by Bill Higgs
“One of his better sermons.”
“How did the Scripture passage start out?”
“Let’s see, a man asked a question: ‘And who is my neighbor?’”
“And then Jesus told a parable. How did it go?”
“A man went down to Jericho, if I remember correctly.”
“Exactly right. And he fell among thieves. We both remember the rest of the story. Virgil, a man went down to Eden Hill and fell into some hard times. The way I see it, you have a choice.”
“A choice?”
“That’s right. You can either be the guy who beats him up, or you can be the one who picks him up. I saw you take a stand for the right thing when Mrs. Crutcher went on her tirade, so I know you have it in you. Which one are you going to be?”
“But Mavine expects—”
“Mavine expects you to be the good neighbor. And a good neighbor is probably a good husband and father. Do the right thing and help Mr. Alexander. You’ll not regret it.”
Reverend Caudill was not in the mood for pastoral calls, but he had to meet with Arlie and apologize to Virgil. Clearly he’d spoken out of turn the night before. Knowing that Mavine would be at the Glamour Nook after lunch, he went by Osgood’s to clear things up and to learn more. Welby was still tinkering with Grover’s sedan, so they met in Virgil’s office in the back. The calendar, Reverend Caudill was happy to see, had been replaced by a photo of Mavine and Vee Junior.
“Virgil, I guess I’m here to say I’m sorry about what I said last night.”
“Don’t worry about it, Reverend. I haven’t been myself lately, either.”
“Anything I can do to help?” The pastor found the old dinette chair, which Welby had returned to Virgil’s office. This might take a while. “This new Zipco place is really bothering you, isn’t it?”
Virgil looked off to his left and paused. “Yeah. Welby and I have been talking about it too. I think Mavine’s more worried than me now. She’s got me in starched pants and shiny shoes. Thinks we need to do something more so we won’t lose business. Competition, she keeps calling it. Welby, on the other hand, thinks we ought to send some work his way. Says it’s the right thing to do. I’m confused, I guess.”
“Well, I do understand competition.” The Methodist church up the street came to mind. “But Welby’s right. You need to make Mr. Alexander your friend and not your enemy.”
“And how do I do that?”
“It seems to me that you can start by walking across the street.” Reverend Caudill rose from his seat. “Well, I must be going. By the way, are you and Mavine getting along okay?”
Virgil stiffened and didn’t answer.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Reverend Caudill savored the taste of shoe leather, and it was just as bitter as it had been the night before.
Reverend Caudill’s telephone call to Arlie’s farm resulted in a lengthy conversation with Lula Mae, who was most concerned about Frank’s moral upbringing. After being assured that Virgil’s raunchy calendar no longer posed a threat to Eden Hill’s morality, she allowed that Arlie had gone to the lake fishing for the day. He wasn’t hard to find. Reverend Caudill simply followed the tracks of the pickup truck, easily visible in the damp grass. Arlie himself had pushed his boat into the water and was unwrapping a plug of chewing tobacco as the pastor pulled up.
“Afternoon, Reverend. Something you need?”
“Actually, I wanted to talk with you.”
“Well, get in the boat. I’m fishin’.” Arlie was not a man of unnecessary words. “I’ve got plenty of minners and an extra pole, if you want to use it.”
Well. Reverend Caudill had not been fishing since he was ten years old, but the memory was pleasant, and he did need to chat with Arlie. He climbed in after Arlie, being careful not to step on the cane pole in the bottom. The Jon boat sported an outboard motor, which started with a tug on the starter rope, and soon they were well away from the bank. The vessel sat low in the water on Arlie’s end but was large enough that there was no danger of tipping over. As they approached a fallen tree, Arlie switched off the motor and dropped a small anchor over the side.
“Here we are.” He handed the bamboo rod to Reverend Caudill. “It’s already got a hook and line, and there’s minners in the bucket.”
He suddenly realized that he was dressed in his ministerial suit and tie—hardly appropriate clothing for angling. The bucket in the center was indeed filled with minnows and contained a dip net, and the pastor chose a small but chubby one for his initial bait. No sooner had he dropped the line in the water than the bobber disappeared, the water churned, and he pulled in a nice-size crappie.
“Nice one. There’s another bucket there for the keepers.” Arlie pointed to a galvanized washtub in the middle of the boat. “Limit’s sixty.”
Arlie was next to land a frisky fish. Into the tub it went, and soon there were fifteen swimming around, splashing water in all directions. Reverend Caudill was catching the finny creatures as fast as he could reload minnows, with Arlie doing the same. When one fisherman hooked a particularly large example, the other would use a landing net to ensure there was no escape for the hapless crappie.
“Arlie, what I really came for was to talk with you about your family. And your relationship to God. I’ve not seen you at church for a while; just wanted to see if everything was okay.”
“Nothing I can’t handle. And me and God are just fine.”
“And your son, Frank?”
“Put your line in over by that old dead tree.”
By four o’clock, Reverend Caudill had lost track of time and space. It wasn’t exactly the pastoral visit he’d expected, but he was having a grand time, had gotten to know Arlie somewhat better, and had discussed the issues he’d come to talk about—sort of. Thirty of the crappie in the washtub were his, matching the number tossed in by his companion. Fish were flopping about the bottom of the boat as the tub overflowed, and his best suit was soaked up to his knees. No problem—he’d take it by Willett’s Dry Goods to be sent for cleaning and wear his other suit on Sunday.
Sunday? For the past two hours he’d not thought about Sunday’s sermon, nor Madeline Crutcher. Surprisingly, he did not feel guilty at all. Truth was, he needed a hobby, some pastime to help him relax.
Arlie pulled the rope again and the motor putted to life, belching nearly as much smoke as his truck. As the Jon boat approached the bank, Reverend Caudill became aware that a third vehicle had pulled up beside his car and Arlie’s truck. It was black-and-white and sported a rotating red light on the top.
Deputy Blanford met them and helped pull the small craft out of the water. “Good afternoon, gentlemen! May I see your fishing licenses, please?”
Arlie dug into the pocket of his overalls, and among the duct tape and baling wire managed to produce his wallet. Inside he found the crumpled official certificate and presented it to the officer for approval.
The deputy nodded and handed it back. “Reverend?”
He was caught and knew it. He tried a diversion. “No license, Officer Blanford, but I’m here on the Lord’s work, ministering to one of my parishioners. Surely you understand.”
“I’m sure you are, Reverend, but I’m here on the state’s authority and I’m going to have to issue you a citation for fishing without a license. Sorry, but you’ll also have to give up your fish.”
Arlie spoke up. “Tom, how do you know which fish are his? They’re all in the same bucket!”
The deputy scratched his head. “Now that’s a good question.” He paused for thought. “Okay, you can keep the fish, but I still have to give you a ticket.” With that, he scribbled a few words on a pad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to the minister. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” His task finished, the deputy and part-time game warden climbed into his patrol car and drove away.
Reverend Caudill stared at the citation for a long time, looking for a loophole.
Finding none, he folded the paper and
put it in his suit pocket. It was going to cost him a ten spot for his afternoon’s ministry. “Guess I’d better be on my way too.”
“Not without your fish.” Arlie found a flimsy but serviceable plastic bucket in the back of his truck and filled it with lake water and squirming crappie. “Roll ’em in flour and fry ’em up in bacon grease. Mighty good.”
The pastor helped Arlie get the boat back onto its trailer, cranking the winch while the farmer guided it into position. Arlie’s washtub of fish went into the passenger seat next to the truck’s owner, who climbed inside and rolled the window down. “Reverend?”
“Anything I can do for you, Arlie?”
“I suppose you can pray for me.”
He started the truck, filling the pastor’s face with blue smoke, and rumbled away.
Well. Reverend Caudill had a ten-dollar fine, a spiritual burden, and a bucket of fish. He had no idea how to clean and cook crappie, and they were ill-gotten besides. Dumping them back into the lake wasn’t an option—Arlie had stuck his own neck out on his behalf. He poured out about half of the water, opened his trunk, and jammed the pail in place with his spare tire.
As he drove away, he was nursing his guilt. The deputy was right: he’d not rendered unto Caesar that which belonged to Caesar. There was no way he could keep his catch, or he’d feel even worse. As he crossed the bridge into town, an idea occurred to him. If he couldn’t take the fish home, he’d just have to give them away. At the Zipco Super Service, he made a hard left.
“Afternoon, Reverend.” Cornelius, snappy and uniformed, met him as he braked to a stop. “What can I do for you today?”
“Actually, I’ve come to do something for you.” Reverend Caudill had gotten out and opened the trunk. “Got a gift for you and your wife. Dinner.” With that, he lifted out the white plastic container and set it on the blacktop.
Cornelius stared at the bucket, started to speak, then fell silent. “Why, thank you, Reverend. They’ll make a fine dinner, indeed.” He looked at the bucket of fish, then back at the clergyman, who thought he saw some deep pain along with the smile. Yes, this was the right thing to do.
“How do I fix them?” Cornelius’s voice was breaking.
“Roll them in flour and fry them up in bacon grease. Mighty good, I’m told!”
Reverend Caudill found Sunday worship at the First Evangelical Baptist Church a glorious occasion. The weather was spectacular, Toler’s direction of the choir was surprisingly energetic, and the sermon, “Casting Our Nets on the Other Side of the Boat,” was followed with interest by most of the congregation, which pleased him greatly. Madeline Crutcher was noticeably absent from her front pew, and nobody snored. The crowd was larger than usual, including all the regular families and one less-familiar couple: the Alexanders sat in the rear under the balcony. Following the benediction, he quickly made his way to the door to greet parishioners. Even his corns were quiet this morning. The Osgoods shook his hand as they left, as did the Prewitts. The Alexanders were the last ones to the door, waiting quietly to one side while the others departed.
The reverend smiled. “So glad to see you fine folks this morning. Hope you’ve been blessed today.”
“Happy to be here.” Cornelius offered a firm handshake. “Thank you so much for the fish. They were quite tasty.”
“Happy to oblige.” He thought of the citation and swallowed a wince. “Where’s your daughter this morning?”
JoAnn brightened. “Anna Belle took her to the nursery so we could attend the worship service. She said she’d meet us afterward. Oh, here she is!”
Anna Belle appeared at the doorway, carrying a contented little bundle. “Suzy’s been great! We’ve had such a good time this morning—she even fell asleep on Grover’s shoulder while he was rocking her.” Her husband had come alongside, carrying a bulging pink diaper bag. “She’s been changed and is all ready to go.” She handed the cooing infant to JoAnn while Grover handed the bag to Cornelius.
“Well, it’s been a fine Sunday. Might we look for you again next week?” The pastor was at his best with contented babies and happy visitors.
“We’ll try to be here. Welby and Alma even invited us to Sunday school.” The young family walked down the steps and headed for the Zipco station and their home behind, JoAnn carrying Suzy while Cornelius followed, leaning to one side from the heavy bag slung over his shoulder.
Reverend Caudill smiled. Fishers of men, indeed. It had cost him a trip to the courthouse and ten bucks for a fishing license, but it had been well worth it.
Cornelius and JoAnn stepped into their front door and put the now-sleeping Suzy into her makeshift baby bed made of empty soda crates and a large cardboard box. They’d get something better when they could afford it or when Suzy outgrew it, whichever came first. Cornelius hadn’t been keen on attending church, but JoAnn wanted to go and thought they ought to show some appreciation to Reverend Caudill, who had been so kind on Friday afternoon.
Cornelius put the diaper bag on the floor next to Suzy’s bed. It was much heavier than he remembered, and he wondered if Grover and Anna Belle had forgotten and left a soaked diaper behind. Gingerly feeling the bottom, his hand found something round and heavy.
“Well look at this!” he whispered. JoAnn leaned closer as he pulled several items from the bag: Enfamil, followed by small jars of pureed carrots, spinach, peas, and something called fruit dessert. There was also a note, written on the back of a Sunday school quarterly:
We were so glad to see you in church today. Grover went to the store while I was changing Suzy and brought these back for you. If she’s too young for the food in the jars, she’ll grow into it.
Blessings, Anna Belle and Grover Stacy
For the first time in many days, JoAnn laughed. Then she leaned over and planted a juicy kiss on her husband’s cheek. “You know, Neil, I think God is trying to tell us something here.”
Cornelius puzzled over her words. Was it God, or just two kind people reaching out a helping hand, right where his family was hurting the most? Cornelius stared at the unexpected gift in front of him. Did God know their cupboard was empty? Why would he pay attention to the Alexanders, especially when Cornelius had paid him no mind for so long?
His life was empty, too, he had to admit. And falling apart, at that. He’d never thought of church in terms of buckets of crappie or jars of baby food, and if he wasn’t careful, he might just give in to one of Reverend Caudill’s invitations.
JoAnn had fallen asleep in the upholstered chair and was breathing softly. Her eyes were closed, but peace was written across her face.
GLORIOUS WORSHIP SERVICES notwithstanding, Virgil’s weekend had been decidedly unpleasant. Saturday had been spent mowing the yard and planting zinnias like Mavine wanted, instead of fishing at the lake like he wanted. She’d pushed hard to get the family to church on Sunday morning, rushing both him and Vee out the door, and was quite upset that Vee’s shirttail wasn’t tucked in all the way. Sunday dinner had been delicious but quiet, and she had little to say and his compliments went unacknowledged. Virgil was carrying his own dishes to the sink when the phone rang.
Mavine answered. The caller had gone on for a full minute after “Hello,” before she spoke again. “He said what? And was telling this to Frank?” Mavine’s color changed from ashen white to beet red and back again. “Yes, Lula Mae, I’ll deal with this right away.”
Mavine hung up the instrument with a slam and a resounding clang. “Virgil T. Osgood Jr.! Get in here!” Vee had started for the door with his baseball glove but came running. Fear shone in his eyes.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I just spoke with Mrs. Prewitt about your behavior in Sunday school this morning. It seems you told Frank a joke.”
“Uh . . .”
“A knock-knock joke. And when Frank said, ‘Who’s there?’ you said, ‘Sawyer,’ and when he said, ‘Sawyer who?’ what did you say?”
Vee had assumed a color similar to Mavine’s. “Uh . . .”
“What?”
He mumbled something and looked at his shoes.
Mavine’s eyes grew as wide as Virgil’s coffee mug, and the pitch of her voice climbed half an octave. “Go to your room while I decide what you’ll be reading for your punishment.”
“Awww, Mom. I wanna go play ball with the guys.” He looked to his father and found no sympathy.
“Get up there right now or you’ll be reading War and Peace.”
Vee stared at the thick tome on Mavine’s bookshelf. His eyes grew wide, and without hesitation or further argument he shot up the stairs, stomping defiantly on each step.
Virgil stifled a laugh. “Saw your underwear” seemed a harmless if silly joke, but clearly Mavine thought otherwise. Still, it didn’t belong in Sunday school, especially if Lula Mae Prewitt was the teacher. He grimaced at the memory of the Calendar Fiasco, but this was a bit much, even for Lula Mae. Hoping to ease Vee’s pain, he scanned a row of thinner books just above Tolstoy’s classic. “Mavine, how about this one? The cover has a picture of a fish on it. The Old Man and the Sea?” With luck, Virgil expected, he could still get to the lake this afternoon.
Mavine snatched the book from Virgil’s hand and skimmed the first few pages. “Well, it might be good for him.” She grumbled up the stairs, punishment in hand. The conversation that ensued, as Virgil heard it, was lively but muted, ending in another “Oh, Mom!” from Vee.
Mavine’s departure gave Virgil a moment to sit and think. He’d learned something over the past few months and needed to remember what it was. He hadn’t understood that entire Pageant article, but he now knew that Mavine needed more attention from him, which he had tried to do. He was expected to at least ask the right questions and not defend himself.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into that boy!” Mavine descended the stairs with only slightly less noise and drama than Vee’s ascent. “Trashy stories, acting up at church. The school principal even sent a note home on Friday.”
