by Bill Higgs
“Virgil Osgood, how could you even have such a thing? I’m going to go tell the preacher about that calendar!” Lula Mae shot him a look of utter disgust and hauled Frank to the waiting truck, where she shoved him in next to Darlene, who had watched the spectacle from her seat and wondered what her brother had done now. Lula Mae was still moving her mouth and making angry sounds when she started the truck, which belched black exhaust and roared away.
Virgil pondered all these things and surmised that he was once again in some kind of trouble. And once again, he had no idea why.
Reverend Caudill was having a difficult afternoon. The stormy weather had made his knees hurt, the roof over his office was leaking even more with the gutter gone, and the work on his next sermon series was proceeding slower than he’d hoped. He was about to close his books and go home when he heard a roar and a screech outside his study window. Looking out through the blinds, he recognized a pickup truck, a familiar black Buick, and two women walking hurriedly toward the church door. Now he had a headache, too. Why today?
Lula Mae Prewitt and Madeline Crutcher burst into his office without knocking, both waving their arms and talking excitedly. They were red in the face and looked as though they’d just seen a ghost—maybe two.
“Ladies! What is the—? One at a time, please!”
The pastor’s admonition was ignored. The women were shouting and gesturing wildly, at Reverend Caudill, at each other, and at parties known only to them. Mrs. Crutcher almost knocked over the desk lamp, saved at the last second by Reverend Caudill’s lucky catch.
“Ladies, please!”
His plea vanished into the cacophony of high-pitched and agitated voices. He was able to catch a few words when one woman or the other paused for breath. Young Mr. Alexander’s name came up, as did Virgil’s, and a few scattered and confusing details. Finally, both women seemed to run out of wind simultaneously. “I knew you’d want to know!” was Lula Mae’s parting shot, as Mrs. Crutcher slammed the door, knocking askew his picture of Jesus at the Last Supper.
As near as he could make out, it had something to do with a naked cowboy on a calendar smoking a cigarette. Or was he wearing a plastic bathing suit? Reverend Caudill reached into the desk drawer for his Goody’s headache powder.
“She’s beautiful. And so are you.” Cornelius looked at his wife and daughter snuggled together in their bed in the maternity ward. Constance Suzanne Alexander had come into the world at 6:40 in the evening at King’s Daughters hospital, weighing seven pounds, two ounces.
JoAnn smiled back. “She has your eyes. Just look at her.”
He gazed at his daughter’s eyes, slowly closing to sleep, and something came over him he’d not experienced before. Thankfulness, maybe?
“The doctor says you’re both doing fine and should be able to go home right on schedule. I wish I could stay with you the whole time.”
“I wish you could too, Neil.” She smiled again, the most peaceful expression he’d seen from her in months. “Let’s call her Suzy.”
It was his turn to smile. “Welcome to the world, Suzy girl. I’ll be the best father to you that I can be.” He turned to JoAnn, who was also falling asleep. It had been a long day.
“And the best husband. I promise.”
When proud papa Cornelius returned that evening, he found two notes on the door of the Zipco station. The first was from the Zipco representative, who had arrived to find nobody around, and was staying in room seven at the Sleepy Head Tourist Court in Quincy. The second was from Reverend Caudill, who requested a return phone call as soon as possible.
The telephone was both friend and enemy to Reverend Caudill. Often it solved problems, but just as often it created more.
His first call was to the Prewitt home. Frank answered.
“Reverend Caudill here. Want to tell me what happened?”
Between sobs, Frank told the story from beginning to end. “And Dad gave me a whipping out by the barn and wants to talk about something to do with birds and bees.”
At least the calendar part made sense now. “And what else?”
“I dunno. Mom called Mrs. Osgood. So Vee’s probably in trouble now too.”
“Have you learned your lesson, Frank?”
“Yes, sir.”
Reverend Caudill doubted it, but moved on to the next call.
“Vee? Reverend Caudill. What happened?”
His account agreed closely with Frank’s. “And Mom’s making me read Moby-Dick.”
“A good book, Vee. Lesson learned?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about your father?”
“Mom said he’s in trouble when he gets home.”
Well. He hung up the phone. The calendar part was all sorted out. And he’d seen the cowboy on the vending machine at the Zipco. It made sense now. Sort of.
The phone rang.
“Reverend Caudill? Cornelius Alexander here . . .”
The younger man was talking so excitedly, it was all the pastor could do to make out words. “A girl? How exciting. A wonderful blessing from the Lord.”
“Yes. We’re going to call her Suzy. She and JoAnn are coming home the day after tomorrow.”
“I’m sure you all will be resting this weekend, but might we expect you in church the following week?”
After a pause, Cornelius said, “I think you might.”
Mavine sat on the edge of the couch, staring, wondering how she measured up to the pinup girls Virgil had been ogling. Her eyes started to moisten a bit, but she’d allow no tears this time. Just anger.
A fine man, Alma had called him. Maybe so, but a man with wandering eyes, it seemed. Where else might they have been roving? He’d better have a good answer.
Five o’clock. On schedule, the front door opened. She stood to her full height. “Virgil.” A deep breath.
But before she could say another word, Virgil sheepishly held up a hand. “Mavine, I threw that calendar in the trash, where it belongs. I wouldn’t have even kept it if I’d known . . . After Lula Mae pitched a fit, I went in and . . . I didn’t know about the clear plastic thing. It’s not like—”
“Virgil.” Mavine cut him off. The man had enough sense this time to keep quiet while she took a deep breath. “I just need to know that—” despite all her resolve, she fought to keep the tears at bay—“that you’re faithful to me. That all those things you told me on my birthday are true.”
“I’d never even look at anyone else, and that’s the honest truth.”
“Promise?”
He nodded. “If you only knew. I don’t think of anybody else the way I think about you.” Virgil stammered a bit as a splotch of red rose up from his collar.
Her anger waning, Mavine couldn’t help but smile at this blushing, stuttering man—still true to her. “One more promise?”
“Yes?”
“Carry a different line of tires.”
He relaxed. “I can do that, Mavine.”
“And—” she nodded toward the stairway—“you’ll want to have a long talk with our son. He needs to know the facts of life after all.”
REVEREND CAUDILL put down his Pulpit Digest and reached for his cup of tea. Here he was on a Thursday night with his sermon unwritten. Mrs. Grinnell’s mother had been put in the hospital on Monday, and Tuesday was his day to visit the shut-ins. On Wednesday a late cold snap froze a pipe at the church because the furnace was acting up again. Welby came over to relight the burner, but the reverend had spent most of the day finding a plumber to get the baptistery working in time for prayer meeting—just in case. His latest sermon series had finished the week before, and a topical message would make for a welcome change next Sunday. He called it “Faith in Life” in the bulletin, which seemed vague enough for just about anything. Usually, running late on preparations meant a check through his old Bible college notes for something fresh and inspiring. This time, though, a search of the old binders and file folders came up as empty as his baptistery.
Well. Since it was Thursday night, he decided to visit Welby.
“Hello, Reverend!” Welby was in his usual good spirits. “Come on in and take your coat off. You’re up next after Grover.”
“Thank you, Welby.” Reverend Caudill nodded to Grover, who was having his neck shaved, and then to Arlie and Virgil, both freshly shorn. “Seems you have a good crowd tonight.”
“A fine group indeed.” Sam Wright strode in, assaying the others. “We even have spiritual guidance tonight.” Grover rolled his eyes—the only safe move he could make while in Welby’s barber chair.
“Actually, I was hoping you might help me. I’m working on my Sunday sermon, and I thought you folks might be of assistance. I need some good ideas for topics.”
“You could talk about family values again.” Grover could speak safely now, as Welby had set aside his razor and was dusting his neck with a small brush. “I hear Mavine wasn’t too happy about your tire company calendar.”
Virgil reddened. “Where did you hear about that?”
“Vee and Frank came by the store after school today.” The grocer was back to merely rolling his eyes, as Welby had picked up his scissors and was working on his sideburns.
“Guys,” Virgil pronounced, “there will be no more Safe-T-Made tires—or calendars—at Osgood’s. If I’d known what was under that plastic, I’d have switched to Fisk a long time ago. Their calendars have a little boy in his pajamas.”
Reverend Caudill smiled. Clearly his telephone conversations had borne fruit. “Gentlemen, I’ve already preached about family values twice in the past year. I’m looking for something more timely.”
It was Arlie’s turn. “How about dancin’? The last time you did that one, I didn’t ever want to do the polka again!”
“Arlie, when did you ever go dancing?” Welby shook talcum powder into his left hand and slapped it onto Grover’s neck.
“Never did, only thought about it. After that sermon, I didn’t even think about it.”
Sam Wright spoke up. “Perhaps a biblical discussion of the present political and social situation would be most appropriate. There’s a lot going on these days.”
Reverend Caudill felt an odd chill. Current events were definitely not his specialty. There was a lot he hadn’t learned in Bible college, but he’d learned when to preach and when to meddle. This sounded like meddling. Fortunately, he didn’t have to reply.
Grover, who had been powdered and given a splash of tonic, took a seat atop a case of transmission fluid and rolled his eyes again. “Sam, what do you know about all that?”
“Only what I read in the papers. You know, Will Rogers said that to me one time. . . .”
“So, how should I approach it?” Reverend Caudill had taken his seat in Welby’s chair, and he would soon be limited to eye-rolling himself. “I’m writing my sermon about how faith should affect our everyday lives.
Sam was quick to reply. “It should compel us to live like Jesus and love everybody—especially the poor and helpless. He sought out blind men, tax collectors, and Roman soldiers, and gave them sight and invited them to dinner and healed their households. When people were hungry, he had compassion on them and multiplied the loaves and fishes. When he saw the crippled man, he told him to take up his pallet and walk. He freed people from their demons and gave the living water to the thirsty.”
Throughout the room, jaws dropped and eyes stopped rolling. Welby even stopped clipping.
Reverend Caudill, who was used to seeing Sam’s name on the prayer list, was flabbergasted. “Sam, where did you learn so much about the Bible?”
“Traveled with Billy Sunday for a time. Used to fly him around in my airplane once in a while.”
Grover looked at Arlie who looked at Virgil. “So Billy Sunday taught you the Bible?”
“No, I learned it while traveling with Billy. Our plane ran low on fuel down in Mississippi one time, and we had to land on a road next to a cotton field. We were miles from the nearest town and were trying to decide what to do next, when this big fellow drove up. Told us we were both going to the bad place in a handbasket for trying to fly when the Lord intended for men to stay on the ground. Drove right off. Then another fellow came by—seems he was delivering Bible tracts to some church over in Meridian. Said he’d stop back by if he had time. Finally, some colored men who were picking cotton came over. They’d never heard of Billy, but helped us get the plane turned around and siphoned enough gas out of their pickup truck to get us to Hattiesburg, which was where Billy was holding his meetings. Wouldn’t take any money, either.”
“What an amazing story.” Reverend Caudill was moved. “I had no idea you had spent time with Billy Sunday.”
“Yep. Also used to fly Will Rogers around before he hooked up with Wiley Post. I remember the time he was showing his rope tricks to the Inuit in the Northwest Territories . . .”
Welby soon finished with Reverend Caudill and placed Sam in the chair. Sam blabbered almost nonstop, relating not only his adventures with Will Rogers but also his adventures with Teddy Roosevelt, Andrew Jackson, and Napoleon. Welby smiled and nodded at all the right places.
After Sam received his own talcum and tonic, he tipped Welby and headed for the door. “Preach it well, Reverend.”
“I’ll do that, Sam.” The pastor managed a slight wave. Billy Sunday? Well. Sam might be a bubble or two off center, but he’d spoken truth whether he’d meant to or not.
The Good Samaritan it was, then.
Reverend Caudill was having a remarkable Sunday. If the semiannual business meeting at the First Evangelical Baptist Church was going to measure up to the morning sermon, it would have to be something spectacular. He was in rare exegetical form, and with all due humility, his sermon on the Good Samaritan was powerful and mesmerizing. The truth was, his corns hurt and he couldn’t find a comfortable stance, so he settled for leaning on the pulpit and shuffling his feet back and forth. Every now and then an important point received particular emphasis when his left big toe barked up against the leather of his wing tips.
He did have some concerns about the day. Ever since the church voted to sell the old feed store lot during the fall business session, people had been talking about what might happen at the spring meeting. Usually the time would be spent with Anna Belle reading the minutes, Anna Belle taking some more minutes if anyone else had anything to say, someone—usually Anna Belle—making a motion to approve the minutes, and Reverend Caudill looking at his watch to see how many minutes were left until he could move to adjourn. Welby would usually second his motion, and then be called upon to close in prayer. This served double duty as the blessing for the potluck dinner, which always followed the business session. With luck, the food would still be warm when everyone filed down the stairs into the basement.
The first indication of trouble was Mrs. Madeline Crutcher, who was sitting in the center of the front row rather than at the side. The second was the Life magazine sticking out of the enormous shopping bag that served as her purse. The third bad omen was the way she fidgeted and glared at him during his sermon, like an anxious cat about to pounce. He’d seldom preached on the Good Samaritan, since he’d always felt Jesus was a bit hard on the clergyman in the story. Still, his three points were all nicely in a row, and the poem at the end drove the point home.
So he avoided Mrs. Crutcher’s pointed gaze, knowing his song leader would stare her right back into the hardwood pew when he led the closing hymn. Grover had once said that old Toler could crack the statue in the courthouse yard with a single look.
He ended his sermon and sat down, grateful to be off his sore feet. Toler led the congregation in “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” in his usual lethargic style, but without noticeable distraction from the elderly woman, who had by now retrieved the illustrated weekly from within the depths of the bag and had opened it to a page filled with black-and-white photos. Whatever her agenda, she was loaded for bear. His stomach began to hurt and add to the pain of his throbbing toe, and
his appetite for fried chicken and beaten biscuits started to evaporate. As the last amen sounded and Toler stopped waving his arms, Reverend Caudill delivered the benediction and the business meeting began.
“The business session of the First Evangelical Baptist Church is now called to order.” He was listing slightly to his right, mainly to take the weight off his sore foot but also to avoid Mrs. Crutcher’s piercing gaze, now visible over the top of her thick spectacles. “Mrs. Stacy, would you please read us the minutes of the fall meeting?”
“The meeting convened following the morning worship—” Anna Belle had the floor, and played it like an actress would use a stage—“and was presided over by the Reverend Eugene Caudill, who had just concluded his sermon on tithing and stewardship and reasons why we should put more money in the offering plate.” He grimaced; that had not been one of his better Sundays. Anna Belle continued, “When the floor was opened for new business, it was brought to our attention by Reverend Caudill that certain repairs were needed on the parsonage and the church facility proper.”
Anna Belle had it mostly right as she continued, noting for the record that the proposal to sell the lot next door had been moved, seconded, and approved by vote of the church body, and so on. He looked at his watch. The second hand was moving much too slowly for his satisfaction.
“Motion seconded by Mr. Letcher that the church engage the services of Henson Commercial Properties in Quincy . . .” Anna Belle, who had written the sentence much too long and should have known better, paused for breath. At this point, Madeline Crutcher rose to her feet.
“We have before us today a matter of far greater importance!” She waved the rolled magazine in the air.
“Mrs. Crutcher, you are out of order!” Part of him enjoyed this aspect of moderating a meeting. The statement reminded him of stopped-up plumbing, which in turn made him think of Madeline Crutcher. It gave him a certain satisfaction. “Kindly allow Mrs. Stacy to continue.”
“Don’t you shush me, young man!” She took a step forward, causing him to move back awkwardly.
