”
Martin sighed. “If she hadn’t eaten it and tempted him, he would not have done it.”
“Oh, Martin. This man who was made in God’s image doesn’t have to take responsibility for his own action? If he hadn’t eaten the apple, he wouldn’t have been cast out. Adam had plenty of ribs. God could have made another woman more submissive than Eve, while Eve could have been cast out as Cain was.”
Martin was too spent to argue this basic Bible lesson. He did not understand why all of a sudden he and Stelle had to read the Good Book as if for the first time. These conversations were tiresome and counterproductive. The precedent of the biblical temptress was the central theme of the revival’s sermons. It related well to the truck-stop situation, which, since God had not sent the rain he fervently asked for every Sunday from the pulpit, was a good way to keep the faith going among the congregation. It rankled that Hattie Bohannon had made it rain, and briefly at that, like a taunt from God.
Ten minutes until Stelle arrived, enough time to put on his clothes.
He was fairly uninspired in his garments. For work, in the pulpit, he wore a robe. Underneath it, black pants, a white dress shirt, a navy blue tie. His shoes were black. His socks were black. Black made him disappear.
On Stelle, black was glorious.
What to do with Stelle? Her study of Eve had changed her. She was determined to stamp out prostitution. This was the only link in their marriage now. Her passion was not for marital sex, it was for stamping out extramarital sex. Maybe it was truly driven by a desire to stamp out all sex.
After their last lovemaking, a celebration of the successs of the protest march, she’d said, “I’d like to see a snake handler.”
“What in God’s name for?” he’d asked, his hand curved on the firm rise of her hipbone.
“I’d like to go to Kentucky and see a snake handler. The snake was a friend to Eve.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Without the snake, we wouldn’t have knowledge. Without it, Eve would never have gone outside her home.”
“The Garden of Eden, the paradise to which we have never returned?” He dropped his head gratefully to the dip in her waist.
“Whose paradise, Martin? God’s? Adam’s?” She sat up, his head tumbling into the covers. “How did Eve feel, being an afterthought?”
“Snake handling is illegal.”
“Of course it is.”
Thus ended their evening of triumph after the truck-stop protest.
Stelle had not seen a snake handler but she had gone to the rattlesnake rodeo in Opp and bought a nonpoisonous snake. She kept it in the living room in a large glass terrarium, on a bed of sandy-colored pebbles. She fed it grasshoppers and toads. She became a regular at bait shops and vending machines.
“I do not think,” Martin had said, “that a minister should have a pet snake in his house.”
“Why not? Anyone else can have one. Why not you?”
“The symbolism of it.”
“You mean, like a snake equals a penis?”
“No! Like the snake in the Garden of Eden.”
But Stelle did not remove the cage. This afternoon, however, Martin had taken action. He’d pushed the terarium over to the front door and gently lifted the lid. The snake slithered up the side and flicked its tongue, taking in the new smells. It fixed its eyes on Martin’s. They stared at each other for several minutes.
“Tell you what,” said Martin. “I saw a nice fat mouse running up the walk earlier today. Had your name on it.”
The snake swiveled its head, its tongue flicking at the open doorway. It craned its neck, slid up and over the glass wall, and disappeared down the brick walk.
Martin moved the terrarium back in place and left the lid open a crack. He doubted St. Patrick felt like this, stealthy, guilty of a gesture of secret pleasure. He sat down next to the empty cage to pray.
When nothing but mirth filled his head, he’d begun dressing. Now for some reason, his tie would not sit right on his neck and he thought of not wearing it. The air was pregnant with moisture it would not release. Headaches were common afflictions these days. What they needed was a river baptism. He swallowed and imagined the low brown water rising to his waist. As long as his feet were planted into thick river mud, he could overcome his fear of a sudden wave.
The front door slammed.
“Look what I’ve brought,” Stelle called.
Martin ripped the tie off and threw it over his shoulder. It landed on the TV antenna. “Swiss cheese?” he said hopefully.
“No, silly, look.”
Martin came down the stairs as Stelle held out a perfectly ordinary pinecone.
He said nothing.
She waited, then dropped it in the soil of their lemon tree.
“I don’t mean to disregard it. You don’t have to throw it away,” he said.
“I’m not. I’ve learned that pinecones keep cats from playing in the plants,” said Stelle. “I need to change.”
“I’ll wait,” he said. Forever, until you change into the Stelle I know.
She came down plainly dressed, gray cotton slacks and a fine-ribbed coral T-shirt. “The Bohannon girl has been to see me. She wants to come to church.”
“Richard Reynolds’s prostitute? That one?” Martin asked.
“I think she’s sincere. She talked of wanting a new life, to be born again.”
“Did her mother send her? She can’t come,” said Martin. He shuddered, thinking of Mrs. Bohannon armed with rocks, entering his church in an attempted rescue of her daughter. He thought also of the men’s Sunday school class and their dependence on him to keep the truck stop under the gun, and
of the good feeling he had now when he entered their room, the slaps on the back, the discreet increase in offerings, the deal he’d gotten on the new Buick, which meant little except that he’d found acceptance.
“She can’t come, Stelle, it is not—” He hated to admit how much he missed the truck stop. He had loved their liver and onions, the apple pie, the fresh-cut hash browns, overhearing truckers talk, the welcome feel of seeing familiar faces, of Gee and Haw always ready to chat.
Lord knows the Bohannons never gave him special treatment. He snorted. Beneath the good-mother smile of Hattie Bohannon was the heart and mind of an amazon harlot. Her daughters prostituting for Richard Reynolds right there on the premises. And Gert Geurin, a regular maypole at the revival, telling him she’d stay on and steer the ship of vice back to clean waters.
“But Martin, there is room in the church for forgiveness,” said Stelle.
“What’s to say this isn’t a ploy? Prostitutes have always tried to work both sides of the issue.” Martin glanced at the empty snake cage and felt stronger.
“But if we bring the prostitute to the Lord, won’t she go and sin no more?”
He wanted to tell her why that was too easy. Years ago they would have discussed a church problem with intelligence and generosity, but now there was a gulf between them.
“Isn’t that what we are about at the Church of the Holy Resurrection?” She was so gentle and sensible, she could convince the men’s Sunday school class that a Christian steak house was an un-Christian idea if it required routing out an earlier establishment.
“Oh, Stelle,” he said. She is my angel of the Lord.
“Martin.” Her face grew cold, as if sensing his warmth.
“You’d think prostitution was a man’s issue,” he responded.
She shut her jaw and her eyes became hard. Clearly he’d stepped into one of those gaping holes that lay hidden everywhere between them now. “You’d better not say that publicly,” she said.
“Well, I’d just like you to consider what Ann Reynolds might think if we allow that young harlot to come to church. Think of her pain.”
“Ann Reynolds,” said Stelle, “should have taken a red-hot poker to her husband. Maybe Miss Bohannon’s presence will inspire her to new enlightenment.”
Martin shivered, all thoughts of tonight’s sermon gone. “I must get some air,” he said, and walked out into the heat in his suit and made-up face. He stepped onto the deck, hoping for a glimpse of the snake, but it was not there. He went down the dry steps through the woods where the caterpillar tents had hung. The insects had eaten wild cherry leaves all over the state, fallen to the ground, and been consumed by brood cows and pregnant deer. All across Alabama young calves had drowned in their mother’s wombs, cherry poison liquefying their hearts. Where was God in this world?
Martin ate a meager supper of fruit and salami while Stelle was showering. She said she’d drive herself to the revival and meet him there. He undressed and put on blue cotton dress pants and a white shirt and skipped the tie. It was his duty to call Richard Reynolds and warn him that the girl would be at church so he picked up the private line in his home office, feeling nervous as he had as a teenager, calling to make a date.
Richard answered the phone. Martin rushed past any common pleasantries and explained briefly his dilemma. “Stelle is insisting we let the girl come to the revival. She’s claiming it is an opportunity for forgiveness, but I’m not sure if it’s humanly possible to meet Stelle’s standards.”
Richard Reynolds sighed. “You got to keep the wife happy.”
Martin felt a bond with Richard, a wee bit of camaraderie. He’d never discussed his marriage with anyone else before. With God, yes, but no one who answered him directly.
“Ann’s feeling poorly in this heat. Her stomach’s upset most days. We won’t be coming to the revival. She’ll be glad to know you asked about her.”
Martin’s relief was so great he barely kept the word good from escaping his lips. “Many blessings on you and Ann, Richard.”
“Thank you, Reverend. It’s good to hear your voice,” said Richard.
Martin grinned as he put the receiver back in its cradle. He expected the girl to be scared off by the ladies. He expected her to be run out on a rail.
JESSAMINE BOHANNON
The revival sounded like a dance party. The lights in the church blazed while the band, two drummers, three trumpet players, and an electric guitar wizard made everybody crazy to dance. Stelle and I stood shoulder to shoulder near the back. She swayed and erupted with a sharp “Jesus!” every time the drummer clapped his copper cymbals. I snapped my fingers, saving my breath for a faster number. Down front, Gert rocked on her knees.
I kept my eyes open for Ann Reynolds. Stelle had said in the car on the ride over, “Ann Reynolds is on the verge of forgiveness.” She said Ann Reynolds was a proud woman, and admitting your husband had taken up with someone younger was not something to tell the world if you are a proud woman. The longer Stelle talked in her musical voice, which made words like adultery and fornication sound melodious and pretty, the better I felt.
Gert was the first one to the altar. Flinging her arms in the air, her prim hair tossed free, she twisted, a spinning flower. The bright shine in her eyes lit on something heavenly and not on us.
The last chord hung in the air when free-flowing syllables poured out of a woman’s mouth. I did not understand a single sound. But I believed the emotion they came from was honest because I had the warmest feeling inside. The woman stopped in mid-cluck. Reverend Peterson appeared at the front of the church. He seemed as fragile as a child with a terminal illness. Not a soul sat down during his long ascent to the lectern. Reverend Peterson interpreted the woman’s message in a speech as inspiring as the incomprehensible language of God.
The band started up again, really rollicking this time. I bopped and twisted and yelled “Jesus! Sweet Jesus!” with Stelle. Then, drawn by the driving beat, I danced down the aisle, swishing my hips back and forth and stamping my feet on the thick red carpet. I stopped in front of a layman who was shaking with the music himself. We shook and shuddered, the two of us. Stelle and her friends from the choir surrounded me and began to pray in loud voices. Gert held my hand. Then I sort of lost my mind. My tongue got thick and stuck in my mouth while I tried to say something, even though I didn’t know what words they were. Someone pushed me into the pool beside the altar.
After the third time I was dunked, I realized I was being baptized while everyone else danced with joy. They blurred into a writhing mass of colors in my water-filled eyes. I heard hard, clear sounds coming from the preacher’s mouth, as he told what God had said through me.
God had spoken through me! I had received the Holy Ghost. I was washed clean and I could see that Heather was an angel child, a gift from God, not an embarrassment or a lie. Around me was light. The faces were fuzzy, at the edges of my vision, but there was still song, quieter now, almost hushed.
In a daze, I walked with Stelle up the aisle to the door, two words running through my head: loving tongue. Outside, the congregation gathered in the parking lot, waiting for Reverend Peterson to switch on the lights of the cross. It wasn’t night yet; the mild blue of evening darkened the edges of the sky. I sensed people watching me but it felt nice, not nasty. I was relieved Ann and Richard weren’t there.
The lights came on and the cross looked like a crooked smile, one missing teeth. All over, lights were out. A gasp rose from the crowd.
“This is what the heathen have done,” said Reverend Peterson. “They have tried to blot out our light. We must be vigilant and root out all forms of evil in our midst. We must reclaim the way.”
Stelle slowly drew me to the back of the crowd. “He’s going to ask for volunteers to sweep up the glass and replace the bulbs. He said he discovered the damage the day of the cloudburst.”
I liked the warmth of Stelle’s arm on my shoulder through my wet clothes. I was still a little deliriou
s.
“I am so pleased for you,” Stelle said, as we walked to the Cadillac. “I’ll get Martin to give you a date to join the church.”
I started. Join the church? This new life was happening so fast. I slid into the passenger seat as Stelle opened her own door.
“You’ll want to bring your mother to that service, of course.” Stelle started the car. “Do you recall what the Lord said to you?”
“All I can remember is loving tongue.”
“That’s what I thought you were saying. Once you get on the wavelength, it happens all the time. Soon your whole life is telling people what God says. I prefer singing.” Stelle opened her purse and took out a purple scarf and tied it around her head. “I have to tell you something that’s not for sharing with anyone.”
“Okay.” My voice had changed register and was pleasant and smooth.
“I tape myself at rehearsal so I can practice on the way home. I have a slow memory for notes and my tone is really not good. Nobody knows how much time I spend on my tone, and I am embarrassed to say anything to anyone about it, but I had to tell you because I have to practice all the way home on account of the Ladies Circle meeting tomorrow, and they often ask me to sing a song I don’t know, and it must be perfect. I have to sing at least two hours a day away from rehearsal to keep my tone right.” They were driving a bit erratically now, as Stelle appeared nervous about losing time.
“Oh, please,” I said. “I would love to hear you sing.”
Stelle wore the scarf to hide the earphones plugged into the Tape of Perfect Pitch. If her pitch wasn’t already good, her staggered singing might have been irritating. I shut my eyes and listened while tickly bubbles rushed through my veins. My life was new. God had forgiven me.
Stelle rolled down the windows. She hit high A.
We barreled into the truck-stop parking lot, the car skidding to a stop, spraying both Sheriff Dodd and his patrol car with a wave of gravel. Stelle quickly unhooked her earphones and drew her scarf back over her ears. “Hello, Sheriff Dodd. We’re having a revival. Would you like to come?”