Baptists at Our Barbecue, page 4
“Dumb Joseph Smith lover!”
I raised my head high and started walking toward him.
Rich quickly started to roll up his window. His arm was flying like crazy as he pumped that sheet of glass into the up position. I had called his bluff—exactly what he hadn’t wanted. With his window closed Rich hung his head and tried to look as though he were sleeping.
I was a lot smarter.
I turned and walked away from him. I could hear Rich now, telling his friends about how he faked me out by acting like he was asleep. I didn’t care, and more importantly I didn’t want to do anything that would rip this town even further apart.
I was reaching for my truck door when something hit me in the back of the head. I turned around just as Rich’s empty beer can rattled to a stop against the asphalt. I had been assaulted by an empty container of Bud.
This was war.
Before I could join the battle, however, Bob pulled up behind Rich’s truck. The lights on Bob’s patrol car were blinking wildly, and he stepped out of his car with such an exaggerated air of authority that I almost laughed.
“I’ll take care of this, Tartan,” Bob said, holding his hand up to signal me to stop.
Bob pulled out his ticket book and riffled through it, flipping to the right page.
“We have laws against littering,” he said sternly to Rich.
Rich slumped down in his seat.
“I’ll tell you what, though, if you promise to stop throwing your beer cans around, I’ll write you up for loitering instead. The fine’s less.” Bob started to scratch away in his book.
Good old Bob. I would come to find out that he didn’t ever have the heart to give people the punishment they truly deserved. Heck, he probably knew that Rich had been out of work for a while and couldn’t afford too many monetary surprises such as tickets. So, as usual, he cut him some slack and ticketed him for a cheaper infraction of the law. I heard from Fred later that it was the same with everyone else. No one in Longwinded ever got a ticket for the crime they had actually committed. Bob was just too soft.
“Thanks, Bob,” I said, waving at him and getting into my truck. The two dogs wagged their tails, happy I had returned.
“No problem,” Bob said.
I watched Bob pull out a box of freezer strength Ziplock bags from his patrol car. He ripped out a single bag and stretched it open. He then picked up the discarded beer can and dropped it in the bag.
Bob sealed the bag and then started to wave it in Rich’s face. “See this? See this?! This is Longwinded’s greatest foe—trash.”
How true, I thought cynically
As I pulled away I could hear Rich trying to tell Bob about how Mormons, not trash, were Longwinded’s greatest foe. I had made an enemy in Longwinded. And Rich Paddlefin was not one to forgive and forget. He had more of a tendency to vaguely remember and attempt to repay.
* * * * *
Martin loved the dog. He named him Rex, after some heroic grandfather of his. I named mine Albert, confident that there had to be some heroic Alberts out there somewhere.
Later that night as I was lying in bed I got a call over my radio from Rich.
“This is Forty-nine, over,” I answered.
“You stinking Mormon,” a male voice slurred at the other end.
“Is that you, Rich?” I asked.
He seemed thrown off by my question. I could almost hear him trying to think something up.
“Maybe,” he said, confused.
“Rich, go to bed,” I said authoritatively.
“Mormons are deceived,” I heard him say as I clicked off.
Rich made me uneasy for some reason—he seemed just dumb enough to worry about. Who knows what a person with his intellect was capable of by virtue of never thinking a thing through first.
I crawled into bed, thinking back fondly of Provo and the people I knew there. The closest thing to Rich we had there was Mr. Scarp. He was a neighbor who lived a couple of houses down who was convinced that all Mormons had at least three hidden wives. His theory was that we Mormons used food storage as a front for building big pantries in which to keep our secret wives. I almost missed Mr. Scarp.
I rolled over, letting sleep cloud my mind and lift me above the mentally inbred shackles of my new home.
Chapter Nine
Charity Doth Not Behave Herself
There wasn’t much time. Charity moved as quickly as she could. Howard would be here any second now and for what she had in mind, timing was everything. She threw the silver framed pictures and countless mementos into the large box. If Howard wanted his things back she would give him everything. Charity tore through the closet, picking out shirts that he had let her borrow, or given her, at some point past and threw them in. This felt right. She dug through her CDs, pulling out his as well as those with anything that had any memory or song attached to him. She found letters he had sent and cards he had given. Charity stopped for a second to let the emotions of the past wash over her. She hated the feeling. She rummaged wildly through her drawers, spotting the bracelet Howard had given her on her last birthday. She took great pleasure in tossing it into the mix. The box was now piled high with tokens and trinkets of a once great love. Charity stared at it for a moment, allowing the thoughts in her head to push her further. The box lacked something.
Charity ran to the bathroom and brought back two huge bottles of shampoo and a full tube of toothpaste. She took great care in emptying their contents over everything. She then stared at the mess. Something was still lacking. A car door slammed outside and she knew that Howard had arrived. She suddenly realized what was missing. She pulled her engagement ring out from her desk and flung it into the goo-filled box. Perfect. She then picked up the entire thing and walked to her bedroom window. With the second story window open she called out Howard’s name and saw him look up and wander over.
He called up toward her, “Charity, I hope you won’t make—”
Howard never finished his sentence—unless, you consider screaming a proper way of signing off.
Charity’s aim had been true.
It was the last time she saw Howard for quite some time.
Chapter Ten
“Welcome, Welcome, Sabbath Morning”
I put on the only nice shirt I owned and wrapped a tie around my neck. I attempted to wipe off my shoes, to give them the appearance of being clean. My pants were now highwaters thanks to washing them in water that had been a tad too hot. For some reason I imagined that floods might make me fit in a little better at church.
Fern’s directions were adequate, and I found the house the Mormons held church in with no problem. It was a nice, large log home, most likely one of those premade houses that arrived like a giant set of Lincoln Logs, requiring only that you stack them correctly. They had been stacked beautifully. Small flower gardens dotted the entrance, and a brass sign that read “God’s Bungalow” hung above the huge front door.
For some reason, people were coming out of the large log home and getting back into their cars.
People looked at me funny as I jumped out of my truck and walked up to the door. I stopped a young mother who was holding two children.
“Is church over?” I asked.
“You could say that. It’s been canceled.”
“Canceled?” I asked, confused.
“President Wingate wants nothing to do with the Church anymore. He’s finally had his fill.” She said this as if it were something everyone had expected.
“What?” I asked, even though I understood every word she had said.
“We’ll have to hold church somewhere else.”
The young mother took her two kids and hiked off to her dusty station wagon. I stood there in the doorway unsure of what to do next.
“You best be going,” a lady’s voice told me.
I turned to find the librarian, Sister Wingate.
“Sister Wingate.”
“Maybe not for long,” she said coldly.
“You’re the branch president’s wife?” I asked.
“Former branch president.”
“I had no idea,” I said. “You didn’t tell me that your husband was—”
“Unlike so many these days,” she said, cutting me off, “I have enough spiritual modesty to not run around bragging about my husband’s position.”
Spiritual modesty?
“No, I—” I started to say.
“Mister Jones, I am in no mood to stand around talking to you or any of the hypocritical, so-called Saints in this town. So if you could please just leave us alone.”
“Well, where should I go?” I asked. “Will they be holding church someplace else?”
“No structure big enough. Now be on your way,” she said, shooing me as if I were a stray dog with mange.
“Sister Wingate,” I reasoned.
“Mister Jones,” she said with an air of finality.
I turned to walk away.
“Books are due back at the library a week from Monday,” she added.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Business, Mr. Jones, business.” She then slammed the door on any further conversation.
I stood by my truck for a few minutes trying to sort things out. All the cars that had been here earlier were now gone, and I stood alone beside the gravel road.
“This stinks,” I said aloud.
A small car turned onto the road and approached me fast. It slowed down and stopped next to me. A young man about my age with freckled skin and thinning hair rolled down the window.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Tartan Jones.”
“The forest ranger?”
“That’s me.”
“Where is everybody, Mr. Tartan Jones?”
“They all took off. I guess President Wingate threw them out.”
“The old boy finally did it,” he said with a slight smile. “Been threatening to, you know. When they made him branch president everyone knew that it was just because he had a house big enough to hold us. Heck, President Wingate said no at first. Don’t know why he finally accepted. Lot of rumors as to the reason.”
“I can imagine.”
“Not a bad guy, just sort of confused. Not a bad president either, just too proud to conform.”
“Conform to what?” I asked.
“We Mormons haven’t sung hymns in our meetings for years, since singing is sort of a Baptist thing.”
“No hymns?” I asked.
“Not a one. Sister Moore was caught humming ‘Love One Another’ a few months back, and the Booth family almost lynched her. Wasn’t pretty.”
“Tough branch.”
“We’ve gotten better. In fact a couple of weeks ago Church headquarters sent a letter calling us to repentance and asking us to please start singing hymns again. So we voted on it. I don’t know if we all had soft hearts that day or if it was our anticipation of the potluck lunch after church. Either way we voted for hymns again. President Wingate wasn’t happy about our decision.
“But we stuck with it, realizing just how stupid we had been and looking forward to singing once again. ’Course we didn’t have any hymn books—burned them all at the Pinewood Derby a few years back. So Sister Lynn made photocopies of ‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.’ She found a copy of it in the public library in the complete works of Longfellow. So we all had copies of that one song, the original version with all seven stanzas. We didn’t care, it just felt so great to sing again. We’ve sung that song twice each meeting for the last couple of weeks. We tried to come up with some other songs, but then people would argue over the words or the tune. So we stuck to ‘I Heard the Bells.’ No one minded except President Wingate. Blew up a week ago at the beginning of our meeting. Swore that if he ever heard that song again he would leave the Church. Problem was that at the end of the meeting we had nothing else to sing. So . . . ”
“He’s leaving the Church because of a song?”
“Because of a song sung over and over. He said he was done, but none of us believed him.”
“What will happen?”
“I’m sure Sister Lynn will know what to do. Everyone’s probably gone over there.”
* * * * *
I followed the tiny car to a small stucco home that was about five miles out of town. There were twelve or thirteen cars parked outside and people spilling out of the windows and doors of the house.
I parked and strode up to the door, somewhat uncertain of what to do. The guy with the freckles cut me off before I got to the house.
“Did I tell you I was Chad?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m Chad.”
“And whose house is this?”
“Sister Lynn’s. She’s great.”
I walked into the house and all eyes focused on me. I adjusted my tie out of nervousness and waved a shy “Hi.” A tall lady with really big hair approached me. She was in her late forties and looked to me like a “Sister Lynn.”
“You must be the tiebreaker.”
“I think I am.”
“Well, normally we Mormons aren’t so disheveled. But we’ve had a little situation today.”
“I heard.”
Attention was quickly diverted from me.
“What do we do?” an unknown voice spoke up. “We’ve got nowhere to go.”
Sister Lynn turned from me and held up her hands. “Think of the pioneers,” she offered.
There was a small pause while everyone conjured up their idea of pioneers in their heads.
“Let’s call Salt Lake,” someone offered.
“Yeah, they’ve been promising us a building for years, and I say this is the perfect time to finally get it,” someone suggested.
“What if they won’t?” asked the young mother I had talked to earlier.
“Do you think President Wingate might change his mind?” I asked.
They all stared at me as if I were crazy.
“Call Salt Lake,” someone yelled.
Sister Lynn picked up her portable phone and set it in the lap of a rather old gentleman who had up to this point remained silent.
“Who’s he?” I whispered to Chad.
“That’s Heber. He used to be quite chummy with the prophet. Still has some pull with the Church leaders.”
Heber looked old enough to have personally known every latter-day prophet since Joseph Smith. He had an oxygen tank by his side and was breathing shallowly through the plastic tubes that connected him to it.
“Heber, will you?” Sister Lynn asked.
Heber’s head shook and then sort of fell to the side—I guess it was a yes.
Sister Lynn wheeled him into her bedroom and shut the door behind him. I suppose he needed some privacy. Everyone huddled into small cliques to discuss what they thought the outcome would be. Then we all gathered and compared ideas. I tried to be as involved as possible but felt for some reason that this wasn’t really my fight. I mean, I was the new kid in the area. I was also occupied with checking out every person there.
The members were surprisingly normal looking. There were a lot more women then men in attendance, I figured the branch was home to a lot of inactive husbands. An older lady kept looking at me and eventually slid up behind me. She tugged on my sleeve to get my attention. I leaned closer to hear her whisper.
“Is it true that you’re single?”
“Guilty,” I said nervously.
“Well I’m Sister Christianson, and even though I’m certain fate would throw you two together sooner or later, I feel a need to help it along. See my daughter over there, blue dress, red hair?” she asked pointing.
Heaven help me.
“That’s Wendy. Pretty as a jewel,” she said reflectively. “Not many people to date here in Longwinded; in fact Wendy has only been out two times. She’s eighteen, but could easily pass for twenty wouldn’t you say?”
I nodded.
“And this small town has helped her keep her virtue intact. Priceless bonus, wouldn’t you agree?”
I started looking around the room for a way out.
“Wouldn’t you agree?” she asked again.
“Oh, yes. Too bad I’m so old,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll make someone a good wife.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“That’s nothing. Her great grandfather was sixty-two when he married a seventeen-year-old.” She said as if this settled things.
“I think it would be best—” I started to say. Before I could finish my sentence, Sister Lynn started calling everyone together for a prayer.
Chad offered a nice prayer asking for a new building and listing all the many sacrifices they had made on their journey to get one. When the prayer was finished, Heber was still in the other room on the phone—things looked good.
I had pulled away from Sister Christianson and was now trying very hard to keep us separated by at least half the room. Most of the members avoided making eye contact with me. But I discovered that as soon as I introduced myself to them, they would warm up and start chattering away. They were nice people—peculiar, just like all other Mormons, but still characteristically nice. I found out that the lady with the two kids was Sister Phoebe North. Her husband drove truck and was gone a majority of the time. Her twins, Daniel and Zeke, were the limpest looking things I had ever seen. They lay on her like wilted lettuce.
I walked around Sister Lynn’s house by myself, looking at all the pictures on the wall. There was a great sense of anticipation in the air. Heber had been on the phone for a long time now. Every minute longer was like another confirmation of the building we all constructed in our minds. A couple of people had even drawn pictures of what they envisioned the new building was going to look like. Their renditions were now being passed around.
I was looking at a photograph of Sister Lynn on a horse, when she came up behind me.
“You know when Bob first told me Clark’s replacement was a Mormon I almost flipped,” she said. “It will be nice to be in the majority again. Although I must say that I personally hold no grudges against the Baptists here. What an odd town, don’t you think?”
“It has its eccentricities.”
