Miracle in a Dry Season (22 page)

“Preacher, I reckon you’d best go,” John said.

Longbourne crawled a little ways and used an armchair to pull himself up. “I don’t know what you think you saw, John Phillips, but you had no call to hit me.” He spoke slowly, as though the blow to his head had made it hard to formulate the right words.

“I saw someone who claims to be a man of God trying to take advantage of a young woman who has committed no worse sin than caring for the people around her.”

“That’s a lie,” spat Longbourne. “I’d like to see you convince my flock that I would do such a thing.” He flung the blood-soaked rag to the floor and pressed his own handkerchief to his head. “And I imagine this wound will show them how I was attacked by a madman who probably was out of his mind with illness.” Longbourne smirked.

John bent down, grimacing with pain, and retrieved the discarded bit of cloth. “I’m thinking this bit of the lady’s frock soaked in your blood will be a little harder to explain,” he said.

Longbourne paled and took a step forward as though he would snatch the bit of evidence from John’s hand. But he froze when he heard Casewell and Emily coming in through the kitchen door.

“Perla, are you still here?” Emily called. She appeared in the doorway and stopped so suddenly that Casewell bumped into her. “Why, John, what in the world are you doing out of bed? And Pastor—are you injured?”

———

Casewell quickly took stock of the situation. “Mother, Perla is crying and I think Dad needs to sit. Let’s ease on in here and get everyone situated so we can hear what’s happening.” Casewell guided his mother to a seat beside Perla. He snatched up a dish towel and folded it to make a compress for Pastor Longbourne, who took it and began edging toward the front door.

“I’ll be on my way,” he said. “Probably need to get this little cut on my head looked at. I’ll be praying for—”

Casewell planted himself between Longbourne and the door. “I think you should stay,” he said. “Never know when someone’s going to need some pastoral counseling.”

Dad collapsed into an armchair. Soaked in sweat, he panted like a man who’d just run a race. “Son, that man is evil. I say we let him go.” Longbourne looked hopeful. “I say we let him go a long, long way from here with the promise that he will never attempt to lead a church again.”

“Hold on, now,” protested Longbourne. “All you got against me is the word of a harlot and a dying man. John Phillips, you ain’t never been one to make friends around here, and I ain’t the first to call that woman there ‘witch.’ You’re acting awful high and mighty, considering what little you got to go on.”

Casewell thought the preacher sounded a lot less educated all of a sudden. “Longbourne, it’s pretty clear to me what happened here, and I’ll be speaking to the elders about it before the sun sets.”

“You!”
Longbourne said the word like he was expelling something disgusting from his mouth. “You’ve been stepping out with that slut. You, I can do battle with.”

Casewell doubted Longbourne would survive the battle, but he did not relish the idea of dragging what he feared had happened out into the public eye. He looked from Perla clutching
her torn dress to Longbourne and considered what to do next. And then his mother took care of everything.

“Pastor Longbourne,” she said, standing, “I knew your wife well before she passed. She confided in me and told me things she felt she couldn’t share with another soul. I swore to her that I would never break her confidence. But I see that the evil you forced her to live with is still in you, and I believe she would forgive me for sharing her secrets now. I see what you tried to do here today, and while the good Lord can forgive and forget, I doubt the people of Wise will be quite so willing. I beg you, Pastor, leave this place and try to find your way back to our Savior. He is the only hope for your soul.”

“Lies,” Longbourne whispered, backing into the corner of the room. “How can I stand against all of these lies?”

Mom moved toward him and held out her hand. “There is no standing,” she said. “You have already fallen. Now, please go.”

Longbourne circled her as though coming into contact with that outstretched hand was more than he could bear. He darted through the kitchen and banged out the back door.

“He could still try to turn the people against us,” Casewell said.

“I don’t think so.” Mom’s voice was laced with sorrow. “I don’t think we’ll ever see him again.”

16

T
HE
NEXT
DAY
C
ASEWELL
GOT
WORD
that there would be an impromptu meeting of the elders at the church that afternoon. He walked in just behind Steve Cutright, who grabbed Casewell’s arm as he passed through the door.

“I hear the preacher done run off with that Perla Long,” he said. Casewell stiffened and freed his arm.

“I think you’ll find you heard wrong,” he said, moving forward to join the other men gathered in the front pews.

Casewell and Steve were the last to arrive. Robert called the meeting to order by clapping his hands and offering a prayer.

“Now, there are rumors aplenty about why we’ve come together this afternoon. Let me clear it all up for you. Pastor Longbourne has left town. Alone,” he added, shooting a look at Steve. “He spoke nary a word to anyone, just left a note, which I will now read to you. It’s short if not sweet.

“I am no longer able to serve a pastorate where my parishioners are intent on defying the wisdom of God. I have done my best by you all, and now I wash my hands of you. If lies are spread about me after I am gone, I trust God will punish the offenders.

Longbourne

“That’s it. He packed up what little he had in the parsonage and left. Last night, as best we can tell.”

“Maybe we oughta fetch him back,” Steve said. “Don’t seem likely we’ll find a new preacher, things like they are around here.”

“No one knows where he went,” Robert said. “He’s got no family since his wife passed, and I couldn’t even make a guess at where he might be headed.”

Casewell shifted his feet and spoke. “It just might be we’re better off with him gone.”

“Ah, you just don’t like him ’cause he was so rough on that woman you’re sweet on,” Steve said.” I thought he was on to something, what with the drought and all. The Lord works in mysterious ways.” He nodded his head and looked pensive. Casewell thought the look didn’t suit the fiddle player.

“Regardless,” Robert said, “what we need to do is figure out how to fill that pulpit”—he pointed to the front of the church—“until we can hire a new pastor.”

The men looked at one another and then at their hands and finally at their shoes.

Robert cleared his throat. “Seems to me we’re in line to preach for the time being,” he said. “We’re all ordained as elders, and that means we’re qualified to give the message.”

Steve laughed. “There’s qualified and there’s able. If it’s a fiddle concert you’re after, I’m the man. For preaching, you’d best look elsewhere.”

The other men nodded their heads. They were farmers, carpenters, and store owners, unaccustomed to the spotlight.

Robert nodded his head. “I thought you’d feel that way. I guess I can take a stab at it, but I’ll admit I was hoping Casewell here might be willing to step up.”

Casewell jerked his head up. “Me? You want me to preach?”

“Well, of all of us, I’d guess you know the Bible best, and I’d be surprised to hear you were nervous about talking in front of a crowd. So yes, I think you should preach.”

Casewell shifted, as though the hard pew had just gotten harder. He was surprised but also flattered. More than once he’d thought of good topics for a sermon and even imagined how he would go about delivering his message. Of course, at the moment he couldn’t think what any of those topics were.

“Well, I’ll confess that I might even enjoy delivering a talk or two from up front,” he said at last. “Of course, I’ll expect you all to stay awake.”

Steve slapped Casewell on the back. “Now you’re talking. Can’t wait to hear your first sermon.”

Although Casewell had initially felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of filling the pulpit, by Tuesday evening he was having second thoughts. He wasn’t qualified to teach, preach, or anything else. Sure, he’d read the Bible—several times. He’d listened to countless sermons and had some interesting discussions with friends about interpretation and meaning. But he had no training—no formal education—no authority. What was he thinking?

Casewell had hardly spoken to Perla since her run-in with Longbourne. She was still cooking at the Thorntons’ store,
and Casewell continued to help, but he was trying to keep a little distance between them. He hadn’t realized that so many folks in the community were beginning to pair them up. He admired Perla and he enjoyed her company. He even accepted her fatherless child, but he didn’t want to give her the wrong idea about his intentions. He only meant to be friendly.

As Casewell cleaned up the kitchen area after the communal meal Thursday evening, he was oblivious to the people around him. He was too busy tormenting himself over a sermon topic and his unworthiness to deliver anything he could think of to realize that Perla had slipped in and worked by his side.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said.

Casewell jumped and looked at her like he’d just woken up. “Oh, I guess I was pondering what I could talk about from the pulpit come Sunday.”

“Seems like there’d be no shortage. The Bible’s a long book.” Perla smiled. “Too long, some have said when they got to the begats.”

“Well, it’s not that I can’t come up with something. It’s more like I can’t come up with the right something. This is the first time I’ve had the chance to speak from the pulpit. I want to do it right.”

“Have you asked God for guidance? “she asked. “Seems to me He could put something on your heart, and if you speak from the heart . . .” She paused and her eyes softened. “You can’t go wrong.”

Casewell looked at Perla as though for the first time. “That’s wise counsel. I think I’ll take it. Suppose you can get along without me tomorrow?”

“I think we’ll be fine,” she said. “You go write that sermon.”

Friday morning Casewell got up early, made a pot of coffee, and got down on his knees to discuss his sermon with God. He prayed pretty steadily for fifteen minutes or so and then sat, Bible in hand, waiting for inspiration. He flipped through the Old Testament, read snatches of the Gospels, and dipped into Revelation. Nothing seemed right. He got out a pad of paper and started writing about the Sermon on the Mount. That was chock-full of food for thought. But after several paragraphs, Casewell realized there was too much. He was going to have to narrow his topic down.

Around noon, Casewell slung his notebook into the corner of the room and strode outside. Though September, it was still hot, without a hint of a breeze. He gazed across the barren landscape. The drought had taken such a toll. He thought of pictures he’d seen in
National Geographic
of the Midwest Dust Bowl during the Great Depression.
Not
so long ago,
he thought. Looked like they were headed for another one.