“Time for marshmallows!” Kids ran toward the table where Betsy manned the treats. Older teens with sticks stood by the fire, ready to cook or supervise as needed. Someone had organized this.
Ruth wondered if it had been Nate, or maybe Betsy.
After eating, Nate led Ruth to a lawn chair at the side of the house where she settled into the webbing, content to be alone with her thoughts. To the west, the sun drifted below the top of the pines. Night creatures began their symphony. An occasional frog croaked, its solo accompanied by the higher pitched crickets and the clicking of katydids. A bat squealed as it passed overhead. She closed her eyes and listened to the chorus as it melted with the sound of voices. A full stomach, a comfortable chair, and content to observe.
Nate moved through the groups, herding the adults toward the side of the house where lawn chairs and blankets waited in the newly mowed field.
“Need anything?” Nate asked as he circled back her way. “More iced tea or maybe a marshmallow?”
Ruth put a hand on her stomach. “I’m stuffed, thanks.” As Nate settled in the grass beside her, she relaxed and enjoyed his closeness. There would be so many stories to share with Mr. Charlie on Monday. And she could hear her mom’s excitement when she told her that she had gone out with someone, even if it was to a church picnic. As dusk deepened, she imagined what it would feel like to actually belong to this active, lively crowd.
Nate’s pastor, Greg Clark, walked toward them, his face drawn in concern. But his eyes held Ruth’s attention: soft eyes of an honest man. Nate had told her that Pastor Clark was raised in Haiti by missionary parents.
“Kind of discouraged by the turnout,” Pastor Clark said. “With most of Logan’s churches closed, I thought there would be more people here.”
“We still have a crowd, over a hundred, I’m guessing.” Nate glanced toward the fire. His shoulders were slumped. He was disappointed, too.
Greg Clark signaled to a couple of men to walk to the front of the crowd where someone had placed over-sized lawn chairs. As the ministers of Logan’s churches took their positions, the talk settled. The laughter of the children and the occasional crack of the fire seemed louder in the silence.
Against the side of the house, Ruth stayed in her chair with Nate beside her.
Faces among the adults tightened; smiles disappeared.
The mood Ruth had anticipated finally arrived.
A gust of wind sent a paper plate skittering across the yard.
Nate struggled to rise from the ground and gave chase, shoving the soiled plate into a trash bag. He walked along the table, closing a chip bag, covering dishes with tin foil or plastic wrap, and swatting flies.
Standing with the other pastors, Greg Clark cleared his throat. Muffled conversations quieted. “First off, thank you for the e-mails and phone calls over the past couple of weeks. As you know, I had the pleasure of being the only minister in Logan to spend time in our city jail for disorderly conduct. Not an experience I would recommend, by the way, even though our ‘city’s finest’ treated me with courtesy.” Pastor Clark gave a shaky laugh before his expression turned serious. “By now, all of you know we have been barred from our church buildings until we pay the tax for the first half of the year.”
Voices murmured. Lawn chairs creaked as bodies shifted.
Nate slumped to the ground beside Ruth, his gaze locked on the pastor.
“I take responsibility for the premature locking of First Street Church,” Pastor Clark said. “I made what was to be a respectful call on the mayor. Things got angry, and I took offense when perhaps I shouldn’t have. The bottom line, I threw the letter describing the tax on his desk and informed him that First Street Church would not pay one dollar until we had a chance to appeal the state’s decision.”
Scattered applause broke out.
Pastor Clark held up his hands. “Hold on. The mayor took my comment as lack of goodwill, and had the church locked.” He gazed toward the sky and then looked back at the faces staring his way. “My impulsivity cost us our church, and I apologize.”
“Greg,” the tall African American pastor beside him said, “we’re all in this together now. No need to apologize for defending your church. We can’t let the government control us like we’re rats in a cage.”
A murmur of assent came from a couple of the men.
Gravel crunched on the road as a sheriff’s cruiser slowed and moved on.
“What is the reason for the tax if I may ask?” The old woman’s first name was Hannah. Ruth couldn’t remember the last name, but Miss Hannah looked to be at least ninety. She sat on a chair in the middle of a blanket, surrounded by her elderly daughter and half a dozen younger kin.
“I can answer the question about the reason for the tax.”
Heads turned.
Stewart Gleason walked across the field toward the crowd.
Ruth beamed, but when he got closer, her chest tightened. Representative Gleason’s hair had grayed, and his distinguished character-wrinkles grew into chasms.
Nate jumped up and motioned toward a vacant chair, but Mr. Stewart remained standing in the back.
“To answer the lady’s question, the intent of the tax is good,” Stewart said. As angry voices began, he held up his hand. “I didn’t say I agreed with the law, just that the intent was good. I voted against it, but the bill was heavily promoted and gained acceptance quickly.” Senator Gleason leaned on the back of a vacant chair. “South Carolina’s been struggling with a slumping economy; we’ve cut critical services from the budget each year.”
Ruth had heard all of this before: during the car ride to Columbia and later in the office. But budgets were always problems. No matter how much money one had, one wanted more. She thought of Joe and his family, always buying a bigger boat, a newer car. Never satisfied.
“Logan took a huge blow with the closing of Wilson Lumber Mill. The tax money from the mill was equal to the salaries of our entire fire department. With that revenue gone, cuts were made in the city budget to offset the shortage. It hurts. It hurts all of us. I can’t blame the mayor for grabbing at a solution. I’ve met with the mayor, and the decision to tax churches came after considerable thought. The mayor knew there would be ramifications, but he hoped the churches would be able to find enough money within their congregations to meet the need.”
“Just how did he think we were gonna do that?” Gilbert Henderson asked.
He had been the subject of one of the letters Ruth had typed, but she couldn’t remember what it was about. So many documents passed by her, she rarely noticed specifics anymore. The hot dog churned in her stomach as the tension jumped.
“Some of us lost our jobs when the mill closed. We can hardly feed our families, let alone shove money into some bureaucrat’s pocket,” Gil Henderson continued, his arms stiff at his sides.
“I understand that; I really do. I wish I could say that’s why I voted against the bill, but it isn’t.”
“Share with them what you told me, Stewart.” Greg Clark’s voice remained steady. “Tell the folks what we discussed around my kitchen table a week ago.”
The crowd grew silent as they gave attention to the man elected to represent them.
“The tax will provide raises for teachers.” Mr. Gleason’s voice was soft. “We can provide more teachers per school, reducing the size of the classrooms from thirty-five to twenty. Streets will be repaired.”
“I about lost my car in the crater on Third Street,” someone said.
“No doubt, our roads need work,” Mr. Gleason said. “We can off-set the deficit from the loss of Wilson Lumber Mill and pay to get career advisors in here to help the folks who lost their jobs. I can go on, but you get the picture. The money is needed and can be used for good.”
“Then why did you vote against it?” a woman asked.
“Our tithes aren’t given to pave roads. We’re in the business of saving souls.” Mr. Gleason rubbed the back of his neck. “There is precious little
Godly influence in our world as it is. Shut down the churches and there’s nothing left.” He stared at the ground. “This is my worst nightmare.”
“Look,” an elderly male voice warbled, “just ‘cause the church building is closed doesn’t mean we can’t meet. We’ll gather in the yards. All our churches have grass, don’t they? Or parking lots? Shucks, that could be a great testimony to the town.”
“We can’t use the property, or any of the buildings on the property,” Pastor Clark said.
As one, faces rotated to the front. These people took their churches seriously, and they’d been robbed of something important.
“You mean we can’t use our gym? What about the kids’ basketball team I coach?”
“Basketball will have to be cancelled for now.”
The big man pinched the top of his nose. “But the gym isn’t the church.”
“But it’s on church property,” Pastor Clark said.
“The law has not been tested by the South Carolina Supreme Court,” Congressman Gleason said. “I plan to take the case forward as quickly as I can. Even so, it may be years before our appeal is heard.”
“So what do we do in the meantime?” The woman moved the infant to her shoulder. A pacifier fell to her lap and she handed it to the man beside her. “Do we stop going to church until this is settled?” Wistfulness colored the woman’s voice.
Ruth thought of the weekends she had spent alone while her mother worked at the nursing home to supplement the housecleaning wage. Time with her mom was a luxury, and she would not have wasted any of it sitting in church.
Nate waved his hand. “What if we all meet together for a while? No need for all the churches to make their own plans.”
“I’m not gonna go to some strange church,” Gilbert Henderson said.
“We can’t go to a church, Gilbert. That’s the point.” Miss Hannah’s tone admonished. Mothers must be the same everywhere. “We’re all Christians. We ought to be able to worship God together.”
Gilbert pushed out of the chair. “Well, I ain’t going to be mixin’ with strangers.” He jutted a chin toward his wife, who, staring at her toes, stood and followed him across the grass.
“Dan, Devin, get over here,” Gilbert yelled as he stomped toward the fire.
A boy and a girl ran toward Gilbert.
“I don’t want to go yet,” the boy said, his voice thin and whiney.
“I said we’re going.” Gilbert grabbed the boy’s arm and pulled him toward the car.
Tension stalled over the crowd like the smoke from the fire, as it floated to the lowest tree branches and remained. Glances were guarded as folks stared at the ground, at the trees, toward the children who ran and laughed, unaware of the discomfort that choked the life from the adults.
“We can meet here if you want,” Nate said. “There’s plenty of room outside. I don’t have much space in the house, but if the weather turns bad, we can make it work.”
“How about if we build a picnic shelter: something simple, just poles and a roof?” Adam said. “It would get us out of the sun and the rain. I can donate shingles if you aren’t fussy about the color.”
“What do you think?” Pastor Clark scanned the crowd that sat in growing darkness. “Do you want to meet here on Sunday? You’ll have to bring chairs and sunscreen.”
The lady passed the sleeping infant to the man beside her. “I’ll bring ice water and some paper cups.”
Screams came from the children in the distance. In the fading light it was hard to tell the cause of their terror.
Being the closest, Ruth saw and gasped.
Crows, perhaps a dozen of them, swooped over the children, flying, diving, and flying again. Beaks reflected gold in the light of the dying fire.
Ruth stood paralyzed.
Above their screams came the terrifying sound of thumping wings.
The small boy, Chip, stood as though mesmerized by the acrobatics around him.
Ruth sprinted toward the child. She threw her arms around his slight body and tucked his head under her chin.
Men batted the crows as women pulled hysterical children toward the safety of the cars.
“Thank you. Thank you,” Betsy said, her voice husky as she reached for her son. “I couldn’t get here fast enough.” The woman’s eyes misted as she grabbed her son and disappeared across the yard.
As quickly as the birds came, they returned to the darkness of the woods.
Soon Ruth stood alone in the yard, her heart still pumping wildly, abandoned bug jars blinking in the grass as families huddled in their cars. Nate’s voice came from a distance, but she wasn’t sure where he was. Mr. Charlie had told her, but she had laughed at him. In the side yard she stared at the overturned chairs and paper plates tossed from laps in haste. Her throat tightened.
This was the first time the crows had attacked people. None of the children were hurt. It seemed the intent was to frighten. Crows roosted when it grew dark. What made them fly around Nate’s yard?
Ruth wrapped her arms around herself and stared at the tree line.
Dark trunks and underbrush blurred together. Nothing moved.
Men gradually slid from their vehicles, wary eyes scanning the back of the house. Quickly, picnic supplies and chairs were gathered and stowed, and one after another, the families left.
“Want help to clean up before we go?” Chet’s voice broke the deafening silence.
Nate ran a hand over the top of his head. Had he been beside her all along? “What just happened here?” Wide eyes shadowed his tight mouth.
“I don’t know, buddy. Something isn’t right.”
“Take Betsy and Chip home,” Nate said.
“I’ll help clean up.” Ruth glanced toward the woods. But one crow, just one, and she would bolt.
9
Saturday, June 1
Ruth bounced out of bed early the next morning. Saturday was her favorite day—garage sale shopping! Her bad experience from a few weeks ago had faded, and she was eager for the hunt. Garage sales started early in Logan, some at 6:00 AM. There really wasn’t a need for her to be first to shop since most people passed on items she wanted, but still, she rushed to dress and gobbled a piece of toast.
She listened for the lock to click as she turned the key in the front door. She thought of the cellphone again, and the mace, but shrugged her shoulders. She would stay in town. The sun hadn’t breached the horizon, but tinges of orange and coral pushed to be born. She lifted her face to the dawn and allowed the moment to seep into her being: the twitter of birds awakening, the lingering hint of dew, and the air fresh from the night. A faint breeze brushed against her cheeks and tugged at the edges of her hair.
Every Friday she took the newspaper home from the office. She scanned the pages for garage sales within walking distance. Today’s hunt included finding parts for a suspended pot rack for the kitchen. The house had few cabinets, and she owned even fewer pots, but she needed a dangling rack to dry flowers and herbs.
Passing Jerry’s Diner, already open for the early breakfast crowd, Ruth’s step lightened. Her supper with Nate Bishop a week earlier, and then the picnic last night, in spite of the birds, had been amazing. She felt like Cinderella at the ball. Other than the beginning awkwardness, she had really enjoyed herself. Nate told her stories about his childhood in Logan. At one time, his grandfather had owned cows and hired Nate and Chet to clean the barn. One accidental toss of a pitchfork of wet manure led to another, and soon both boys were covered. When his grandfather came to check their progress, the boys were sent to the creek to bathe before they washed down the barn walls. Tears of laughter ran down her face as he told the story. Last night, she had anticipated a kiss, but he squeezed her hand instead. The warmth of his touch felt personal in a sensual way—a promise of more in time.
Ruth tucked her memories away to be pulled out again later. Over the next two hours, she snagged a rusty wheel from an old bike, a half-empty can of purple paint, and three yards of
red satin ribbon, all for less than a dollar.
Back home, she poured herself a glass of iced tea and headed to the front stoop. Closing her eyes and leaning her head against the door, she dreamed of a real porch and a house that didn’t belong to someone else.
Vehicles rumbled past, each motor distinct; voices drifted into a melody. Bass thumped from a car. Is this how life was for Mr. Charlie: all sound and vibrations?
Opening her eyes, she saw several large crows sitting in the yard, mostly gathered under the limbs of the large magnolia that shaded the front. The crows seemed different today, almost evil. Overall, she saw herself as brave, seldom a victim of fits of terror. When a bat got inside a house, she was the one the neighbors asked for help. She never saw ghosts, and had given up a night light before her second birthday. Things that went bang in the dark didn’t frighten her. But after last night…
Swallowing the last of the tea, she returned to the kitchen. Coins and a couple dollar bills left from garage sale shopping bulged in her pocket—enough money to buy toothpaste. Maybe Betsy Ross would be working at the drug store today. She chuckled, adding the woman’s unusual name to the list of things she planned to share with Mr. Charlie on Monday.
As she grabbed her purse, something tickled on her arm and she smacked at it. A small red ant fell onto the countertop. And there were more. A trail of tiny creatures marched single-file from the wall behind the cupboard to the spot where her purse had been sitting. She grimaced and dumped the contents of her purse onto the counter. Picking up an ant-covered roll of candy with two fingers, she threw the disgusting object into the yard before tackling the ants in the kitchen.
As she pounded the hard surface with the flat of her hand, the release of pent-up anger felt good. Her thoughts moved from ants to crows to Joe and his deception. The faster her mind worked, the harder her hands pounded until her muscles hurt and tears of frustration flowed down her cheeks.
If she could just avoid Joe—her hand pounded the ants—now known as Congressman Joseph Ackerman—she pounded again—maybe, just maybe—there was a chance to develop a relationship with Nate. Eventually she would need to tell Nate the truth about her relationship with Joe—her palm fell hard and the glass in the sink rattled against the porcelain—but not now.
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