by D M Barrett
“Ask anything you want Brother Mann,” She Mammy said.
“Do you consider yourself to be a female; or, is cross dressing just a part of your work and enjoyment?” the preacher inquired.
“I am glad you asked that question. I am a male always. I think like a man. I like designing clothes, especially women’s undergarments. Truthfully, it gets me excited and gives me a very positive attitude about my appearance. I try to avoid upsetting the public, so I mostly wear them at home,” She Mammy explained as he returned with two gorgeous teddies for the nurse.
One of the outfits was a peach colored one-piece with spaghetti straps, with black lace and embroidery around the top and bodice, and black lace around the short leg openings.
The remaining outfit was a light blue, highly decorated bra trimmed with a small amount of animal print fabric at the tops of each cup and matching mid-thigh length panties.
“Can I try these on somewhere?” the county nurse asked.
“Use that front bedroom as a dressing room. Call out if you think they need some adjustments,” She Mammy instructed.
“Are you going to model those for us?” The preacher asked.
“Are you serious?” Nurse Bilbrey asked giving the preacher a stern glance.
“You’re a nurse. You deal with the human body almost daily,” the preacher said as he winked at Mr. Martin.
“Well, you’re a preacher and you shouldn’t be worrying about a female body unless it belongs to your wife!” the county nurse scolded.
“Oh this romance is really blooming,” She Mammy said with glee.
“Men!” Nurse Bilbrey said as she entered the makeshift dressing room and closed the door.
“Preacher, it’s my turn to ask you a few questions,” She Mammy said.
“Do you think I’m going to hell for running around in women’s clothes?” She Mammy inquired.
“When I’m not around others, I often spend time in the nude while working, studying or just relaxing. Am I going to hell for being nude occasionally?” the preacher asked.
“Say on, preacher,” She Mammy replied.
“As I understand your situation, your occupation is that of a tailor or more likely, a seamstress to earn a living. You do not employ female models but actually model your clothing line in the confines of your home or shop. You enjoy designing and wearing your designs. You do not wear the clothing in an attempt to seduce men or deceive women. Is that correct?” the preacher inquired.
“That is a good summation of my situation,” Mr. Martin replied.
“I commit judgment to the Lord on lots of things. It’s his business – not mine,” the preacher explained.
“I like your reasoning and attitude,” said Mr. Martin.
“Remember that there are men who are strict constructionists of the Bible. They see no difference between Old Testament requirements and New Testament requirements.
I am not one of them. Nevertheless, those who interpret the scriptures very strictly, without regard to biblical times, places, circumstances, the person being instructed, and why the instruction is given, will do their best to argue you into hell for wearing a woman’s garment,” the preacher warned.
Just as the preacher finished his soliloquy, Nurse Bilbrey briefly stepped outside the dressing room door. She was clad in the peach one-piece outfit.
“Now that outfit is truly exceptional,” the preacher opined.
“What about the model?” Mr. Martin inquired.
“That goes without saying,” the preacher replied.
“Good save,” the nurse responded as she walked back into the dressing room.
“I think she’s saving that blue outfit for your honeymoon,” She Mammy whispered.
The preacher did not reply. He only sighed loudly.
Nurse Bilbrey returned with the two outfits in her arms and said, “Come on, naughty preacher, we’re late for lunch at Miller’s Lake.”
“Indeed,” the preacher said with raised eyebrows as they made their way to the front door.
16: Hard Times
Miller’s Lake was situated on a high meadow between Brotherton Mountain and Jerusalem’s Ridge. It likely had been formed millennia ago by a glacier.
The lake was about 100 acres in size with about two thirds of the shoreline surrounded by woods. It somehow was stocked with fish and, at least some of the year, there was a decent population of wild ducks.
The preacher helped Nurse Bilbrey spread the red gingham tablecloth on the ground and carefully place the contents of Miss Rosie’s picnic basket on it. Years later, in his journal, the preacher would describe the contents as scrumptious.
“We have cookout food: hamburgers and hot dogs,” Nurse Bilbrey remarked.
“And we didn’t even have to cook it,” the preacher said with a chuckle.
While the couple dined, the conversation again turned to the preacher’s past. He was slightly uncomfortable traveling into the past, but he felt that the county nurse deserved some answers.
“Please share with me what happened to your wife,” Nurse Bilbrey inquired.
“She was murdered,” the preacher said bluntly.
“Oh no! What happened?” she asked excitedly.
“After law school I spent three years in Mobile as an assistant U.S. attorney. Gary Simpkins was a special agent with the F.B.I. We worked together prosecuting drug traffickers from South America who were importing large quantities of narcotics into the U.S. and up the Mississippi River,” the preacher explained.
“How did that affect your wife?” the nurse interrupted.
“I’m getting to that. Eventually the leader of the most powerful drug cartel ordered his assassins to target us. We were working late when the criminals set off bombs at our homes. One bomb destroyed Gary’s home, and the other bomb destroyed our home and killed my wife,” the preacher explained.
“Did they ever catch the bomber?” the nurse asked.
“Not that I’m aware of,” the preacher replied.
“Is that why Mr. Simpkins moved to Nashville?” she asked.
“He took a promotion and I went to Vanderbilt Divinity School. We both left our jobs in the southern district of Alabama,” the preacher replied.
“I am so sorry for you,” Nurse Bilbrey said choking back tears.
“Whitehorse decided to continue catching bad men and I decided to, as the Lord said, ‘become a fisher of men,’” the preacher said.
“Are you planning on getting married again in the future?” the county nurse asked.
“You’ve been spending too much time around Jack Wright,” the preacher replied.
“What do you mean?” the nurse asked slightly indignantly.
“I think both of you intend to get your own columns in The Mountain Gazette,” the preacher said with a smile.
“It seems that you should be a politician. You are quite skilled at moving away from one subject to an entirely different one,” the nurse observed.
“What’s our next stop?” the preacher asked as he cleared dishes from the red gingham tablecloth and placed them into the picnic basket.
“We’re going to see a man named Boyd Miller,” Nurse Bilbrey said.
“Is he the owner of Miller’s Lake?” the preacher inquired.
“About 1,000 acres in this high meadow belonged to his great grandfather. He inherited most of it from his father. A couple of families, including Clifton Clowers, bought tracts from his father before he died in 1929,” the nurse explained.
“Tell me what’s special about Boyd Miller,” the preacher asked.
“Let’s drive up that small gravel road for about a half mile and you’ll find out,” the nurse suggested.
The blue Dodge sedan made its way down a small winding dirt road and through a heavily wooded area toward the Miller residence. Once the vehicle exited the woods, the preacher saw acres and acres of all kinds of fruit and vegetable plants. There were patches of melons and even a small tobacco patch.
“How many people live here?” the preacher asked excitedly.
“Just Boyd Miller,” the nurse responded.
“Why in the world does he plant this much?” the preacher asked with an astonished tone.
“Patience, Brother Mann. You’ll soon find out,” the nurse said with a smile.
Boyd Miller had heard the rumble of the vehicle and walked down the porch steps to greet the pair. He was a stocky, balding, late middle-aged man clad in overalls and a long sleeve plaid work shirt. His long underwear shirt was visible beyond his rolled-up shirt sleeves. He had well-worn work shoes on his feet.
“Come in, nurse. I figured it was about time for you to show up,” he said with a smile.
“I’ve got Brother Tom Mann with me today, Mr. Miller,” the nurse said.
“He’s Clifton Clowers’ preacher. He hitched his daughter to that Coca-Cola man,” Mr. Miller observed.
“I guess Ferguson news made the trip to Brotherton Mountain,” the preacher remarked.
“We thought for a week that you were the bull that had been in that pasture,” Boyd Miller said with a hearty chuckle.
“Indeed,” replied the preacher.
“Are you out sparkin’ today?” Mr. Miller asked.
“I’m not sure what you mean by sparkin’,” the preacher said with a puzzled look.
“That newspaper said you and Nurse Bilbrey had a budding romance. I figured you were courtin’ today,” Mr. Miller explained.
“I’m taking him to the mountain today to broaden his horizons,” Nurse Bilbrey said with a smile.
“Preacher, you are a very lucky man,” Mr. Miller remarked.
“So I’ve been told, Mr. Miller,” the preacher replied gently.
“The preacher is interested in why you have so many different plants just for yourself,” Nurse Bilbrey said.
“These aren’t for me, Brother Mann. I raise seed for the farmers’ co-ops in three counties as well as seed for the produce company in Crossville,” Mr. Miller said.
“How did you get into this business?” the preacher inquired.
Mr. Miller looked at the nurse and asked, “He don’t know does he?”
She replied, “No.”
“Preacher, here’s my story: I was a stock broker in New York City in the early 1920s leading up to the crash in October 1929. After that happened, a few of us were charged and convicted with selling unregistered securities and mail and wire fraud. I served five years in the federal prison in Atlanta. The government seized all my property. It was bad. But I was guilty,” Mr. Miller confessed.
“How did you end up here and in the seed business?” the preacher inquired.
“After I got out of jail, I had nothing. This land had belonged to my family before Tennessee became a state. My dad died a few years before I returned, and I inherited the land. I found out that the locals were buying seeds from other states, so I started raising plants and selling seeds for the last few years,” Mr. Miller said.
“How has it worked out for you?” the preacher asked.
“It has exceeded my wildest dreams. I am truly blessed,” the seed merchant explained.
“If you don’t mind me asking, why does Nurse Bilbrey treat you?” the preacher queried.
“I got this situation where I can’t tolerate being around people,” Mr. Miller said.
“He suffers from a moderate degree of agoraphobia,” the nurse interjected.
“Explain that in plain English, please,” the preacher implored.
“Agoraphobia is an anxiety disorder characterized by symptoms of anxiety in situations where the person perceives the situation to be unsafe and without an easy way of escape,” the county nurse explained.
“I can’t stand to be around too many people in unfamiliar places. It took her a year to get me to talk to her,” Mr. Miller remarked.
“Why did you decide to visit with me today?” the preacher inquired.
“Hell, I ain’t afraid of no preacher. He’d be trying to save me from hell and not send me there,” Mr. Miller said with a laugh.
“Have you had any problems lately?” the nurse asked.
“No, but I’ll have some upcoming by cold weather,” he replied.
“What will cause those problems?” the nurse queried.
“I’ll be harvesting and drying my seeds. Men from the farmers co-ops and Lester Produce will be coming up to pick up their seeds for spring planting,” Mr. Miller explained.
“I’ll be back a few times before then. I can bring some medication, if necessary,” the nurse offered.
“Just bring that preacher back around Thanksgiving. He can pray me through that week,” Mr. Miller said with a smile.
“Consider it done, sir,” the preacher promised.
“It’s time for me to get this preacher back to Ferguson before dark,” the nurse said with a smile.
“Why’d that be?” Mr. Miller asked.
“We can’t let folks think that our reported budding romance had started to bloom,” the nurse said tongue-in-cheek.
“But of course,” Mr. Miller said as the preacher gave a slightly stern look toward Nurse Bilbrey.
On the drive back to Ferguson, the preacher was deep in thought about Boyd Miller. He recognized that he had suffered considerably for his misdeeds and that his life had changed drastically from what it had once been. Mr. Miller’s path to redemption made him recall some words from the chorus of an old song named ‘Where Rainbows Never Die’:
“I will make my way across these fields of mine
And wade through muddy water one last time
And in my dreams, I will come out clean
When I reach the other side
Waste away the sunsets
Where rainbows never die.”
* * *
Early the next morning, the preacher decided to leave the meetinghouse and be at Harriman Bank when it opened. In such cases, he would meet Drusilla at the metal door at the rear of the bank and withdraw some cash before she opened the bank for the regular customers.
When Drusilla noticed the preacher, she asked, “Preacher, are you here to make a withdrawal this morning?”
Before he could reply, two young men stepped from the side of the bank to the rear door. They were armed with a handgun and a shotgun.
“We’re here for a large withdrawal,” one of the men said as he motioned the preacher and Drusilla toward the rear bank door. Drusilla screamed and ran from the group just as George Hickman appeared.
The preacher recognized the young men as Josh and Jake Dalton. Their family lived on the other side of Jerusalem’s Ridge toward Kentucky and not far from the Obey River.
“What’s happening? Who are these men? What’s going on?” George Hickman exclaimed.
“I recommend that we have this discussion inside,” the preacher said nodding toward the weapons the two men were holding.
Once the four entered the bank, the robbers forced George Hickman to sit in his desk chair and directed the preacher to take a seat in one of the captain style chairs. One of the robbers positioned himself near the front door while the other kept his pistol pointed toward the banker and the preacher.
“What do you want?” George Hickman asked.
“We want all the cash in that vault,” the robber said.
“You have a problem,” the preacher remarked.
“We got the guns! Looks like you two have the problem,” the other robber exclaimed.
“Let him talk, Jake,” the first robber said.
“The bank vault is locked. Mr. Hickman doesn’t know the combination. It is changed every month by the people at the main office in Harriman, Tennessee. They send a locksmith to reset the combination and give the new numbers to Drusilla,” the preacher explained.
“Well, that little fat, bald banker will know the right numbers,” Jake Dalton explained.
“The truth is: he’s too lazy to keep up with the numbers and relies solely on Drusilla,” the preacher replied.
/> “What if I stick this pistol to your head and blow your brains out? Do you think his memory would start working?” Josh Dalton asked angrily.
“You’d only be adding a murder charge to an armed bank robbery charge. You’d turn an eight-year sentence into a trip to the electric chair for both of you,” the preacher responded.
“I may just put a bullet in you for the sheer joy of it,” Jake Dalton said.
“I’m ready to meet the Maker. I don’t think either of you are,” the preacher remarked.
“Old Man, you’re going to open that vault, or I’ll shoot this preacher,” Josh Dalton threatened.
“You can kill or wound the preacher. You can kill or wound me. The only person in Ferguson that can open that vault is the girl that you scared away this morning,” George Hickman stated firmly.
“Josh, we got problems. Two car loads of lawmen just showed up,” Jake Dalton exclaimed.
“It’s Sheriff Hankins and a bunch of deputies,” Josh said as he peered through the bars of the bank’s front windows.
“The fun hasn’t begun yet,” the preacher opined.
“Why do you say that?” Josh Dalton asked.
“This is a federally chartered bank. You have committed a federal crime. Within two hours federal marshals from Nashville will be here with their sharpshooters,” the preacher said.
“What do you think will happen?” Jake Dalton asked with a slight tremble to his voice.
“The feds will attempt to negotiate your surrender. If that fails, the sharpshooters will try to take you out. If that doesn’t seem possible, the federal marshals will crash through the front and back doors with guns blazing,” the preacher opined.
“They’ll kill you, too,” Josh Dalton said.
“It’s a calculated risk. But it’s likely we could be wounded or killed, too,” the preacher said nodding toward George Harriman.
“Josh let’s get the hell out of here,” Jake Dalton pleaded.
“That’s a bad idea. The deputies have taken strategic positions around the bank. Unless it’s a total unarmed surrender, you will be shot and killed,” the preacher said.
“You’re so damned smart so what do you recommend, preacher?” Josh Dalton asked sarcastically.
“I have an idea that may get you out of this bank safely and ahead of the law. But George Hickman will have to agree to help and then feign ignorance of what happened,” the preacher stated.