by Lisa Smartt
“Yeah, but she’s working on that. She is. I think she’s gonna try harder next time. Maybe Charles Parker was a little too friendly, too I don’t know, too perfect. I just know we shouldn’t give up. She does want to meet someone, but she’s scared.”
“Okay. Now I was a figurin’ last night all the fellas ‘round here that I consider decent. I’ll be honest, Hon. The list ain’t that long. But then I thought of Dewayne. He cuts meat down at the market and we all like him real well, but he’s kind of odd.”
“Odd in what way?”
“Hard to put my finger on it. Uh, I reckon he’s a little bit of a mama’s boy.”
“You mean he lives with his mama?”
“Yeah. And she ain’t helped him none either. She babies him. He’s older than Doug and she still brings him his lunch every day. Plus, he smokes. Would that be a problem for Clara?”
“She’s highly allergic so I’m afraid it would be. Who else you got, Aunt Charlotte?”
“Now there’s always Pete Thompson. He owns the gas station out on Hwy. 22 but he’s ‘bout 45 years old. His wife left him last year. Ran off with some highfalutin car salesman she met in Jackson. Yeah, he said he ain’t never gonna buy a Dodge fer the rest of his life. Ever time he sees a Dodge, he says it’s like the food poisonin’ we all got at the community center last 4th of July. Polly Johnson’s tater salad nearly caused us to meet our maker so I knew zactly what he meant, poor thing.”
“I don’t know, Aunt Charlotte. I think Pete needs some healing time, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah, I reckon. Well, I didn’t wanna have to do this, but we’re gonna need to move over a county. I’m callin’ someone who can help us. Just give me a minute.”
Aunt Charlotte took off her bright red apron that read, “Kiss me. I’m from the South.” She picked up the faded yellow telephone receiver as though it were 1979 and dialed a number she had memorized. The phone base was secured to the dark brown paneled wall and had a mile-long cord which gave Aunt Charlotte the opportunity to plop down in the broken powder blue recliner. What a woman of faith! The whole scene reminded me of an episode of the Brady Bunch except Alice would have never made squash/macaroni casserole and there were no coons in the Brady household. Of course, speaker phone was not even an option so I knew I would only hear one side.
“Debbie? Debbie, this here’s Charlotte. I need your help, Baby. I do.”
“Well, there’s this lonely, right pretty, little skinny woman who needs a good man. She’s a teacher and a God fearin’ woman so he don’t need to be some kind of wild fella. He needs to love God, go to church, and be a hard worker.”
“Yes, uh-huh. He can’t be a smoker or a heavy drinker. She ain’t that kinda woman, Debbie. She’s a cute little thing, about 30 years old, needs to eat a little more, kinda shy. But not a bad young’un”
“Yes. Okay.”
“Yes. Hmmm. Yeah, I do remember.”
“Now you’re talkin’, Debbie. Uh huh, that sounds good. Tell me more.”
A few minutes passed as though it were an hour. Aunt Charlotte was clearly getting good news because her short chubby body rose from the broken chair with Olympic enthusiasm.
“Yes, ma’am! I reckon we could all be Baptist for a day. Grandpa Joe might roll over in his grave but it wouldn’t kill none of us. Yeah, that sounds real good. Okay. We’ll plan on bein’ there on the 27th. And it’s just regular potluck? I’ll bring deviled eggs and baked beans with the ground beef and onions all cooked up in ‘em. Oh, and this little redheaded kindergarten teacher will be with me too. Yeah, go ahead and give him fair warning. Thanks, Debbie. See you soon, Baby!”
Aunt Charlotte hung up the phone and then cheered like she won the lottery! “God done smiled on us, Carlie Jameson! He done smiled on us good!!”
“I can’t wait to hear the details. Lay it on me.”
“Well, Bart’s niece lives over in Troy. That’s in Obion County. She’s a fine lady too, married about eight years, four kids. And Debbie knows people over in Obion County and I knew she could help us. Turns out one of her old high school friends is preachin’ at a Baptist Church way out in the country. He sells insurance in Union City during the week and preaches on weekends. Anyway, he’s 29 and was datin’ this little gal from Illinois but she turned out to be trouble. He found out she flew to California to see some fella she met on the computer. God, help us, Carlie! What’s wrong with these poor young people? Anyway, that was almost a year ago and he’s still single. Debbie says he’s a real good man but most ever’body in the church is married or old enough to be his grandma. They’re having a potluck lunch in a few weeks and we’re gonna be there, Carlie. You, me, Doug, Bart, and o’course, Clara. So get on the phone with ‘er and tell ‘er to eat as much as she can in the next two weeks. She needs to be filled out real good ‘cause she’s gonna be meetin’ Jake Smith. And Carlie, ‘tween you and me and the fence post, Debbie says Jake really does look like the Marlboro man. A big rugged country boy who don’t smoke and carries a Bible? Oh Baby, God done smiled on us real good.”
Chapter 11 CARLIE: The Smoke-free Marlboro Man
I called Clara at 4:20 because she loves to watch Jeopardy at 4:30. I’m sensitive like that.
“Hello.”
“Clara? Hey, how was your day, friend?”
“Well, two of the Kinders came down with the stomach virus right after lunch. I’ll never eat a Chuckwagon sandwich again. But other than that, it’s good. How are you?”
“Oh, we’re good. Clara, I’ve never been one to mince words. So I’ll shoot straight with you. It’s time for your late January visit to the farm. And yes, there is some matchmaking involved. But there’s no use to fight me on it. I’m ornery. And it’s best to just surrender.”
“Ha Ha. So, who is the poor victim this time? Let me guess. Uncle Bart has a brother.”
“Well, aren’t you funny? I’ve totally underestimated your sense of humor. Yes, Uncle Bart does have a brother but he lives in Alabama and is married to a manicurist who sings country music on weekends. They’ve been married for over 40 years AND she wears rhinestones so you don’t have a chance, friend.”
“Well, darn. Then I’m not even going to bother coming.”
“Aren’t you in a good mood today? Okay. Here’s the deal. Uncle Bart’s niece knows someone in a neighboring county who would be perfect for you. Really. He’s an insurance agent and a preacher on weekends.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding. Why would I be kidding?”
“You think I could be a preacher’s wife? Me? A shy woman who can’t meet people and has a sordid past? You think that’s what he’s praying for? You think he’s saying, ‘God, please bring me a woman who is so shy that people think she’s unfriendly and then go ahead and throw in a horrible past that involves childbirth.’? You’re over your head this time.”
“No. You’re the crazy one. You’re living in the past, Clara. You’re listening to the stupid voices. And you have to quit listening. Really. So stop listening to the crazy talk and make plans to come up. We’re going to his church on the 27th and they’re having a potluck afterward. No pressure at all. We are literally just going to visit Uncle Bart’s niece for the day. Come on.”
“Would it matter if I put up a fight with you?”
“Absolutely not. I’m a big woman and I’ll always win. So don’t waste the energy.”
“I’ll see you in a few weeks then.”
“And we’ll be looking forward to it.”
When Doug got home from work, I explained the plan.
“Doug, how do you feel about being Baptist for a day?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, Aunt Charlotte and I have planned a little family field trip to a Baptist Church outside Troy in two weeks.”
“Oh, let me guess. This involves Jake Smith and a certain shy woman from Georgia, right?”
“Well, aren’t you the smart one? You’re already ahead of me. How do you k
now Jake Smith?”
“I’ve known his daddy for a long time. He’s a big soybean farmer and has done a lot of business with the bank. Jake’s a pretty good fella. He’s a little young though, isn’t he?”
“Well, if that ain’t the pot callin’ the kettle black.” Note to self: I’m spending way too much time with Aunt Charlotte.
Doug grabbed me from behind and started feverishly kissing my neck. He laughed and said, “I couldn’t help it, Carlie. This big blonde bombshell robbed my cradle. I was powerless.”
“Well, let’s hope a skinny little redhead can rob Jake Smith’s cradle. I hold out a lotta hope this time, Doug. A lotta hope.”
Chapter 12 CARLIE: Preach On, Brother Jake
The weekend of Clara’s visit was extraordinarily cold. Of course, I love cold weather. I think most chubby women love cold weather ‘cause we look much better in black pants and sweaters than we do in sundresses. That’s just a cruel fact of life and I’m one of the few people willing to say it out loud.
Saturday night I helped Clara lay out all the clothes she brought. I knew what I was looking for but hadn’t seen it quite yet.
“We’re walkin’ a fine line here, Clara. We want modesty while also accentuating the positive. Just remember, he’s a Baptist preacher, not a blind man.”
“I guess. I mean, I’m not sure any of these clothes will really work, Carlie.”
“Of course they will. Let’s see. Okay. What about these brown pants and that green sweater? That green is your color!”
“Yeah, and I’ve got a big multi-colored scarf that goes with that too. Let me find that in the pile. I know those are really in style right now.”
“No. Absolutely not. No scarf.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because a big chunky scarf is, uh, well, a distraction. A big chunky scarf draws the eye to the scarf. Y’know what I mean?”
“Not exactly.”
“Look, just trust me on this. Women love scarves. But men? No. Men never give women big chunky scarves. Stop and ask yourself why that is.” Clara looked at me like she just found out that 2 + 2 = 5. I tried to put her mind at ease. “I promise I’m right on this, Clara. Just wear the green sweater and leave the chunky scarf for a day with the Kinders. I promise all the middle-aged female teachers in the teachers’ lounge will ooooh and aaaah over that chunky scarf like it’s Christmas mornin’. But when it comes to Jake Smith, well, that scarf needs to stay in the suitcase. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong? On second thought, don’t answer that.”
Whew! Matchmaking is so much harder than people think. It’s not just finding a preacher who looks like the Marlboro man. Oh no. Then there’s all the late-night emotional support. The fashion advice. The counseling regarding lipstick color. And of course, I planned to cook a high-protein breakfast too. Clara needed plenty of raw strength for the day ahead. I mean, I may be a slacker on cleaning out closets. I might even be running a tad bit behind on writing my next book. But sloppy matchmaking? Not a chance.
Because it was a potluck event, I got up early Sunday morning and made my granny’s crock pot chicken and dressing to take. Then I cooked up a big pan of bacon and some eggs.
“Carlie, somethin’s sure smellin’ good this morning!” Doug walked into the kitchen wearing navy blue sweat pants and an old gray t-shirt that said UTM in bright orange letters. Sometimes I was still taken aback by his good looks. A chiseled face that was warm with kindness. Strong arms. Man hands. I wrapped my arms around his waist and he gently kissed me while he twisted my hair. Then we both remembered Clara was in the next room. So we straightened up and pretended we weren’t newlyweds. Not easy. At all. Because we ARE newlyweds and being newlyweds is better than beating Meryl Streep out of an Oscar. (Okay. I don’t really know what it’s like to beat Meryl Streep out of an Oscar but it’s not better than being married to Doug Jameson. I know that for sure.)
Doug reached for a piece of bacon and said with enthusiasm, “Honey, I’m afraid all your good cookin’ is gonna expand my waistline.” But we all knew the truth. Six months of my cooking would cause most men to lose ten pounds. Doug was giving it his best effort so he probably only lost five. And as for his waistline, I thought it was perfect. Just right.
Clara walked out of the guest bedroom looking like the perfect wife for a fully-sighted Southern Baptist preacher. Modest. Tasteful. But with a little zing thrown in because a smart happily-married woman convinced her to lose the chunky scarf.
“Wow! Who let the high-fashion model in the door?”
“Thanks, Carlie. Are you sure this works? I mean, it doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard?”
“Clara, it’s perfect. Worry not. Today’s gonna be a great day. I mean, we’re eatin’ bacon and cookin’ chicken! What could possibly go wrong?”
A word to the wise. Saying, “What could possibly go wrong?” is never a good idea.
Even though it was cold as a frog, the sun was shining and the drive to Troy was peaceful and pleasant. Clara turned pale and started fading like a morning glory at dusk. I tried to resuscitate her. “Look! You can do this, Clara! You can. You’re a beautiful woman. You’re smart. Any man would be BLESSED to get even a little bit of your attention. You’re bringin’ the goods, girl! Stand up straight. Speak clearly. Let’s do this, Clara Louise Johnson. It’s time for a knock out!”
I felt like a manager for a featherweight boxer. I was in Clara’s corner cheering her on and telling her she could do it. But I couldn’t help but notice the Russian boxer in the opposing corner who was bigger, stronger, and had been boxing since preschool. I found myself praying a simple prayer. Lord, please defend the weakling.
The church looked just like I knew it would look. It looked like Doug’s and my church. It looked like my grandparents’ church. It looked like every small country church in my rural southern memory. Faded white with a tall steeple. Concrete front steps attached to a small concrete porch. Doug parked the truck in the grass behind the church as the tiny parking lot was starting to fill in. We saw Uncle Bart and Aunt Charlotte visiting with a good lookin’ man near the front porch. If that man turns out to be Jake Smith, well, I’ll just say that Debbie Walker is a truth teller for sure.
I didn’t expect Jake to look like a mannequin in a Macy’s window. No. A country preacher would look silly dressed like a fashion designer. But I also think it’s not very smart for a man to look like he slept in his clothes either. Jake was probably 6’2” and looked like he had done plenty of farm work. He wore nice khaki pants with a blue unwrinkled oxford shirt and a navy blue striped tie that was too short. But I forgave the short tie travesty in honor of it bein’ a Sunday and all. Overall, Jake looked like a decent dresser. It was kinda like when Charles Parker drove into our driveway in that really clean 10-year-old Jeep Cherokee. That Jeep Cherokee told me that Charles wasn’t a materialist. But it also told me he wasn’t a slacker. Jake was puttin’ out the same vibe.
Aunt Charlotte came running up to Clara. “Baby, don’t you look like a Christmas tree all purdied up! Yes, ma’am. You sure do. Come on over here, Clara. There’s some folks we want you to meet.”
I wasn’t sure that an insecure woman wanted to be compared to a Christmas tree but someone with a butt as little as Clara’s really shouldn’t be worried about the comparison. Aunt Charlotte was in charge of introductions which was frightening. So at that moment we all had to place our trust in the providence of God.
Jake had been pulled aside by another family. But Aunt Charlotte got started without him. She cleared her throat and put her arm around a short round-faced blonde woman with dark brown eyes. The young woman was carrying a small baby and a pink diaper bag that looked like it had been through two world wars. “Clara, this is Debbie Walker, Bart’s niece. Debbie, this is Clara Johnson from Commerce, Georgia. Clara’s a real good kindergarten teacher too. And this here’s my nephew, Doug. Ain’t he handsome? Yeah, we always said he looked like his daddy’s people. None of our people was handsome
. Some of ‘em was downright homely. Why Uncle George could’a killed a Grizzly bear with just one look. Poor thing. Anyways, and this here’s his big purdy wife, Carlie. She’s famous, y’know? Yeah. Been on the Today Show and ever’thing. She’s a famous writer and a talker at places. I shore never thought I’d be kin to a famous person but I am. Yes, ma’am, I shore am.”
I prayed that Aunt Charlotte would quit while she was behind. That’s when Jake approached us and put his hand out to Doug. “Doug, it’s been a long time, man.”
“It has. We’re glad to be here, Jake.”
“Yeah, I’m glad you guys could visit with us today. And this is your new wife, yes?”
Doug proudly replied, “It is. This is Carlie. And this is our friend from Georgia, Clara Johnson.”
Jake extended his hand to me, “Welcome, Carlie.”
He reached out to shake Clara’s hand, “And you too, Clara.”
Clara actually looked Jake straight in the eyes and said, “I’m glad to be here.” I gave myself a pretend pat on the back. Keep it up, Girl. Keep dancin’ around the boxing ring until you throw your hands up in victory.
We all filed into the tiny church one by one. A big bald man was gettin’ after his teenage son about smackin’ bubble gum on the back row. An older lady in a wheel chair rolled up to Jake requesting we sing at least one verse of “Trust and Obey.” That’s when I knew Jake was a really good country preacher ‘cause he said without hesitation, “Mrs. Emerson, we’ll sing all the verses. How ‘bout that?” She beamed from ear to ear.
Jake wasn’t just the preacher. Evidently they expected him to lead music, make announcements and be the ring leader of the whole shebang. His first words to the congregation were, “We’re blessed this morning to have some visitors from Weakley County and beyond. Bart and Charlotte Nelson and Doug and Carlie Jameson live in Sharon. Welcome. And Clara Johnson comes to us from Commerce, Georgia. We’re glad to have all of you here with us today.”
