A Place Called Wiregrass

by Michael Morris

  While me and Gerald sat above the arena in the stadium seats, cheering Donnie on during the barrel races, Cher walked alongside the horse trailers. She would talk to the owners and admire the horses tied to the side of the trailers. The trailers were directly opposite the stadium seats, and if she disappeared for more than thirty minutes, I’d stand up until I spotted her over the trailer tops. “You’re as bad as an old mother hen,” Gerald would tease me.

  For acting so low-key the rest of the time, Donnie sure got worked into a frenzy during the pole-bending event. He’d stick his skinny butt up in the saddle and lean over his horse, guiding the animal around each pole. “Yip yip yip yip,” he’d yell when circling the last one. I guessed that yelling explained why he had the logo airbrushed on the side of his trailer.

  After every event, we would walk around the arena to the red horse trailer with a black Tasmanian devil painted on the side. The word Donnie was stenciled above the wild figure. Each Saturday evening Donnie would circle around us carrying a fresh horse blanket and getting ready for the next event. Cher took her usual place at the head of Paintbrush and was pulling his mane out from under the halter strap.

  “You made good time out yonder,” Gerald said, never noticing Cher feeding the horse a carrot stick she had hidden in her overall pocket. Donnie was busy putting the fresh blanket on Paintbrush’s back when he saw Cher. “Are you stupid?” He snatched the carrot from Cher’s hand and tossed it to the ground. “He’ll colic if you feed him when he’s hot,” Donnie yelled. The horse raised his ears and lifted his brown head, still chewing the few bits of his forbidden treat.

  Cher took two steps backwards and rubbed the sweetness of the carrot on her overalls. “Sorry. I just…”

  My tongue was weary from being bitten at Miss Claudia’s, and I was not about to bite it someplace I was not getting paid for. I moved closer to Cher.

  “Ain’t no need to get your panties in a wad,” Gerald stepped forward and clamped his wide palm on Donnie’s bony shoulder. “She’s just learning about horses. Ain’t you, Cher?”

  I saw Gerald’s fingers squeeze in around the skin that protected Donnie’s shoulder blade. Donnie gasped and managed to spit out, “Sorry,” before Gerald released the bone.

  Gerald hadn’t yet turned on his blinker to the Westgate Trailer Park entrance when he turned to look at me. “How about y’all come go to church with me in the morning?”

  I could feel Cher’s brown eyes fixated on me, wondering what my response would be. My foot nervously tapped on the floorboard. A man like Gerald, with his own prayer chain, probably thought all good women went to church. His first wife even went to Wednesday night prayer meetings too. I looked over at Cher.

  “That sounds real nice.” Cher wrinkled her brow and cut her eyes away. By my sweet tone Gerald must’ve thought I was the best peanut-brittle maker on Homecoming Sunday.

  Nestled among a dozen oak trees and a patch of pines, Wiregrass Community Church looked inviting with its whitewashed block structure and small gold cross on the steeple. “The moss on those trees looks like earrings hanging down,” Cher said when we climbed out of Gerald’s truck. I had no time to notice such decorations. I was too busy pulling at my trusty white dress with big black flowers. All I needed was my slip hanging out the first time I met Gerald’s church members.

  “Feller, how in the world are you?” asked a little man with red whisks of hair on his freckled head.

  “A. J. Ferguson,” Gerald introduced the man while we stood on the green indoor-outdoor carpeted church steps. Three other men stood off to the side, puffing on their between-Sunday-school-and-church cigarettes.

  A robust woman with loose brown curls stepped from behind two white doors. Behind her I could hear the faint strains of piano music. She was at least sixty, and I thought it kinda funny how her long curls bounced and her dark eyes sparkled. Her head looked like somebody had cut out a picture of Shirley Temple and pasted it on a worn-out, lumpy body. “Oh, we got visitors,” she said and handed me a bulletin. Gerald introduced her as Brownie, A.J.’s wife.

  Before Gerald could introduce Cher, I seized the opportunity. “And this is my granddaughter, Cher Jacobs.” I accented Jacobs the way a cheerleader would the word touchdown at a football game. The church house offered the perfect opportunity to remind Cher that she was truly a Jacobs by law and the last name LaRouche was filthy.

  Later over a plate of Colonel Sander’s original recipe I would learn Brownie’s real name was Gladys. But ever since she was a kid, people called her Brownie on account of how bright her brown hair was. An identification marker that I imagined required a regular supply of Miss Clairol. Gerald knew all these details from his parents, charter members of the church, who now slept alongside Leslie in the cemetery behind the white-steeple church. I was grateful I couldn’t eye the gray and white tombstones from the church parking lot and never strained my neck too far for fear of catching a glimpse of Gerald’s first wife’s resting place.

  Lee Avery couldn’t have been more than thirty. Certainly he was younger than any preacher I’d ever had contact with. Then again, other than the occasional funeral or wedding, that was not often. He stood in the church aisle next to Gerald’s self-assigned fourth pew. The young man made me feel sorry for him by the way he nervously juggled his big black Bible from one hand to the other. Gerald introduced us, and I tried to smile real big at him, hoping to give him a little encouragement.

  Lee had a pasty-colored face and a pointy nose that reminded me of a hawk’s beak. He was nothing compared to that good-looking man of God who visited Miss Claudia. What remaining black hair Lee had on the top of his head spread out in thin pieces to form the shape of a black spider.

  I sat there that Sunday morning speaking to the members of the congregation who wanted to meet Gerald’s lady friend, as one old man called me, and I thought of Aunt Stella. She would’ve liked this church. But then again I guess Aunt Stella liked any church. Not even Mama was surprised when her older sister called that summer day and invited me to Vacation Bible School. Daddy had just left town for good, and if it hadn’t been for the nursery that cared for my younger siblings, I could not have gone.

  “All that church does is build up air castles,” Mama said while I cleaned out her black lunch pail. “You gonna go there and get religion and then walk right out the door and get bit by the real world. You best learn to depend on yourself.”

  But as usual, I ignored Mama. Every morning that July week of Bible School, after Mama left for work, I’d get my brothers and sisters cleaned and dressed. “Y’all smell so nice and clean,” Aunt Stella would say as I directed the fruits of my works into the white station wagon with the missing hubcap. During the drive to church, I liked to count how many times Aunt Stella would say things that were opposite to Mama’s sour ways. How she would giggle at my youngest brother’s questions in contrast to Mama’s snappy responses. Or how on the ride home when my sister Lurleen would spill some of the Kool-Aid dispensed by the church ladies, Aunt Stella would casually reach back and hand me an ever ready napkin to dry up the red liquid. If Mama would’ve had a car that nice, she would’ve put a knot on Lurleen’s head and one on mine too for letting the accident happen.

  But Mama was not there in that hot, sticky car. The white station wagon was our oasis. While we sweated against the black plastic car seat and memorized Bible verses, Mama sweated over an industrial-strength Singer sewing machine. Years later when I went to work alongside Mama at the Haggar factory, I came to terms with why she was so jealous of Aunt Stella. Having a husband killed in Korea and no children were only minor inconveniences compared to raising seven children after a husband goes AWOL from his family duties.

  The steps leading up the pulpit at Wiregrass Community Church were fancier than the steps in Aunt Stella’s church. Her church steps were simple wooden ones. I know because I felt the stickiness of fresh varnish on them when I rested my elbows on them and joined the church.

  All I knew
that day was Brenda Singleton said her mama told her before she left home that she wanted Brenda to join the church the last day of Vacation Bible School. My mama had only opened her black lunch pail that morning and asked, “Is this tuna or chicken salad?” before heading out the torn screen door.

  Brenda had long slipped away from me and was in the embrace of the flat-nosed preacher. He kept dabbing his red forehead and nodding for Brenda’s mother to play another stanza of “Just As I Am” on the piano while more kids migrated towards the steps. During the second repeat of the third verse I looked around in horror to find myself with my brothers and sisters and other children too young to make such decisions. The only other kid my age left in a pew was Bubba McAllister, the biggest and most hateful boy in school. The next thing I remember, I was face down on the sticky varnished steps leading up to the pulpit, joining Antioch Missionary Church.

  “I’m just tickled pink,” Aunt Stella said and nuzzled me into the softness of her bosom and underarm. “Your mama’s next. Change is a-coming.”

  I’m just grateful that Aunt Stella thought gambling was a sin and never put any money on her prediction. Mama moaned and bellyached about going to my baptism two Sundays later. But after I had washed and dressed all the kids, she ran out of excuses. Little did she know her bickering only reinforced what Aunt Stella had told me about the devil having Mama by the tail. My brothers and sisters sat patiently in a line on the couch arms and cushions. I promised them all a candy bar if they acted nice. “I got no time to take part in your foolishness, girl,” Mama yelled from the bathroom. I could hear the whips of the brush running through her coarse-cropped hair.

  The horn from Aunt Stella’s station wagon blared just as I was zipping up Mama’s cotton shift. Like a herd of cows expecting feed from the automobile, the kids ran out the door and took their usual places inside the backseat compartment. I gave up my regular spot in the front for Mama and said a silent prayer for her best behavior.

  “This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it,” Aunt Stella announced before Mama could close the car door.

  “I’ll rejoice,” Mama said, slamming the door, “whenever you get this thing moving and get some wind circulating. I’m ’bout to burn slam up.”

  The Pearl River was nothing new for me. Before Daddy left, while I could still be a kid, I went to the river all the time. I loved riding the tire swing and falling carelessly into the oil-colored water. It did feel weird walking into the same water that I used to play in, dressed in my only good clothes. When the cool water splashed against the hem of my cotton dress, I half expected to hear Mama revolt. “Don’t take one more step and mess up that dress.” But all I heard were the choir members humming “Shall We Gather at the River,” while the big-faced preacher, who’s name has been long lost, declared my membership into his church.

  The dunk was fast and furious. It only hurt when he pinched my nose, but was over as quick as a shot of penicillin. Aunt Stella stood by the bank to greet me with her beach towel. A white one with brown letters spelling out the word Coppertone. While I hit my head to get water out of my ears, I couldn’t hear all the amens, but I could see everyone mouth the word. Everyone but Mama. She looked away in the distance towards the tree-covered riverbank. After the pastor presented me with the little white Bible with my name spelled out in gold letters on the bottom, I was hopeful. I cradled the good book in both hands and lifted it in Mama’s direction. She casually shooed me away as if I was a pestering housefly and returned to her steady gaze.

  Two Sunday mornings later, when I returned to my Sunday school class to retrieve that white Bible, which I had mistakenly left behind, I realized how I ranked in the church family. Mrs. Penny Jackson, my Sunday school teacher, was talking to the preacher about children who needed second-hand clothes for the upcoming school year. My last name rang out like someone had shouted, “Freeze.” Leaning against the classroom door frame, I could see the white spike pumps and the baby blue edges of Mrs. Jackson’s crinoline skirt. Her voice sounded so twangy. “Yes, my goodness. That poor little Collins girl. Definitely. Might as well add the whole family for that matter.”

  “What’s her first name again?” the pastor asked.

  “Erma Lee. Every time I see her in that dingy dress, I feel so sorry for her I just don’t know what to do. Poor little thing. Her mama’s just a pure heathen to boot.”

  “We’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Aunt Stella said after the church service. She found me in the parking lot sitting in her station wagon. My brothers and sisters leaned on the open window and overflowed behind her green skirt. “I got a stomachache.” I unglued the sweat-matted hair from my forehead and leaned back against the sticky car seat. “I just didn’t feel like going to church today.”

  I continued to claim a stomachache every Sunday morning until I had done what Mama thought was impossible. I wore my sweet Aunt Stella down. Silly as it may be, I still stood out on the front porch every Sunday morning at nine-fifteen, half expecting and half dreading to see that black spot from her missing hubcap rounding the corner of our rooted-out driveway.

  The nudging of Gerald’s elbow delivered my thoughts back to Wiregrass Community Church. “Yonder’s Marcie,” he said, pointing to his firstborn with the cleft of his chin. She was standing at the front of the church talking with the pianist, a thin woman with bright red hair twisted in a loose bun. Soon a pudgy girl with short wiry hair joined them at the piano bench. Marcie put her knee on the bench and placed her hand on her hip. She was leaning over, animated by the group topic. Her back was to us, so she missed Gerald’s wave. But the pudgy girl saw him, and soon the others turned to face us.

  “There’s Marcie,” Gerald kept repeating as if he was seeing Miss America in his place of worship. In an attempt to satisfy whatever it was that made him keep calling her, I finally lifted my hand and waved. The energy it took to lift my hand could have been saved. Marcie’s mouth cracked a little, and her green eyes widened. Only the pudgy, wiry-headed girl waved and smiled. The type of uneasy smile that told me she expected somebody to jump out any minute and say she was on Candid Camera.

  Marcie never did join us in Gerald’s pew, choosing instead to sit in the front row with her husband, Chase. After the offering, she took to the stage for children’s moments and invited all the little ones down to the front. Marcie held the mike and tossed her long blonde hair behind her shoulder so often that I almost got tickled. It was like she was in some sort of beauty pageant with her legs glued together and her left shoe pointing out towards the congregation. Her right white pump was properly placed behind it. When she began telling a story about trust, I sort of felt sorry for this young lady who was queen of this country church. Could I blame her for disliking me? Here I was the lady friend, sitting in the same pew her mother had, probably the night she was killed by the drunk driver.

  Lee stood behind the pulpit, and his voice cracked with the frailty of an embarrassed altar boy. But any pity I had for the spider-haired man was soon lost. With each second he gained more momentum, and soon I watched as he confidently walked away from the podium. Finally he stopped long enough to sit on a yellow padded stool, as sure of himself as any nightclub singer.

  “Somebody once told me praying to my Savior is a sign of weakness. Well, Mr. Gentleman, let me tell you right now, I am weak. I sin. Yes, ma’am, I do. Every day. I fail Jesus time and time again. But are you ready for this? Listen to me now. Jesus has never failed me.”

  “Amen,” an older man yelled from the congregation. Before I could tap Cher on the leg to stop her from staring at the man, she had already turned back to face Lee.

  “Jesus loved me before I loved myself. I told y’all before that I’m a nothing. Who would ever have thought Jesus would have called a something like me to preach his Word. I’ve done it all, lived it all, and lost it all. I’ve been so low that I stole money from my grandma’s social security check to buy crack. But praise God, when I was sitting in ja
il after robbing a liquor store on a winter night, my grandma didn’t give up on me. She came to visit me, and I’ll never forget it. Her eyes near ’bout drowning in tears, she begged me to lean on Jesus.”

  “Preach it,” Brownie yelled from the pew behind me.

  “She said that she had prayed for me to reach rock bottom. She sure did. My own grandma prayed for me to be in jail. And then she told me why. Because when you’re lower than a snake’s belly and you’re lying there looking at the mud, all of a sudden you can look up and realize that the Lord is your Everything. Surgery on sin’s cataracts, she called it.” Lee’s chuckles made everyone else follow along.

  Once the chuckles died to a few coughs, Lee suddenly fell, stomach first, on the stool’s yellow padding. A few members gasped and leaned forward, probably thinking that he had a heart attack from all his excitement. Lying face down with wisps of his black hair dangling from his pale scalp, he held his microphone close to his mouth. “Jesus tells us in Matthew to take his yoke and to learn from him. For Jesus is gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. To rest. That’s what Jesus wants to give us. He wants us to rest on Him, to lean on Him. And friends, Jesus will carry our burdens. He’s the eternal stool we can all lean on. He’s not saying you will be burden free. But Jesus does promise us a love and peace that passes our human understanding.”

  Cher was leaning forward, hands on her chin, with her elbows propped on the pew ahead of us.

  “People, that’s why I’m here today and not in the graveyard somewhere. I leaned on Jesus. I turned my soul to Him and asked Him to take over as leader of my life. Getting off that crack had nothing to do with religion. It had everything to do with me leaning on the everlasting Lord. Not religion, but a relationship. Not religion, but a servantship. Not religion, but a friendship.”