Rosey sat quietly while her mamaw worshiped the Lord right there in their pew. Rosey watched Mamaw intently, remembering every moment. The raised hands, the falling tears, the faint but Holy Ghost–inspired prayers. Sugar Mae wept at the piano stool, and the pastor prayed over a couple at the altar. And in the middle of all the activity surrounding her, Rosey felt something deep and rich and warm inside her.
While the rest of the world was worshiping the Lord, with her mama on the organ and her daddy singing softly from one of the chairs on the platform, Rosey approached the kneeling bench at the altar. An elderly woman who smelled of peppermint and wore hats with flowers on them came and knelt beside her and prayed with her. And there, Rosey gave her heart to Jesus.
When Rosey got up from that bench, she knew that something important had happened inside her heart. Her mamaw was smiling at her as she returned to the pew. She wrapped her arms around Rosey in a big, cushy hug. And when she let Rosey go, Rosey saw Granddaddy in the back, drying his eyes with a handkerchief. When she pointed it out later, he told her it was just his eyes sweating.
Revival had come to that small country church on Dixon Street in Mullins, South Carolina. And Rosey got a little of that peace her mamaw always told her living for Jesus gave, the peace that passes all understanding. Right then Rosey felt that peace, then and ever after. Well, at least until her family moved away.
“Lost in thought?” The booming voice reverberated through the empty church.
Rose stood up quickly. “Oh, excuse me . . . I’m so sorry . . . I was just . . .”
“Sit down, child. You don’t have to be sorry for being in the house of God. That’s why we keep the doors unlocked. You never know who might need to come inside for awhile.”
Rose didn’t sit.
“Sit. Please. I’d be upset if I disturbed you.”
She sat back down slowly.
“Lionel Johnson,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m the pastor here.” A thin layer of gray fuzz covered his black head as though he had recently shaved.
“Rose Fletcher,” she said, extending her own.
“Well, Rose, I’m glad you could stop by today,” he said, sitting in the pew in front of her. It squeaked as his weight settled in. He twisted his body and put his arm on the back of the pew, a good position for chatting.
She didn’t really feel like chatting.
“Where are you from?” he asked. “Your face doesn’t look real familiar.”
“Oh, I’m just passing through on my way to South Carolina,” she said.
He scratched his head. “Where at in South Carolina?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. It’s just a small country town named Mullins.”
“Mullins! You’ve got to be kidding me.” He slapped the back of the pew, knocking his gold wedding band loudly against it. “I’ve got a sister born and raised in Mullins. She lives in Florence now, though.”
“Really?” Rose couldn’t help but be intrigued.
“Yeah, her name’s Gladys.”
Rose’s eyes widened. “Not Gladys Lewis.”
“Yes! Gladys Lewis. That’s my sister. She lived on Dixon Street.”
Rose had trouble allowing this to register. “Does she have a daughter named Jenny?”
“Yes, and two boys.” He smiled and leaned back. “Don’t tell me you know them.”
Rose laughed softly. “Jenny was my best friend growing up.”
“Well, I’ll be. You must be Rosey.”
Rose stiffened. “It’s Rose, actually.”
“Well, Rose Actually”—he smiled—“Jenny talked about you all the time. In fact, she still talks about you every now and then.” He slapped his knee and shook his head. “She will not believe this. I’m telling you, she will not believe this.”
“I don’t think I believe it.”
“Have you and Jenny not kept in touch through the years?” He leaned back toward her.
“I haven’t kept in touch with many people back home. Life where I come from has a way of consuming you.” She looked down and ran her fingers along the edge of her wrap.
“Well, well, Jenny’s friend Rosey, living and breathing right here in my church. Who would ever have imagined?” He chuckled, his belly shaking. “You wouldn’t believe Jenny now.”
Rose softened. “What’s she doing?”
“She’s been a nurse for about eleven years. Has three beautiful children. All boys. Darryl, Duane, and Allen, and they are live wires, let me tell ya! She and her husband live in Florence too. He was a pro football player, but now he’s pastoring a church, and Gladys lives with them. Oh, Rosey . . .”
“Rose,” she corrected, gently this time.
“Yes, I’m sorry, Rose. I know if she knew you were going to be this close, she would just love to see you.”
It seemed like just yesterday that she last saw Jenny. Then again, it seemed like forever.
Jenny ran into Rosey’s house and screeched to a stop because of the boxes that filled the family room. With Rosey sitting glumly on top of one.
Jenny retreated for a moment to set down her duffel bag and a can of mosquito repellent on the porch. “I can’t believe you’re leaving, Rosey.”
“I know. It just sucks,” Rosey replied bravely, knowing her parents were at her mamaw and granddaddy’s.
“Yeah, it sucks cheese.” That was Jenny’s new favorite saying.
“We’re staying at Mamaw’s tonight, because Daddy already took down our beds.”
Jenny stroked her chin. Rosey knew that meant she was thinking.
“What?” Rosey asked.
“I know!” Jenny shouted suddenly. “I say we camp out instead.” Jenny pulled Rosey off the box and led her outside. “Look at this night. Just look! It’s going to be perfect.” Jenny grabbed the can of Off ! and sprayed her arms with it, her mother’s summer staple. The mosquitoes had been exceptionally pesky since summer had arrived, which meant Jenny always smelled of insecticide.
“Oh, that’s a great idea, Jenny!” Excitement grew in Rosey. “Granddaddy’s got a great tent, and we can set it right up in his backyard.”
They sat on the steps, talking as the evening grew dark. Soon fireflies flickered and danced through the darkness. “Let’s go get one of your mama’s mason jars and catch us some of these fireflies,” Jenny suggested.
“She’ll whip our butts,” Rosey replied, shaking her head. “You know those are for those tomatoes she was going to can.”
“Your mama ain’t never canned nothin’,” Jenny reminded.
Rosey shook her head. “I know. It sounded crazy to me too.”
“Well, you’re moving anyway, so I don’t think she’s going to be needing them.” Jenny could be pretty smart.
“Well, they’re probably all packed up.”
“Of course they’re packed up, silly. She’s never even opened them.”
She had Rosey there. “But she’ll know we’ve been in them.”
“By the time she figures it out, she won’t even remember why she got them in the first place. So come on, scaredy-cat. I’ll get them out if you need me to.”
Jenny grabbed her hand, and they ran back into the kitchen. The boxes were piled high, but it didn’t take them long to figure out exactly which one held the mason jars. It was written all over the box. As if Jenny had taken to stealing on multiple occasions, she reached in, pulled a jar out, and left the box almost exactly as they had found it.
With a screwdriver from the toolbox in the garage, they poked holes in the lid. They tucked the jar safely inside Jenny’s duffel bag that she’d brought so she could spend the night; then they went over to Mamaw and Granddaddy’s, where Rosey’s daddy and granddaddy were rocking on the front porch. The smell of fried catfish wafted through the air. Rosey’s stomach rumbled.
Her daddy eyed them. “What trouble are you two barefoot travelers up to this evening?”
They looked at each other. “Ahh, nothing much,” Rosey responded, w
alking over to the porch and sitting down on the middle step. Jenny plopped down beside her.
“Are you staying for dinner too?” he asked the duffel-bag carrier.
“Oh yes, sir. I’m staying for the whole night,” she informed him.
He laughed. “Well, we’re glad you can join us.”
Rosey looked up at her father. “Daddy, we’re wonderin’—”
“Wondering.”
She placed her hand on her hip. “Dad . . .” She was eleven years old now. He shouldn’t be reprimanding her. Especially in front of others.
Her granddaddy chuckled.
“We were wondering . . . if we could borrow Grand-daddy’s tent and sleep outside tonight. You know, kind of like we were camping.”
Her granddaddy turned before her daddy could speak. “I’d love for you to borrow my tent,” he said, leaning forward slowly and extracting himself from his chair. “You and Jenny do whatever it is you were doing, and we’ll get the tent out for you,” he said, punching his son-in-law on the arm.
“Girls, don’t be gone too long, now. Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes,” her father reminded.
They raced away. Rosey and Jenny shared a moment of relief that Rosey’s daddy didn’t notice them take the duffel along. By the time she and Jenny had successfully captured a small army of fireflies, their camp was sitting neatly, all set up in the backyard. Giddy with excitement, they unzipped their home for the evening. The scent of dinner surged toward them. Inside the tent they found two trays holding substantial plates of fried catfish, french fries, fried corn bread, and coleslaw. And beside each plate was a mason jar full of sweet tea.
They sat their own flickering jar down between the plates and took their places. “We’ve got ourselves a feast, sister.”
“I’d say,” Jenny said, licking her lips. “And our own firefly lamp.”
“Well, I do believe you’re right.” And the two dined by a special kind of firelight. And sometime in the wee hours of the morning, after they had talked and laughed and cried over Rosey’s departure, the last flickering tail went out.
19
What are you doing on these back roads?” The pastor’s loud voice brought her back.
“Oh, there was a bad wreck on the interstate,” she said, straightening her wrap. “I used to travel two-lane roads like this all the time, though, back when I was in college. I always enjoyed the small towns I would drive through.”
“The best place for boiled peanuts and Coca-Cola.” He chuckled.
They shared a knowing smile. She glanced down at her watch. “Oh, mercy me,” she said, startling herself. She had not just said “mercy me.” She hadn’t said “mercy me” in years. “Well, I’d better get back on the road, or they’ll all think I was just pretending to come home.” She stood up.
“I bet home will be excited to see you.” He rose as well.
“Well . . .” She cleared her throat. “You have to do what you have to do.”
“Well, we’d love for you to come see us again. Maybe in the summer, when it’s a little warmer,” he said as they made their way to the foyer. Rose looked at the Christmas tree again. She turned away from it, trying to turn from the memories it brought.
“I don’t know when I’ll be heading in this direction again,” she said, ready to leave even more quickly now.
“Well, we have some mean covered-dish dinners in the summer, after church, if you’re ever out this way again and hungry.” He raised his bushy eyebrows up and down. Apparently the hair meant for his bald head had gotten stopped at his eyebrows.
She paused.
“I haven’t been to a covered-dish dinner in ages. And, oh, Southerners love a good covered-dish dinner, don’t they? It gives them a chance to show off. When I was growing up, our church had covered-dish dinners all the time. And my mamaw was the reigning fried chicken queen!”
“Ooh, and the ladies around here fix some of the best butter beans and fried catfish you’d ever want to eat.” The pastor licked his lips, quickly realizing what he’d done. They both laughed.
“Sugar Mae Jacobson, that is the best-smelling sweet potato casserole I’ve ever caught a whiff of,” Mamaw exclaimed.
“Mamaw! Mamaw!” Rosey said, tugging at Mamaw’s dress.
“Rosey, Mamaw is talking, baby girl, and it isn’t polite to interrupt. First graders should know that already.”
“I know, Mamaw. I know. But Bobby Dean and Christopher told me that they had already divided all of your fried chicken up with the baseball team.” Rosey paused to see if Mamaw understood the seriousness of the situation. “And, Mamaw,” she said, trying to whisper now, “I just can’t eat any more of Aunt Norma’s chicken stuff. It don’t—”
“It doesn’t,” Mamaw corrected.
“It doesn’t even smell right.”
Her mamaw’s belly shook as she laughed. “Baby girl, you know your mamaw has you a piece of chicken tucked away. Your granddaddy’s got some just for you and him and Charlotte. So you go over there and sit down by him, and he’ll take care of you.”
Dinner on the grounds of their little church was actually dinner in the parking lot. Because there weren’t really any grounds. Just a lot of asphalt. But none of them cared. The ladies of this church had set up a feast. There were more casseroles and pies than you’d find in an entire year’s subscription to Southern Living.
Rosey’s mama and daddy sat down across from her after she planted herself firmly under her granddaddy’s arm. Charlotte sat beside her, whining about wanting a Coke and not sweet tea. Rosey didn’t care what she drank as long as Grand-daddy had her a chicken wing somewhere in his stash. That was Rosey’s favorite piece of chicken. She liked it because her mama had always liked it.
Rosey watched as her mama patted her daddy’s arm. She loved to watch them touch and kiss. Whatever it was they had, Rosey sure knew that she wanted some of it too. One day. But not right now. She still thought boys were gross! Especially if they were like her cousin Bobby Dean. Because he flat drove her crazy.
“Shoo!” her mamaw said as she sat down on the other side of Charlotte, swatting at flies.
“Why do you keep swatting at those flies, Mamaw? They ain’t going nowhere. They just keep landing when you’re not looking.”
“You got to stay on them, Red,” her granddaddy said. “Let those flies have the butter, and next thing you know, they’ll want your biscuits too. You’ve got to be vigilant about some things in life. Ain’t that right, Mama?”
“That’s right,” Rosey’s mamaw said with another swat.
It wasn’t until later that Rosey realized how true those words were. Because her failure to stay after the flies on the butter had allowed them access to the biscuits too.
“The women always drive themselves crazy swatting at flies, though.” Rose said, returning to the small country church, noticing that the pastor was now gazing between the shutter slats out the front window.
“Those flies love them covered-dish dinners, don’t they?”
“You’re not joking,” she replied.
She reached for the door handle. He turned around and placed his hand on hers. “Can I pray for you before you leave, Rose?”
His question startled her. “Um, I . . . well, I . . .” She thought her hesitation might afford him a change of mind. He simply stared at her. Waiting. She had rarely been known for her rudeness. Impatience maybe, but not rudeness. “I guess that would be okay.”
Both of their hands still remained on the door handle. Hers for a quick exit. His as a preventative measure. He laid his other hand on her shoulder. They closed their eyes. “Our dear Father, You know, life has so many directions to take nowadays.” He sighed heavily. “So many directions and ways to go, people just get lost along the way. I pray that You would let Rose here know that no matter how lost she may feel, she’s never so lost that she can’t find her way back home. Back home to You. Amen.”
She couldn’t even muster a smile when he finished.
They opened the door together, and a cold gust blasted them. She took off toward her car. “Then you have never been as lost as me, Pastor Johnson,” she whispered to the wind. “You’ve never been as lost as me.”
But Pastor Johnson heard her, because the wind carried her words straight to his heart. Tiny drops of freezing rain began to fall as he closed the door tightly. He shifted the shutter slats to catch sight of her as she drove away, then picked up his cell phone and made a call to his nephew, who lived with him and his wife at the parsonage while the young man studied at the seminary. Something tugged at him that Rose still needed a little help with her journey.
20
Rose listened to the pellets of frozen rain pop against her windshield, trying to shake off the preacher’s words. Lost things were rarely found. If anybody knew that, she surely did. What had been lost between her and Jack couldn’t be found. What she had lost by her affair couldn’t be undone. What her mother had lost with her father would never be restored. Lost things don’t get found, no matter how Pollyannaishly people wanted to live their lives. Rose was educated enough and wise enough to know that truth.
The ringing of her phone registered Charlotte’s number. She welcomed the distraction. She pressed the phone icon on her steering wheel. “What’s up?” she asked.
“Child, you better bring your Advil. Uncle Leonard and Aunt Lola just got here, and they brought all twelve of their grandchildren. Not a parent in sight to take care of them, but twelve spawn of someone else’s are now here in this house. They better not think I’m watching them.”
Rose couldn’t help but laugh. “Send them to the backyard.”
“It’s subzero out there.” Charlotte paused. “That is a wonderful idea! Come on, kids, put on your coats and get outside. Those floodlights are bright enough; you’ll think it’s afternoon!”
“You are shameless.”
Flies on the Butter Page 16