Little Town, Great Big Life

by Curtiss Ann Matlock

  Then he heard her humming. It took him a second to recognize the tune—Hank’s “I’m Going Home.”

  “Mis-ter Wins-ton…Mis-ter Wins-ton.”

  It was Willie Lee, standing right in front of him.

  Why, he was now sitting on his bed. He didn’t remember sitting on the bed.

  Willie Lee’s eyes blinked behind his thick glasses. Looking downward, Winston saw Willie Lee’s smaller hand, soft and white, lying on his own.

  “I’m okay, buddy. Just caught in some memories.”

  “Yes. You are o-kay,” the boy said confidently.

  Willie Lee knew these things, so Winston felt reassured.

  “Moth-er says we need to go to church ear-ly. It is rain-ning. I will get you-r coat.”

  The boy fetched Winston’s blue sport coat from the butler chair and held it up for Winston to slip into. Winston checked himself in the dressing mirror before following the boy from the room. As he went out the door, he paused and glanced around, looking for signs of Coweta.

  There were none. She had been gone a long, long time now. As were so many who had made up his life.

  Over at her small house, Paris Miller peered out her bedroom window through hard rain pouring from the roof and washing over the glass. It ran in the ditch that divided the yards. Behind her on her boom box, a voice sang out an old country tune. “Please make up your miinnd…”

  She was actually contemplating going to the Methodist Church. That was the only church she had ever been able to go into alone. She had gone to the Good Shepherd with a friend, and she liked that they were real friendly, but the thought of being there on her own with them jumping up and running around made her nervous. The Methodists were a quiet bunch. She could slip in, sit in the back and hardly be noticed. She had done that before, enough so that the usher—Leon Purvis, who slicked back his gray hair—no longer tried to get her to fill out a visitation form. When the final closing hymn was sung, she would slip out again.

  She wondered what she hoped to get out of it. She usually did feel a lot better afterward, but then she would come home, and her whole life started all over again, not a thing changed, no matter how hard she prayed.

  She heard a plunk and looked up. A wet stain was spreading on her ceiling, where many had been before. She needed to get a pan to catch the leak.

  “What in the hell are you listenin’ to?” Her granddaddy had come in his wheelchair to her door.

  “It’s a special Hank Williams gospel show today.” She did not know that she hunched her shoulders and sort of winced.

  “Hank Williams? What in the hell you want to listen to that old stuff for? Turn that mess off….” He rolled himself away, mumbling.

  She turned off the radio, stood there a moment, then hurried to get boots, purse and coat. No one had to dress up to go to the First Methodist, especially this special singing, as they called it. Lots of women came in jeans. There were farmers who came from the field in their overalls.

  Pausing to glance around, she saw everything in a blur of drab brown-gray. She had a sense of desperation, and felt that if she did not get out and around color and sound and people, she was going to choke to death.

  “Where you goin’?” her granddaddy asked.

  She hesitated, her eyes moving to the bottle on the table. “I’m runnin’ over to a girl’s house for a few minutes.” And she was out the door, ducking in case the bottle came flying after her.

  What flew after her was him hollering, “Bring me back a six-pack of—”

  The back door closed, and she raced away to her car, hopping over the puddles.

  As she backed out, a car pulled up in front. One of her granddaddy’s drinking buddies. The tightness in her throat grew so great she had to gasp for breath.

  She pulled into the Quick Stop for five dollars’ worth of gas and ended up helping LuAnn wait on a flood of customers driven in there by the rain. Everyone was talking about it, and depending on circumstances and temperaments, people moaned about the dreariness and inconvenience, or gave happy praise for coming green lawns and May flowers.

  Over at the First Methodist Church, a few of the smokers, who usually had a quick cigarette on the front lawn before service, snatched a couple of puffs in the shelter of a large cedar tree. From here they watched the men with umbrellas, who ran to meet those arriving and hold cover over the women and girls.

  Jaydee Mayhall, feeling guilty, stamped out his butt, and hurried to get the umbrella out of his own car and help. He began right then planning to put up an awning over the church walkway.

  Parking was directed by men in slickers and ball caps. There was an unusually large crowd—many who only came on Easter and Christmas, as well as Baptists and Assemblies of God and the Good Shepherds from out on the highway who loved to sing, and a couple of brave Episcopalians. Vehicles filled the church parking lot, the grassy yard where the church played baseball and up and down both sides of the street.

  Bobby Goode, who lived just south of the church, had the idea to make some money by charging three bucks a car to park in his circle driveway and spacious front yard. His wife’s response to this idea was to have a fit and tell him that if she saw one rut on her front lawn, his funeral would be the next event at the Methodist Church. She said that he could let people park in the driveway—for free.

  She said nothing about not taking what people offered, though, so when Rick Garcia parked his big-wheel mud truck in Bobby’s driveway and waved a five at him, Bobby took it quick, and directly after the truck, Bobby waved in two little foreign jobs that he got parked bumper to bumper. He held out his hand and received eight more dollars.

  Across the street, Inez Cooper punched off her radio right in the middle of “Wait for the Light to Shine.”

  “If we wait for the light, we’ll miss the singin’,” she said to the radio. The cloud cover had kept it so dark that at nine-thirty in the morning the streetlights still glowed.

  She called for her husband, Norman, to hurry up. Unfortunately, she immediately caught the scent of cigarette smoke on him. “I cannot believe you. Go wash your hands, at least, so’s maybe not everybody will smell it. And hurry up. You’re gonna make us late.”

  Norman did as he was told, while Inez put on rain boots and carefully color-matched a green umbrella to her suit. When he reappeared, she stepped onto the porch, opened the umbrella and was halfway down the walkway when she realized that Norman was lagging behind, like he always did. She hated that, and of course it was because smoking cigarettes was cutting down his wind, which she told him. He did not answer, nor did he speed his steps. She had to pause again at the curb and wait for him. “Would you get under this umbrella? You are gettin’ all wet…you’re gonna catch your death.”

  At that moment, Juice Tinsley’s car stopped. The car window on the passenger side came down, and Julia called out, “Can we park in your driveway, Inez?”

  “Well, no…no, that’s not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just not. I don’t want people parkin’ up and down my drive—we may need to get out later. Come on, Norman.”

  Bobby Goode popped out into the street and directed Juice into his driveway. He said, “I’m takin’ donations for parkin’.”

  Juice pulled a couple of dollars out of his pants pocket, then hurried after Julia, who had removed her shoes and was already halfway across the churchyard, running barefoot with her Bible held over her head. Juice idly wondered if maybe rain would not hit the Bible, a holy book. His gaze slid over to Norman Cooper.

  The men’s eyes met for a second of understanding neither could ever put into words, and then each looked straight ahead, heading for the church steps. Iris MacCoy was just going up, and Norman hurried to walk beside her.

  Woody Beauchamp’s old black Plymouth came slowly down the street. It was so old that it had the great rear fender fins, and so well cared-for that the rain made tiny beads on the shiny finish. Seeing two cars pulling into a curved drive
way, Woody followed. At first he wondered if he had made a mistake, but he recognized a couple of his customers from the café getting out of the cars ahead. Then Bobby Goode was there, waving him up a couple more inches. “Bring her on out of the street.”

  As Woody got himself out from behind the wheel, Bobby had his hand out. Woody shook it and said, “Thank you, brother.”

  Andy Smith got out of the passenger side and, in his lanky walk, came around the front of the Plymouth. Woody wore a good felt hat, but Andy’s head was bare.

  “You got to get you a hat, boy,” said Woody.

  Woody had not told anyone about picking Andy up in the alley behind the café, the younger man so hungry that his belly thought his throat had been cut. Woody was a man who kept his business to himself, and he liked to let people wonder. He felt it had become his nearest duty to help this white boy, who had not yet confided in him, but who Woody knew needed more than simple food and shelter.

  “Yoo-hoo! Y’all wait up!” It was Fayrene running down the street in a plum-red coat and high heels, and holding a purse over her head. She was as unsteady as ever a woman was who rarely wore such shoes, and her ankle turned and she almost fell.

  “Law, woman…”

  Woody sprinted forward, opening his suit coat, and Andy came quickly behind. Woody’s generously cut coat nearly covered Fayrene completely, while Andy on the other side took hold of her elbow.

  Fayrene, in heaven between the two men, felt as if she fairly glided up the church steps. When she got up into the foyer, she stopped at the wall mirror and tried to help her wet hairdo. Then, with Woody gallantly gesturing her ahead of him, she found herself staring into the sanctuary and at the enormous stained-glass window at the far end. She had not been in a church in some time. Her steps faltered. In a furtive manner, she bent her head and crossed herself. She didn’t know if that was the thing to do, but she felt the need to do something. Then she happily sat next to Andy in the pew and artfully crossed her legs.

  By the time Tate Holloway and his carload got to the church, there were only two hearty souls with umbrellas standing ready. Stopping in the street beside a little Subaru that had parked at the curb, blocking the front walkway, Tate complained that they were so late that he might just have to drive back and park on Main Street.

  Winston’s reply to this was, “I’d just leave the car right here.” As he got out of the front seat, he was immediately met by an umbrella, which he grabbed into his own hand, leaning on his cane with the other. Willie Lee and Munro walked close beside him.

  Corrine opened the rear passenger door and was also met by an umbrella. She looked up into the beautiful blue eyes of Larry Joe Darnell. He had two umbrellas, one for her and one for Aunt Marilee. He held the umbrellas over the women, each of them with a baby on her hip, all the way along the walk, up the steps and into the church foyer. Corrine was thrilled. She had gotten Aunt Marilee to let her wear her new two-and-a-half-inch heels, lip gloss and Aunt Marilee’s dangling silver earrings.

  Then they ended up sitting on the pew right behind the Darnell family, where Jojo had saved the space for them by lying down. Corrine thought, There is a God, after all.

  And then, wouldn’t you know it—when Larry Joe came to sit beside his mother, he brought Ms. Huggins with him. Corrine had a view of the teacher’s head. She had dark roots in the back.

  Belinda was late to the church because she had stopped to open the drugstore for an emergency. Janice Oakes had required a bottle of Imodium for her ex-mother-in-law, Miss Minnie Oakes. Miss Minnie enjoyed her poor health and liked her medications, with the result that she was always needing either Imodium or Milk of Magnesia.

  Janice went out of the store saying, “I may have been able to divorce Neville, but I got custody of his mother.” The truth was closer to Janice being both loving and controlling.

  Arriving at church, Belinda pulled into the already full parking lot, stopping behind Jaydee Mayhall. Most assuredly she would leave before he did, and if not, he could just wait for her. She opened her violet umbrella out the door, raised it overhead and walked without hurrying across the parking lot and up the church steps.

  Stepping into the foyer, she heard music beginning to play on the other side of the sanctuary doors. Lila Hicks at the piano. There was no mistaking Lila’s robust playing. Felton Ballard and his gang had not started yet. Belinda propped her umbrella away from the others, which were all pretty much falling in a pile. She checked herself in the mirror, then slipped through the sanctuary doors just as voices began to sing, “‘What a fellowship…’”

  The place was packed full. Belinda experienced a sinking feeling and the sudden wish not to have come. If she wanted to get in touch with God in her difficult hour, she should have waited for the regular service. The crowd unnerved her. She looked down the center aisle, recognizing most everyone at the ends of the jam-packed pews. There was Jaydee, crammed at the end of his regular pew, his arm poking out. She looked right and then left, where the overflow had been placed at the very back in folding chairs.

  Just then she spied Emma Berry at the back on the far right. Instantly brightening, she edged in front of people. “Excuse me… Hi, how are you? Excuse me…”

  Just as Belinda reached Emma, who welcomed her with a smile, she saw Gracie was there, too.

  Gracie smiled.

  Of course, thought Belinda, returning a polite smile.

  Young Ricky Dale Oakes, wearing his older brother’s sport coat as usual, came from the hallway with a hymnal and a folding chair that he opened for her. Taking her place in front of the chair, she joined in the singing from memory: “‘Leaning on the everlasting arms…’”

  The song ended, everyone sat and the lay leader got up to do the welcome.

  Emma leaned forward and put out a hand to summon Belinda, who leaned forward so that they could speak around Gracie, who shrank back.

  “Where’s Lyle?” Emma asked in a hushed voice.

  “Called in for a double shift. The highway patrol stopped a carload of illegals. Where’s John Cole?”

  “Workin’, too.” Emma made a face. “Have you spoken to your mama?”

  “Yes, early this mornin’. I guess she and your mother are not hardly talkin’.”

  “That’s what I hear, too.”

  Their eyes silently agreed that it had been bound to happen. They had an unspoken agreement not to discuss their mothers’ relationship.

  Then the distinctive voice of Felton Ballard came out over the speakers. Both women sat back in their chairs.

  Belinda looked around at everyone, then at Gracie’s lap and gracefully arranged legs. She imagined bending forward and saying to Emma, I am pregnant.

  With the thought, she took a deep breath. Her gaze slid to the side, to Emma’s burgundy skirt, and then Gracie’s black wool, and then her own deep blue paisley print and her hands in her lap. Their seating was a perfect reflection of their relationship these days. Gracie squeezed in between.

  Facing forward, she saw that there was actually a good view from the rear, which she had not before experienced. Generally she sat with her mother in the third pew from the front, where her family had sat since she had been a child, when her mother had decided going to church would save them all. Belinda had not known what her father had thought—no one ever knew what her daddy thought—but he had started coming with them. When he had died a few years ago, her mother had presented Belinda with his Bible. It had been well-worn and written in, with passages underlined. That had somehow been a surprise. She had thought that only saints would show such signs of reading the Bible. She had more thoroughly realized that she had never known him and doubted that anyone could ever know anyone.

  Her gaze drifted over the heads in front of her. Some she knew vaguely, by sight if not name, and others she had known nearly her entire life. Inez Cooper, who could get on her last nerve…and Julia, who could do the same. There was Fayrene’s Clairol-red head, a surprise. Again the last nerve. It occurre
d to her that quite a few people could get on her nerves, which indicated the truth: she was not a people person.

  That unfamiliar head beside Fayrene must be that Andy fellow, whom she had seen only briefly the day of Fayrene’s run-in with the car. Belinda’s eyes lingered on the man’s hair, judging his haircut and finding it quite suited to the man.

  Her gaze moved along to her cousin Marilee, elegant as always, with her baby grinning and spitting over her shoulder. She did so much appreciate, even love, Marilee.

  And she liked Lila Hicks, she was glad to say. Sweet Lila, who played the piano, and had done so since Belinda was a teen. Lila bought her blond hair color, home permanents and prescription for a lifelong disease caused by a wild youth, at Blaine’s. Now Lila had become the perfect Southern lady and a beloved grandmother figure to many of the children, handing out home-baked cookies and candy all the time.

  Winston stood to say something in honor of Felton Ballard, and her gaze passed over his white head, aglow in the shine of one of the recessed spotlights.

  Her attention was drawn to Felton Ballard as he began to sing. Felton was like one of those Elvis impersonators in the way he did himself up to look like Hank Williams, fringed coat and all. He was equally as skinny as the famous singer, too. His wife was more normal and modern-looking, although not by much. Her name was, fittingly, Melody. She and their daughter mostly sang backup for Felton, but together mother and daughter did sing the old standard “I’ll Fly Away,” which got a lot of people joining in, singing and clapping. The teenage son, who played fiddle in a shy, half-turned stance, was actually named Hank, and the daughter was Audrey, which Belinda thought was a poor thing to do to two young people. A very round cousin played an electric keyboard, and the group put on an old-time, energetic, gospel-preaching show from an era long gone by and did not disappoint the number of older folks in the audience. A few in the congregation had not known exactly what to expect and were somewhat stunned. They were not used to such loudly played music, nor the vocal and emotional display of faith. They thought they had come to a Methodist Church, and here they were getting some sort of old-time Pentecostal-like revival. Felton did, at one point in his own testimony, look up to the ceiling and hold a conversation with God, then went right into singing “The Prodigal Son.”