I’m praying that Leslie won’t ask to see what I’ve written. I’ve been at this long enough that I don’t need any guidance from my field-service partner. Sometimes Leslie will say things like, “you’re writing a book over there, aren’t you,” but she never pries.
“Shoot. I hate to leave her name off. She was nice, too,” Leslie sighs.
Nice to Leslie means that she didn’t cuss us, that she didn’t shoo us away or hide behind her curtains, her hand over the mouth of her child like a kidnapper. “But Mama,” the kid would manage through her fingers, “there’s some girls on the porch.” “Shh,” I imagine her saying, “Do you want to be saved? Is that what you want?”
This lady had stood on her rickety porch—sullen and quiet, her eyes never leaving my brown face. Leslie, even with her Minnesota accent, was apparently okay. Brown woman on the porch trumps Yankee invader any day. To be fair, they don’t get too many black Jehovah’s Witnesses out here. There are only two black Jehovah’s Witness families in town, for a total of six people. Besides, although our congregation got to every door in the city limit at least three times a year, the unassigned territory, this deliverance of woods, creeks, and black snakes, gets worked only once a year if we were lucky. More likely, these people won’t see any of us for eighteen to twenty-four months. Imagine the odds of seeing a black Jehovah’s Witness in the territory. That’s lotto odds.
Besides seeing no black people, there are four important things to remember about the unassigned territory:
1) You are as remote as you can get in this new world. Way out in the boonies, mostly white Southerners who’ve been holed up here for generations, living on winding dirt roads that lead to more winding dirt roads, with houses, the occasional mansion, trailers, and shacks out of sight from each other. They like it that way. 2) Everybody and his dog has a dog. At least one loose, ugly mutt with cockleburs in his unloved fur and filled with the kind of hatred that only comes from at last finding a body more miserable than yourself. 3) Apparently the trauma of a visit from Jehovah’s Witnesses is so great that just the glimpse of your Watchtower will act as a Proustian mnemonic causing the householder to wax nostalgic about your last visit. Never mind that someone from your or any congregation left a tract in the door two years ago. You will hear over and over, “Some of ya’ll was just here.” 4) There is nothing good about the unassigned territory.
Leslie explained the “Offer for the Month,” trying to regain the householder’s attention. “This is our new book, Enjoy Life Forever on a Paradise Earth.” Leslie dangled the bright red cover at the woman. Even the color pictures of laughing children and fluffy sheep nuzzling up to male lions didn’t move the woman’s eyes. She only had eyes for me.
Does the missus want I should jig, a little tap dance fuh yo pleasure, I wanted to ask, but instead put on my best, “yes, I’m black, but doggonit, not that black” face.
“You got that same Bible?” the woman said to me.
“Yes ma’am.” I held out my cardboard covered New World Translation for her to see. When I got baptized, I’d get a leather one.
“That’s plenty,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “I know the Bible when I see it.”
Leslie gave the woman an older Watchtower magazine that she wouldn’t have to request a donation for. Good move, Leslie. She can get the literature into the house and not risk rejection. Who knows? This woman might even read it. She might change her life around and be side by side with us in this very territory next year. You never know. That’s why Leslie is a pro. She thinks about these kinds of things. I’ve seen her talk to grief-stricken and depressed people, whip out the Bible she seems to know by heart and without a blink show them that God is a fortress, a rock, a high place, a God of comfort, love, and forgiveness. And for a few seconds, I think she really lightens those people. It is no small thing to give a person even a moment of hope. Of course, when we go back the next week to follow up, those very same people slam their doors, order us away, looking like they could kill us. “Don’t you tell me God loves me. Don’t you dare.”
Leslie is grooming me, though she doesn’t think that I know. I have a big decision to make next year. To serve Jehovah during my youth (which is, by the way, the surprising twist ending to our magazine, Making the Most of Your Youth) or to go to college. I know that my congregation elders have told Leslie to help me do the right thing.
On the way past the car, past the tired old dog, through the patchy yard, I can’t be sure, but I think I heard the woman say wetback. I don’t know, it could have been the bigoted cicadas or heatstroke, but I think she called me a wetback. I wanted to put my finger in her crumpled face, her skin like the film from Krazy Glue and say something wise and cutting like, “Get your racial epithets right, Ms. Einstein.” But fighting in the field service is looked down on. Truth be told, at 97 degrees and counting, Unnamed Householder had the virtue of being accurate. Not nice, but accurate. Besides, the sentiment for the Mexicans who were coming into the county taking all the glory jobs like picking apples for fourteen hours a day for less than minimum wage and apparently preaching door to door in glamour locales like Miller’s Creek was enough to make anybody sick with envy. I wanted to tell Leslie what I thought I’d heard, but she was the sort of white person who refused to acknowledge racism. Just deny it and it won’t exist. She’d say, “Well, I’m sure she didn’t mean anything. Maybe she was concerned about the heat.”
“WHAT ABOUT THE MAN on the tractor? Where did he say he lived?” Leslie asks. “I knew we should have stopped right then.”
“Oh yeah,” I say, stalling, shuffling through the pages.
My record:
Dear Martin Luther King: Sir, is this the dream you meant? Me and this sweet girl from Minnesota in a steaming car? I met a black man weeks ago who was courting a pretty woman he thought would be his wife. But that Memphis day in early April, slow dragging in a school cafeteria at a dance, the music dropped like the piano player’s final clink when the black hats show up and a man ran in screaming that you were gone. My new friend looked in the pretty woman’s face, at the despair he wore himself and knew he could never see her again. I am hot today, but trying to remember you at 1400 High Rock Road.
“1400 High Rock Road,” I say.
“Okay, you are good for something,” Leslie grins, acting like a mother. She’s only six years older than I am, but preaching is her career. Her family moved to North Carolina only three years ago to serve “where the need was greater,” but Leslie is easily one of the most popular people there. She’s a good girl, with a sweet disposition, and she has committed herself to the fieldwork. Leslie is a pioneer—out in service at least sixty hours a month every month. Sixty hours of door slammings, I-have-my-own-religions, I-was-just-on-my-way-outs, and lonely old women who will even talk about Jehovah to hear another voice in the room.
“Okay,” Leslie says, handing me a Shasta soda from her cooler; she always gets the cheap drinks. “Let’s do two more houses. One if it’s too far, okay?”
Thank God, thank God. Thank you. Thank you Dr. King, thank you. Thank you. “Are you sure? I’m up for another hour or so,” I say, willing the bouncing hope in my chest to stay still for a few minutes, she might change her mind. “I mean, if you need the time. I’m up for it,” I manage to say with almost a smile in my voice.
“I’ll just have to make it up next week,” Leslie says breezily. But I know that this month will be especially hard for her. She has all those hours to complete in these backwoods. Think about it. You can’t just preach any old time. You have to come knocking at decent hours, after nine in the morning and before eight at night and preferably not during the dinner hour. You can only count the time you actually preach. That means the forty-five-minute drive out there—gratis. The ride in between these houses in the territory—if it is more than ten minutes, you eat it. The fifteen-minute lunch break is on your time, sister-friend. All to say that Jehovah’s Witnesses need a union.
Les
lie dribbles soda all over the bodice of her dress. No loss, as far as I’m concerned. Leslie shops at Granny’s Rejects or Let’s Repel Men or some store like it. I couldn’t believe the kinds of things this young woman puts on her body: shifts (really!), baggy sweaters, long full skirts, big prints that make muumuus blush like demure schoolgirls. These things the wardrobe for Leslie’s plump, pink frame. A style my daddy dubbed, “to’ up from the flo’ up.” Leslie has mostly given up on men. I knew that the secret wish of her heart was that Bruce Springsteen come into the Truth, but she was only hoping in her heart, not in her head. Lately, I’ve noticed her saying strange things like, “when I was young,” or “if I were your age,” or “that’s for the kids.” She is twenty-four. Though truth be told, she is getting a bit long in the tooth for a Jehovah’s Witness bride. The faithful marry young rather than burn with desire (see the Pauline letters) and marry fast to get the pick of the litter of endangered young male believers. The congregation has already picked out my husband for me. A nice-looking white boy with a flounce of blond hair, unswiveling hips, and clunky clod-buster shoes. Bobby Ratliff. I like Bobby, don’t misunderstand me, but only twelve-year-old virgins look at a dopey sixteen-year-old and think what great marriage material. Lord knows that by rejecting Bobby I was dooming myself to Lesliedom. There was precious little else to choose from, few kids my age to even compare and contrast. Jim, another teenager in the congregation, is a possibility, but he and his sister Lisa are bad. Really bad. Once they brought a dirty magazine on the school bus, passed it around like a cold to the other kids. I noticed when it came to Bobby’s seat, he wouldn’t even look at the filthy cover, wouldn’t even touch it. The worst, the absolute limit was when Jim and Lisa brought a Prince song for us to listen to. When Prince said Controversy (and he said it often) Jim and Lisa led the bus in the rollicking mispronunciation at the tops of their heathen lungs. A variation I’m sure the pre–Jehovah’s Witness Prince would have V8-smacked his yellow forehead, if he’d heard, Why didn’t I think of that? on his lips. Bobby and I didn’t tell on Jim and Lisa, though we were tempted. We did explain (at every opportunity) to the other kids that though Jim and Lisa attended the Kingdom Hall, they weren’t really of our sort. We insisted that we are the real Jehovah’s Witnesses. Sure Jim and Lisa were clever and cool and fun, but salvation? I don’t think so.
Lingering in a parked car in someone’s driveway is a definite no-no, an unwritten rule; you can’t look like you’re casing the joint. But we are in a little bit of slow motion today, staring ahead at the almost graveled road, the high weeds and bushes now covered with a thick layer of red dust. There has been no rain for days. We couldn’t see the house that the record told us was straight ahead. Somehow this seemed important to me. If I had the words, I would say to Leslie, isn’t it funny that we can’t see the next house? Doesn’t that mean something? I wanted to tell her that, to take her deeper into my head. I wanted her to understand me. Leslie wouldn’t get it. She would admonish me to pray for guidance and direction and she’d be right. I know she’d be right. What was the alternative really? The house record warns us of one place at the edge of the territory to avoid. “NOT INTERESTED. GUN.” I can’t help but think that the gun fact should come first. We would have to come back when we were sure that Jim Caudle—gun wielder—had moved or died. Today we wouldn’t even check.
“Your door,” Leslie says. “You can have the last door of the day.”
The house is sweet, small with a red tin roof. Someone must love the sound of the rain. Hippies probably. The gravel driveway looks fairly new, and sure enough, there was no record of the house in our files.
Wait for the dog. Some come on strong, yelping and moaning like they’ve been stranded on Jupiter with a host of unheralded moons. Others yap a quick impotent sound that came when you least expected it, their only surprise attack.
Nothing. Just the pleasant walkway of paver stones, dotted along the path to the door without any discernable pattern, terra-cotta pots full of red geraniums. I like this place. I like the porch and bent-wood furniture, the chunky table in the center with a five-year-old, a toddler on the potty. Another instance when pervs and parents have the same taste in art. But there was nothing pervy about this place. Just solid and permanent.
“Hello,” I say to the outline of the woman’s face behind the screen door.
“Yes,” she says. Her accent says above the Mason-Dixon.
“Good morning,” I say. “We are sharing a word from the Bible with our neighbors this morning.”
“Your neighbors,” the woman says, opening her screen door.
“Yes, ma’am,” I smile. Stupid. Stupid. Leslie would never have used a canned line like that.
“You’ve got a generous idea of neighbors,” the woman grins.
“We’ve been going for a few hours now,” I say, not sure of what I’m getting at.
“You must be hot then, let me get you some drinks,” the woman starts back into her house. When my mother was a teenager she ironed clothes for Mrs. Rowe, an old white woman in town. When the black man who tended the yard needed a drink of water, Mrs. Rowe would grab the glass from under the sink, bring the water or tea out to him herself. When he was done, she’d rinse the glass out with Clorox water; store it back to its place. Something told me that this woman will not scurry to her kitchen for the Colored glass. Something told me she was for real.
“Oh, no ma’am,” I begin. “We are ready to go home. You are actually our last stop today.” Why did I say that?
“You are Jehovah’s Witnesses, then?”
She got the name right. The number of people who just can’t manage the name is astounding. We are the Jehovahs or simply Jehovah or worse the jokes: Are you a Jehovah’s Witness? they ask. No kidding, well, where’s the accident?
“I knew some Witnesses a few years back. I worked with one. Nice people. I admire the work you do.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I’ve studied a number of faiths, as a lay person, I mean. The spiritual life is important.”
I was right, she is a hippie.
“Well, we want everyone to hear the good news,” Leslie chimes in, saving me. I’m blowing this call. “We are always happy to find people of faith in these times. You know that the perilous conditions that we live in have been predicted in scripture,” Leslie pulls out her Bible. Some householders recoil, like you’ve just pulled a gun. Okay, okay, put the Bible down. You don’t want to do anything crazy.
“Well, I’m not much for organized religion, but I do try to keep an open mind. I’m glad that God is available to everyone. Are you sure you don’t want a drink? It is brutal out here.”
“No,” I say too vehemently. “But I’m Stephanie, nice to meet you.”
“Well take this then,” the woman pulls out a couple of bills from her jeans’ pocket. “I’m Phyllis; I’d like to give you a donation for your work.”
“Thank you,” Leslie hands the woman some new magazines, taking only one of the dollars from her open hand.
“OKAY, SO THAT WAS PHYLLIS, new magazines,” Leslie writes in her record. “I’m giving you credit for placing those. We’ll come back to see her next week.” Leslie pretends to be having trouble thinking about what to write in the record, but I know she’s trying to figure the best way to make this last call a teaching moment. “Listen, Steph, don’t worry if you forget your sermon. I’ve done it. We all have. As hot as it is I can hardly remember my name. Anyways, you got a magazine placement. That’s the important thing. I don’t see much working out with Phyllis,” Leslie screws her face into a conclusion. “She’s fine, nice really, but we’re not going anywhere with her.” Leslie pauses, trying to find the most encouraging angle. “Of course, Jehovah is the judge, but she seemed to me too comfortable. I don’t think we’re going anywhere. If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything, right?”
But I am hardly listening. All I can think about is I am in love with Phyllis. It is too easy
to point to her middle-class manners, the slick magazines with no celebrities on the covers, the coasters on the willow furniture, her kindness at the end of a long hot day. I wanted her. Wouldn’t it be great to walk up to someone’s house and just say, I am here and I want to be your friend? Kids do it all the time. No misunderstandings. None of that rooting around for larger meaning. Like with God. He has the key, right? He holds the keys to happiness and to life. Why can’t we just show up at the door, just ask for them? Why can’t I open a door, any door, and He be on the other side with a whole host of Phyllises saying, “Here you go. Enjoy.” Even before this. Before being a Jehovah’s Witness, I’d been a member of my grandmother’s African Methodist Episcopal Church. Another world of dogged believers. Mama Jean preached on lonely dirt roads, in black neighborhoods, none of this white man’s religion. Black places like Warrior Creek, Freedman, and Dula town. “Do you need to make water?” she’d warn before the services. Because there would be no possibility once we commenced. Remember, no hair-fooling, no gum, no candy, no giggling, no turning to look at the opening door, no smiling, no eye darting, no talking, no tapping of feet or fingers, clapping at up-tempo songs only, but not too vigorously like I’ve had no home training, no syncopation with the claps—leave that to the elders. No staring at anyone, even the spirit-filled or pitiable. And these are the easy rules, the ones for the very young. No problem. No problem, I say with nods. And if you are very good, do it all to your utmost like Noah, just so, you, too, will be rewarded with belief. Oh, Phyllis, to believe anyway. What are you made of? I start my house-to-house record:
Dear Philip Larkin: I have felt your breath on my heart today. Phyllis said she likes to keep an open mind and I fear this is the beginning. I will not go down the long slide with you, but stay safe, a dirtroader myself. It is safe here. The copse of pines, poplars and weeds years too far gone for bush hogging choke out everything but light. Don’t you see that? If you can’t, I can’t love you. Doesn’t scripture say to stay away from bad associates? Friends who will see you dead, all in the name of opening your mind? What about knowing every single thing for sure? What about that?
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