Eden Hill (5 page)

Homer Cicero Osgood had been right about a lot of things. About being a good father, about how to run a good business, about life. After he got out of the sanatorium, H. C. had become a bricklayer, a trade that brought him through the war. He’d also learned how to lay concrete block, and had helped build Osgood’s not long before a heart attack took him before his time.

Yes, indeed, his father had been a good man. Virgil put Arlie’s Quaker State spittoon and his own office chair back in their places, picked up what he needed off his desk, turned out the lights, and closed the door.

The night air proved much cooler than he expected, so he put his left hand into his pocket to keep it warm. His right hand held the
Pageant
magazine. Mavine hadn’t said any more about it, but while the storm had blown over, he was sure she hadn’t forgotten. Mavine forgot nothing.

As he fingered the folded paper and the metal clip, the conversation with his wife came to mind. Life at home was almost back to normal. Mavine had been quite talkative at breakfast yesterday, had asked him at lunch how his day was going, and had made his favorite supper: spaghetti and meatballs. She’d even worn a new dress she bought on sale at Willett’s Dry Goods. And he’d barely remembered to pay her a compliment.

Maybe he was the one who had been acting strangely.

He ought to just let it go, but he hadn’t been able to get past the coming of the Zipco service station. Activity had picked up across the road. A red pickup truck with out-of-state plates had been by at least twice. Folks had spotted a younger man with a ducktail haircut, presumably Mr. Alexander, going over what appeared to be blueprints. A lineman from the Rural Electric Cooperative had installed a pole and run some wire, and someone else had driven wooden stakes topped with bright-orange flags. Clearly something was about to happen.

Compete? Yes, he could do that. He wasn’t on the mat, and he wouldn’t need to be saved by the bell. Whatever roundhouse Zipco might swing, he was up to it. When all was said and done, he would be the one with his arm lifted and his chin held high. Winner and still champion.

But the
Pageant
magazine hadn’t gone away either. Tomorrow was Friday, and Mavine was having her hair done early because of Thanksgiving. He’d be sure to compliment her on
that
. Hopefully Gladys wouldn’t send anything else home with Mavine.

He opened the service station door, flipped the lights on, tossed the magazine facedown onto his cluttered desk, turned the lights back off, and locked the door behind him. One problem at a time.

R
EVEREND
C
AUDILL
was trying to write a timely Sunday morning message on a well-worn typewriter, but the words, verses, and illustrations he’d planned to use were all piling up in a mental train wreck. The chilly weather earlier in the day had turned stormy as well, soaking him to the skin as he’d hurriedly changed the letters on the sign in front of the church. It was still pouring, and rainwater from the leaky roof was dripping into a metal bucket in front of his desk. Each drop echoed like the tick of a clock, reminding him that Friday night was upon him and Sunday was one second nearer. It was annoying, and his joints and disposition were both deteriorating.

Well. He’d finished his series on marriage last Sunday,
and this
was
Thanksgiving weekend, with Christmas coming on its heels. He’d put off his sermon preparation all week long, trying to decide on a topic he could live with. Certainly thankfulness would have to be somewhere in his homily, and God’s providence needed to be a part of it as well. He’d known that all along, of course, so a few ideas had already been rolling around in his head. If he could toss in some Pilgrims and a feast, even better. But somehow with this very busy week, he’d found himself late to this part of his ministry. Again. Not somewhere he liked to be.

Giving thanks was hard.

He’d left the sermon title out of the bulletin, typed up on the same old Underwood earlier this morning. The Scripture passage was unspecified as well, but he’d chosen a couple of hymns that he thought even his song leader couldn’t butcher, including “We Gather Together” and “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come.”

Why was he having such a difficult time with this? Perhaps the estimates for the church roof repairs had gotten to him, with numbers in five figures that made his head spin. He’d spent all morning on the phone with contractors, and the revenue from the property sale wasn’t going to cover even half of it. The couple in today’s counseling session had gotten nowhere, and spent all afternoon getting there. Then there was Wednesday night’s prayer meeting where Madeline Crutcher prayed for the
next
pastor whenever the current pastor left, and that it might be soon. Another week like this, and he might do just that.

The thought gave him pause. Maybe he
had
overstayed
his welcome. He shivered; the idea that Madeline Crutcher might be prophetic sent chills up and down his spine. Clearly the old woman had gotten under his skin. And what about Eden Hill? After sixteen years as pastor, was the church or the town better for his having been here?

He hoped so. The First Evangelical Baptist Church had called him as pastor straight out of Bible college in ’46, still wet behind the ears but with a fire in his heart. The first few years hadn’t been easy. The former pastor had retired after thirty years, having seen the little congregation through two world wars and the Great Depression. A fine leader, with a good legacy.

Still, since he and Louise arrived he’d watched the church grow, and there had been some glorious moments. He’d married Arlie and Lula Mae Prewitt as his first official wedding, and had recently baptized their daughter, Darlene. Virgil and Mavine tied the knot a couple of years later, and they remained involved in the church, as was their son, Vee Junior. Grover and Anna Belle had become active members, close friends, and strong supporters. And Madeline Crutcher? Well.

He and Louise had hoped to raise a family here, to put down long tender roots in the rocky soil. He’d loved his work back in the early days, even the hard parts. Young and energetic, he found the days exciting and full of hope. The church was growing, with young families, veterans returning home, and babies booming.

Louise. Even after twelve years, the pain of her sudden passing was a weight he couldn’t shake. Her death had left him insecure, broken, and unsure of his call. God was always
good, but the unanswered questions were never far from his mind. Was he angry with God? Probably. Had he been knocked off his ministerial path? Certainly he’d wobbled a bit. Not a day went by without him wondering if he and Eden Hill wouldn’t both be better off if he were selling life insurance or aluminum siding. But then something always reminded him that his calling hadn’t changed yet. Still, it was hard to be thankful.

Louise had died on Thanksgiving Day.

Grover and Anna Belle had invited him over for the holiday yesterday, as they had for years, and offered strong encouragement along with good food. His church was solid, but little challenges kept coming along. All the things that weren’t taught in Bible college, and he’d had to learn the hard way. Would a little bit of grace from the Almighty be too much to ask?

The machine still held a blank sheet of paper, and a full thirty minutes had gone by without a single hunt or peck at the keyboard. Something had to be done, and soon. All of his papers from Bible college were organized on the shelf behind him, and he pulled out two binders: one on the Psalms, and the other on Paul’s letters to the Corinthians. He considered the thickness of the material on the Psalter, looked at the clock, and chose the shorter New Testament books instead. Dog-eared and well-worn, some of the pages had little tabs with subjects written on them. One had two topics: thanksgiving and grace.

Memories returned in a rush, especially those of a class on sermon preparation and delivery he’d taken his first year. His
professor had been a gentle soul whose soft-spoken preaching style never shook the rafters, but whose words were penetrating and powerful. The man had said that grace and thanksgiving went hand in hand, and that everything given was given in grace. Everything.

He opened his Bible to the text from 2 Corinthians and found himself in the fourth chapter, one of his favorites. The first verse immediately caught his eye, the one on which he’d initially centered his vocation: “Therefore seeing we have this ministry, as we have received mercy, we faint not.” Easy to find; he’d underlined it years before. But what was that a bit below it? “For all things are for your sakes, that the abundant grace might through the thanksgiving of many redound to the glory of God.” Grace?

And thanksgiving.

Had he been given a chance to begin anew, and not even realized it? Had he been so jaded by the loss of Louise that he couldn’t even see the opportunity he’d been given? And wasn’t God’s grace wide enough to cover his own discouragement?

Yes, yes, and yes.

The men gathered at Welby’s last week had seemed concerned about the change the new Zipco might make in Eden Hill; he’d seen it in their eyes. And he had a few worries of his own. But might not change be a good thing, an opportunity even? Should he be the first to say so?

And believe it?

Well. His sermon would be on thanksgiving and grace, and things made new! Using his two forefingers, he began typing. He tipped his head back so his bifocals could do their
job; he could never remember which key went with which letter. Soon an opening line appeared at the top of the page, and he gave the carriage return lever a resounding shove. Another line, and then another.

It was well after eleven o’clock when he finished. Late again. The rain had finally ended, but the bucket was still announcing every drip with a softer plop, slower than before. The reverend twisted the knobs on the carriage and took out the last sheet. Done at last! It wasn’t as elegant as he would like, and there were a few smudges where he’d used the little round eraser and the brush, but it
was
a sermon, and he was pleased.

He’d called it “Turning Points.” Yes, change was good.

“N
EIL, YOU’VE
barely touched your breakfast.”

JoAnn was right. He’d eaten only a single piece of toast, and hadn’t even bothered with butter. She’d eaten several slices as well as an apple and a bowl of Cheerios.

“I’ll finish it.” He scribbled a couple of notes on the yellow legal pad between his plate of fried Spam and his glass of Tang before looking up. “Breakfast is tasty, thank you.”

Cornelius Alexander rearranged the papers and writing tablet, wishing he had a real desk instead of a cluttered folding table. Their tiny quarters at the Sleepy Head Tourist Court in Quincy were sparse, but would do for now. The little apartment featured a saggy bed, a kitchenette with a small but noisy
refrigerator, and a single light bulb, which dimmed and brightened along with the blink of the aging neon sign in front. The bathroom walls were missing a few of their plastic tiles, but the water was hot and it was only fifteen dollars a week.

“Look at this, JoAnn. We have over an acre to work with, and the lot slopes off to one side. Good drainage. With the station here where it’s already been leveled
 
—” he pointed to a rough rectangle scribbled in blue pencil on the lined paper
 
—“our home will fit nicely right back here. There’s already a well for our water.”

“Neil, right now the whole thing is nothing but a vacant lot. Just when do you expect to build this new home?”

“Soon, JoAnn, soon. Once the station gets up and running and the profits start accruing. Why don’t you see if
Queen for a Day
is on TV?”

“What TV? It quit this morning. Right during the
Today
show.”

“Our dream house will have a good television. Maybe even color!”

JoAnn bit her lip, then reached across the table to snag Cornelius’s uneaten Spam.

He’d rented the little efficiency cabin a couple of weeks before. Far from ideal, it was still the closest thing they could find to Eden Hill, some twenty minutes away. Since the site of his new business was currently a small plot of bare land that had once been a feed store, much needed to be done. With so many things to arrange, he’d worked out a deal with the motel’s owner to use the telephone in the office. Few wanted to stay here anymore, so it was little used anyway. The eight
other units were temporary homes to traveling salesmen and farm workers passing through. By late November, the place housed one Fuller Brush distributor and the Alexanders.

Over the last week, he’d contracted for a concrete slab to be poured for the service station building, scheduled excavation for the two gasoline tanks, and lined up the electrical work. His bulldozer man agreed to level off another spot for their home, for only a few extra dollars. Deeds had been executed, permits secured, promissory notes signed, and the first shipment of building materials for the Zipco Super Service was on its way.

The figures were scary. Two pages of proposals for the concrete work, and a frightening dollar amount. A handwritten estimate from the backhoe operator, with another jaw-dropping number. The blacktop company had provided yet another. Of course, there were all the franchise costs from Zipco to consider. He added up the sums on a second sheet of yellow paper, comparing it against his line of credit with the company. It could be done, but barely.

Yesterday had been a holiday, so the Zipco offices were closed all day. It was just as well
 
—his wife had insisted he put his paperwork away and celebrate Thanksgiving. She’d made something called a turkey loaf, and heated up a can of cranberry sauce. When she’d asked what he was thankful for, he’d drawn a blank. Certainly he was grateful for her, he’d said, which made her smile. He’d also mentioned Zipco and his business education. Maybe even his family; he couldn’t remember. Their little broken-down home at the tourist court, such as it was . . .

Home?

“JoAnn, get your coat. We’re going house hunting!”

“Not until we’ve had lunch. We’ve got leftovers in the refrigerator, and I’m eating for two now. Remember?”

“But we just had breakfast!”

“Neil, that was three hours ago. You’ve spent the entire morning going over all those papers and haven’t spoken a word
 
—at least not to me.”

He sighed. Perhaps he had lost himself in this project. How could he have known how much it would cost to build a Zipco Super Service station? “I’m sorry, JoAnn. Lunch, then we go for a drive.”

JoAnn ate two platefuls, and he ate more than he expected, given the morning’s discouraging progress. Afterward, they bundled up and climbed in the Chevy, drove across the railroad tracks, and pulled into a small lot behind the cold storage plant. He smiled. “Well, here we are.”

“Neil, this is a trailer park.”

“It’s a manufactured housing dealership. I talked with the manager a couple of days ago, and he’s got a fabulous deal on a slightly used unit.”

“Then it’s where trailer parks come from. Surely you’re not thinking . . .”

“Come take a look. It’s in great shape, and we could be in our own home within days instead of weeks or months! And we would only live there until we build your dream house.”

She simply glared at him.

“JoAnn, we’ll soon have a growing family and will need somewhere larger than a room at the Sleepy Head Tourist Court.”

“You keep swinging for these pitches, Neil. Someday you’re going to strike out.”

The manager, a likable fellow, was indeed offering for sale a slightly used mobile home. “Only four years old, traded in for a new model. The furniture store repossessed the couch, but the dinette and curtains go with it.”

JoAnn sighed, and agreed to look at the pink-and-white house on wheels. “It’s ugly. But it does have the necessities and comes with a screen door and two bedrooms, which is twice the number we have now.”

“So?”

“Well, I suppose it’ll have to do.” Without a further word, she turned on her heels and walked deliberately to the car.

Within five minutes, Cornelius had signed the papers and returned to the Chevy, doing his best to keep smiling. “Great news, JoAnn. He’ll be able to deliver it as soon as the excavator can level a spot and we have the electrical and plumbing ready. With luck, we’ll be in our new home in Eden Hill by Christmas.”

She brightened a bit and dabbed at her red eyes with a tissue. “By Christmas?”

“Well, that’s only four weeks away. But I think it might be possible.”

Nervous or excited, which was it? Reverend Caudill climbed the steps to his pulpit on Sunday morning. His sermon was well prepared
 
—and honestly, one of the best he’d ever
written
 
—but instead of the thunder and lightning his congregation was used to, it was more like a light and nourishing spring rain. He’d opted for the gentler approach that his Bible college professor had modeled for him, thought-provoking rather than incendiary. But would it keep his people’s attention? More importantly, would he bring honor to his calling and the gospel? Still, amid his prayers for this message, he was somehow assured that these were the words they needed to hear. After all, these were the words he needed to hear himself.

After Toler led a dirgelike rendition of “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come,” and one of the deacons gave a rather anemic reading of the text, he stepped behind the pulpit and faced a flock sagging in their seats. Not a good way to begin a sermon. But Reverend Caudill took a deep breath and began.

“Through the apostle Paul, the Lord has promised that all things are for your sakes. Are you worried about tomorrow? All things are for your sakes.”

His voice was calm and steady. Talking, not shouting. “Are you staggering under financial burdens? All things are for your sakes. Are you grieving over a flagging relationship with a spouse, a friend, a child? All things are for your sakes.”

The reverend hardly dared to look up, but when he did, he saw curious and interested faces. Certainly there were scattered glassy-eyed stares and some looks of surprise, but more than a few were, if not hanging on his every word, at least attentive and engaged. Listening. Leaning forward in anticipation, not shrinking back in fear.

Reverend Eugene Caudill suddenly realized the difference. He wasn’t angry anymore. At God or for God. It may not be fiery rhetoric, but it was hitting home, and God was showing himself faithful yet again.