by Joan Hess
He grabbed her arm. “Why don’t you remind Thomas and me of what the Apostle Paul wrote to the Ephesians?”
“Ephesians, chapter five, verse twenty-two,” she recited numbly. “‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord.’”
“Continue,” commanded Malachi, his fingers still clutching her arm.
“‘For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the savior of the body. Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing.’”
“Very nicely done. Now then, why don’t you put on a pretty dress and go down to that supermarket to do some shopping? While you’re at it, drop by the office and have a friendly conversation with Mr. Buchanon about complying with our private arrangement. His dim brain was clicking like a cash register, and I’m afraid he’s keenly aware of the significance of his parcel to the overall sale. Do whatever it takes to make sure he keeps his mouth shut until the deal is final. Whatever it takes.”
Seraphina pulled herself free, turned, and left the room. Seconds later, a door slammed at the opposite end of the RV.
Thomas busied himself with the papers on the table, uncomfortable as always when these scenes occurred. In his opinion, they did so much too often—but marital mediation was not in his job description. “I hope we have a good take the first few nights of the revival,” he said, trying not to fidget as he sensed Malachi’s gaze on the back of his head. “We’ll need fourteen hundred dollars for the three options, and we used most of our resources to cover transportation expenses and the utility deposits.”
“I’ll ask the local churches to pitch in to sponsor us,” Malachi said. “After all, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”
“You’re not the Lord.”
“Are you quite sure, Thomas?” Without waiting for a response, Malachi went through the living room and outside to the gold Cadillac. The interior was worse than Satan’s furnace room, he thought as he switched the air conditioner to high, then drove down the road to County 102. At the intersection with the main highway, however, he sat for several minutes, idly watching pickup trucks rumbling by while he considered his next move. As he reached a decision, he saw a stout man with a particularly red face come out of a trailer parked beneath a scattering of sycamore trees.
He touched a button that caused the window to silently slide down. “You!” he called. “Can you tell me how to get to the high school?”
It was not a difficult question, but the man froze in midstep, his face crinkled with bewilderment—or perhaps even terror. Malachi patiently repeated the question and then did all he could to sort out directions from the mostly incoherent sputters he received in response. Unwilling to cause any more anxiety, he nodded and turned in what might be the correct direction. One more turn led him to a sprawling yellow-brick structure with a sign proclaiming it to be the home of the Maggody Marauders. A football stadium to one side confirmed his theory that this had to be the high school; even in an alternate universe, Maggody would not have attracted a professional football team.
At one end was a two-story addition with a rounded roof. Malachi parked in front of it, locked the car, and pushed open a metal door. It proved to be the gym, but there were no players of either gender shooting baskets or even sitting in the bleachers.
Muttering a phrase that might have caused his more ardent followers to think twice about writing a check, he walked across the glistening hardwood floor to a door marked OFFICE.
“Hello?” he said as he eased it open.
A woman with yellow hair looked up from a pile of paperwork. The annoyed expression faded as she recognized her visitor. “Malachi Hope,” she exhaled reverently.
“I’m looking for my wife’s sister, a girl named Chastity Hope. I was told she was here, shooting baskets.”
“I knew you would come to me.”
Malachi stepped back, his hand still holding the doorknob. He was accustomed to reactions such as this, and at times went out of his way to encourage them when he could sniff a profit in the air. At this moment, though, he was intent on finding Chastity. “Have any girls been here today?”
“I’m Norma Kay.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Norma Kay. Have any girls—”
She stood up and leaned forward, her eyes glittering too brightly for his taste. “I realize you have millions of loyal followers, Malachi, but you surely remember me. I wrote you for the first time about ten years ago, when I was close to committing suicide. You wrote back with such compassion that I found the strength to carry on with my life. I’ve written you every month since then, sending every penny I could and begging for your prayers.”
If possible, her eyes became even brighter. Droplets of foam accumulated in the corners of her mouth, and her fingers were splayed like talons. “I’ve taken every bit of advice you’ve given me, Malachi, even when I had trouble understanding why. I ordered your Bible study course and played the cassettes over and over again. I even went to one of your revivals, but the stadium was so crowded I couldn’t get close enough to talk to you.”
“Of course, I remember you, Norma Kay,” murmured Malachi, easing out the door, “and it’s a real blessing to meet you in person like this. I want you to know you’re always in my special prayers for those who rely on my guidance in spiritual matters. Now, I’d really better see if I can find my wife’s sister. She doesn’t know her way around town and I’m concerned.”
Norma Kay was close to toppling across the desk and undoing a morning’s worth of organization. “You said in one of the letters that you’d be pleased to meet with me in private if we ever had the chance. My husband and I own the property where you’re going to build your park. We live in the white frame house at the bottom of the hill.”
Malachi froze. “Your last name is Grapper?”
“I married Bur almost ten years ago. When I heard you were putting on revivals, I wrote and told you all about the pasture and how perfect it would be for your City of Hope. Don’t you remember?”
It occurred to Malachi that the option and subsequent sale would be determined by his reaction to this disturbed woman with unnaturally yellow hair. “Of course, I do,” he said through a strained smile, “and I am delighted. I’m sure if we pray together we can iron out all your problems and get you aimed straight for prosperity. Why don’t you call my manager and ask him to make you an appointment sometime during revival week?”
She stumbled around the desk, taking a jolting hit to her hip in the process, and grabbed his hand. Rubbing it against her damp cheek, she said, “Thank you, Malachi. There’s so much I want to tell you. I’ve allowed lust to rule my heart, and you must counsel me until I have the courage to cast aside my sinful ways.”
He freed his hand and patted her shoulder as he would a large dog. “Until then, you’ll be foremost in my prayers, Norma Kay. Foremost.”
To his dismay (but not his surprise), she burst into tears and flung herself at him. He was much too concerned with the deleterious effects of salt water on his silk tie to notice as a door at the back of the office closed with a soft click.
Brother Verber was sitting on the rectory steps when he spotted Mrs. Jim Bob coming across the lawn, marching along like a brisk drill sergeant, her arms swinging smartly and her chin leading the way. As always, an aura of conviction and dedication hovered about her, he thought admiringly, giving him as well as the rest of the congregation strength to aid in the battle against wickedness and fornication. Why, he’d put her in the ring with Satan anytime and never once doubt the outcome. He mentally dressed her in a short leather dress and a hood that came just below her eyes so her mouth would be free to tell ol’ Satan what she thought of his wily attempts to lure good Christians into his den of iniquity. She’d pull out a whip and flail his buttocks until he whimpered for mercy. Then she’d put her foot on his chest and look down at him, her face distorted with anger—
“
I was looking for you in the Assembly Hall,” she called, interrupting his pleasant reverie. “We can no longer sit in the sunshine and allow this Malachi Hope to destroy our town. It’s time to take action, Brother Verber.”
Uncomfortably aware of a peculiar sensation in his privates, he stood up and held open the screen door for her. “Action, Sister Barbara?”
She continued into the living room and sat on the sofa. “Yes, action. I was tidying some papers on Jim Bob’s desk when I came across some ominous scribbles.”
Aghast, Brother Verber plopped down beside her. “Scribbles like pentagrams and hexes? Jim Bob isn’t turning to devil worship, is he? I had a newsletter from the seminary that said it’s happening more and more these days—especially among the youngsters. This newsletter said we’re facing a worldwide Satanic Panic, and if we don’t stop it, women will be dancing naked and engaging in lustful degradation with their very neighbors and kinfolk.”
“All I said was that I found some scribbles,” she said as she watched the sweat dribbling down the sides of his face and clinging to the tip of his nose. “In this particular case, they had dollar signs attached to ’em.”
He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Was he working on the family budget?”
“No, he was not, Brother Verber. From what I could tell, he’s been offered two hundred dollars an acre for that land next to Bur’s. That adds up to forty thousand dollars all together.”
“That’s a lot,” he said, gripping her knee so she’d know he was as concerned as she was. “It’s hard to imagine Jim Bob turning down that kind of money just to save the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall from the likes of this Malachi Hope fellow.”
She tried to keep her chin from quivering, but it was a lost cause. Her eyes were stinging and her throat was so tight she could hardly swallow back the bitter taste in her mouth. “We can’t let this happen. I tried to talk to Arly, but she wouldn’t listen to a word I said. She was—she was downright flippant, if you must know.” She opened her purse and pulled out a lacy white handkerchief to dab her nose. “I don’t know what to do, Brother Verber.”
He was so touched by this unprecedented display of vulnerability that he allowed his hand to move to her thigh and squeeze her supple flesh. “Don’t you worry about this, Sister Barbara. I have a plan—and a real fine one, if I do say so myself. When you showed up a few minutes ago, I was just running through the details to make sure I hadn’t overlooked anything. Why, a week from now we’ll look back at this and laugh ourselves sick at the way we was all worried.”
“What’s your plan?” she said, sniffling into the handkerchief.
“I can’t tell you until I’ve prayed to the Lord for approval. Sister Barbara, why don’t we both git down on our knees and thank the Lord for sending me a plan to save our little town?”
“If the Lord sent the plan, why do you need his approval?”
Brother Verber clasped his hands together and slid to the floor. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” he murmured as he started praying more fervently than he had since he’d been asked to explain in front of most everybody in town why he owned a life-size inflatable doll named Suzie Squeezums.
This was a true test of faith.
5
“You’ll never guess what Lydia Twayblade told me,” Elsie McMay said as she reached for another slice of pound cake. She and Mrs. Jim Bob were sitting out on the sunporch, where they could admire the results of the latter’s undeniable gardening prowess. The impatiens in particular were thriving along the wall at the back of the yard. Elsie was a mite jealous, having never had much luck with impatiens.
Mrs. Jim Bob was looking in the same general direction, but she was thinking of neither the flowers nor the challenge submitted to her. The last two days Jim Bob had flat out refused to discuss the pending sale and stayed down at the SuperSaver from dawn until well after midnight. Brother Verber kept insisting he had a plan, but he was vague when it came to offering any hints. She had debated trying to talk some sense into Burdock Grapper and had gone so far as to drive out to his house, before she lost her resolve and kept on going until she ended up in Hasty.
“You know who Lydia Twayblade is, don’t you?” Elsie said to prompt her hostess.
“I just find it hard to believe she said something of interest, Elsie. She is one of the most tiresome women in town, all the time acting high and mighty when she’s nothing but a glorified nurse’s aide out at the county home. It’s no wonder the undertaker goes out there once a week; Lydia bores the old folks to death.”
“Lydia told me that a woman turned up out there yesterday afternoon and said she was Seraphina Hope. Before Lydia could stop her, she was out on the porch inviting all the old folks to come to the revival.”
“That hussy!” gasped Mrs. Jim Bob.
Elsie took a sip of tea. “Lydia said Seraphina was real sweet and lingered more than an hour asking the residents about their health and their families. She even sang for them. Ol’ Petrol Buchanon got so excited his teeth fell on the floor right next to her foot. She just laughed and handed them back to him. Petrol is Diesel’s youngest brother, or so I seem to think. He’s eighty if he’s a day, of course.”
“May I assume Lydia Twayblade has enough decency not to allow the old folks to be carted out to some tent and made to sit for hours and hours on a hard bench?”
“Seraphina promised that they would all be settled in comfortable wheelchairs so they wouldn’t get tuckered out by walking down the aisle.”
Mrs. Jim Bob snatched up the cake plate and took it into the kitchen. When she returned, her face was pale but composed. “What else have you heard?” she said, forcing herself to sound only mildly curious.
“She was at the SuperSaver,” Elsie admitted cautiously. “I was waiting in line when I chanced to see her come out of Jim Bob’s office. Her blouse was so tight I wondered why the buttons didn’t pop off, and her skirt barely covered her panties.” She decided not to describe Jim Bob’s expression and instead said, “I’d better run along. Lottie’s picking me up shortly to go shopping in Farberville for something to wear to the revival.”
After Elsie left, Mrs. Jim Bob went inside and tidied the kitchen, then sat down on her newly upholstered sofa in the living room and tried to think up a foolproof scheme that would send Malachi Hope and his wife slinking out of town like whupped dogs. Despite Brother Verber’s assurances that he and the Lord had everything under control, she suspected her position in the community was in grave danger.
Ruby Bee tried to act casual as Estelle came across the dance floor and perched on her favorite stool. She even went so far as to pour a glass of sherry and scoot a basket of pretzels down the bar. “Heard anything new?” she asked as she began to wipe the pristine surface of the bar with a dishrag.
Estelle shrugged. “Millicent McIlhaney says Darla Jean’s been spending time with Malachi Hope’s wife’s sister. I reckon that’s who was in the backseat of the station wagon the other day when we saw it at the low-water bridge.”
“I reckon so,” Ruby Bee said, sucking on her cheeks to keep from blurting out her news.
“I think Millicent was relieved when Chastity wasn’t allowed to go riding around with Darla Jean anymore. She happened to overhear a snippet of conversation when the girls didn’t know she was in the kitchen, and she said she was dumbfounded at some of the foul language.”
“You’d think someone who lives with a preacher would mind her mouth.”
Estelle gave Ruby Bee a condescending smile. “Millicent was referring to Darla Jean.”
“Everybody in town knows she talks like a sailor,” said Ruby Bee, shooting back an equally condescending smile. After a few more swipes, she tossed the dishrag in the sink. “I had a surprise earlier today.”
“So did I. Millicent was on time for her appointment for the first time since Hiram’s barn burned to the ground, and that must have been a good fifteen years ago.”
Ruby Bee sni
ffed. “If you don’t want to hear about it, that’s just dandy with me. I’ve got more pressing things to do than stand here discussing Millicent’s tardiness. Maybe I’ll go start the chicken and dumplings.” She headed for the kitchen door, but slowly, so she could be persuaded to stop before it was too late.
“So what’s your surprise?” Estelle asked grudgingly.
Ruby Bee whirled around and pointed at the end of the bar. “Seraphina Hope came in and sat on that stool. You’d think someone who’s been on television would be uppity, but she was just as nice as she could be. I couldn’t help thinking of Dolly Parton—and she’s the sweetest, most honest person that ever came out of Nashville. Seraphina said they enjoyed the green bean casserole the very day we dropped it off, and asked for my recipe. She was real interested in learning about Maggody. We were having such a friendly conversation that I liked to have burned the cherry cobblers.”
“I wouldn’t think there’d be all that much to talk about. What did she want to know—the details of Marjorie’s pedigree or the tomfoolery that went on during the Missionary Society election last year?”
“Regular stuff about who all lives here and what folks do to earn a living. When I told her about your beauty parlor, she said she just might call and make an appointment to get a trim. Her hair’s frizzier than yours, if you can believe it, but I gather hers is that way on purpose rather than the result of a disastrous experiment.”
Estelle finished the sherry and banged down the glass. “I guess I’d better go home and hide under the bed until my hair grows out. It can’t take more than six or eight months.”
“She gave me special passes for the first night of the revival. They keep the first few rows reserved for invited guests. I can’t see Jim Bob taking her up on the offer, or Mrs. Jim Bob, either. I hear her nose is bent way out of shape these days. Anyway, I asked for a pass for you, too, so we can sit together.”
“Lucky us,” muttered Estelle, who was trying to decide what she could do with her hair if everybody in the county was gonna be looking at the back of her head. It might be time to buy a hat, she concluded.
