The Miracle, page 26
“I’d like to have one all the same, Delilah.”
“Them new-fangled inventions ain’t gonna do nobody no good. If these solid irons was good enough for my mammy, they’re good enough for them women today. They’s jist too lazy to work, that’s what there problem is.”
Lanie had learned long ago that it was useless to argue with Delilah Jones. She had a will as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar, and as far as anyone could figure out, the last time she had changed her mind it had been another century. “I’ve got to go get Doctor Merritt, Delilah. Aunt Kezia isn’t any better. You take care of her and Corliss.”
Delilah put the iron down on one of Davis’ shirts and quickly smoothed the wrinkles out. She quickly lifted the iron before it could scorch the material and looked up saying aggressively, “I reckon we could pray her through, Miss Lanie. I could get the deacons of our church to come and that preacher of mine. We could anoint her with oil.”
“Well, we may could do that, Delilah,” Lanie smiled, “but, first of all, we’ve got to get that awful medicine she orders by mail. I’m hoping she’ll listen to Doctor Merritt.”
“She ain’t gonna listen to nobody,” Delilah said vigorously. “She’s stubborn as a blue-nosed mule.”
And so are you , Lanie wanted to reply but did not. Delilah Jones had been the Freeman’s strong anchor ever since the death of their mother. Lanie had been only fourteen at that time and had been forced to take over the raising of her younger brothers and sisters. With the Depression at its worst, they could not afford much, and Delilah Jones had come day after day and year after year to throw herself into the lives of the Freeman children. Lanie loved her dearly and going over, she hugged the big woman’s shoulders. “You’re a treasure, Delilah. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
“I don’t know neither. Now you go on and git that doctor. We’ll let him try his thing, and then when that don’t work, we’ll let the good Lord have His way. I knows that’ ll work!”
Lanie left the house and turned toward town. The old Freeman home place was composed of five acres, all that was left of a large plantation that had belonged to Forrest’s great grandparents. It was all gone now. Sold off to make city lots, most of it, and as she hurried along, Lanie wondered what it had been like back in the days when this was all open fields with no town at all except a general store.
Turning left on Stonewall Jackson Boulevard, she made her way hurriedly through the town. It was familiar enough to her, for it was the only town she’d ever known. She passed the library where Cassandra Sue Pruitt, the librarian, waved to her, then turning right on Robert E. Lee Street, she passed the Rialto Theater and Planter’s Bank directly across the street.
She arrived at the office of Doctor Oscar Givens and entered at once. A short stocky woman with her hair done up in a Pentecostal bun looked up. “Hello, Lanie.”
“Hello, Nurse Pickens. I’d like to see Doctor Merritt, please.”
“He’s not here. He’s gone down to get lunch, at least so he said. What he really likes to do is go down and listen to the gossip at the Dew Drop Inn. Who’s sick?”
Lanie knew that she could get a full diagnosis from Nurse Pick-ens but did not want to get into that. The woman had served old Doctor Givens for at least thirty years and knew the ailment of every citizen of the county. “Aunt Kezia’s not feeling well, but I’ll go find Doctor Merritt.”
“You tell him to bring me back Sister Myrtle’s special. It’s greens and fried pork chops — and bring me a piece of pie. Whatever she made today.”
“I’ll tell him, Nurse Pickens.”
The Dew Drop Inn, being the only café in Fairhope, did a brisk business. It was pinched in between the barber shop run by Deoin Jinks and Gerald Pink’s pharmacy. The parking spaces were all taken, as usual, around the Dew Drop Inn, for it was the social center of the town, almost as popular as Bud Thompson’s Pool Hall.
Sister Myrtle Poindexter exited from the kitchen carrying two plates burdened down with food. Sister Myrtle was pastor of the Fire Baptized Pentecostal Church. She was a tall, angular woman with sharp brown eyes and her hair done up in a huge bun. She always wore dark clothing, sleeves down to her wrists and no jewelry except for a simple wedding band.
Charley Poindexter, Sister Myrtle’s husband, was a short chunky man of few words. This was just as well since Sister Myrtle had enough words for both of them! They had, however, a sound marriage having raised six children all of them turning out well.
The Ministerial Alliance of Fairhope was meeting at the Dew Drop Inn for lunch as they did every Monday at noon. Sister Myrtle did not even bother to take orders. They took the special or there was an argument. None of the preachers ever dared to order anything except the special. The plates were piled high with pork chops, collard greens, squash, corn on the cob, and in the middle of the table was a huge platter of cornbread.
Sister Myrtle slammed the plate down in front of Roy Jefferson, the Episcopal priest, and glared down at him. She had a running feud going with the priest about the collar that he wore. “I’ve told you before, preacher, Jesus didn’t wear no collar like that.”
Jefferson looked up. “I don’t expect he wore any kind of collar at all.”
“Then why do you have to wear one?”
“It’s just tradition among our church folks, Sister Myrtle. Now please don’t start on me.”
But Sister Myrtle plunked down a plate heaping with food in front of Ellis Burke, the Methodist preacher, and turned her guns on Reverend Jefferson. “You’ve got to make Carl Spivey go to work, preacher.”
It was difficult to have a ministerial alliance meeting at the Dew Drop Inn, for Sister Myrtle knew every member of every man’s congregation (including all their shortcomings!) and did not hesitate to bring them up in an open forum.
“I don’t know how I could do that, sister.”
“He lets that poor wife of his do all the work. He’s a lazy bum.”
“He claims he’s got a bad back,” Jefferson protested.
“You bring him by our church, and we’ll anoint him and get him healed. But it ain’t his back. He’s just lazy. All them Spivey men are lazy.”
Jefferson caved in and nodded in surrender. “I’ll have a word with him, Sister.”
Ellison Burke, the Methodist pastor, was a small man with sharp, intellectual features. He was grinning at Roy Jefferson when suddenly Sister Myrtle turned to face him. “What are you going to do about that Bowden girl?”
“You mean Alice?”
“How many Bowden girls you got?”
“Well, I guess she’s the only one, Sister Myrtle. What’s she done now?”
“You need to keep up with your sheep, preacher. She went over to Fort Smith with Aaron Dutton. He’s no good, and he’s going to get that girl in trouble. I think you got to jerk a knot in her and get her straightened out.”
“I don’t see I could do that.”
“Well, the Apostle Paul would have did it! That girl’s trying to be one of them flappers.”
“I don’t expect she means any harm.”
“She wears ear screws. That’s flat against the Bible, and you know it!”
“Where is that in the Bible?”
“I ain’t got time for no theology lesson. You come by when this meeting’s over, and I’ll show you. But you’ve got to stop that girl before she goes plum down the wrong road.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Sister Myrtle whirled and disappeared back in the kitchen. She came back almost instantly with two more platters. She put one of them down in front of the Presbyterian pastor, Alex Digby. She opened her mouth but before she could speak Reverend Digby said, “Now don’t you start on me, Sister Myrtle. I know some of my flock needs to be chastised, and I’ll send them over for some of your sermon.”
“Good! I’ll give them a sizzling, red-hot dose of Gospel.”
“I’m sure they’ll profit by it.”
Myrtle stared down at the plate of food and then at the rotund figure of Reverend Digby who was not pleasingly plump but was downright overweight. “I’ve got a word for you from the Lord.”
Laughter went around the table, and all the ministers kept their eyes on Sister Myrtle. She always had a word of the Lord for all of them, and Alex Digby flushed. “I don’t think I want to hear it.”
“Well, you’re going to. You need to fast, my brother. You’re digging your grave with that fork.”
Colin Ryan, the interim pastor of the Baptist Church, was the youngest of the preachers at the meeting. He was twenty-six years old with black hair, dark blue eyes, a widow’s peak and a cleft chin. “Do you suppose we could just have the blessing and eat without the theology? These meetings always make me hungry.”
Sister Myrtle suddenly laughed. She had a fondness in her heart for the young preacher who was anything but a typical Baptist. He often visited Sister Myrtle’s church and was as loud with his “Amens”and “Praise the Lords” as any of her own flock. “You fly right at it, Brother Colin. You Baptists eat better than you do anything else anyhow.”
Father Horatio Bates, the Catholic priest, always dreaded these meetings at the Dew Drop Inn. It humiliated him, somehow, that Sister Myrtle Poindexter knew at least as much of the doings of his flock as he himself knew. He bowed his head and said quickly, “Let’s have the blessing.”
“I’ll ask it myself. I ain’t sure any of you preachers are in fit spiritual condition to be thanking the Lord anyways,” Sister Myrtle said. She prayed in a loud, strident voice as if she wanted the people across the street to hear her. She put in not just a thanks for the preachers and their churches but for every item of food on the table.
Finally, as it went on and on, Colin Ryan broke in and said, “While Sister Myrtle finishes her prayer why don’t we go ahead and eat.”
A laughter went around the table, and Doctor Merritt, who was sitting at a separate table with the Sheriff Pardue Jessup, whispered, “I like this place, Pardue. You can get your stomach filled and your spiritual needs met.”
Sister Myrtle whirled for she had excellent hearing. “I heard that.
You missed the last two ser vices at church, Doctor Owen Merritt.
You’re downright backslid.”
“Well, I guess I may be, Sister Myrtle.”
Sister Myrtle came over and stared down at the two men, both of them fine-looking and in their early thirties. Owen Merritt was six feet tall, lean with crisp brown hair and warm brown eyes. Pardue Jessup, one year short of thirty, was even taller. He had hair black as a raven’s wing, dark eyes, and rough good looks. He was the target of many of the single women. He and Owen Merritt were the prime bachelors of Fairhope. Sister Myrtle looked down at them and said nothing, and finally Jessup grew nervous. “What’s wrong now? You want to preach at me about my sins?”
“Well, you need it, Pardue.”
“What have I done now?”
“It ain’t what you’ve done. It’s what you ain’t done. It’s agin Scripture for a man not to take a wife, and you two need to be thinking on that seriously. As a matter of fact, I’ve got me a list. I’ve been thinking about the widows in our church who need husbands.”
“We’ve got two or three of those in our congregation,” Alex Digby said, “and I think Sister Myrtle is right. You two need to get yourselves married.”
“That’s right. You ought to be just as miserable as the rest of us,”
Aaron Burke said, humor glimmering in his eyes.
The meal continued with Sister Myrtle dispensing food and theology liberally. She looked up when Lanie came in and said, “Well, Sister Lanie, you come to get a bite to eat?”
“No, not this time, Sister Myrtle.” She moved over and said, “Owen, Aunt Kezia’s not well. Could you come and see her?”
“Why, we’ll take this whole bunch of preachers over there,” Sister Myrtle said. “We’ll pray her well.”
“Well, who’ll feed the people of Fairhope?” Alex Digby grinned.
“Let them fast. They need it.”
“Let’s try Doctor Merritt first, Sister, and Doctor Merritt, Miss Bertha says for you to bring her one of the specials and a piece of pie.”
Sister Myrtle scurried around and got the pie and brought it in covered with a clean cloth. She gave it to Lanie and said, “I’ll be praying for Kezia. That’s one fine woman.”
Lanie smiled. “Thank you,” and left with Owen Merritt.
As soon as the two were out the door, the gossip started. “That young woman’s got three men on the string,” Sister Myrtle said. “She’s a sweet thing, but she don’t know much about men.”
“Which three is that?” Father Horatio Bates asked curiously.
“You don’t keep up with this town much, do you, preacher?” She refused to call him Father for the Bible said, “Call no man on this earth your Father.” “She’s got Roger Langley downright silly over her.”
“That’s right. Owen Merritt’s struck on her too,” Reverend Jefferson said. “That’d be a good marriage even though he’s older than she is.”
“Well, she ain’t doing herself no good running around with that Brent Hayden, that writer fellow.”
“I’m sure it’s all innocent. She doesn’t have anybody to talk to about her writing,” Colin Ryan said.
Charley Poindexter came out wiping his hands on his apron. He spoke little, but now he said in a high, tenor voice, “You watch what I tell you. That girl won’t marry nobody until she gets her pa out of prison.”
A silence fell on the group, and finally Sister Myrtle said, “I reckon you’re right about that, husband. She’s a fine girl with a strong sense of duty. I wish there was more like her in this town.” Sister Myrtle turned and said, “Now, I got a list of Scriptures for your preachers to work into your sermons. Some of them women in your congregation are wearing their skirts all the way up to their knees. I want you to hit that hard, do you hear me?”
As Lanie and Owen walked back toward his office, Owen was grinning. “You can always get any kind of words you need from Sister Myrtle.”
“I like her so much.”
“Well, I have one bit of good news. I got a letter from my brother in L.A.”
“The policeman there?”
“He’s a detective. He says he’s got everybody looking for Thelma Mays.”
Thelma Mays was a witness that never testified during Lanie’s father’s trial. Owen looked down at the young woman with admiration. She had pride that he appreciated. He was also aware of the supple lines of her body and remembered the young girl that she had been when he had first met her. She was almost serene in her composure, and her face lightened and grew prettier as he watched her. Her features were quick to express her thoughts and laughter and love of life seemed to lie behind her eyes and lips waiting for some kind of release.
“I’m glad I’ve been able to help,” he said. “I’ll send the medicine out.”
“Thank you, Owen.”
The autumn air was cold in the hills of the Ozarks, and Lanie shivered as she pulled on the flannel nightgown that came all the way down to her feet. She put on a pair of wool-lined shoes and sat down and began to work on a poem. She had been writing poems about the life of Jesus and the people that met Him while He was on earth, and she had been thinking about the rich, young ruler, and now she sat there for ten minutes finishing it up. She put her pen down and then read the poem aloud:
Seeing you, my son, standing all alone
In growing dusk, is more than I can bear.
Your heart is heavy — yet you must prepare
To live life as a man, without a moan:
Every day for weeks you’ve gone to where
The Nazarene with his glowing eyes
Entrances you — why, even now you stare
As if you’d caught a glimpse of paradise.
Paradise? No, Mot her, be content;
This very day I chose to live, not die.
The Rabbi’s price for heaven is too high.
This solid earth must be my element.
Sell all he said — but when I pass ed him by
A tear of purest rain shone in his eye.
The poem did not please her completely, but her poetry rarely did. She put the notebook aside, then took up the journal and dated it August 3, 1932, and began writing quickly. Cap’n Brown, her cat, had leaped up on the bed and snuggled up close to her. Lanie rubbed Cap’n Brown’s head then wrote:
I was mean to Owen tonight. He tried to talk to me about how people are gossiping about how I go to see Brent Hayden, and I lost my temper. I was sorry as soon as I snapped at him. I know I hurt his feelings, and I feel just awful about it.
It seems strange that here I am eighteen-years-old and a lot of my girlfriends that I grew up with are married — and I’m not. Roger’s asked me to marry him, but I can’t do it. About Owen, I guess I’ve been in love with him for years. I thought at first it was just a little girl admiration of a man that had done so much for our family, but I think it’s more than that now. I don’t know how to say it. And, of course, Brent. He’s helped me so much with my writing, helped me to win the national contest, and he’s the only one I can really talk to about writing.
She suddenly paused and shook her head fiercely then wrote:
I can’t think about a home and a husband and children — not until daddy’s out of that awful place!
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