Feast for Thieves

by Marcus Brotherton

  “Special events?” I was trying to slow her down, but the girl was on a roll.

  “At least one a month. Sometimes more. Fall Harvest potluck. Thanksgiving service. Veterans Day honor service. The whole Christmas hullabaloo. New Year’s watch-night service. Valentine Mothers’ luncheon. Spring cleanup days. Summer barbecues. As a rule, church folks like to meet and eat, and they expect you do the same. You’ll figure that out as you go. If you don’t, Mert will be sure to remind you. Where was I in the weekly schedule?”

  “Thursday afternoon.”

  “Right. On Thursday afternoon, the women’s committees meet. All these special events take a whole host of volunteering to staff. You won’t need to lead each committee meeting necessarily, but the volunteers will expect to see your presence when they gather. If they’re working at the church building, then they figure you should be working at the building too. Then, on Thursday night the young people meet. We only have a handful of youths, the ones who come anyway, and the church will expect you to build this group up. This age will tell you exactly what they think of you. They say it straight to your face, and it’s seldom complimentary. Give them messages that they can relate to, and get used to being called names. Listen to their problems. Encourage them. Help them along. Your day will end about ten p.m.”

  “I’m sensing a pattern here.” I was scribbling faster now, still pacing behind the desk.

  “On Fridays you’ll want to get to the office early so you can prepare your Sunday evening sermon.”

  “There are two sermons?”

  “Sunday morning and Sunday night. Sunday night is the more sparsely attended service. Maybe eight or nine people instead of the regular twenty or so. But the folks who come are all die-hard churchgoers. There’s no way you could ever cancel the Sunday night service. Besides, it does a mite of good.”

  “I believe it.” My pencil broke and I hurriedly stuck it into the sharpener on Mert’s desk and turned the handle.

  “Friday after lunch you’ll do more visitation, schedule any special counseling appointments that need to happen—marriage counseling, funeral preparation, baby dedications, meetings with the sheriff to discuss the jail ministry.”

  “Jail ministry?”

  “Friday nights you go down to the jail and meet with the prisoners. Give them a short devotional if any will listen. Talk to them about why they’re in jail and try and help them along. That brings us to Saturday.”

  “Day off?”

  “Nothing doing. Three out of four Saturdays per month will be filled with a special event. Maybe an apple-picking party with the young people. A fund-raiser for the women’s mission society. You can always catch up on your visitation if there’s no event. That brings us to Sunday.”

  “The one workday?”

  “Yeah. The one workday. You get up early and spend an hour in prayer. Trust me, you’ll need it. After that you’ll clean the church sanctuary from top to bottom including the outhouses. On cold mornings you’ll shovel enough coal into the furnace to last until afternoon, and again in the afternoon to last until evening. If there are leaves to be raked, you’ll rake them. If there’s snow to be shoveled, that’s your job too. Make sure the building looks presentable—and I confess that’s an area I could have done better in. A man with your skills could surely organize a work party to fix the roof, paint the walls, thatch the grass. You teach a Sunday school class for the children, then preach in the morning, visit in the afternoon, preach again in the evening, and then you’ll be done for the week, which brings us to Monday.”

  “My one day off.” I was scribbling furiously again.

  “Yes, your one day off. One day per week, and only one day, and usually not even that. Folks won’t understand you taking Monday off, because it’s a regular workday for them. So they’ll want to get together and talk about church matters. They’ll get huffy if you say you need one day when you don’t talk to people and just go fishing or cut firewood for yourself. So that’s something you learn to deal with, too—huffiness. You’d think church folks would have their act figured out when it comes to forbearance, but they’re the same as everybody else. At least once a week you’ll have somebody mad at you. They’ll have high expectations that you won’t possibly be able to fulfill. Be prepared to be hated on a regular basis. No, it’s not parachuting into Normandy, Reverend Slater, but I can assure you that being a minister is no walk in the park.”

  She stood and pushed Mert’s chair back toward the desk to straighten it. By then I’d fallen silent.

  “I understand your belongings will be shipped later,” Bobbie added. “You have a study Bible you can use until then?”

  I shook my head.

  “There’s an old pulpit Bible in your bottom desk drawer. It’s as big as three phone books stuck together and has been in the church for decades, but it’ll work in a pinch. Any questions?”

  Again, I shook my head.

  “Good, then I can drive you over to the café. It’s almost time for lunch. Or maybe you’d rather walk?”

  NINE

  It was only 11 a.m. by the time we drove back to the Pine Oak Café, but Bobbie Barker was tasked to bring me back for lunch, and I could tell she didn’t care to spend any more time with me than absolutely needed. She dropped me off in front of the eatery, emphasized her need to go home and wait for a long-distance phone call from her beau (some pencil-necked jasper who used too much Brylcreem I wouldn’t doubt), then stuck her jeep in gear and drove off in a huff. She was a spunky one, I’ll give her that. Tackling a job fit for a man like she’d done.

  Augusta Wayman met me at the door even before I could set foot inside.

  “Reverend Slater—I am so sorry for what happened this morning with my husband,” she said. “You must be starving. Come right in and let me fix you something to eat.”

  Well, I liked the sound of that. Just the same, I gave a careful glance around the inside of the joint to make sure Cisco wasn’t hiding with a shotgun, waiting for my return. Augusta hustled me over to the lunch counter and plopped me down.

  “Cisco isn’t normally like that,” she said. “He’s just been so angry lately.” Here she paused. It seemed calculated, like she had much to say about the matter but was purposely containing herself.

  “It’s all been squared away then?”

  She nodded. “Sal from the sheriff’s office phoned over saying that Sheriff Barker had phoned from Rancho Springs midmorning to make sure somebody filled us in. Cisco took the call, so he understands who you are now. I’m sorry again, Reverend Slater, for the both of us. You’re such a nice young man. So nice indeed. Won’t you stay a bit and eat an extra helping, just for me?”

  An extra helping? She hadn’t fed me anything yet, but my quizzical stare was short-lived. They were odd ducks, those Waymans, but any woman offering me food would get no argument my direction. I nodded.

  She smiled, all teeth. “Now then, here’s what I propose. We have a lunch and dinner menu here, but a young man who’s a reverend is family to us at the Pine Oak Café. If it’s all the same with you, then don’t give a passing thought to the menu. Let me cook special for you each meal—it’ll be something different each day, and you won’t be disappointed. I had plenty of brothers growing up, and me and Cisco have a boy of our own. He’s about your age. Same build, same shock of unruly hair.” She reached over and tousled the top of my head.

  I smiled quickly to show my concurrence. I reckoned once Augusta Wayman got a plan in mind, she wasn’t easily dissuaded. Besides, based on the quality of the peach shortcake I’d eaten the day before, I was sure whatever grub was coming my direction would be just fine.

  “Oh-h-h-h good,” she said. “I’ll be right back. How hungry are you, anyway?”

  It was a question without the requirement of an answer. Augusta was already gone before the question was fully out of her mouth. She hightailed into the kitchen, and I heard knives clattering and pots clanging, doors opening and banging shut. The lunch crowd
hadn’t arrived yet, and I was the only eater in the joint.

  First to come my way was a big glass of milk. Seemed like something a mother would bring her twelve-year-old son, but I wasn’t complaining. Next, Augusta returned with more manly fare. On the first platter sat two large pulled pork sandwiches with a heap of golden-fried potatoes on the side. The buns looked fresh baked, the barbecue sauce from the pork oozed out the sides, and the good smell wafting off the plate beckoned to me with more pull than a pretty woman’s perfume. Augusta garnished the meat itself with coleslaw. The creamy slaw sat right in the sandwich, between the meat and the bun, which I’d never seen before, but one bite in and I was a believer. My eyes rolled in delight, and Augusta let out a tiny squeal. The woman kept her eyes glued to me as I polished off the first sandwich—it didn’t take more than a moment before I dived into the second.

  “The special ingredient you’re tasting is root beer,” she whispered under her gaze. “Back when I was pregnant, I’d eat those sandwiches every night, right up until the day I gave birth.”

  She scampered back to the kitchen while I polished off the fried potatoes, then she emerged with another platter, this one laden with deep-fried hardboiled eggs. Those eggs were rolled in bread crumbs, and each tasted delectably crunchy. I cleaned the plate. Again she watched me closely, then left and returned again with a dish of meat rollups. Braciole—she called them, though I’d never heard the word before. I bit deeply into the first and sighed.

  “You like?” Augusta asked. “I take boneless pork cutlets, beef cutlets, thinly sliced Genoa salami, garlic, flat-leaf parsley, and Romano cheese—roll them all up together in a flour tortilla, and there you have it.”

  In no time flat I had eaten six. There were four more on the plate and I showed no sign of slowing down. She brought me another glass of milk and poured me a cup of coffee to further wash it down.

  “Feel like some dessert?” she asked.

  I sighed, fondly remembering the day before.

  She whisked behind the counter, pulled out a plate of lemon round cake, and cut me off a quarter section.

  “There’s lemon pudding inside,” she whispered. “You like lemon pudding? Makes it go down smoo-oo-ooth.”

  I grinned pure bliss and swallowed the quarter cake.

  She returned in a jiffy with half an apple pie. I ate it in a wink.

  Three freshly baked chocolate donuts followed. They jumped into my mouth and were gone with a lick.

  “Lunch rush will be here shortly,” Augusta said wistfully. “I need to jig. Can I get you anything else?”

  I was beginning to feel full, but I didn’t want to press my luck—neither with her generosity nor with my stomach, which was unaccustomed to feeling anything but empty. I politely assured her of my satisfaction.

  “We’ll see you at dinner then. Oh—” She turned toward the kitchen, stopped, and reached into her pocket for a scrap of paper. “I nearly forgot to give you a message. Sal said the sheriff called over to the mercantile and set up a line of credit for you there. Figured you might be needing a few personal things until your belongings arrived. After that, you’re supposed to go see Gummer at the filling station. He’s working on getting a vehicle running for you.”

  I nodded again. “Much obliged, ma’am. Thank you.”

  “Go directly across the street for the mercantile, Reverend Slater. See you in a few hours.”

  “Please, ma’am, just call me Rowdy.”

  “Rowdy,” she said. “Reverend Rowdy.” Her eyes moistened.

  I started to say something, but she was away in a flash. The whole interaction with her perplexed me a mite, as much as her feeding me so delighted my innards. It was noon and folks were pouring through the door now, bustling in, calling out orders. I decided to check out the mercantile. I needed to begin work on a sermon if I was to have anything at all to say on Sunday, but that could wait for a spell. My belly was much too full for my mind to work properly, and I needed to walk carefully to balance all that food and not let it spill over into queasiness.

  The mercantile looked like any old basic building in Cut Eye. The outside walls were unpainted red brick, and a lone lamppost sat outside. There was no awning nor window decoration, and the store looked altogether unimaginative. The sign overtop read simply, “Texas Goods,” and the bell jingled when I walked inside. Behind the counter, the owner looked withered and frail. He mumbled a fast hello, but I could hardly hear him, his voice was so quiet and quick. I walked to the counter and shook his hand when he outstretched it.

  “Name’s Rowdy Slater,” I said. “You got a line of credit established for me.”

  “I know who you are,” the man whispered with a flicker. “Name’s Woburn Jones. I’m one of the deacons at the church. Twenty dollar limit.”

  Twenty dollars, I thought, well that was two months’ salary as a preacher, but at least that would buy me a suit, shirt, tie, and pair of shoes. I nodded and looked around the store. A half gallon of bleach cost 21 cents. Two boxes of cornflakes were 35 cents. Three cans of tomato soup cost a quarter.

  “Where’s your suits, Mr. Jones?” I called out.

  “Ain’t mmmph shonnn.” The shopkeeper mumbled the last two words.

  “What’d you say, friend?” I walked back to the counter. “Sounded like you ain’t got none.”

  “Correct. No men’s clothes, no. No clothes at all. We got socks and T-shirts and underwear but that’s it. That’s it completely.” He was still mumbling his words in a fast string.

  “How come?”

  “All the men returning from the war, that’s how come. Throughout the nation, all men’s clothing is on back order now. Same with cars. Same with houses. Too many men want the same thing all at the same time. I’m sorry I can’t help you. Really am. I’ll put you on the waiting list.”

  I stepped back and stared at him, not knowing how to proceed, then pointed to what I was wearing—my army jacket with the patches removed, a dirty V-neck T-shirt, dungarees, and boots. “But this is all I got.”

  He picked up a pencil and nibbled it nervously. “Try Augusta Wayman at the café. She might have something that fits you.” He looked away. For a moment I thought I saw his eyes grow soggy, then he cleared his throat quickly. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more. Really I am.”

  I exhaled, wandered back to the aisles, picked out a pair of boxer shorts, a T-shirt, a pair of socks, a razor and shaving soap, a toothbrush and box of toothpaste, and some Arrid Underarm Cream Deodorant, and came back to the counter. I noticed by a sign overhead that the mercantile also offered cremation services. Every detail is taken care of according to the most scientific principles that comfort and reassure, it read. I filed that in mind. Mr. Jones added up my purchases, put them in a brown paper sack, assured me they were on my tab, and wished me good day. I ambled outside.

  Well now, what was I going to do with this predicament?

  Gummer would be at lunch. Augusta would be busy for an hour. I sat and waited, found a patch of grass and did a few sets of pushups, then waited some more. When the hour was over I decided to try Augusta first and walked back to the café. The lunch crowd was dwindling. I saw she had some waitressing help and another cook in back. It wasn’t Cisco, which I was fine with. Augusta greeted me with a warm embrace.

  “Back so soon?” she asked. “Another cup of coffee maybe?”

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” I said, and motioned down the street with a tilt of my head. “Woburn Jones at the mercantile said you might know another place in town I can find some men’s clothes. He’s plumb out.”

  The woman twitched at the question. Not unkindly, only like she didn’t see the question coming. She twisted her mouth into a thinking pose and stood quiet for a moment. “You need them today?”

  “Right away, ma’am, if you can.”

  She blinked a few times, looked at the floor, then glanced at me, but it was an offset glance, like something powerful churned within her. “Cisco likes to sleep after his mornin
g rush is over. He gets up so early, you know, and never sleeps well at night. But if you’d come upstairs with me, I’m sure we’ll find you something that fits.”

  I broke into a grin. “Well that would solve a heap of my problems, ma’am. Thank you.”

  She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Come along. Just please be quiet once we’re up in the apartment. I truly don’t want to wake Cisco. He’s so tired.”

  I nodded. She led the way through the back of the kitchen and up a flight of stairs up to their living quarters. A door to the left was shut. I guessed that was their bedroom by the blare of snores coming from its direction. There was a kitchenette, a living area, a bathroom, and another closed door off to the right.

  “Wait here,” Augusta said, and went into the other closed door.

  She was gone a full twenty minutes. Maybe more like twenty-five. I began to think she’d forgotten about me or maybe fallen asleep herself, but finally she returned carrying a man’s black suit, a white collared shirt, a gray tie, and a pair of black leather shoes.

  “Your feet about size 9?” she asked.

  “Same as everybody.”

  She sniffed and pointed to the bathroom. “Change in there. See if it all fits. If they don’t, I’m handy with needle and thread. Go on, now.” The floorboards creaked where she stood.

  I went into the bathroom, shucked off my dirty clothes, and changed into my new, fine apparel. It had been years since I’d worn fancy duds. In school it was all bibbed overalls and flannel shirts. In the Conservation Corps it was standard issue clothing. When we were garrisoned during the service, I hated to change into my dress uniform. Then, in prison, well, no man thinks of wearing nice clothes then. A mirror stood over the sink and I looked myself up and down. The shirt and jacket fit well in the shoulders. The shoes were snug but hardly used—they’d break in soon. The pants were a little short in the leg, but they’d be an easy fix. The floorboards squeaked again. Then, outside the door, it sounded quiet. Too quiet. I opened the bathroom door, still dressed in my new suit and shoes. Without looking up first, I said, “What do you think?”