arkansastraveler (17 page)

“She was not officially a pastor,” Brother Cooke said patiently, though I could tell the question made him uncomfortable. He glanced over at Dove who just smiled at him. “God doesn’t allow women to be pastors or to teach men. And you know we Baptists believe in doing what God says.”

“She ran the mission,” I pointed out. “We learned that in Training Union. She did all the stuff you do. She taught the men about Jesus in her church.”

“Well, in a manner of speaking. Actually, it was a mission,” he countered.

“Isn’t a mission a church?” I persisted.

“Yes, but . . .” He gave me an annoyed look, replaced quickly by a forced smile. “It’s in a foreign country.” He said the last sentence as if that explained it all.

“But it’s still a church,” I said.

“A
mission
,” he repeated. “In a
foreign country
.”

“And she ran it and taught the men.”

“Yes.” He took a white handkerchief out and mopped his brow. “
Foreign
men.”

“But they’re men.”

“Yes, but . . .” He faltered, unable to logically answer my question.

“So, how come she can teach the men there and not the men here? How come . . .”

He broke into my sentence. “Benni, I think that these questions are best discussed with your grandma in private
at home. Don’t you think?” He glanced over at Dove, appealing for rescue.

“Smart as a whip, my little Albenia,” she said with a wide smile.

“Yes, indeedy,” he said, his mouth a straight line. He clasped his soft hands together and said, “When did y’all say you’d be goin’ back to California?”

I always had a soft spot for good ole Lottie Moon. She was one of the first Baptist feminists, whether she realized it or not.

“So, what’s the scoop on the Bobbsey Twins?” I asked Isaac and Uncle WW. They were sitting on the doily-covered Early American sofa watching a documentary on polar bears.

“Meringue,” Uncle WW said, his eyes never leaving the flickering screen.

Isaac just gave me a somewhat dazed smile. He held his favorite Nikon on his lap, caressing it like a talisman. We all have our individual ways of comfort. On TV, two polar bears swatted paws, fighting over a red-streaked seal carcass.

“What?” Gabe said, confused.

“They’re competing for who can make the highest meringue,” I interpreted. “At least the competition’s back to food. That’s always a plus.”

From the kitchen we heard the sounds of harping, two voices sounding eerily alike as they picked at one another.

“Getting any good pictures?” I asked Isaac.

“You bet, though it’s not turning out to be quite what I expected.” His snowy eyebrows came together slightly. “I was there when the police came and arrested Quinton.”

Across the room, Uncle WW shook his head and clamped his teeth tighter on his pipe. “Darn shame. He’s a nice boy. They got no cause to trump something up on him.”

“He asked me to take pictures of it,” Isaac said, his voice
a tinge apologetic. “Said that this was as much a part of the story of Amen running for office as her giving speeches.”

“Did you?” I asked.

He nodded. “I developed the film upstairs in the bathroom. There’s some pretty powerful stuff there.”

“I’m glad you were there,” I said.

“When Quinton’s young lady went to find Amen, I drove down to the station to see if I could do anything, but they wouldn’t let me see him. So I came on back and figured I’d wait to hear.”

I gave him a quick rundown on what Amen had said.

“That’s not much,” Isaac said, his gray eyes hard. “How long can they keep him in custody on that?”

“Long enough to cause him and his family some grief,” Gabe said.

“We’ll know more tonight at the prayer meeting,” I said. “Amen said she’d drop by and let us know what happened.”

A crash of pans caused our heads to jerk up. Dove came barreling out of the kitchen, a swipe of dusty flour across her left cheek.

“I swear, if I stay in there another minute, I’m gonna knock the wax right out of her ears,” she declared and headed up the stairs. “I’ll do
mine
when she is through.”

From the kitchen, a radio came on. One of those prayer-cloth preachers was going on about the dearth of compassion among today’s Christians. His accent made
dearth
sound like
dirt
.

“Are Emory and Elvia back from Little Rock?” I asked. “Does he know about Quinton?”

“They came in about fifteen minutes ago,” Isaac said. “He headed down to the police station to see if he could help. Elvia’s upstairs.”

The bird’s-eye maple grandfather clock struck five times. “The gospel sing starts at six. You two guys are going, aren’t you?”

They nodded, their faces not overly excited.

I chuckled at their expressions. “The migraine story wouldn’t work two days in a row, huh?”

They shook their heads, their faces long as a couple of basset hounds.

“You’ll feel better for having gone,” I said, heading toward the stairs. “Think of it as spiritual Metamucil.”

“That’s a less than appetizing picture,” Isaac said.

“Okay, then think of all the great pie you’re going to eat afterwards,” I called from halfway up the stairs.

“Now there’s something a man can meditate on,” Uncle WW called back amidst hearty male laughter.

Upstairs in her room, Elvia was contemplating two outfits. Both were coordinated designer blouse and skirt combinations—one a deep grass green, the other off-white.

“The off-white,” I said. “It looks great with your skin.”

She glanced quickly over at me, then down. I caught a flash of uncertainty in her face. Was my comment about her skin color some kind of gaffe? I blew air out in irritation. Not at her, but at a world that created a racial climate where I had to worry about every little thing I said to my best friend.

“You
have
always looked good in off-white,” I said softly but firmly.

She picked up the silky blouse and ran the fine fabric through her fingers. “Ecru,” she corrected me, a small smile tugging at her lips.

It was a relief to see a little spark of the confident Elvia I loved so much prevail in her voice.

“How was Little Rock?” I asked.

She sat down on the bed and pulled off her strappy sandals. “It was interesting seeing Emory’s life and history. The campus was beautiful. We stopped by and visited with some of his old professors.”

“Did you hear about Quinton?”

She nodded and inspected her nails. “Emory rushed out
of here the minute Isaac and your uncle told him. I feel so sorry for Amen. Have you seen her?” She opened a red leather cosmetic case and started searching the contents.

I sat down on the other twin bed, folding my legs under me. “We were at Miss DeLora’s house with her when Quinton’s fiancée came by with the news.”

“Isaac and WW didn’t know much,” she said, finding the bottle of icy white nail polish and repairing a chipped spot on her nails. “You don’t really think Quinton had anything to do with it, do you?” Her face pulled tight as she concentrated on her nails. Outside, I could hear a neighbor using a Weedwacker, its sharp, hazy buzz forcing us to speak louder.

“Of course not,” I said. “Why in the world would he risk his career, Amen’s career . . . shoot, his whole future, on killing a lowlife like Toby, even though the world’s a better place without him in it?”

She looked up at me, blowing on the freshly painted fingernail. “Because he’s young and passionate and idealistic and doesn’t think two seconds about the future. I know. I’ve had six brothers who’ve gone through that stage at various times.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said, propping my chin in one hand. “Well, I’d better go slap together something to wear.”

“That new little print sundress you bought at the Farm Supply would look great. I think the horseshoes in the print are exactly the same color as your brown sandals.” She finished repairing an index finger. “I still can’t believe you shop for clothes at the same place you buy chicken feed.”

“Their boutique has really cute stuff,” I protested. “The latest fashions.”

“For livestock, maybe.”

“Shut up,” I said good-naturedly, “or I’ll have a skirt made out of a saddle blanket and wear it to your wedding.”

“In your dreams,” she said. Though I wanted to, I didn’t ask her which part of that sentence she was referring to.

Contemplating the saddle blanket skirt, which actually didn’t seem all that weird to me, I put off getting dressed another few minutes and knocked on Dove’s bedroom door.

“Is it anyone but my sister?” she called through the closed oak door.

“It’s me, Gramma.”

“Come on in, honeybun.”

She was sitting in a padded rocking chair, reading her worn black Bible. Though everyone in the family at different times had offered to buy her a new one, she just kept repairing this one with electrical tape.

“This one’s got my smell to it,” she’d say. “A new one would be too fresh.”

I sat down on the needlepoint footstool next to her. It showed a small pug dog sitting in the lap of a little girl in a bright blue dress. I could remember sitting on this same stool when I was four or five years old.

“You hear about Quinton?” I asked, avoiding the subject of her sister. I’d learned long ago to steer clear of their feuds, if at all possible. Deep inside, I knew they cared deeply for each other; they just didn’t
like
each other. I’d often wondered what in the world these two could accomplish if they ever decided to vote the same ticket.

“WW got a phone call from Bud down at the feed store who heard it from his nephew whose girlfriend’s the daytime dispatcher at the station.”

“The Sugartree express,” I commented wryly, resting my cheek on her knee. “I wish Quinton had just stayed home that night. Amen’s got enough trouble.”

“Young men, bless their hearts, are ruled more by feel than sense. And it’s situations like this that prove that.”

“Well, I don’t believe Quinton killed Toby, but whoever did deserves a silver medal.”

She smacked the top of my head gently with her worn Bible. “That’s no attitude to be taking to a gospel sing. Toby was God’s child just as much as anyone else.”

I jerked my head up. “I can’t believe you think the world’s a better place for people like Toby being in it. He’s the definition of original sin.”

“Don’t be getting on your high horse with me, young lady. I know well as you Toby Hunter was a bitter pill to swallow, but he was still a soul in need of God. While he was alive, there was hope he could turn around. Then someone took that hope from him, and that ain’t right. Only God has that right.”

Dove and I stared at each other for a moment. In the background the Weedwacker abruptly stopped, and we could hear the chittery tick of the mantel clock on the dresser. Capital punishment was something that Dove and I had disagreed on before, though we respected each other’s opinions and didn’t argue about it . . . much.

“I can’t help it,” I said, breaking away from the visual standoff and looking down at my feet. “I guess I’m a bad Christian, but to be truthful, I’m glad he’s . . . He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

She reached over and ran a gentle hand over my head, smoothing back my hair. “Honeybun, life is a mystery, that is the pure truth. Thanks be to God that He’s in control and that He has a more forgiving heart than the likes of us.” The certainty in her voice, as always, gave me comfort.

“So, what’s going on with you and Garnet?” I asked, figuring that as volatile as that subject was, it was certainly easier to discuss than capital punishment, justice, and divine grace.

“That woman,” she said. Her peach complexion turned rosy in indignation. “Why does
everything
have to be a competition with her? I swear, it’s just ’cause she’s jealous of me and Isaac. I do believe she might have a crush on him. Not that I’m surprised. She’s been trying to steal my boyfriends all my life.”

I held back the giggle tickling the back of my throat. The thought of Aunt Garnet flirting with Isaac, with having
intentions
toward him, was a hoot. I gave her what I hoped was a properly sympathetic expression and said, “In all fairness, think of how exciting your life must appear to her. You can’t really blame her. Isaac
is
a hunk.”

She narrowed her eyes and studied my face to see if I was poking fun at her. Satisfied I wasn’t, she said, “Yes, but that’s no call to try and embarrass me in front of him. Land’s sakes, does she really think he’s going to leave me and go to her ’cause her meringue is a half-inch higher?”

“Hard to imagine,” I agreed, standing up. “What kind of pie is yours?”

“Bittersweet chocolate–coffee cream,” she said.

I groaned in anticipation. “Oh, man, save me a piece. You hardly ever make that pie.”

“You know your daddy’s allergic to chocolate. I gave you the recipe, and as far as I can see, you ain’t got two broken arms.” She stood up and set her Bible down on the nightstand.

I hugged her and said, “But it never tastes like yours.”