The Promise of Jesse Woods (10 page)

JUNE 1972

The church picnic was not just the introduction of the new pastor but a social affair rivaling a state dinner at the White House. Instead of fine china and sterling, we had paper plates and plastic forks. Instead of steak and lobster, we ate freshly cut watermelon and coleslaw by the gallon along with burgers and hot dogs. The weight of the potato salad made the folding tables wobble.

The elders had canceled Sunday school that morning, the only time that would happen in my days there, with the exception of one major snowfall and a bitterly cold day in 1978 when the downstairs pipes burst. My father accompanied the elders to the platform and sat behind the
pulpit while my mother played the piano. The organist was a teenage boy not much older than me who tried valiantly to keep up.

On Sundays, all the Massey Ferguson and John Deere hats came off at the door, and the men who had strong leanings toward unions and political platforms politely put aside their differences and mingled, though it was interesting to walk through the parking lot and see the ratio of Nixon to McGovern bumper stickers. Older women wore dresses and hose and smelled of sickly sweet perfume. Their hair was usually up, while younger women wore theirs down, cascading to the shoulders of their modest dresses. Boys wore white T-shirts under their button-ups and there was a smattering of ties, but those boys usually stretched at their collars throughout the service. You could tell the haves and have-nots from pants and shoes. Well-fitting pants meant you were in the upper echelon. High-water pants meant it had been a while since you had enough money for new. Men who owned a pair of wing-tip oxfords were on one end of the economic scale, while at the other were those with freshly hosed work boots. Men smelled of tobacco, peppermint, and shoe polish.

“Matt, you’re going to see people in church and school who don’t have much,” my mother had said that morning before we left the house. “Don’t ever look down on anyone and never laugh at anybody’s clothes. That’s the cruelest thing you can do.”

I could think of a few things more cruel, but her point was well-taken. I wondered if she was speaking
from experience. She and my father had grown up in the Depression and I had heard stories about how hard things had been.

“Now I want you to look for Gwen Bailey,” my mother said. “She’s real smart. Loves to read, just like you. And she’s real pretty.”

The prospect of being set up made me sweat. I agreed I would look for her, but inside, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to interact. I was always nervous around girls, another reason I liked Jesse. I could be myself around her.

“Is Mawmaw coming?”

“She doesn’t feel comfortable in church with the medication she’s on.”

“You want me to keep her company?”

She pulled my tie tight. “Get in the car, Matt.”

Red, spine-worn hymnals populated the pew back in front of me. I sat alone in the third row, feeling every eye of the congregation and tugging at my collar. My mother had insisted I have a haircut, so my father buzzed me the day before and stray hairs scratched. The church had not invested in air-conditioning, so the windows were open and the large ceiling fans were working overtime. They did little to quell the heat. As a heavy child, I was used to sweating even in winter. But sweating outside, riding your bike with the wind in your face, was different from sweating in your Sunday best.

The song leader, Gerald Grassley, was a middle-aged man with a mustache between a prominent nose and
jutting chin. He had a car and lawn mower repair shop in Dogwood that gave free oil changes to widows. Though he tried to clean them, his fingernails were always a shade of black and he wore extra Brut to cover up the smell of ether and gasoline that seemed to leak through his pores.

Gerald’s arm rose and fell the same way to any song he led, no matter the time signature. He had a nasal twang when he spoke and sang, like a younger Grandpa Jones, but his pitch wasn’t bad and he seemed to enjoy song leading. His job was to get everybody started at the same place and everybody stopped when the song was over, but whatever happened in the middle was up to God and the congregation.

To his right were empty choir chairs in a loft section beside the pulpit. Those would be filled once my mother recruited eligible singers. Behind was the baptistery, a cutout section in the knotty pine walls that looked like an oversize window flanked by velvet curtains. There was a mural on the wall behind it painted by an art teacher from a nearby high school. It was a peaceful scene of trees and hills, and a stream flowed from top to bottom, ending in the baptismal waters. Something was off in the scale, though, because the trees in the foreground were smaller than those on the hills and the sparrow that sat on the limb of a sycamore looked the size of a crow. When you stared at it long enough, you got vertigo.

I peeked over my shoulder to see if Jesse and Dickie might have arrived, but every head turned toward me,
including that of a girl with a pink ribbon in her hair and a dress suitable for Easter Sunday. That had to be Gwen.

I stared at the bulletin, scanning the names of church leaders. The order of service was printed on a mimeograph machine that made every
e
on the page look like an
o
with a faint, crooked line through it. The page had been printed crooked, so you had to hold it at an angle. After the words
Introduction of Now Pastor
, the name
Basil Blackwood
was printed.

Even with the uneven printing I recognized the man who owned the horse. My heart sank and I scooted down in the seat as he stepped to the pulpit.

“As you all know, we’ve gone and hired a new shepherd. Calvin Plumley grew up here, just down the road from me. He comes from a good family. A little mistaken in their politics, of course.”

The congregation gave a reserved laugh.

“He has two children, one still in the nest,” Mr. Blackwood said. “And his wife, Ramona, has graciously agreed to accompany us each week and get the choir started again. Anybody who wants to be in the choir, be here at five o’clock tonight before the evening service.”

My mother stood at the piano and nodded, then lifted a hand toward me to stand. I was far down in the pew, trying to avoid the gaze of the man in the pulpit, but when my mother didn’t relent, I stood. I lost my balance and grabbed the pew in front of me, nearly rocking it over. It banged with a terrific crack and I waved as I sat. The girl with the ribbon smiled.

Mr. Blackwood stared at me as if the abomination of desolation had just entered the Temple.

“We’ve made it clear the reason we’re bringing in Plumley is to get us on track. We need the Word of God. What we have in this country is not the fear of the Lord, and that’s what we sorely need. I’m hoping we’ll hear messages about the great and terrible Day of the Lord. And the lake of fire God is preparing. And I’m expecting there to be some baptisms back there.” Blackwood pointed a thumb behind him. “It’s been a dry spell.”

My stomach growled, half from hunger and half from nervousness for my father. I hadn’t considered the people’s expectations of him. He had preached in churches near Pittsburgh, but there’s a difference between speaking once and walking out the door and having to live with those you’re speaking to.

“Now we don’t usually do this in the Lord’s house, but before we hear him speak and commission him, I think it’s appropriate to welcome our new pastor with a round of applause.”

People clapped work-worn hands and my mother slipped into the pew beside me. I felt comforted by her presence. My father stood and put his Bible on the pulpit. I held my breath, hoping he would say something that disarmed Mr. Blackwood and appeased the skeptics.

He thanked them for giving him the opportunity and thanked God for leading us to Dogwood. “After all the things us Plumley boys got into as kids, I’m surprised you let me in the church, let alone called me as pastor.”

There was polite laughter, though Mr. Blackwood frowned. My father’s next words made me think the man might storm the pulpit and pull back their call.

“Now I’m all for preaching the Day of the Lord, the lake of fire, hell, eternal punishment, and the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. And a helping of weeping and gnashing of teeth, to boot. The truth is the truth. You don’t hide that under a bushel. But I learned in seminary that if you preach the whole counsel of God’s Word, you can never go wrong. So we’re going one book at a time, verse by verse, and we’re going to hit the Day of the Lord when it gets here. What I think you’ll find is that there’s more about the love and grace and mercy of God than there is hellfire and brimstone. Judgment is coming—God would have to apologize to Sodom and Gomorrah if he didn’t judge us. But Jesus said that he would build his church and the gates of hell would not prevail against it. I believe that, and I want to be part of that. Do you?”

“Amen!” a few people said.

“So today, open to John, chapter one, verse one.”

I associate the sound of flipping onionskin with every Sunday and Wednesday night of my youth.

“‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’”

My father preached well and seemed to hold the congregation’s attention despite the few references to Greek words and Old Testament concepts. My mind turned toward the potato salad and Jesse. I looked at Mr. Blackwood, his jaw set as he listened, and wondered what had happened to the last pastor.

After the message, the elders rose and gathered around my father, put their hands on his shoulders, and prayed. The sound system, which was tinny and only came through one speaker, began to squeal as the man working the sound tried to pick up the prayers. When it was over, Mr. Blackwood dismissed the ladies to go to the kitchen. Several men left to get the coals going on the barbecues. My shirt was drenched by the end of the service and I couldn’t wait to get my tie off.

My mother finished her postlude and scurried to the back while men congregated around my father, shaking hands and swapping stories. I heard someone say, “I remember when you and your brother went coon hunting on my daddy’s property.”

I did not see the man’s approach or I might have run, but when I looked up, Mr. Blackwood leaned over the pew in front of me, his face inches from mine.

“I recognize you,” he said, his voice emotionless. He said the word
recognize
without the
g
—
reckonize
. His eyes locked on me like lasers.

“Yes, sir,” I said, a ball of sweat rolling down my neck.

“Am I going to have to speak to your daddy about you trespassing on my property?”

I wanted to tell him I was only trying to help his horse, but I said, “No, sir.”

“Then we’ll keep this between us. And don’t let it happen again, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

I quickly made my way out the back door into fresh air. Men gathered in the shade of a weeping willow. The women had set out covered dishes on folding tables. Somehow they had coordinated things so that there weren’t too many bean casseroles or pasta salads. I saw a dish at the end, set off by itself, that looked a little disgusting and smelled like somebody had died. I later learned it was called ramps and that it was a delicacy in that neck of the woods. It was the only dish I never tried.

A circular table held desserts that looked like the bread of angels. Frosted pound cakes, walnut-filled brownies, cherry pies, apple pies, pecan and lemon meringue. I wanted to grab one of everything on the table, but as a heavy child you quickly learn that people judge how high you pile your plate. Instead, you pick opportunities to secretly indulge.

“Matt, honey, why don’t you go see what the others are doing?” my mother said, gently prodding me away from the food.

Several boys were in a heated game of basketball at the sagging hoop on a dead walnut tree, and I wandered over, hands in my pockets. They would bounce the ball on the uneven ground and pick it up after every dribble. A wiry redheaded boy with a complexion that seemed too light, like Edgar Winter, made a shot and gave a teammate a high five.

“What did the Reds do last night?” someone said.

“Got rained out in Montreal.”

They were bantering about their favorite team when a
big-boned girl came up beside me. She had the same red hair and light complexion as the boy playing basketball. She stared at me with abject fascination, then pulled at her dress, which could not hide her large frame or budding femininity. Her hair was short and she had the first signs of acne. Her upper lip didn’t reach all the way to the lower one, so she had the countenance of a chipmunk.

“You the preacher’s boy?” she said.

I introduced myself, holding out a hand. She took it daintily, like she wasn’t sure how to respond, and dipped her head in a curtsy like I was royalty. “I’m Shur-uhl,” she said. Later I learned that this was short for Shirley and her last name was Turley, and I immediately felt both sorrow for her and contempt for her parents. I also learned that Shirl’s father, Burl, had been a leader in the church but had died several years earlier and that the Turleys and Blackwoods were cousins and stuck closer than worms in a can.

“I’m not going to be eatin’ anything at the picnic,” Shirl said.

I wasn’t sure why she would offer such personal information, but I couldn’t think of anything to say but “Why not?”

“Upset stomach. Mommy made me all the whipped cream I could eat last night. Once you get started, you can’t stop.”

I nodded.

“Earl?” Shirl shouted toward the gaggle. The redheaded kid picked up his dribble. “This here is the preacher’s boy. You ought to let him play.”

Earl walked toward me with the basketball tucked under his arm. When he spoke, it sounded like some country singer I had heard who whined his songs. “You gotta get somebody else if you want to play. Keep the sides even.”

“He don’t know nobody,” Shirl said. “How’s he gonna get somebody to play?”

“Wait till somebody shows up,” Earl said.

“Fine,” she said, spitting the word. “I’ll be on their side, Matt. You be on Earl’s.”