Send Me Down a Miracle (11 page)

Finally the door opened, and out stumbled Mad Joe, looking the way I was used to seeing him: unshaven, wearing dusty black pants, a booze-stinking white shirt, and his suspenders, and carrying his shotgun.

"Charity!" He lunged toward me and grabbed ahold of my wrist, the gun clunking up against my thigh.

"Pray for my babies. The Lord has spoken to me. You pray for my babies and believe."

"Yes, sir, I will," I said, standing up and keeping an eye on the gun.

He got up real close in my face and his lips puffed out a breath of stale liquor that curdled the milk slushing around in my stomach.

"Pray for my babies. The Lord said, 'Feed them grain,' and I did. The Lord knows they ain't done nothing wrong." He let go of my arm and straightened up. "No sir. They ain't done nothing. Just like my Datina. You remember my Datina? The Lord can't take my babies away."

"I'll pray for them, Mad Joe."

He patted my arm. "You're a good girl. The Lord won't take good girls. The Lord won't take my babies. You gonna pray for my babies?"

I edged my way toward the open door. "Yes, sir. I'll go do it now. I'm sorry they're sick."

"T'ain't sick no more. I fed them grain and I believe. I believeth in the Lord." Mad Joe lunged toward me again, half-stumbling over the shotgun. I squealed and ran inside the house, closing the door behind me and locking it.

When I turned around, right away I saw the chair. The room was dark 'cause all the curtains were drawn, but the chair stood out from the gloom as if it were glowing. Just like it was glowing. I felt my scalp contract like my hair was getting ready to stand on end. The house was all hushed up quiet except for the fan whirring and blowing on the other side of the room. I figured Adrienne was still asleep. I looked at the chair again, then around the room, and then back at the chair. Mad Joe had left some rosemary on the seat. I knelt down in front of it and closed my eyes.

"Hey, Lord, Jesus Christ, sir," I began, "I don't know if I'm sinning just being here. Daddy would say I am, but how could praying be a sin?

"I'm scared. I have a feeling, just kneeling here, that something's going to happen, something bad. Am I having a vision?" I opened my eyes. Everything was still dark and the chair still glowed, kind of, but nothing else. I kept my eyes open in case a vision was coming, and continued with my prayer. "First off, I pray that Miss Becky is found, 'cause Miss Anna is sick with worry and we've got to get Boo and his rotten okra off his porch. Grace says the okra's staining his underwear. I hope Miss Becky is all right.

"And Mad Joe, he's a good soul really, don't you think? Don't you think his girls should be healthy now? They've been sick forever with that anemia thing, and they're the smartest girls in the whole country ... so they should stay alive, don't you think?" I waited in case God was planning to use his "still, small voice" on me. I didn't hear anything, so I went on. "Mama's always lecturing me about letting things happen in God's time—Your time. Always saying I don't need to push so hard for things and that if I let go and let You handle it, it will all turn out just right. Something, she says, me and Daddy need to learn. Well, there's lots of things I'm wanting to have turn out just right. Lord, but the problem with waiting for Your time, dear Lord, is that it's not measured in minutes or hours, or even years, but in these eternities, and that's just too long for me. Forgive me, Lord, but it is.

"I see how quiet Mama is all the time, and patient, and then comes the convention and she just lights up and it's like the whole rest of the year she's just waiting, collecting her birdcages and waiting for that birdcage convention to come around again. Lord, is that how we're supposed to live?"

I looked at the chair and, really, it seemed to glow brighter. Chills were running up and down my arms. "And Lord ... I need to know ... Is she coming back? I mean, is she
ever
coming back?" I whispered this part so quiet, afraid that just asking about Mama would keep her away, but I knew the Lord heard.

I closed my eyes. "Now about Daddy, Lord. I know he's like one of your disciples and he's always right about things, but I know, too, that Adrienne is telling the truth and isn't the Antichrist leading us astray. But how can Daddy and Adrienne both be right?

"I know the answer is something clever like in the Bible when, Lord Jesus, You were accused of healing some sick lady on the Sabbath, which was a wrong thing, and yet You made it right by telling Your accusers that setting her free of her affliction was the same as them setting free their oxen and donkeys so the animals could have water on the Sabbath. It's like that somehow, isn't it, Lord?

"Well, I pray they can get along and that Daddy lets me see Adrienne again and that I become a famous artist. I know, Lord, I said I was going to be a preacher lady. And see, here I am, facing You and telling the truth. I can preach the Word through my art, don't You think? Don't You think there are other ways of being a preacher besides standing behind a pulpit every Sunday? If You do, I wish You'd put that idea in Daddy's head so he could understand, too.

"Well, Lord, forgive me for such a long prayer, but I've been saving it all up so I could bring it here to You, to this chair. I really feel You're here with me."

I sat there another five or ten minutes, I don't know how long, just staring at the chair, a straightback wooden chair with two slats across the back and a rush seat. Plain, and white, and glowing. And I felt this holiness feeling spread all through me, and I wished that I could carry that feeling around with me all the time. I prayed to Jesus Christ, our Lord, that I could carry that feeling around with me all the time.

I knew I had to get up in case someone else was waiting on the porch wanting to use the chair, but I couldn't bring myself to move. Right then I wanted to stay in that house always. I was ready to never set eyes on my daddy or Grace or Mama or anyone again. I was ready to become one of those nuns that hole up somewhere in a cave and float around with this holy smile on their faces, never speaking to anyone but God.

I leaned forward and kissed the chair, just in case Jesus was setting in it in His invisible state, and then I got up and floated over to the door, just knowing I was smiling my own holy smile.

The sun hit me full force when I stepped out onto the porch, but it felt good, like Jesus was shooting these warm love rays into my body. I sat down in the rocker and, with my eyes closed, just rocked and rocked and let myself feel the sun and Jesus and all His love burning through me. Then I reached into my pack and pulled out my Bible, figuring I would learn my verses while that holy feeling was still there.

"Charity?"

I sprang from my chair, thinking I'd heard my daddy. I felt this weight of guilt and fear crushing into my chest like the rock of ages and I couldn't breathe.

"Hey, girl."

I turned around and saw Sharalee through the screen, standing outside wearing this big-hair hairdo.

I let out my breath. "Law, you scared me."

"Sorry." She came onto the porch. "Don't tell Mama I was here, okay?" she said.

I nodded. "Long as you don't tell my daddy on me."

Sharalee giggled. "Well, now, Charity Pittman sneaking from her daddy, I do declare!"

"Just don't say anything, okay?"

"Oh, don't worry about me." Sharalee poofed up her hair with her hand. "I've got better things occupying my mind these days."

"Like what?"

"Like Mama training me for the Miss Peanut pageant," she said. She squinted her eyes at me. "And don't you dare laugh. I've already lost two whole pounds, and that's with eating stuff right in front of Mama, too."

I swallowed. "You look real good, Sharalee, and I like your hair big like that. Makes your face look right skinny."

Sharalee went on like I hadn't even spoken. "Mama says if I can lose twenty-five pounds by next April she'll buy me the best store-bought gown this side of the Mason-Dixon."

"But what if you don't lose the weight? What's she going to do then?"

"I'm going to lose the weight, and she's going to buy me the dress and get me in that pageant, and see if I don't win! Then who'll be laughing at me?"

"Sharalee, I'm not laughing. It's just that, law, twenty-five pounds!"

Sharalee closed her eyes. "I'm going to lose it just the same. Jesus promised."

I glanced at the house. "The Jesus chair? You've asked Jesus to lose that weight for you? And win you that contest?"

"I believe, don't you, Miss Preacher's Daughter?"

"I do. I—yes—yes, I do. Oh, Sharalee." I threw my arms around my very best friend. "I'll pray, too. I'll come here every day and pray for you. That chair works, I'm just sure it does."

Sharalee gave me a squeeze and then let go. "I know it does. They had that prayer meeting last night, finishing up with Miss Ivy-June singing 'His Eye Is on the Sparrow,' and you know, they sang the last amen at ten o'clock exactly, and at exactly ten o'clock a call came into the sheriff's office from some folks in Selma, said they had Miss Becky with them. Now how about that for a miracle?"

"What? They found Miss Becky? Was she kidnapped? She probably set fire to their getaway car, more 'n likely, and they turned her in." I spun around. "They found Miss Becky!"

Sharalee grabbed my arms. "Charity, really," she said. "She wasn't kidnapped. She was just going home. She grew up in Selma. She forgot she lived here, see, and she went back home. She forgot where she lived. The doctors say she's got Alzheimer's disease."

"But they found her, I don't believe it! Does my daddy know? He should have been the first to know. Wait till everybody hears. Boo! Does Boo know? He's free at last! They found her, Sharalee, they found her! Isn't that great?" I grabbed her again and started jumping up and down.

"It's Jesus. It's the chair." Sharalee said, keeping her body still, refusing to be jostled up and down. "And I'm going to lose that weight and become Miss Peanut."

"Yes, you are. Oh, Sharalee, I'm so proud." I gave her another hug, and she held her body stiff.

"I'm serious. Charity," she said in this warning kind of voice.

"Well, sure," I said, backing off.

"No more snacks in the barn and hiding extra in the coffins. I confessed it all to Mama anyway, and to Jesus. I have to do my part if Jesus is going to do His."

"Of course."

"And no telling Mama about me and the chair." Sharalee stared down at the grass. "She fierce doesn't believe in the chair. But I'll show her. We'll show her, me and Jesus."

Sharalee went inside for a talk with the Jesus chair, and I set off for home, hoping I'd get there before Daddy got back. I was still in the driveway when I saw Adrienne speeding down the road in her beat-up station wagon. She swerved into her drive and I jumped out of the way. She slammed on the brakes and hopped out of her car laughing. "Did I frighten you?"

"I thought you were inside asleep," I said.

"On a day like this? My God! It's too fantastic. I finished!"

"You finished?"

Adrienne nodded. "I finished my first painting since my sensory deprivation project. Come tell me what you think."

I followed her around to the back of the car, thinking on what I was going to say about her painting. I figured "marvelous" would be good, and maybe "splendid," too.

Adrienne flipped through her set of keys, searching for the right one to unlock the back. I watched her hands. They were darker than her arms or her face, like they hung outside more often than the rest of her. And they were strong and rough looking, nothing like her body, which was tiny and thin and made me feel like some kind of oaf to be standing next to her. She had on a man's oxford-cloth shirt, worn with the sleeves rolled up and paint all over it—and in her hair, always paint in her hair. I loved it. I wanted to look just like her.

Adrienne opened the back and lifted out her painting. It was a large canvas. Her arms were out as far as they would go, just trying to hold on to the sides.

"I painted this out in the fields in back of Mad Joe's little place," she said, holding the canvas up in front of her. "Well, what do you think?" Her eyes were all sparkling.

I stared at the canvas. I didn't know what it was exactly, but I knew how it made me feel. It hinted at trees and water, lots of cool water—maybe—and lots of space in shades of gray and white. It gave me that same feeling I had the time I went with Daddy to the church in Atlanta to hear him preach. The time I decided to become a preacher 'cause I was so full of that holy feeling, the same feeling I had with the Jesus chair. I stared at her painting a long time, not wanting to pull away or even speak for fear of losing that feeling. I no longer saw any trees or water, just shapes and colors that washed over me like a wet spring morning. And, law, I felt that burning desire Adrienne had once talked about. That fierce desire to create something of my own, create my own holy thing.

"You like it, I can tell," Adrienne broke into my thoughts.

I looked up at her and then back at the picture. "It's almost—it's almost holy." I felt my face and body go hot; a squiggle of sweat ran down from my armpit.

"Holy!" she said. "You couldn't have said anything better. You have an artist's eye, Charity, you really do. Have you been practicing your drawing?"

I opened my mouth to answer but Adrienne jumped in, saying, "Oh! We have to celebrate my painting. I always celebrate. Hold on, I'll be right back."

She set her painting back in the car and scooted off toward the house. She was gone less than a minute, and when she came back she carried a full bottle of wine and two glasses in her hands.

"Now to celebrate," she said, lifting the bottle.

"Oh no, I can't." I backed away some. "Daddy'd tar and feather me for sure if I so much as caught a whiff of that devil's poison."

Adrienne laughed and set the bottle and glasses down on the car. "Charity, this isn't hard liquor. In Paris even
les enfants
drink a bit of wine. Now, I feel too fabulous to argue. I'll pour you just a drop, and then we'll say cheers to the completion of my painting and we'll have ensured the painting's success."