Grace and the Preacher

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  His brown eyes remained fixed on her face. “All that you said? I already do.”

  She’d worried he would be defensive or irritated. She read nothing of either emotion in his earnest expression or gentle tone. Relief  flooded her frame. She unlinked her hands and placed them over her heart. “I’m so glad.”

  He leaned against the counter as if settling in for a long chat. “I tried not to take it from him, but he wouldn’t accept me sayin’ no. I wouldn’t have taken it at all if  I still had Granny Iva’s Bible.”

  “Who is Granny Iva?”

  “My pa’s mother. The dearest woman in the whole world, I’d reckon. I got her Bible when she passed, and it was a lot like your uncle’s Bible—all wrote in with words underlined an’ some pages crinkly where she cried on ’em while she read.” He scowled and shook his head. “Those thieves took part of my heart when they stole her Bible.” A sheepish look crept over his face. “That sounded pretty silly, didn’t it?”

  It didn’t. It let her know he understood the importance of  Uncle Philemon’s Bible. It also told her there was still much about Rufus Dille left to be discovered. He’d written about his parents, but he’d never penned a word about his grandmother, who obviously meant a great deal to him.

  She dared to touch his sleeve again, this time applying pressure and leaving her hand in place rather than simply brushing the cloth. “I’m so sorry her Bible was taken. I’ll pray it finds its way back to you somehow. Such a precious item belongs in the hands of the person who loves it.”

  He laid his rough palm over her fingers, and his smile released a dozen butterflies in her midsection. “Thank you, Miss Cristler. If that prayer comes true, the first thing I’ll do is put your uncle’s Bible in your hands. ’Cause I figure it means as much to you as Granny Iva’s Bible meant to me. It’ll mean even more when he’s not with you.”

  His understanding sent a rush of warm affection through her. Without conscious thought she inched forward, closing the gap between them. “Thank you, Reverend Dille.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Cristler.”

  In that moment a comment Mrs. Kirby made days ago winged through Grace’s mind. “If  you stay in close fellowship with the Father, when He brings the right person into your life, you’ll know. Down deep inside, you’ll know.” With his tender words fresh in her heart, his callused yet gentle hand cupping hers, Grace realized she knew. Just as Mrs. Kirby had said she would, she knew.

  The screen door squeaked, and she jerked free of  Rufus’s light grasp. Mrs. Young and Mrs. Beeler stepped in, both of them wearing grins that said aha!

  Grace bustled to the opposite side of the counter. “Ladies, I’ll be with you in just a moment. Reverend Dille, would you kindly sign the box-registration form for me? I already know the address where you’re residing, so I’ll complete that section for you.”

  He picked up the pencil, wrote his name at the bottom of the form, gave her a sweet smile, then lifted his crate of purchases. “Good-bye, Miss Cristler”—he bounced a friendly but formal smile at the pair of  intruders—“and ladies.” He headed out the door.

  Both women placed their baskets on the floor near the door and scurried to the counter. Mrs. Young spoke first. “He was in here a long time, Miss Cristler.”

  “Long enough for us to finish our shopping,” Mrs. Beeler added.

  Grace glanced at the baskets. One held three apples, a brown paper bag with a rolled top, and a skein of  blue yarn. The other contained four cans of peaches and a copy of  Godey’s Lady’s Book. Were it not for Aunt Wilhelmina’s instruction to speak only that which is good for edifying, Grace would comment about how taxing their shopping excursion must have been.

  Mrs. Young’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “You and Reverend Dille had something important to discuss, yes?”

  Grace pretended not to hear the question and moved to the mail cubbies. “Let me get your mail for you. Did you need something posted while you’re here?”

  Mrs. Beeler huffed. “I hope the two of you were discussing the proper order for worship services.”

  “Speaking of worship services…” Mrs. Young’s tone turned conspiratorial. “What did you think of  Reverend Dille’s sermon yesterday?”

  Grace glanced over her shoulder. The women reminded her of vultures ready to swoop down on a fresh kill. If they expected her to ask their opinion about the sermon, they would be sorely disappointed. She chose an honest and simple reply. “I found it heartfelt.”

  “I thought it unconventional.”

  Grace stifled a sigh at Mrs. Young’s comment. She should have realized the woman would offer her opinion whether it was requested or not.

  Mrs. Beeler immediately chimed in. “Very unconventional. And short.” She made a face. “He didn’t even release us with a prayer. What kind of minister sends the congregation out the door without praying for them?”

  Mrs. Young nodded, her eyebrows high. “I found that puzzling, too.”

  “And he neglected to pass the offering plate. I’ve never known a preacher to forget something as important as taking up the collection.” Mrs. Beeler spun on Grace and held her hands wide. “How will the church pay its bills if the preacher doesn’t ask the people to give?”

  Grace returned to the counter with the women’s mail. “Mrs. Beeler, as you know, Reverend Dille resides at the Kirby Boardinghouse. I’m sure he’s there now. If you have concerns about his method of  leading worship, perhaps you should speak with him.”

  Mrs. Beeler drew back, her cheeks splashing with pink. “I couldn’t do that.”

  Grace tipped her head. “Why not? It’s apparent to me that you found the order of the service offensive.”

  “I suppose…”

  “In the book of  Matthew, didn’t Jesus advise His followers to confront those who offended them?”

  “Well, yes…”

  “As Reverend Dille said yesterday, if  Jesus said it, should we not do it?”

  The woman pursed her lips so tightly they nearly disappeared. She snatched her mail from Grace’s hand and marched to her basket. She yanked up the basket by its handle, threw the mail on top of the Godey’s magazine, and then sent a withering glare in Grace’s direction before she slammed out the door.

  Mrs. Young tittered. “If  I didn’t know better, I’d say Wilhelmina Cristler, bless her departed soul, just spoke from the grave.” She took her mail and used it to give Grace’s arm a light smack. “Young woman, you’d be as fine a preacher’s wife as your aunt was. I hope the young Reverend Dille is wise enough to see it.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Clearly he’s going to need the help of someone who knows how a church is meant to be run.” She scooped up her basket and flounced out.

  Grace had just offended Mrs. Beeler, and by the end of the week half the town would know about it. Before she went home after work, she’d go by the Beelers’ house and apologize. Aunt Wilhelmina always said the stalwart person did right even when being wronged. Apologizing was the right thing to do even if  Mrs. Beeler had been in the wrong for speaking ill of the new preacher.

  The decision made, she completed Rufus’s box-registration form and assigned him one of the empty boxes. As she turned toward the file cabinet to put away his form, the screen door bounced open and Deacon Judd strode in. The formidable look on his face stole Grace’s ability to offer a greeting. He tromped directly to the counter and smacked an envelope onto the wooden surface.

  “Stamp it.”

  Grace glanced at the envelope. Her pulse stuttered. “You…you’re writing to the dean at the Clineburgh Seminary? Why?”

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, missy.” He tapped the envelope with his finger. “Put a stamp on it.”

  Under his glower she removed a stamp from the drawer and glued it to the envelope. She dropped the letter into the outgoing basket and lifted her gaze to discover a satisfied grin on the man’s face.

  He tossed three pennies onto the counter.
The coins bounced and spun. Grace grabbed for them, but one evaded her fingers. It shot over the edge, rolled across the floor, and disappeared under the file cabinet. She balled her fists on her hips. Thanks to his childish behavior, her money drawer would be short one cent.

  “Now we’ll find out whether that so-called reverend had his trainin’ or not.”

  Mr. Judd’s smug comment chased away Grace’s concern about the penny. She aimed a startled look at him, but he turned his back and stomped out. The moment the screen door smacked into its frame, Grace released a little huff. She’d be sure to tell Uncle Philemon about the deacon’s letter. He’d know what to do.

  She retrieved Rufus’s box-registration form again and opened the file cabinet. But before she slid the form into a folder, something caught her attention. She stopped and stared at the paper, an odd chill wiggling its way up her spine.

  Rufus’s signature—bold, so slanted some of the letters were nearly flat—held none of the flourish and precision of the signature she’d seen a dozen times at the close of  his letters.

  Theo

  By the time Theo put his purchases away, he knew he’d made a grave mistake. He shouldn’t have talked about Granny Iva.

  Rufus Dille didn’t have a Granny Iva, which meant Theo didn’t have one. Not anymore. The thought panged him deeply, but he had to make a choice—either he was Rufus Dille, or he was Theophil Garrison. Theophil was nobody, an outcast, a man most likely being hunted by his cousins so they could exact their revenge. Only a fool would choose to be Theophil. If  Theophil didn’t exist, his past didn’t exist, either.

  Most of  his former years he didn’t mind forgetting. His good memories ended the day he arrived in Cooperville, deposited by the US post office worker who’d been given responsibility for delivering him to Granny Iva’s only known living relative—a distant cousin named Lula Boyd. Lula wasn’t really his aunt, which meant Smithers wasn’t really his uncle, and Smithers made sure Theo knew from the very first minutes of  his arrival that he was there because they were obligated to take him. If  he gave them any trouble, they’d send him straight to an orphan asylum, where he’d probably starve to death, so he’d better be good.

  And Theo was good, the way Granny Iva taught him to be. He minded his manners. He cleaned his plate. He never left messes behind. He even cleaned up the messes Claight, Earl, and Wilton left behind. But no matter how hard he tried to please Lula and Smithers, they never grew to love him. Or even like him. They didn’t care how often their sons tormented him by putting garter snakes in his boots or spiders in his bed, tripping him, snapping his suspenders, or locking him in the smelly, damp, dark cellar.

  No, he didn’t mind forgetting all about Uncle Smithers and Aunt Lula and their boys. But it hurt something awful to think about forgetting the years that came before Cooperville. The years in Iowa on the farm with his granny. He swallowed a lump of agony and whispered, “I’m sorry, Granny Iva.”

  As much as it hurt to push her aside, giving up his own past would be easier than assuming Rufus Dille’s past. At least he knew his own. He paced the room, heartache and worry making him restless. If only he’d been able to talk with Rufus before he died. He should have asked Mrs. Wollard to give him the paper where she’d written all the things Rufus said while he lay in the bed at the doctor’s house. Maybe he could write to the Wollards, ask for the paper.

  He shook his head, grimacing. The doc would wonder why he wanted it. He’d wonder even more if  Theo told him to mail it to Rufus Dille at Fairland, Kansas, instead of to Theo. He stifled a groan. That written page would help him so much.

  Written page…There were some written pages straight from Rufus Dille’s hand. The letters the preacher had sent to Grace. But how could he lay hold of them? He couldn’t ask for them. She’d wonder why he wanted to see them, and there was no logical reason for a person to want to read his own letters.

  His pulse began to gallop. What about the letters Grace wrote to Rufus? He could read those. And they might tell him a little bit about the preacher. If nothing else, they’d tell him more about Grace, and he didn’t mind getting to know her better. He settled in one of the chairs, picked up the packet, and released the ribbon. The letters were arranged in order by postmark from January 6 to March 24, 1882, a dozen in all.

  With trembling fingers he pulled back the flap on the first envelope and removed the folded pages. He opened them and sat for a moment, admiring her flowing script. Each letter was formed so perfectly it seemed a work of art. Feeling like an eavesdropper, he laid the ivory page flat against his lap and began to read.

  Dear Mr. Dille,

  Perhaps I should use the salutation “Dear Reverend Dille” since you recently received your certificate of theology. My sincerest congratulations on your achievement. My uncle, Reverend Philemon Cristler, has confirmed your assignment as the new minister for the Fairland Gospel Church. You may wonder why you are receiving a letter from me, his niece, instead of him.

  Uncle Philemon is a fine orator, but he has never enjoyed communicating through written words. His dear wife, my aunt Wilhelmina, penned nearly all his necessary missives until her passing five years ago. After that, he bade me to assume the duty. He has given me such tender care from the time I came to live beneath his roof at the age of ten years, I cannot deny such a simple request.

  Thus, he assures me that you have seen and accepted the monthly salary offered by our small but loyal congregation, and, further, you understand the duties entailed in becoming the leader for our little church. My task, bestowed by Uncle Philemon, is to tell you about Fairland and its residents in the hopes the information will make your transition into our community less stressful. Please feel free to ask any questions, and I will do my best to answer candidly.

  Theo suddenly realized he was smiling because he heard her voice in his head as he read. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting a picture of the woman fill his mind. When she talked, her voice was musical. She used flowery words like the writers of the books he used to read with Granny Iva. He looked again at the beautifully crafted lines, and he could imagine her slender hand holding the pen, shaping the letters as gracefully as she often gestured when she spoke.

  According to the letter, Rufus Dille had received a previous note from Reverend Cristler detailing his salary and duties. He chewed the corner of  his lip. Where’d that letter gone? He wished it’d been tucked in with the letters from Grace. Surely the man kept it. Most likely it was in one of  Mr. Dille’s other bags or crates. Since they were stolen, maybe it wouldn’t seem unusual for him to ask for the information again. He’d ponder on that.

  He dropped his gaze to the letter in his lap again. Grace had given Rufus Dille permission to ask questions. If  he’d done so, and if she’d answered as candidly as she said she would, the other letters would give him a clue about the things Mr. Dille thought were important.

  Grace had told him her uncle’s Bible was a reflection of the man’s soul. He hoped reading her answers to Mr. Dille’s questions would give him some hints about the preacher’s soul. And he hoped his own soul would fade away as he became more and more like Rufus Dille.

  Grace

  The image of  Rufus’s signature on the box-registration form, which appeared as informal as his speech sounded, flashed like lightning bolts in the back of Grace’s mind periodically throughout the week. But she didn’t mention her concerns. They would likely sound as petty as Mrs. Beeler’s comments about the unconventional worship service or as judgmental as Deacon Judd’s insinuation that Rufus wasn’t truly a graduate of the Clineburgh Seminary.

  Uncle Philemon had dismissed Grace’s worry about the deacon’s letter. He assured her Rufus’s name had been submitted to him with a glowing recommendation from the dean of the Bible college, and as soon as Deacon Judd received confirmation of that truth, he would be forced to set aside his ridiculous mutterings.

  As for the signature on the box-registration form, there were any nu
mber of reasons why it didn’t match the carefully crafted ones on the letters she kept tucked in the glove drawer of  her dresser. She told herself  he’d signed with a dull-pointed pencil rather than a nib dipped in ink. There had been others waiting for her attention, so he’d written too hurriedly to be neat. Possibly the embarrassment of  being caught holding her hand had made his writing wobbly instead of strong and sure.

  Despite her logical reasoning, the image continued to tease her. But as often as questions about his inconsistencies eased in, the feeling that had flooded her when he placed his hand over hers in the post office carried the concerns away like a river cresting its bank and sweeping loose twigs and grasses downstream. The conflicting emotions made her more keenly aware of his every word and action, and to her relief as the week progressed, things he said and did began to more closely match her expectations.

  He ambled by the post office on Tuesday morning while she was applying a wet rag to the dusty windows and stopped to offer her half of a candy stick, saying, “It’s my favorite.” When he spoke, the scent of cloves tickled her nose, and delightful chills scampered from her scalp to the soles of  her feet. Later that day when she delivered a package to the schoolmarm, she witnessed him joining a game of  kickball on the playground. His laughter and relaxed bearing with the children reminded her of a line from one of  his more recent letters—“I hope to be a father someday”—and sent joyous flutters through her chest.

  On Wednesday after work she went to Mrs. Kirby’s, where Uncle Philemon had spent the afternoon working on the woman’s large garden plot. She found Rufus on the front porch engaged in a checkers game with Mr. Abel while Mr. Swain and Mr. Ballard watched. From the stack of checkers at Mr. Abel’s elbow, Rufus was being trounced, and she swallowed a grin as she recalled him admitting in one of  his letters that he failed dismally at games requiring strategy.