Texas Born (16 page)

Arabella couldn't be sure.

She continued to stare. For almost a full
minute Zaccheus had his head turned. Then Phoebe turned to glance
at him, but Arabella couldn't see her expression: her niece's face
was hidden by the sides of her flaring black bonnet.

Arabella smiled faintly to herself. Then she
turned quickly around again. The sermon was over.

She poised her Angers above the keyboard and
brought them crashing down in a hymn.

That night, in the cool darkness of the
second-floor bedroom, Arabella turned her head sideways on the
pillow. For a long moment she stared at her husband. He was a
large, shadowy mound of blanket. 'Reverend,' she said
hesitantly.

He stirred and she could feel him turning to
face her. 'Yes, Arabella?'

'The Lord . . .' She bit down on her lip. '.
. . Sometimes he moves in mysterious ways, doesn't he?'

'Yesss . . .' Elias Flatts's voice sounded
puzzled. 'Is something bothering you?'

'N-noooo,' she said slowly. 'It's just that
sometimes I wonder why he makes the things happen that he
does.'

'What kind of things?'

'Oh,' she said vaguely, 'just things.'

Reverend Flatts reached over and patted his
wife's hand. 'Ours is not to question why,'' he quoted softly.

She nodded her head in the dark. 'No, it
isn't,' she replied. She felt suddenly better for not telling him
about Zaccheus' eyes for Phoebe. The reverend would find out soon
enough for himself.

And besides, it was the Lord's doing, of that
she was certain.

She smiled faintly up at the dark ceiling.
Even long after her husband's wheezy breathing grew deep and
regular, she lay awake, remembering how, long ago, she had met him.
How young she had been then— barely two years older than Phoebe was
now. And her husband had been a young seminary student, slim and
handsome and filled with shining fervor.

He was no longer slim and handsome, of
course, but his religious fervor burned deeper than ever. Some
things, at least, did not change.

And with those comforting memories, she fell
soundly asleep.

The Methodist services themselves may not
have particularly appealed to Zaccheus, but the readings from the
Bible did, since it was filled with parables, heroic deeds, and
age-old history. It was sweet poetry to his ears, something he
could both appreciate and respect. But what he liked most of all
about the services— besides the opportunity to be with Phoebe—were
the hymns. They were writings of another kind. Poetry set to
music.

Without telling anyone, he composed the words
to a hymn of his own, 'The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven.' He did
it while toiling in the fields or walking to and from town, keeping
a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil handy in his back pocket.
This way, whenever he had an inspiration, he could quickly jot it
down.

Slowly the hymn began to take shape:

The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven,

Behind which our Lord is throned,

Where angels glide in paradise,

Is our true heav'nly home.

The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven,

Inside which we serve our Lord,

Saint Peter, guardian of the gates,

Give us our Christian sword.

The Might Golden Gates of Heaven,

In the bright blue sky above,

A place where Christian brothers

Find undivided love.

The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven,

Dazzling, brilliant, and pure,

A mecca for the Lord's servants,

A place where we'll endure.

The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven,

Our one true spiritual choice,

Where God in all his glory reigns,

A place where we'll rejoice.

The Mighty Golden Gates of Heaven,

Our own true spiritual home,

The only place for brothers

That we can call our own.

Finally the hymn was completed. Zaccheus
showed it to Arabella Flatts.

She was amazed. She studied first the lyrics
and then the handsome, remarkable lad who had written them.
'
You
wrote this?' she asked incredulously, tapping the sheet
of paper with an index finger.

Zaccheus nodded timidly, his long gangly body
ill- at-ease.

The reverend was right, Arabella thought, the
Lord truly worked in mysterious ways. There was no longer any doubt
in her mind but that the Lord had sent Phoebe here in order to
attract Zaccheus to the congregation.

Each afternoon of the next week, Arabella sat
down behind the church organ and set the words to music. Then she
had the Muddy Lake Gazette print up sheets of the hymn. The Sunday
when it was first sung, there were tears in the reverend's,
Arabella's, and Zaccheus' eyes.

Zaccheus' tears were misconstrued for
revelation, piety, and pride. The truth was, he was immensely sad.
This was the first time anything he had created had moved himself
and others, and rather than feeling thrilled, he was plunged into a
deep depression: the first time his hymn was sung was the most
important day of his life, but his family wasn't there to share in
his pride. On that Sunday, like every other Sunday of his life,
Nathaniel refused to go to church. There was work to be done.
Without Letitia's help, and with Zaccheus around less and less, the
time wasn't there to squander. Letitia and Theoderick weren't
churchgoers either, so they stayed away. And Sue Ellen, who had
planned on going for the first time in her life, awoke that morning
with a burning fever. The flu she had caught would last a week.

From that Sunday on, 'The Mighty Golden Gates
of Heaven' was sung during at least two services a month. The
reverend and Arabella sent copies of the hymn to neighboring towns,
and it soon became the most popular hymn in the county. In one fell
stroke it elevated Zaccheus above everyone in Muddy Lake. He had
found his forte. Poetry.

Arabella Flatts was humble enough not to
verbalize the credit that was due her for recognizing Zaccheus'
potential and nurturing his genius, but every time she looked upon
him, her eyes glowed with deep pride. Even Phoebe seemed to glance
at him more often.

The Methodist community welcomed him with
open arms.

Arabella Flatts dabbed her lips delicately
with her napkin and pushed her carved lyre-backed chair back from
the oval mahogany dining-room table. Phoebe took her cue and rose
to her feet. Reverend Flatts, Zaccheus, and Reverend Tilton, who
was visiting from Salem and had delivered this Sunday's sermon,
also touched their lips with their napkins.

'A feast,' Reverend Tilton, whose wife had
died the previous year, proclaimed in his rumbling voice. He placed
his rumpled napkin down beside his plate and rose to his feet. He
was a tall man, and towered high above Arabella. 'You are a hugely
accomplished cook, Mrs. Flatts. I envy the reverend.'

Arabella flushed with pleasure. 'You must
visit us more often,' she said.

'That I shall, that I shall.'

Reverend Flatts stretched out his arm in
order to clap a hand on Reverend Tilton's shoulder. 'Let us retire
to the study,' he suggested, stifling a burp. He turned and nodded.
'Come along, Zaccheus. There's something we'd like to discuss with
you.'

Zaccheus looked puzzled. He had never before
been invited into the sanctum of the reverend's study, to which the
men who dined at the Flattses' traditionally retired after eating.
He glanced first at Reverend Flatts, then at Reverend Tilton, and
finally at Mrs. Flatts.

She smiled encouragingly, her topaz eyes
sparkling, and watched as the men, followed by Zaccheus, went out
to the hall and into the reverend's study, which was next door.
When the study door snapped shut, she and Phoebe began clearing the
table.

'Reverend Tilton delivered an inspiring
sermon, don't you think?' Arabella said pleasantly as she made a
stack of the plates.

Phoebe looked at her and nodded.

'Well, soon as the dishes are done, we'll go
sit out on the porch. You know the saying, 'Men work from sun to
sun, but women's work is never done.' Well, on Sundays I don't
prescribe to that. We may have to cook, but we'll sit and rest,
just like the good Lord intended.'

Phoebe nodded again, her face impassive. She
didn't like doing dishes, nor did she like simply sitting around.
In Natchez she'd always had plenty of friends about.

Phoebe Flatts was bored to tears.

From behind the closed door of the study the
two women could hear the men talking. Phoebe ignored the voices,
but Arabella nodded to herself. She knew what it was the men were
discussing. Last month, she herself had broached the subject with
her husband, and he had gone to see Reverend Tilton about it.

Which was why Reverend Tilton was here.

'It's time you gave your future some
thought,' said Reverend Flatts. He was pacing the book-lined study,
where twin oval portraits of Reverend Flatts's grandparents gazed
down in oil-painted solemnity. 'Do you have any idea what you would
like to do with yourself?'

'Sir?' said Zaccheus, who was seated on the
edge of a settee upholstered with worn fabric. Reverend Tilton was
seated opposite him, teacup in hand.

Reverend Flatts tucked his thick red
fingertips into his waistcoat pocket. He took a deep breath, tucked
his chin down into his voluminous neck, and looked thoughtful, his
gray brush eyebrows knit, his lower lip jutting out. Then he looked
up again and met Zaccheus' gaze. 'You're fourteen years old.'

Zaccheus nodded, frowning in puzzlement.
'Yes, sir?'

'I don't need to tell you how bright you
are.' Reverend Flatts met the youth's gaze with his small porcine
eyes. 'We're all very proud of you.'

Zaccheus looked away in embarrassment, a lump
blocking his throat. He had learned some manners and gained some
education, but he had yet to acquire the polish it took to accept a
compliment gracefully.

'It's never too soon to start planning for
your future,' the reverend continued. 'Within two years you'll have
to decide what you want to do with your life.'

'What
can
I do?' Zaccheus blurted out
helplessly.

The reverend smiled and glanced at Reverend
Tilton. A silent signal seemed to pass between the two men.
Reverend Tilton set his cup down, got to his feet, and cleared his
throat. 'Have you considered a career in the ministry?' he asked
softly.

'The . . . ministry?' Zaccheus' voice was a
squeak.

'The ministry.' Reverend Tilton nodded. He
gestured to Reverend Flatts. 'We are both in agreement that the
Lord has blessed you extraordinarily. For a young man your age,
you're filled with talent. We think you should put it to good use
to do the Lord's work.'

'But I don't know if-'

'You have a calling?' Reverend Tilton asked
gently.

Zaccheus nodded. He was unable to speak.
Everything was moving too quickly for him.

'Many who are called to do the Lord's work do
not even realize it in the beginning,' Reverend Tilton said flatly.
Then he smiled benevolently down at Zaccheus. 'But the Lord knows,
Zaccheus. He has singled you out to do his work.'

'Doing the Lord's work is doing fine work,'
Reverend Flatts added emphatically. 'It's a highly respected
career. A man can go far in the ministry.''

Zaccheus turned to Reverend Flatts.

'In the ministry,' Reverend Flatts continued,
'we do not only hold church services. We're . . . doctors of the
soul. We take care of people's spiritual needs. We help heal their
pain.'

'But . . . me?' Zaccheus' voice was thick
with emotion and confusion. 'I don't know anything about it.'

'On the contrary,' Reverend Tilton said
smoothly. 'Your hymn proves how sensitive you are. You have a
mighty talent for translating the untranslatable and putting it
into words for all to understand.'

Reverend Flatts cleared his throat. 'You
don't have to make up your mind just yet,' he said, 'but if you're
interested, you should let us know. These things take time. You
must be interviewed and approved, take tests, go to college—'

'College!
'

'Yes, college,' Reverend Flatts frowned
solemnly. 'Most ministers are thus trained. And once you're trained
and ordained, you will get a congregation of your very own. Even
the chance to do missionary work overseas.'

'Overseas!' Zaccheus sat up straight. He
didn't dare believe what he had heard. It was as if some distant
siren were whispering sweet dreams into his ringing ears.

'Of course, should you decide to pursue such
a career, we would have to find a suitable wife for you. One who
will attend to your needs and the needs of your congregation, just
as Mrs. Flatts attends to things here. There are many fine young
devoted women. Women like our Phoebe, for instance.'

Zaccheus turned red.

Reverend Flatts coughed delicately, glanced
away, and flushed lightly. Arabella might not have been aware of
it, but he had not been totally blind to Zaccheus' attentions to
Phoebe. And hadn't he, on the deathbed of his niece's parents,
vowed to care for Phoebe? To help find her a suitable husband? No
simple task.

Of course, there was still time. But slowly,
things would have to be arranged, wheels set into motion. The first
of these was to make certain that something would become of
Zaccheus.

'You think about it,' Reverend Flatts said
quickly. 'There's no need to decide just yet. For the time being,
we'll keep it between us three, eh?'

Zaccheus tried to swallow the lump blocking
his throat. The book-lined study seemed suddenly to reel dizzily
around him.

He couldn't believe it. It was too good to be
true.