Authors: Judy Christie
The crossroads appeared quickly. The Jot ’Em Down Grocery's hand-lettered sign read: “Hardware, Plate Lunches, Bait.” The store's hours sign said, “Monday–Saturday, 11:30 Till It's Gone,” and I wondered if that meant the plate lunches or the bait. A note on the door said, “Closed Sundays for Church. God's Service Is Better Than Ours.”
Pulling away from the store, I saw the monument and laughed out loud. There, at the crossroads, across from the hardware, lunch, and bait store was a majestic marble statue with a Greek goddess figure holding her arms straight out with a giant bug in her hands. This was a “copy of a figure someone had seen while visiting kinfolks in Alabama,” according to Aunt Helen's history of the paper. “Green residents built it as a thank you to the insect for forcing us to quit being so dependent on cotton.”
I got out, took a picture on my cell phone, and sent it to Marti with a message that said, “Welcome to my world.”
Apparently, this was the main street of an old community, with a monument to a boll weevil, a grocery store that sold night crawlers and home cooking, one house, and a dilapidated church that was so overgrown, even in winter, you could hardly see it.
After about a quarter of a mile, though, things began to look familiar. I was on Route 2, right in front of the house I was scheduled to move into if my furniture ever arrived. I turned into the driveway and sat for a few minutes. It only looked slightly better today than I remembered. The porch and roof had some interesting lines, details I had not noticed before, but the yard was huge and needed work.
Oh well. I could live anywhere for a year.
Backing out, not expecting anyone for miles, I nearly ran into an old pickup, driven by the guy from the ponds. He waved. I waved back and fell in behind him until he turned into the mobile home near the church. So those were the dogs Iris Jo used in her directions to my house.
A trickle of cars pulled into the little Grace Community Chapel parking lot, and I realized it was fifteen minutes till church started. I turned at the sign that said, “Exercise daily. Walk with the Lord.” Admittedly, I would have done just about anything to avoid going back to that motel or to the newspaper.
As soon as I pulled in, I nearly turned around and pulled out. I wasn’t dressed for church. I didn’t go to church. I didn’t want to talk to these people. I knew what would happen if I walked in. They would see a visitor, and they would pounce, sort of like fresh meat to a lion on the prowl. Before it was over, I’d be invited to a potluck lunch, and they’d try to sign me up for a committee.
As I put the car in reverse, a smiling woman made eye contact and waved. It was Iris Jo. “Hey, Lois, good to have you here,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
Like it or not, I was going in.
My employee wore church clothes with a nice navy blue jacket. I had on wrinkled khakis and a wool sweater with a canvas green coat. While I was generally happy with my tall, slender appearance, my sense of style lacked something today. Even my cute casual shoes were caked with mud.
“Well, I was just out exploring and decided to stop in. Pastor Jean helped me with my flat the other day and invited me. I thought it might be good to get to know some people in the community.”
That had not been my intention at all, but now that I was here, I might as well make it look like I had planned it. “I hope it's okay that I’m wearing casual clothes.”
I gestured at my sloppy gear, and Iris Jo dismissed my concern immediately.
“Not a problem,” she said. “We’re a casual country church. No dress code. You can even wear flip-flops in the summer. Look, I’ve got to run. I sing in the choir, and we usually have a quick practice. Just make yourself at home.” She turned around, smiling again. “You don’t sing, do you?”
“Good grief, no,” I said. “I have not an ounce of singing talent.” I was not being falsely modest.
“Oh, well, make a joyful noise,” she said, and off she went, animated in a way I had not noticed in our few encounters at the paper. She struck me as a quiet woman, almost pensive, much of the time.
I stood out like a sore thumb at Grace Community.
No matter what Iris Jo said, people did dress up for church, at least in skirts or nice slacks. A few of the older women had on dresses. Most of the men wore ties.
The service opened with a talkative prayer request session, including updates on members who apparently had been absent for a while. “Does anyone know how Herman is?” Pastor Jean asked. A man in work pants and a white shirt raised his hand and said, “They did that defibrillator thing Monday. I think he's home now.” From Herman they moved to an update on Samantha, a thirteen-month-old with cancer, and a quick report on Althea's boys who both were in the military in the Middle East.
“I’ve got a praise report,” another woman said. “My Daddy's doing much better since they found out he was doubling up on his pain medication. He’ll be able to go back to the nursing home this coming week.” Folks nodded and said, “Praise God” and things like that, surprising me somewhat. They seemed a pretty somber bunch.
“Katy, good to see you back with us today,” Pastor Jean said, with a warm smile, and I was shocked to see she was talking to the girl in the pink coat with the fake fur trim. The girl had her arms wrapped tight around her. She did not respond to the pastor's comments, staring right at her, and a middle-aged woman next to her patted her on the shoulder.
I don’t know why her presence surprised me. I guess that I generally didn’t think of cigarette-smoking teenagers as churchgoers. And Pastor Jean had welcomed her back. I wonder where she had been? Living with her dad maybe? Off at a drug rehab center?
I began the game of trying to figure out the situation with scarcely any information, but finally gave up and decided to ask Iris Jo.
From prayer time, we moved into a brief welcome and announcements session. I knew my presence would not go uncommented upon. “Anyone have any guests today?” Jean asked, and Iris Jo stood up. “I’m happy to introduce Miss Lois Barker, soon to be our neighbor on Route 2 and new owner of
The Green News-Item.
”
“Stand up, Miss Lois,” someone down the pew said. I obediently rose and did a wave, sort of like you might do in a convertible during a parade.
Pastor Jean looked a bit surprised and smiled. “Welcome, Lois. I didn’t know you’d be here today. Good to see you.”
People clapped, and so I was introduced to Green's faithful, or at least this little flock of them.
The congregation was very small. I counted thirty-four worshippers, plus the nine people in the choir. A middle-aged woman playing the piano was also the choir director, and one time she got started on the wrong hymn and laughed and started over. “Sorry, I thought we were doing another song.” She did not seem to take things too seriously. This same woman told the congregation, “Now it's a new year, and I want every one of you to sing a solo this year. I mean everybody. Just see me after church.” People said “amen” like they thought it was a good idea.
Pastor Jean wore a pair of dangly earrings that kept bumping her little microphone, making a thump every time she moved her head, but she didn’t appear to notice. She read the passage from the book of James she had mentioned to me the day I had the flat, and then said a quick prayer. “Dear God, please give me wisdom to lead your church and to speak your words. Use me to do Thy work, and forgive me for the many ways in which I fall short.”
My mind drifted as she spoke, and I began to write a new to-do list for the week ahead on my bulletin, looking up occasionally as though I took notes on the sermon. I noticed the man who had reported on the ill Herman dozed, a couple of small children made squealing noises, and a baby cried. I wasn’t sure how Jean kept her mind on her message, but she did—at times seeming to look me right in the eye. “You are not here by accident today,” she said. “God has a plan and purpose for your life. People are so afraid of failing, but if God wants you to do something, you don’t have to worry about failing because God gets results. He gives you wisdom to do what he wants you to do. If results don’t come, you don’t have to feel bad about it.”
The winter light came through the little church's stained glass windows, and the red cushion made the seat passably comfortable. I did not fall asleep, but I did relax. I even jotted down a few of her comments. When the offering plate came by, I put a twenty-dollar bill in, figuring I owed that for getting my flat fixed.
As I expected, several people came up to talk to me after the service. “Glad to have you today. Hope you’ll come back,” an elderly man said. “We’d love to have you at our women's Bible study on Thursday,” a middle-aged woman said. “Come back for our prayer service on Wednesdays,” another lady added.
Iris Jo was among the first, asking me if I wanted to have lunch with her and some friends. I thanked everyone for their kindness and politely declined the invitations.
I walked out and noticed a somewhat familiar face, a good-looking man, one of the few people younger than sixty, giving Iris Jo a big hug. It took a couple of seconds till it hit me that it was catfish farmer/dog man, all cleaned up with a tie on. He must have slipped in after me. He caught me looking at him and smiled, gave a half wave, and went back to his conversation with Iris Jo.
Unable to face another fast-food hamburger, I ate a banana and microwave popcorn in my room before heading to the office. Somehow going in to work made me feel less at loose ends, and the empty building didn’t seem quite as creepy as it had the day before. I did a quick check of the break room to make sure Tom wasn’t napping on the sofa, waiting to scare me out of my wits. All was clear.
My afternoon consisted of going over the payroll, trying to put a face to every name, and looking over our accounts payable from the last year. Many of the expenditures were ridiculously small, like Alex's $2.25 parking voucher from covering a trial to Tammy's $4.48 reimbursement for tape and Tylenol. Lee Roy was definitely the big spender, with several fairly high-dollar meals, at least by what I had seen of Green meals, and a monthly reimbursement for his country club membership. Oddly, there were no expenses for the Big Boys. They must have taken their money from another account or didn’t file expenses.
In the middle of the afternoon, I needed some air. Just as I opened the newspaper's door, the girl in the pink coat walked by, glancing up at me and moving on without a second look.
“Wait!” I yelled, not sure why. “You’re Katy, right? How you doing today?”
The girl stood there looking at me as though trying to decide if I were a child molester or a worm.
“I’m Lois,” I said. “Lois Barker.”
“Yeah, you told me that yesterday.”
“I saw you at church today,” I said, grasping for anything that might move this conversation along. I was curious about this girl. She had a look in her eyes that reminded me of me when I was her age, a little lost, a little feisty.
“Yeah, so what?” she asked in the surly tone of voice only a teenage girl can master. “My Mother made me go.”
“Moms are like that,” I said, trying to sound like a co-conspirator. “They think things like church are important for kids. My Mom did that, too.”
“Well, I had quit going to church and was getting away with it till … well, till my stepdad caught me smoking. Now I have to go every week or I am grounded, can’t use my phone and don’t get any money.”
Suddenly she seemed to realize she was talking about herself to me, and she stopped. But she didn’t walk away. Instead, she pointed at the paper. “So you own this place now, huh? That's weird.”
“Yeah, it is weird.” On that point I could not disagree with her. “My friend got sick and died and left it to me in his will. Isn’t that strange? So I have a year to get it all fixed up and sell it.”
I couldn’t believe I had just said those words. “I mean if I decide to sell it.”
“I’m going to beauty school in a year or so,” she said. “My mother and stepfather say if I stay in school and make good grades, when I turn eighteen I can quit and get my hair license. I mean I won’t be eighteen in a year, but I’ll be close, and I bet they’ll let me.”
“You have a great sense of style,” I said, as though I were the editor of
Glamour
or
Cosmo Girl
. “You wear great clothes. You put things together I would never think about. But you do need to give up those cigarettes. They’ll kill you. They helped kill my friend.”
I had gone from chummy friend to lecturer in a couple of sentences. Her face shifted immediately. “Whatever,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”