Feast for Thieves (13 page)

The sole note tacked to the front door was stuffed in an envelope of quality stationery grade and looked feminine, yet all business.

It felt funny to read a note signed from Bobbie. I don’t know why it made a good shiver run up and down my spine. I put it out of my head and focused on the content. It was good—and meant a few less things I needed to concern myself about. I did my overhand pull-ups for the night, added some sit-ups to keep my gut strong, made up the bed, and flopped into a restless sleep. At dawn’s first light I was up. It was Saturday, and I drove over to the café for breakfast. Neither of the Waymans were there. It was the cook who was handling business, and the weekend fare wasn’t nearly as sumptuous as the weekday fodder. After eating, I headed back over to the church to begin work on my very first sermon.

Oh, I’d heard a few sermons in my life. Never liked none much. There was that going-to-Sunday-school business when I was a kid. Then in the service there was always a chaplain or two who had something to say. I didn’t mind when the chaplains spoke. We was usually heading into battle, and the words they said were uplifting to a man. I went into my office, found a pencil, notepad, and the big old Bible that Bobbie had mentioned, and started into work.

I had no notion where to begin. No idea what to do. An hour went by and I scratched down a thought or three. They looked okay on paper, but when I read back my words out loud, nothing sounded like any sermon I’d ever heard. Another hour went by, and then another, and then another. It was lunchtime, and I drove over to the café, downed a quick sandwich and a cup of black coffee, and went back to work. The afternoon heat was stifling. My eyes drooped, even with the coffee floating in me, and I propped up my head with my elbow. At one point I jolted myself awake. Clock on the wall said 2:15 p.m. This would never do. Never do indeed. I’ve always been the type of fella who thinks better on his feet. I left the office, headed over to the firewood awning beside the parsonage, grabbed the axe, and hiked out into the pine stand.

I walked about a quarter of a mile, found a tall slash pine,
and begin to chop. My mind cleared a bit and I found I could think much better as I swung an axe. When it came to the Bible, I figured I just needed to start at the beginning and work my way forward. The folks might have heard sermons from the book of Genesis before, but now they’d need to hear them again from me. The first chapter of the Bible was all about God making the heavens and the earth. He made light and darkness and called the light “day” and the darkness “night.” All basic stuff. I reckoned once I stood up in front of the people, I could just read the chapter straight through, then give a few thoughts on being outdoors. I could tell stories about fishing and hunting, being out in God’s great creation. Memories would come to me of when I was a boy. How proud I felt the first time I went deer hunting. The folks might get something from that, I guessed. I didn’t know what else to do.

Well, I chopped the rest of that afternoon and felled the tree. I headed to the café for dinner, came home, limbed the tree, and started sawing it up for firewood. Late after the sun sunk in the western sky I headed home, did my pull-ups, brushed my teeth, and flopped down for bed, my hands good and blistered, my body calmed and tired.

Funny, but in my dream I thought I heard the sound of a car’s engine. Lots of engines, in fact. They was coming into my bedroom, parking right at the foot of my bed. My eyes opened. The alarm clock! Sunday school started at 8:30 a.m. The service at 10. It was already 9:45.

I never overslept. Why today of all days? I was up in a panic, scrambling to find my suit. I splashed cold water from the sink in the tub, shaved my face, washed the tree sap off my body, dried myself with an old work shirt, and jumped into my clothes. No time to iron my shirt—I hoped Mert wouldn’t notice. Grabbing my notes and the big Bible, I eyed the full parking lot from the doorway of the parsonage, then sprinted across the lot toward the
church. Mert met me at the front door, a dark stare in her eyes.

“You’re late!” she hissed. “Real late! Go at once and sit on the platform. Reverend Bobbie’s going to start the service in two minutes. Hurry!”

I stumbled forward, trying to eye the crowd as I walked up the aisle. Word musta got around there was a new preacher in town, because I counted thirty-two people in the pews, a higher count than what Bobbie said was normal for Sunday morning. A few folks shook my hand on the way up and offered complimentary greetings such as, “Nice to see you, Reverend,” and “Glad you’re making your home with us.” Bobbie was already standing behind the pulpit, an open hymnbook in her hand. Augusta was on the organ, launching into a prelude. My, but that Bobbie sure cleaned up nice. She wore a pale pink dress with a touch of pale lipstick. I would have liked to see her standing aside from the pulpit so I could view her willowy figure more, but I quickly pushed those troubling thoughts out of my mind, climbed to the stage, and sat down.

The congregation was already standing, already belting out “Shall We Gather at the River?”, and I noticed they skipped straight over the third verse for no good reason and sprinted straight on to the fourth. I fumbled around for a hymnbook, looked on the wall chart to note what page number we was on, and found the correct page just as the final verse was sung. The song ended, and all the folks sat down. Bobbie led in a prayer. Every eye closed and every head bowed, and I figured I’d better do the same. We stood in a jiffy and sung another hymn. “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” All verses. I liked the feel of the words but didn’t understand what they meant, and then we sung a real rouser, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Sounded just like a beer-drinking jig if only the tempo was lilted up a bit.

An offering plate was passed around like a rake, then Halligan Barker took the pulpit and I heard him introducing me. All eyes
were on me now. I’d hoped I could look over my sermon notes before it was time for me to talk, but the folks was all clapping my welcome, looking my direction. My face grew hot. The sheriff shook my hand, then slapped me on the back. He was letting everybody know we was in for a real treat today, we was.

Then, all of a sudden, I found myself alone onstage.

A lump slid down my throat. I looked across the congregation. Time for me to start talking. Mostly it was all old blue-haired farming ladies, all pushing eighty. Mert stood at the back, glancing at a clipboard. Deputy Roy sat near the front next to the sheriff, Bobbie, and Emma Hackathorn and her four children. Augusta Wayman sat near the middle and gave me a smile, but her husband must have been back at the restaurant because she sat alone. I recognized old Woburn Jones from the mercantile. I didn’t see Gummer there, nor any other men except for one real fat cat slouching in the back row. He was dressed in a fancy white suit and his eyes were half closed. Three young women sat on either side of him. Those women didn’t much look like church ladies. Their lips were painted a vivid red, their dresses were cut low, and their bosoms spilled over bountifully. I recognized Luna-Mae, the woman from the car crash. She was painted up like a new barn door though her nose was swollen. She was staring at me with a quizzical look in her eyes.

“Well, uh … good morning to y’all,” I said to the folks.

“Good morning, Reverend!” they all yelled back.

That upset my stride—them all shouting in unison like that, and I wasn’t exactly sure where to go next. I decided more introductions would appeal to their down-home natures.

“Uh … name’s Rowdy … uh, but my real name’s Zearl, but everybody calls me Rowdy. Rowdy Slater. Um … and I guess I’m your new preacher. Uh …”

I was finished. No more was coming out of my mouth on its own accord. I glanced high on the back wall. Staring straight at
me was the bold-faced glare of a clock. I had at least thirty minutes to fill and already I was short on material. A bead of sweat formed on my forehead. From the back row I heard an uncomfortable cough. I cleared my throat and looked at Bobbie, hoping maybe a previous preacher would give me some kind of clue as to how to proceed. Her eyes were wide, her Bible in her lap. She pointed emphatically at her Bible and mouthed, “READ IT!”

“Oh, yeah …” I said. “We’re gonna read the Bible now. I reckoned we’d start with Genesis. So I’m gonna read from this here Bible I got in front of me, and um … maybe you’d like to listen.”

I flopped open the Bible, paged through to where I was supposed to read, and read the first chapter as clear as could be mustered. Sweat poured off me. Drops ran down my nose and onto the page. There was a strange tingle in the tips of my fingers too, like no blood was reaching my extremities. I felt like hightailing it for the back door, but it was time for me to say some more words. I cleared my throat again.

“Um … reckon this chapter’s all about God making things outdoors,” I said. “Uh … you like to do things outdoors, because I like the outdoors real fine.” I glanced around at the congregation; they was all giving me blank stares. “Like … uh, after you get your first deer … or … uh … after you … shoot a squirrel. You … uh … remove all four paws at the wrist joint. Then … uh … you make careful cuts around the belly skin.” I paused for emphasis and wrinkled my forehead, picturing that dead squirrel in my mind. “When that squirrel’s cut open you … you don’t want to nick into the muscle wall neither. No, and, uh … you want to cut down the insides through all four legs and around to the … uh … rectum … the base of the tail. So that’s how you skin a squirrel. There’s real good eating on a squirrel, and I hope you’ve tasted it … uh … before.”

I glanced at the sheriff. His mouth hung open.

I glanced at the clock. I had twenty-seven minutes to go, I was
completely out of material, and my mind was blank. A long, awkward silence filled the room. I decided to quit while I was ahead.

“So … um, that’s what the first chapter of Genesis teaches us, I reckon. It’s that God’s creation is a good thing, and … uh … it’s good to be out in the woods as much as a fella can muster. So the next time you’re cleaning a squirrel, you think about God and do some praying. Okay? That’s the end of my sermon. Um …” I glanced at Bobbie. Creases of pain lined her forehead. She stood and walked onstage, led the congregation in a closing hymn, dismissed the service with a benediction, then turned around and hissed at me, “Go to the back of the room as quick as you can. The people will want to shake your hand before they leave.”

I hightailed it to the door. Mert was still standing there. She wasn’t glaring at me no more. She was looking at the floor, shaking her head. “Stand on the steps outside,” she said. “Air’s not as thick out there.”

First person out the door I didn’t recognize. She looked about ninety and mostly dead, although there was fire in her eye. “Worst … sermon … ever,” the woman said, and walked by with a
humph
.

A second elderly lady walked outside the door. She took one look at me then slapped my face. She slapped it again, then kept on walking to her car.

A third elderly woman sized me up and down with eyes of scorn, let out a long disparaging sigh, and said, “Well, at least there’s no danger of burning the roast in the oven today.”

Fourth person out was Augusta Wayman. She gave me a little hug, and said, “It’ll get better, Rowdy,” then headed out.

Deputy Roy came outside, shook my hand warily, said nothing, and left in his squad car—the same one he’d shot at me from.

The sheriff shook my hand in the same motion he shook his head. “Deacon meeting. Tuesday morning, seven thirty a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.” He headed for his car.

Bobbie tried to smile at me, but it was hard for me to look her
in the eye. She headed for her jeep and was soon gone.

One by one the rest of them filed out. None were happy. None were smiling. I knew I was the worst preacher they’d ever heard. Maybe the worst in the world. It was my first sermon, and all I knew to talk about was how to field-dress a dead squirrel.

The last person out the door, however, gave me a grin and a little poke in the ribs. It was the fat cat in the white suit. His painted ladies had all walked ahead of him, and all six were wedged into a shiny Cadillac parked near the front of the church. He was a tall fella with a large ruddy face. It was a cruel face, I could see in an instant, and I wondered what a fella with eyes so full of quiet hatred was doing in church. To my surprise, he gave me a hearty slap on the back.

“Young fella—that was exactly the type of message our folks need to hear. It was so down home, so honest, something we could all relate to. And the length of message was exactly correct. If I were you and knew what was best, I’d keep preaching exactly like that—” Here he laughed. It was too long of a laugh, I thought, and it didn’t seem kindly. “Yes, my boy, if you keep your quality of preaching on that level, then we’ve got nothing to worry about as far as this church is concerned. Nothing to worry about indeed.”

I didn’t rightly know how to answer the man. On one hand, it sounded like he was complimenting me. On the other, it sounded like he was saying to keep my sermons muddled and hopeless.

“Didn’t catch your name, sir,” I said.

“Oris Floyd. I’m town mayor, as well as a church deacon. We’ll all meet again Tuesday morning. I also own the building that rents to the tavern and a good many other real estate ventures throughout the county, so you’ll find most folks know me real well, as I’m sure you soon will, too.” He’d been holding his Stetson in his hand all throughout church, and now he set it on his head, touched the brim with his fingers as if in dismissal, and headed toward the Cadillac.

After the mayor of Cut Eye left, all was quiet. I had no idea what to do next. I felt like lying down. Or throwing up. Instead, I walked to the parsonage, changed my clothes, grabbed the axe, and headed out to the tree stand.