Grace and the Preacher

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She laughed. “God don’t care what you put on your outside. He just wants us to bring Him our best, an’ that’s our hearts raised up to Him in worship. All you gotta do is show up clean.” She gave the men a little push. “Now scoot on out o’ here. I got work to do, includin’ washin’ up Mr. Boyd’s clothes so he’ll have somethin’ clean for church tomorrow.”

  Fairland, Kansas

  Grace

  Grace awakened early Sunday to the gentle patter of rain on the roof—a pleasant sound that enticed her to pull the quilt up to her chin and doze beneath the covers. But only lazy, irresponsible people stayed in bed when work waited. Aunt Wilhelmina had raised her better. She tossed the quilt aside, quickly dressed, and hurried to the kitchen.

  After enjoying supper at Mrs. Kirby’s earlier in the week, Grace had invited the boardinghouse residents to Sunday dinner. The leg of  lamb she purchased yesterday afternoon from Mr. Fenly, the butcher, would need to bake for three hours, so she prepared the oven bed with a double layer of coal topped by three lengths of seasoned oak, each five inches in diameter. The hardwood was best for maintaining heat for lengthy periods of time.

  She’d placed the lamb in her large roaster with chunks of potatoes, carrots, and onions before going to bed last night, so as soon as she got the fire started, she tucked the roaster in the oven and hurried to the dining room to set the table with Aunt Wilhelmina’s wedding china, her aunt’s most prized possession. She rounded the table, carefully arranging the plates, cups, saucers, and silverware on the creamy linen cloth. Nine settings in all.

  She sighed. A part of  her wished she could have invited only Rufus. Just this once. Was it brazen to want time alone with him? Probably, but shouldn’t young people engaged in a courtship have time together? Uncle Philemon managed to sneak time with Mrs. Kirby every day. But Grace hadn’t seen her Rufus since Thursday evening and then only at the dining room table with several other people watching their every move. The way it would be today.

  At least as the hostess she could choose where people would sit. She intended to put Rufus on her left, with Uncle Philemon and Mrs. Kirby at the opposite end of the table. Mrs. Ewing had the poorest hearing, so she planned to place her between Mrs. Kirby and Rufus, and since Mrs. Flynn had the poorest vision, she would put the woman on her right. Perhaps she and Rufus would have the pleasure of exchanging secretive looks or whispered comments without notice.

  Uncle Philemon scuffed into the dining room attired in his sleeping shirt and robe, his face stretching comically with a yawn. He stopped beside the table and gave it a careful examination. “Doesn’t this look pretty and inviting. It’s nice to see the china on the table. I always thought it was a shame that the plates were kept in a cupboard. But Wilhelmina worried about pieces being chipped or broken, so she rarely brought them out.”

  Grace wove her hands together. “Would she disapprove of me using them? If something is damaged, the set won’t be complete anymore.” Mr. Swain tended to be a little careless with things.

  He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “A few chips only means they’ve been put to use, which is what they were designed for.” He kissed the crown of her head and released her. He yawned again and ended it with a light cough. “I hope you have the coffee started. The rain has put a chill in my bones, and I need something warm.”

  She swallowed a giggle. Why did he need to drink something warm when his body radiated heat like the oven? So many older people at church complained of their joints being cold all the time. Uncle Philemon would turn sixty-four in July. Perhaps he’d reached the age of  being cold.

  She scurried for the kitchen. “Not yet. But I’ll do it now. Why not go back to bed for a bit? It will be warm under your covers, and I’ll bring you a cup of coffee when it’s ready.”

  “Thank you, Grace. That sounds perfect.”

  She started the coffee and also stirred a batch of  batter for hotcakes. When both were ready, she carried a tray to her uncle’s room and tapped on the door. “Uncle Philemon? I have your breakfast.” He didn’t answer, so she eased the door open and peeked in. “Uncle Philemon?”

  He slept, his mouth slightly open and his eyelids quivering. Grace set the tray on his bedside table and started to touch his shoulder to wake him. But she noticed his pale face and flushed cheeks. She laid the back of  her hand against his forehead. So hot! Why hadn’t she considered his warmth might be fever?

  He stirred, looked around in confusion, and started to rise.

  “No, sir. You need to stay put.” Grace caught his shoulders and eased him back against the pillows.

  He frowned. “It’s Sunday. I need to get up.”

  She frowned, too. “Not today. You have a fever.”

  “No, I don’t. I never get sick.”

  His belligerence told her more clearly than words that he didn’t feel well. Uncle Philemon never snapped at anyone. She patted his shoulder. “It’s all right. Everyone is entitled to a day in bed now and then. You stay here, and I’ll go fix you some hot ginger tea.”

  “I’m to lead singing this morning. Rufus isn’t prepared to do it.”

  Even if  he were prepared, he wouldn’t be able to lead singing. He couldn’t sing. “Mrs. Perry can lead everyone with the organ. Please, Uncle Philemon, lie still and rest.”

  “But I’m spoiling your dinner plans.” He pushed with his elbows and raised himself to a half-sitting position. “I’m sure I’ll be fine after I drink some tea.” Sweat beads popped out across his forehead, and he flopped backward. “Then again, perhaps I should stay in bed. I’m a little light headed.”

  His concession frightened her even more than his fever. She tucked the covers under his chin and picked up the tray. “I’ll get your tea. You rest.” She hurried out of the room. She’d bring him a cup of tea, and then she’d go after Dr. Robison. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she’d seen a blotchy rash on her uncle’s chest.

  Bess

  Bess sent another glance at the regulator clock tick-ticking from its spot on the west wall. If the clock had been wound correctly, its time was accurate, which meant it was now ten twenty-nine. One more minute and service would begin. That is, if  Rufus would start without prompting. Where were Philemon and Grace?

  In all her years of attendance, she could recall only one Sunday when Philemon had been late to church. The Sunday Sam passed away. Philemon had stayed close by her side from the moment he received news about the runaway team that trampled Sam until her husband took his last breath. Even though it made him late for service that September Sunday in 1867.

  She peeked over her shoulder at the double doors closed against the morning’s rain, and a smile automatically formed when they burst open. Instead of Philemon and Grace, however, Dr. Robison came in and strode up the aisle. Philemon must be attending another bedside vigil, but whose? She kept her gaze pinned on the doctor and Rufus while around her, people whispered, pointed, and nudged each other. Dr. Robison spoke directly into Rufus’s ear, and the young preacher’s expression changed from attentive to concerned, raising Bess’s worry.

  The doctor headed right back out without pause, even though folks called questions to him as he went. Rufus stepped to the edge of the platform, and a hush fell in the room. Bess held her breath, anticipating the worst.

  “Doc Robison just came from the Cristler place. Reverend Cristler woke this mornin’ with fever, an’ the doc says he’s pretty sure it’s scarlatina.”

  Gasps and murmurs exploded around the sanctuary. Bess covered her mouth to hold back a cry of alarm.

  Mrs. Perry’s shrill voice rang over the furor. “Where would he get scarlatina? No one in Fairland has suffered from it for years.”

  Bess’s throat went tight. When she and Philemon were in Bonner Springs, they had overheard one of the railroad workers complaining about a sick passenger who insisted on seeing a doctor before traveling on and was preventing the train from leaving on time. Philemon, being the caring person he was, had gone
into the station and sat with the ill man until the doctor arrived. Had the passenger been stricken with scarlet fever?

  Rufus turned a sympathetic look on the milliner. “I don’t know, Mrs. Perry. I doubt even Reverend Cristler knows. But to keep anybody else from gettin’ it, Doc Robison asked us all to stay clear of the Cristler place. His wife will take over Gra—, Miss Cristler’s duties as the postmistress until the reverend’s well again. Consider their house quarantined.”

  Bess scooted out of the pew and up the aisle. Mrs. Ewing swiped at her, but she skirted the woman’s outstretched hand and flung the doors open. Cold raindrops pelted her as she hurried across the wet grass to the road. The doctor could put a quarantine sign on Philemon’s door if  he wanted to, but she didn’t have to honor it. Philemon Cristler had stood beside her on the hardest days of her life. She wouldn’t leave him suffering alone now.

  Theo

  What should he do now? He had a sermon all prepared—one that would last almost forty minutes if  it went the same way in the church in front of a group of people as it had in his room in front of the mirror. But maybe he shouldn’t give it. Maybe he should send everybody home. Grace, Reverend Cristler, or Aunt Bess would be the best ones to advise him, but they weren’t here. He’d never felt so alone.

  Mrs. Perry wiggled back and forth on the organ stool, wringing her hands. “Reverend Dille, aren’t you going to pray for dear Philemon? And for Grace? My gracious, the poor girl will be quarantined inside the house with him. She could come down with scarlatina, too. You need to pray for them.” Her already-piercing voice rose higher with each word.

  Pray? Theo’s stomach rolled over. He’d given short prayers before dinner at the boardinghouse because the boarders all took turns. It made him plenty nervous when his turn came around, and there were only seven of them in the room. Could he really pray out loud in front of so many people? And what would he say? He’d look like a fool if  he stood before them and thanked God for the food.

  Deacon Judd shot to his feet as fast as if someone had kicked him hard on the backside. For a moment Theo clung to the hope the church leader would offer to lead the congregation in prayer, but the hope fizzled rapidly at the man’s sneer. “Times like these are when we need an experienced preacher leadin’ us. This one we got doesn’t know how to do anything except wring his hands like an emotional woman.”

  Theo looked down and realized he’d laced his fingers together and was twiddling his thumbs. He jammed his hands into his pockets instead.

  Deacon Judd huffed. “Only yesterday you sat in my parlor and said if we needed somebody to pray for us, we should come to you.” He held out his arms and jutted his jaw forward. “Well, here we are, needin’ prayer, Preacher. What’re you waitin’ for?”

  Mr. Swain stood and shot a confused look at Deacon Judd. “Leland, leave the young feller alone. You an’ all of us know how fond he is of the reverend an’ Miss Cristler. This catched him by surprise the same way it has me an’ ever’body else. Give ’im a chance to get his thoughts pulled together.”

  “Belker is right.” Mrs. Ewing forced her bulk from the pew and stepped into the aisle. “Picking at Reverend Dille isn’t going to help Reverend Cristler. There’s no law that says only a preacher can pray in church. In fact, there’s a verse that tells believers to ‘pray without ceasing.’ We all ought to pray.” Right there in the aisle, she folded her hands beneath her double chin and closed her eyes. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out as she talked to God.

  All across the sanctuary other folks imitated Mrs. Ewing. Before long the only two people who hadn’t closed their eyes were Theo and Leland. The deacon glared with so much venom that Theo felt the sting from twenty feet away. He slammed his eyelids closed and begged God to give him something to say that would set everyone’s minds at ease and help Leland Judd see him differently. Theo needed so badly to truly be Rufus Dille at that moment.

  “D-dear God…” The sound of  his voice, loud in the otherwise silent room, startled him. He gulped and spoke again. “I reckon we’re all a little scared right now. Scared for our friend, Philemon Cristler. An’ scared for Grace, too.”

  The fear rocked him. Would she be all right? God, let her be all right. He scrunched his face and clamped his hands so hard his knuckles ached. “But seems like there’s a verse I read last week, from one of the Timothy books, that said You don’t give us spirits of  fear. So all this fearin’ isn’t from You.” As he spoke to God, his focus began to shift from his worry, from the people listening in, even from Leland Judd, who probably still hadn’t closed his eyes, to the One who mattered.

  He relaxed the tight muscles in his face and shifted his hands until they formed a steeple. “I learned from my granny when I was a little boy that You’re always with us. That means You’re with Reverend Cristler right now, with Grace, an’ with all of us. So we’re just gonna stay here in Your house. We’re gonna look at Your Word. An’ we’re gonna know that, no matter what happens, You’re with us. An’ that means we’re gonna be all right.”

  He opened his eyes, and to his surprise a warm tear slid down his cheek. He swept it away, sniffed hard, and reached for Reverend Cristler’s Bible. “Mrs. Perry, if  it’s all right, we’ll hold off on our singin’ until the end of the service. Right now I got a sermon to tell.”

  Bird’s Nest, Iowa

  Earl

  Earl lost count of  how many people came over to his bench at the end of the church service and shook his hand. He got asked more than a dozen times, “How’re you related to the Garrisons?” And when he said, “My ma an’ Iva were cousins,” their faces lit, and they told him their special remembrances of  Iva or Burl and sometimes even Theophil. He learned a lot about his ma’s kin, more than he’d ever heard from his cousin. Of course, none of them ever really asked Theophil about his life before he came to Cooperville. So now Earl listened, nodded, even smiled some. But underneath, confusion made his chest tight.

  Back in Cooperville, people gave Earl and his family respect. Mostly because they were afraid to end up on the bad side of any of the Boyds. Earl had liked it that way. Liked feeling strong and powerful. Liked how folks got out of his way when he and his brothers came down a sidewalk. Enjoyed them handing over their sandwich or apple or slice of pie without a fuss just because he, Claight, or Wilton wanted it. In prison the guards had kept him and his brothers apart, and he’d had to be double tough to earn the other prisoners’ respect.

  Here in the little clapboard chapel in what Pa would call a nothin’ town, Earl learned about a different kind of respect. The kind that lasted long after a person’s death. If  he’d been hanged for his crimes, would folks in Cooperville still talk about him, remember him, wipe away tears because they missed him? He swallowed a snort. They might talk about him—glad talk that he was gone. But miss him? Cry over him? Not likely. The thought made him sadder than he wanted to admit.

  Finally the folks all cleared out, and Earl walked with the Hookers to the sunny churchyard. He’d ridden his horse so he could leave right after the service, but before he climbed in the saddle, he turned to tell Mr. and Mrs. Hooker good-bye. An uncomfortable feeling of sadness filled his chest. He’d miss these folks. They’d been good to him. He told them so, and Mrs. Hooker got all teary eyed.

  “Why, Mr. Boyd, that’s an awful kind thing to say. ’Specially after Russ worked you near as hard as he’d work a mule.”

  “Aw, I didn’t mind.” He surprised himself  by meaning it. “Never did farmwork before. Kinda sorry I won’t be here when you harvest. Never seen corn come up.”

  “Oh, Mr. Boyd, you ought to see them thick stalks standin’ all proud, with ears growin’ plumper day by day. Watchin’ the silky tassels a-wavin’ in the breeze is almost like watchin’ ladies dance.” Mrs. Hooker sighed. “It’s a sight to behold. I never get tired o’ seein’ how God takes an itty-bitty seed”—she pinched her fingers together, then flung her arms wide—“and turns it into a stalk with ears o’ m
ore corn kernels than a body can count. Multiplies almost like that Bible story ’bout the loaves an’ fishes.”

  Earl didn’t know a thing about Bible stories, but she had him curious. And envious. He swung himself  into the saddle. “Maybe, after I find my cousin, I’ll come back by here. Take a look at those tall stalks for myself.”

  Mr. Hooker stepped forward and stroked the horse’s neck. “You’d be welcome anytime. It was good to get to know one o’ the kin to those buried at the edge of our field. Makes me feel connected to them souls somehow.”

  Mrs. Hooker curled her hands around her husband’s arm and smiled up at Earl through tears. “We’ll be prayin’ God keeps you safe an’ leads you to your cousin. You take good care now, Mr. Boyd, an’ like Russ said, you’re always welcome here in Bird’s Nest.”

  Earl gave a nod, his throat too tight to speak, and yanked the reins. His horse clopped out of town. He sniffed and rubbed his nose. Funny. It was harder leaving Bird’s Nest after half a week than it had been for him to leave Cooperville. Shouldn’t a fellow miss the place he called home?

  Fairland, Kansas

  Grace

  “I thought I asked you to make her go home.” Dr. Robison hissed the comment near Grace’s ear.

  She turned from the stove and the pots of  boiling water the doctor had requested. “I’ve tried. She won’t listen. The same way she wouldn’t listen when I found her at the door and told her she couldn’t come in. She told me she would come in. And she did.” Sweet-natured Mrs. Kirby had a surprising stubborn side.

  “She shouldn’t be here. Especially not in the reverend’s sickroom.” The doctor’s face flushed pink. “Right now Wilhelmina Cristler is rolling over in her grave.”

  Grace winced. The doctor was probably right about Aunt Wilhelmina. “I know it seems improper, but she and my uncle are”—she glanced toward the doorway to be certain Mrs. Kirby wouldn’t overhear—“courting. She wants to help take care of  him.”