“We’re a small but close-knit congregation.”
“Baptists?” Opal asked.
“No.”
“Lutheran, then?”
“No. We’re what you might call…seekers. The Johnsons were Catholic and the Quick family were Methodists, once upon a time.”
“And now?”
“Just like the Bible says, Genesis 37:15: ‘Behold he was wandering in the field—’”
“Just like me…”
“‘and the man asked him, sayin’, What seekest thou? And he said, I seek my brethren.’ They’ve all come to us because they were disillusioned, either with their faith or their way of life. Lookin’ for others like them, lookin’ for something more.”
“Seekin’ the truth.”
“Exactly, Mrs. Decatur.”
“Opal. I prefer Opal, if you don’t mind.”
“Now, Opal, why would I mind you treatin’ me like a friend?”
He guided her to one of the pews and she expected to feel the roughness catch her skirt as she slid across the seat. But instead it was smooth, worn from years of use. Reverend Hempel walked across the wooden floor to the front of the room, climbed the single step, and reached behind a worn tapestry to flick a light switch.
The room was suddenly awash with the most comforting glow Opal could remember ever experiencing.
“There now, that’s better,” Reverend Hempel said. “Now you can get a real good look at our little church.”
As he walked back toward her, she was able to see—really see—a crudely carved cross hanging in front of the tapestry. The contrast of reds in the fabric against deep mahogany made her feel calm. As she took in the entire room, there seemed to be enough space to seat maybe fifty people at the most. The windows, four along each wall, had been painted over with some sort of yellow glaze. The whole place felt holy. She wondered if she was having one of those epiphanies like Bobby Jo Winkelbauer was always talking about every time Opal went into the Kroger.
“It’s glorious” was all she could say.
Reverend Hempel slid across the pew in front of her and stopped when he was positioned to her left. Then he turned around, rested his right arm across the top of the wooden bench, and put his feet up. “So you feel it, then?”
Suddenly Opal wanted to pour her heart out to this man. “If you’re talkin’ about the Holy Spirit, then I truly do. I felt Him while I was sittin’ in my car and I’m sure He guided me up those steps and—”
“Right into the House of Deliverance.”
Opal nodded so vigorously her glasses almost shook right off her face.
“So,” the reverend began, “tell me, Sister Opal, what are you seekin’?”
That was all she needed. Someone to ask and be prepared to listen to her. And everything came tumbling out. She told him about her sweet, beautiful, smart Brenda and how that fuck—only she didn’t actually say the F-word—Tim Bridgeman had ruined her sweetness. She cried when she got to the part about how crazy it was making her, but when he asked how her husband, Brenda’s daddy, was handling everything, well, she got mad. Real mad.
“He acts as though nothin’s happened. Like Brenda was askin’ for it or somethin’. Are all men like that, Reverend? Because I pray God they ain’t.”
He nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry to say, it’s been my experience most men react with anger. I try to counsel ’em, point out how all that rage just hurts their family even more.”
“Well, it sure ain’t that way with women. Every single one of my girlfriends want to go after Tim Bridgeman an’ cut off that prick of his—pardon my French. But it’s the God’s honest truth, Reverend. I can’t live with all this bitterness churnin’ through my insides an’ I can’t live with my husband who won’t hear me. He plain don’t care.”
“Now, I’m sure that’s not true. He’s just tryin’ to be strong for you an’ his daughter. You know, the reason men get so angry is because they think it’s their job to protect their women. Mr. Decatur probably feels he let you all down.”
Opal considered the idea and then dismissed it. “No, sorry, Reverend, you just don’t know Butch.”
“Well, that can be fixed. How about you two come back for Sunday services an’ we’ll all have a talk after the sermon. When everyone’s gone home. Private. How does that sound?”
“Real good.”
“What’s wrong with our church? We belonged to Good Shepherd since before Mama died. I like it there. We know everyone. I feel comfortable—”
“You say hi to maybe four people, grumble, sit in your seat, an’ fall asleep during the sermon. Every single one of ’em. You been doin’ it for years, Butch.”
“An’ I like it that way. The Lord an’ me, we got a deal, I give him an hour on Sunday and he keeps the devil away from me the rest of the week.”
“Well, He sure did a piss-poor job of keeping the Bridgeman kid away—”
“Hey!” He pounded his fist on the table. The ketchup bottle tipped over and dropped to the floor. “I don’t never wanna hear you talk about the Almighty with such disrespect again. Understand?”
“Sorry. But how can you sit there, actin’ like everything’s fine with the world. ’Cause it ain’t, you know?”
“Don’t you never let up, Opal? I’m sick an’ tired to death of this. You got one song an’ sing it mornin’, noon, an’ night.”
“Come to the House of Deliverance with me, Butch. Meet Reverend Hempel. You’ll see. It’s different there.”
He stopped chewing his dinner. “An’ that will get you off my back?”
She nodded.
He gulped down the last of his sweet tea. “All right, you win. But just this one time.”
Sunday finally came. Opal had told Brenda all about the church and Reverend Hempel, going on and on about how the Spirit had touched her in that little wooden house surrounded by sunflowers. How maybe if Brenda came with them, she’d feel it, too. But no amount of talking could persuade her daughter. Maybe next time.
She rushed to the bathroom, where the light was better, making sure her makeup was just right for the second time in ten minutes. The Mary Kay lady had shown her how to apply Bewitching Bisque foundation, but she could never get it to look like it had the day she purchased the products now stashed under the sink.
Butch came around the corner dragging his feet. He heaved a long sigh. “Let’s go. The sooner we get outta here, the sooner we can come back.”
Opal stopped what she was doing; after twenty-four years of marriage, she knew enough not to leave the house without looking her fashion reject of a husband over—real good. From his John Deere cap down to that Kmart plaid shirt he insisted was his favorite color, to his grass-stained boots, Butch wasn’t fit to be seen.
“You’re not wearin’ those clothes. I laid out your gray suit on the bed. Go put it on.”
He stood there, all dumb and disgusted like an overgrown ten-year-old. “Do I hafta?”
“Wasn’t it you who got all mad at the thought that I might be disrespectin’ the Lord? Well, how do you think He’s gonna feel if you walk into His house without givin’ one tiny thought to your appearance? Cleanliness is next to godliness, Butch. You standin’ there, lookin’ like that, puts you next to a garbage man, not our Heavenly Father.”
He didn’t have an argument for that one. Slowly, grumbling as he went, he returned to the bedroom and put on his suit.
The church seemed even smaller than she remembered. But then there were sixty-one people crammed inside—Opal had counted. The windows were open and a cool breeze brought in the fragrance of wildflowers as Reverend Hempel preached his sermon. Several times she looked over at Butch, just to make sure he was still awake, and each time was surprised to see his eyes not only were opened but actually focused. And she couldn’t help wondering, as she followed along with the hymn, if she was witnessing a miracle.
After he finished, Reverend Hempel turned the floor over to some woman named Alma Monroe. This was usually the place
where Opal expected to hear an announcement of a prayer meeting or bake sale. At least that’s the way it was done where she came from. But instead, the elderly woman just stood there. Gathering her thoughts? Opal wondered. But after two minutes passed, there was no witnessing, no speaking in tongues, just this woman in her very pink floral dress (with matching hat) standing there, smiling peacefully.
The longer it went on, the more uncomfortable Opal got. “What do you suppose is goin’ on here?” she whispered to Butch. When he didn’t answer she nudged him in the ribs.
He shushed her. Just like he did when he was all involved watching one of his football or baseball games.
She couldn’t believe it.
Trying not to turn her head too much—heaven forbid she appear rude—Opal pretended she was checking the shoulder of her dress for lint. This maneuver enabled her to catch glimpses of most of the people near her out of the corners of her eyes. They, like Butch, sat mesmerized.
Opal was confused. Hurt. A little angry. What the hell was she missing?
The silence hummed in her ears. No one moved. Not the baby in her little seat propped up next to her mother, not the teenager who had been trying to get the attention of a brunette across the aisle. No coughing, no shuffling of feet. It was downright creepy, that’s what it was.
Then the woman smiled. A big grin that made everyone respond with a smile of their own. Butch sat there, happier than she’d ever seen him in…never! She’d never seen him like that. Opal joined in, not knowing why but wanting to feel what everyone else was feeling. Needing desperately to feel something.
Reverend Hempel stood beside the woman the whole time. He was smiling now, too. A few more minutes passed, and then at last—at long last—he put his arm around her and bowed his head. She followed his lead. The congregation took their cue from her, and a prayer, like thousands of others Opal had heard or recited, was offered up.
There was no collection plate passed around. No woeful tales about the church needing this or that and how everyone had to dig deep and help. It was all about feelings.
At first Opal worried she didn’t have any. That maybe she wasn’t this caring, kind person she’d always told people she was. Especially when Butch wouldn’t stop talking on the drive home.
“I ain’t never experienced nothin’ like that. I felt it, Opal. Right down to my sorry soul. I felt the Spirit in that church, just like you said. Hey, wanna go to the Waffle House?”
“What about your game?” she asked.
“Everythin’s different now.” He took his right hand off the steering wheel and squeezed her knee. “Everythin’.”
Butch had meant what he said. Everything was different from that day forward. He was kinder, sweeter, more thoughtful about Opal’s feelings. He hardly ever watched TV; all his spare time was now spent at the House of Deliverance, talking to Reverend Hempel privately or sitting in on Bible groups. He couldn’t get enough.
At first Opal was thrilled. She’d have dinner waiting for him after work—they actually ate together now!—he’d help her clean up, and they’d drive down to the House of Deliverance together. Oh, she never told him she hadn’t felt what he had that first Sunday. Why would she? He had never been happier.
Or more talkative.
“It’s not like that bein’-born-again crap,” he told her. Again and again. “It’s like the Lord is swirlin’ around inside me. Liquid gold, lightin’ up every part of me. Warm. Peaceful. Hell, you know what I mean. I don’t hafta tell you, do I?”
She’d shake her head every time he asked. “You sure don’t.”
After a month or so of going to that place every single night, Opal asked why they couldn’t just go on Sundays. When he made a face, she added, “And maybe Wednesdays for Bible study? Isn’t two nights a week enough?”
The old Butch would have told her he was the boss. He was the one who went to work every day. He was the one who paid the bills. All she had to do was obey him and she was doin’ a piss-poor job of it. Instead he told her, “What ever you feel is right for you, sweetheart. Go with your heart an’ you can’t go wrong.”
Who was this man? How could there be such a complete change in such a short time?
“But if you don’t mind, I’ll probably go visit with Reverend Hempel by myself sometimes. Or we could have him over here to supper now an’ then.”
Ah, there he was. She was relieved to see Butch was still in there, that he hadn’t been possessed or turned into some kind of robot like the women in those Stepford movies. Still getting his way, only now he was taking a more Christian route.
She replied in kind. “What ever makes you happy, darlin’.”
The next Sunday she invited Reverend Hempel to come for supper on Thursday night. Butch had “suggested” she do it three times during the preceding week. “Could you make that meat loaf of yours? An’ a cherry pie for dessert?”
When the reverend shook her hand after services, he accepted her invitation gladly. “Nothing I like better than to visit with my flock in their homes. It makes me feel like family.”
When Thursday came she had set the alarm to get up earlier than usual. It would take all morning to clean, find and then wash the good dishes, buy groceries, and vacuum. The afternoon was spent making that damn pie Butch was so set on, throwing a meat loaf together, ironing her blue dress, and fixing her hair. She had just finished making the iced tea when Butch drove up with Reverend Hempel.
Dinner went well. Compliments flew; Opal was happy that all her efforts had been appreciated. While she cleared the table, the menfolk strolled into the living room and patiently waited for her to make coffee. As she scooped up vanilla ice cream and plopped it on top of the warm pie, she felt ashamed of herself. Well, just a little bit. Looking around the corner, she caught a glimpse of the reverend and his kind face. Why had she felt so threatened? she wondered. She peeked over at Butch, who sat smiling, softly conversing, and she thought what an ungrateful woman she was. Here she had what every woman in America wanted—or so she’d been told in thousands of articles and Oprah shows. Here she had a man who loved her. Who cared about her. Who always came home to her every night after work, except when he was at church. Church. How in the hell could a person be jealous of God? Maybe the devil was getting ahold of her soul. Maybe she had better start trying to change, like Butch had.
She loaded the silver tray saved for special occasions and holidays, and proudly carried it into the living room.
“And so, Butch, that’s why—” Reverend Hempel stopped short when he saw Opal. She thought she would drop everything from the abruptness.
Guilty. That’s how they looked at her.
Butch jumped up as if he’d been caught doing something nasty. “Here, let me help you with that.”
All she could say was “Thank you.”
Something was different. She’d suddenly gone from being the gracious hostess, wife of Butch, to the intruder. The outsider. She resented feeling unwelcome in her own home.
They ate the pie, drank coffee, but within ten minutes of taking the last bite, Reverend Hempel looked at his watch and said, “Opal, this has been a truly delightful evenin’, but I’m afraid I have an unfinished sermon layin’ on my desk back home. Butch, could I impose upon you one last time to drive me back?”
Butch jumped up like he’d been sitting on a spring. “No trouble. My pleasure.” He kissed Opal on the cheek and the two of them were out the door before she could even stand up to say a proper good-bye.
After the car had pulled out of the driveway, all she could do was shake her head. “Now what was that all ’bout?” she asked herself.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell gonna find out,” she answered.
It took about two weeks. But when Butch came home from church especially late one night, Opal knew the time was as right as it would ever get.
“Okay. What’s goin’ on? Between you an’ the reverend, I mean. Whisperin’ that way when he come for dinner. You got sec
rets you’re keepin’ from me, Butch, an’ I don’t like it. Not one bit.” She stood with her hands on her hips, strong. “Just look at yourself. Always in such a damn hurry to get down to the House of Deliverance that you run straight from work. No time to change into clean clothes. What kinda respect are you showin’ the Lord by enterin’ His house lookin’ like a bum anyway? None of it makes any sense.”
He’d barely managed to get through the door. Tossing his jacket in the corner, he slumped down into his chair. “Are you talkin’ about sex here? Is that what’s goin’ round in your crazy head, Opal?”
“Don’t be stupid, Butch! I noticed somethin’ fishy goin’ on that night the reverend come for dinner. It’s that church. It’s done somethin’ to you and I don’t like it. Not one bit.”
He cocked his head. “I ask you to come every time I go—”
“Listen to me now. I am referrin’ to that dinner weeks ago. I walked in an’ you clammed up soon as you seen me. It was downright weird. Like you two had some big secret.”
“We was talkin’ about seekers. You know how he goes on.”
“No, he never talked to me in whispers like he done you. So…are you gonna tell me or not? What did he say?”
“He told me somethin’ that stuck in my head, Opal. It was so powerful I couldn’t talk to no one about it.”
“Not even me, Butch? Hell, I’m your wife. Been for more than twenty years. You can tell me everything.”
Butch thought it over and then, suddenly, started to cry. All she could think to do was go to him, hold him, and tell him everything—whatever those things were—was all right.
“I’ve been so uncarin’ to you. To Brenda. My own daughter! I’m so ashamed, Opal. Reverend Hempel told me that in Isaiah, the Bible says: ‘Learn to do well; seek judgment, relieve the oppressed.’”
“I’m sure it does, darlin’.” She patted his shoulder and could feel his body shaking.
“I’ve turned my back on my beautiful Brenda when she needed me most. I didn’t relieve her of any pain and I didn’t even try to seek judgment by gettin’ that bastard Bridgeman hauled into jail for what he done to our baby.”
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