Miss Julia to the Rescue (15 page)

“Don’t tell him anything, Etta Mae,” I whispered. “Just say we’re visitors. He doesn’t need to know our business. He might warn the sheriff.”

“Okay,” she said, lowering her window and plastering a smile on her face. “I hope we’re not disturbing anyone,” she said as the man leaned down to look at us. “We’re visiting from out of town and had hoped to attend a service. I know we’re late, though, so we’ll just wait out here.”

I quickly chimed in to clarify what we’d wait out here for. “Maybe we can speak to your pastor when the service is over.”

“You ladies’re just as welcome as you can be,” the man said, holding the small of his back with one hand as he leaned in, smiling painfully. He rested one gnarled and atrophied hand on the windowsill. “My name’s Chester Fields. I’m one of the deacons here. Most folks call me Chet, or just plain ole Deac—it don’t matter. An’ the afternoon service ain’t even started yet. Y’all get on out an’ eat with us. We’re havin’ dinner on the grounds over yonder behind the meetin’ house.”

“Why, that’s very nice of you,” I said as my stomach reminded me it was lunchtime. “But we wouldn’t think of intruding. Besides, not knowing about dinner on the grounds, we didn’t bring a covered dish.”

“Lordamercy, ma’am,” the deacon said, “don’t let that stop you. We got enough to feed a army. Come on back with me. We’ll just be tickled to have you.”

I looked at Etta Mae and she looked at me. “Neither one of us ate much breakfast,” she whispered. “And we might catch the sheriff before we have to attend anything.”

With that prospect in mind, we got out of the car, thanking Deacon Chet profusely, and following him as he led us a zigzag path through the parked trucks. As we walked toward the back of the meeting house, I caught a glimpse of a vehicle with a dark red roof, convincing me that we were in the right place—unless there was more than one dark-red-roofed vehicle in town.

As we turned the corner, I saw a group of people gathered around two long tables, covered not only with what I later realized were white sheets but also with platters and Pyrex bowls and casseroles, bread baskets, and cake plates—all filled with food—and huge jugs of iced tea. The aroma of fried chicken made my knees weak.

And a good thing we were as hungry as we were, or out of courtesy, we might have begged off, thereby missing the best food I’d had since leaving Abbotsville. Deacon Chet picked up a rock and rapped the side of a metal bowl, getting the attention of the few who were not already staring at us.

“Brethren, the Lord has been good enough to put some strangers down in our midst. An’ strangers is always welcome where the word of God is preached. Say amen!”

And they all did—loudly. Then we had to introduce ourselves and tell where we were from, and several of the ladies, all wearing cotton frocks down to their shins and hair down to their waists, came forward and urged us to fill our plates. “It’s already been blessed,” one of them said. “So dig right in.”

So we did, edging along sideways around the tables, heaping our plates and marveling at the amount and variety of food fresh from the garden. There was even a huge bowl of green beans cooked the way Lillian did them—slow and with a chunk of fatback. I had to hold my paper plate under the bottom to keep it from folding up on me.

We were ushered to two kitchen chairs in the shade, while another lady brought over two jelly glasses full of sweetened tea. I ate like I hadn’t had a decent meal since Friday night, which I hadn’t. And Etta Mae groaned with each bite, it was all so good. When I didn’t think I could hold another thing, we were offered our choices of pies and cakes.

“Etta Mae,” I said softly, “this is a real dinner on the grounds. No wonder Sheriff McAfee was eager to get here. But I haven’t seen him, have you?”

She shook her head, pointed at her full mouth, then swallowed and said, “No’m, I haven’t. But all the men are sitting way over yonder, some of them in the sun, so I can’t see them too good. He may be with them.”

About that time, Deacon Chet banged the bowl with his rock again and announced that if everybody’d had their fill, it was time to start the service. The women had already begun to wrap tinfoil and Saran wrap around the dishes and stack them in baskets. Some of the men came over and took the baskets to the trucks while the women folded the tablecloths. In just a few minutes, remnants of the feast were all put away and people began to move toward the meetinghouse.

We had been so warmly welcomed and fed so generously that I could see no way to skip their services without being uncommonly rude. Thinking again of some of Pastor Ledbetter’s monotonous sermons, I looked forward to a little catnap in the pew.

The interior of the meetinghouse pretty much matched the exterior, lacking the paint job. About six short rows of wooden pews were on each side of a center aisle that ended at a handmade lectern with a microphone on it. High on the wall behind the
lectern hung a large wooden cross outlined with white blinking Christmas lights. It was my first clue that this would not be a Presbyterian service.

“Sit here, Etta Mae,” I said, sliding onto the last pew in the back, leaving just enough room for her. It is so inconsiderate of people to do what I’d just done, that is, sit right on the aisle so everybody else has to crawl over them. I was feeling a little bit bad about it until four very large people—two men and two women—came in who had not had dinner with us. One of the heavyset women stood and stared at us until we had to slide on down. They kept coming, each one larger than the other, and we kept sliding until I ended up against the wall of the meetinghouse and could go no farther.

Etta Mae blew out her breath and whispered, “I don’t guess we’re gonna be slipping out early, are we?”

I didn’t answer, for up at the front the most unnerving racket blared out, so startling that I couldn’t answer. Four men had taken up instruments, one at the piano, another one strumming a guitar, one banging on a set of drums, and one beating a tambourine half to death. And they’d turned up the sound on the microphone. Everybody started singing, although there wasn’t a hymnal in sight. The music was catchy, though, and when people began to rise, we did, too, and swayed with them. Etta Mae knew a few of the words, so she joined in—something about a beautiful, beautiful river, which had so many verses that by the time it was over I’d learned the chorus by heart.

After several more hymns, with first one person then another starting them off—not a choir director in sight—Deacon Chester went to the lectern. He’d seemed such a nice, gentle soul around the dinner table, but when he took the microphone in hand so he could wander around, something came over him. Now, I’m not one to sit in judgment on other people’s manner of worship, but let me just say that that service was not even close to the manner to which I was accustomed.

The deacon became a changed man. He preached and
preached and preached, becoming more and more frenzied and rhythmic, almost hypnotic in his delivery. No chance for a nap in his service, for even though I couldn’t understand a word he was saying, he’d bellow out loud every now and then, mop the sweat from his face and keep on going. People began to come out of the pews and walk around, encouraging him with “Amen!” and “Praise God!” and raised hands swaying overhead.

I grabbed Etta Mae’s hand as she sat stiff as a board next to me. “I don’t know about this, Etta Mae,” I whispered. “I want to leave.”

“Me, neither,” she mumbled, and jumped when a woman shrieked. “I do, too.”

But we were packed in the pew so tightly that I was crammed against the wall, with all those fat people between us and the aisle wedged in like Vienna sausages in a can.

A sudden commotion started up at the front of the church. People—men and women—gathered around the lectern, some moaning, some praying and some kneeling around a wooden box that a young man placed on the floor.

I didn’t know the significance of the box and couldn’t see what they were doing with it until Deacon Chester bent over it, darted his hand down and came up with a three-foot-long snake so angry that I could hear its rattles over the din.

Deacon Chester held that reptile up so that it was looking him right in the face. “If you got the faith, you can take up serpents,” he shouted at it. “But if you ain’t got it, you better stand clear. Don’t tempt the Lord!”

Etta Mae’s eyes popped wide and her mouth dropped open. The hand I held turned ice-cold, and sweat began to bead on her face. “I got to get outta here,” she moaned.

Another shriek ripped through the air as a different man held up a coiling snake, its white mouth so wide it looked unhinged. The tail wrapped around his arm, and he reached down and picked up another one in his other hand. He held it aloft, its head darting toward him as he closed his eyes and hopped around on one foot.

But when he let the thing slither around his neck, Etta Mae screamed and jumped straight up. The fat lady next to her oozed into the space she’d vacated and yelled, “She’s a-comin’, Lord, she’s a-comin’!”

Well, actually she was a-going, because—I don’t know how she did it—crying and shivering, she scooted over all those mounded laps like a water bug skimming across a pond. She hit the aisle running. Out the door she went, with me bumbling along behind her. “Excuse me, excuse me,” I kept mumbling, pushing hard past those larded knees, determined to get out of that place.

Finally, I got through, then had to dodge a woman whirling around in the aisle. Stumbling, I made it to the door, so anxious to get out that I almost forgot my manners. Recalling the excellent meal so generously shared with us, I pulled a fairly large bill out of my pocketbook, handed it to a man who looked only halfway entranced and said, “Put this in the collection plate, please. To cover our dinner.”

I practically ran to the car, which Etta Mae already had cranked with the air-conditioning on high. She had to unlock the door to let me in.

“Let’s go,” I said, collapsing inside, wanting to pull my feet up on the seat.

Etta Mae, shivering and trembling, slammed the car in reverse, spun the wheel and threw up gravel as we headed away. “I have never, never, never in my life seen anything like that,” she said between gulps of air. Big shudders ran through her body as she guided the car down the road and out onto the highway. “I won’t sleep a wink tonight,” she said. “I
hate
those things.” Then she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “At least we’ll have a tale to tell when we get home, if anybody will believe us. And if we ever get back.”

“Lord, yes,” I said, using a Kleenex to wipe perspiration from my face. A few shudders were running up and down my back. “But, Etta Mae, we have to do what Emma Sue Ledbetter always recommends and look on the bright side. Although I’m not sure it
was worth what we’ve just been through, we did have a wonderful meal, much better than Bud’s Best Burgers. I would never tell Lillian, but that fried chicken was almost better than hers.”

My effort to bring about a little normalcy didn’t seem to have much effect. Etta Mae kept driving toward Pearl’s, an intent look on her face and her mind on the Sunday afternoon traffic. Four cars and a farm truck passed on their way to town.

Finally, she said, “They say rattlesnake tastes just like chicken.”

I thought about that for a second or two, then my throat clutched up and I swallowed hard. My hand flew to my mouth. “Pull over, Etta Mae. Quick!”

When we drove in at Pearl’s, Etta Mae stopped by the office, saying she’d be back in a minute.

“Wait, Etta Mae,” I said, opening my pocketbook. “Much as I hate to, we better pay for another night.” I handed her the money, hoping our cabin had not been rented while we’d been witnessing what it meant to have “signs following” a church service.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” And soon she was, bringing with her a broom that she put in the backseat.

I was feeling too weak to ask why she wanted to do some cleaning, but I soon found out. When we walked to the cabin door, she told me to wait there, and then, holding the broom, she took a flying leap and landed on the bed, Dingo boots and all. Then she commenced to swing that broom around, swishing it back and forth under the bed and across the tops of the windows and in the corners of the room. Then she jumped down and did the same thing in the closet and bathroom.

“Okay, Miss Julia,” she said. “You can come on in now. No snakes, thank goodness.”

Grateful for her thoughtfulness, I eased my way to the bed, took off my shoes and lay down. She brought in our bags again, locked the door, then stretched out beside me.

“I am wrung out,” she said. “Remind me never to visit a strange church again. I’m sticking with the Baptists.” She turned over,
then said, “How are you feeling? Want me to try to find a drugstore and get something for your stomach?”

“Oh, no. It’s much better. I’m just awfully tired. Let’s try to get a little nap.”

She mumbled agreement and we lay there, trying—or at least I did—to block out the image of writhing snakes going up and down arms and across shoulders.

After a while, I said, “Etta Mae?”

“Hm-m?”

“Sheriff McAfee wasn’t there, was he?”