Good Heavens

by Margaret A. Graham

  She ground out the cigarette and kept sitting there. I figured the first night at Priscilla Home must be hard for a newcomer, so I decided I’d sit up with her until she felt like going to bed. According to the admissions rule, she had been detoxed and sober for seventy-two hours, but she was still real nervous. I offered again to make her a cup of tea, but she didn’t want any.

  I put the magazine down. “Do you have children?” I asked.

  “One,” she said.

  “Boy or girl?”

  “Girl.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Five.”

  “Your husband, does he farm?”

  “He’s seventy-five years old,” she answered bitterly; she picked up her cigarettes and went outside.

  I’d hit a nerve. Well, I wouldn’t ask her any more questions, just stay with her until her nerves settled down. Of course, if I had known we’d be sitting up until the wee hours of the morning, I might have thought twice about that. Finally, about 3:00, Martha got up to go upstairs. I thought it best not to follow right on her heels. I heard her take the first two or three steps, and then she stopped.

  Uh-oh, I thought. Has she changed her mind? Is she coming back in here? I kept listening for her to come back or go on upstairs, but she didn’t move. I wondered if I should go see what the holdup was. In a few minutes, I heard her take to the stairs again. I listened to make sure she made it up the second flight to the third floor, and then I got up and went upstairs to my room.

  There wasn’t much use in going to bed, but I laid back the covers and crawled in. I had hardly got settled when I heard a big racket right over my head on the third floor—sounded like the place was coming apart! I threw on my robe and went running up there. The racket was coming from Martha’s room. I dashed in and flipped on the light switch. The bed was shaking like crazy, and Martha was thrashing about like some rag doll.

  “Martha! Martha! What’s the matter?”

  She grabbed my arm, her eyes wide open and wild. I couldn’t do a thing to stop what was going on!

  Suddenly, Nancy was by my side and trying to help me. Together we struggled to hold on to Martha so she wouldn’t hurt herself, but we couldn’t stop the fit she was having.

  “Nancy, what’s wrong with her?”

  Nancy shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “A seizure?” We couldn’t hold her down. The whole bed was bouncing about.

  “It’s not a seizure—she’s wide awake.”

  What we were seeing was like one of them horror movies, only there was no blood-curdling screams. The whole room seemed charged with some kind of evil power, and that poor girl—never in my life have I seen a body so terrified! I just lit into praying as hard as I could. “Lord, help us. Lord, in the name of Jesus, help! Lord, help us! Help us, Lord! In the precious name of Jesus, help! Help!”

  How long that went on, I can’t tell you. It seemed like forever before that power, or whatever it was, let go of Martha. Before that bed stopped shaking, it had rocked clean across the room and was up against the bed on the other side.

  As things calmed down, that poor girl just lay there staring at us and whimpering. I kept telling her, “It’s all right, Martha, it’s all right.”

  Nancy took hold of my hand. “Miss E., let me look at your arm.” Martha’s nails had broke the skin on my wrist, and it was bleeding a little bit. “I’ll get a Band-Aid,” she said and left for her room. I picked Martha’s blanket up off the floor, straightened it out, and spread it over her.

  When Nancy came back with the Band-Aid, we pushed the bed back where it was supposed to be. She offered to stay in the room with Martha for the rest of the night, but I told her I’d stay and call if we needed her. Nancy didn’t want to leave me, but I insisted. She went back to her room, and I lay down on the other bed in Martha’s room.

  I felt zapped but knew I wouldn’t sleep. Who could sleep after a thing like that? I did thank the Lord that whatever it was, it was over, and I prayed it wouldn’t happen again. I was also very thankful that the other girls had not woke up. Excitement like that would put the house in an uproar. And I thanked the Lord for Nancy. Having a nurse in the house was a life saver.

  Martha’s breathing worried me; it was heavy and unnatural. Poor thing. I hoped she was going to be all right after this.

  As the early morning hours wore on, I lay there trying to understand what we had been through. I didn’t want to put a name to it, but if I was to guess, I’d have to say the devil was in back of it. But why?

  I was thinking I would have to tell Ursula, but before the sun came up, I had decided not to tell her and let the chips fall where they may. For starters, Ursula had enough to worry about without this. In the second place, I couldn’t explain what had happened. And in the third place, Ursula would probably send Martha home. I, for one, didn’t want that to happen. I had promised Martha’s husband I’d take care of her, and the Lord helping me, I intended to keep my word to that old man.

  Of course, if it happened again, I’d be in Dutch for not telling Ursula.

  10

  Sunday morning dawned bright and clear. Decked out in our Sunday best we didn’t look like the same crew who had been working in the garden. I’m sure I had bags under my eyes from not sleeping a wink the night before, but Martha looked okay. After all, she did get some sleep, such as it was.

  The girls piled onto the van with me behind the wheel and Ursula in the jump seat. On the way down the mountain I tried to prepare them for what kind of service this church might have. “I don’t know what we’ll find here,” I told them. “This church may not be like any you have ever went to.”

  “Gone to,” Ursula said.

  “Not ‘went to’?”

  She shuddered. “No, Esmeralda, not ‘went to.’”

  I could hear reactions in back of me. It wouldn’t take much for some of the women to tell Ursula off about correcting me, but I was determined to keep cool and ward off anything like that. I thanked Ursula like it didn’t bother me, and went on explaining what we might find in the Valley Church. “Like I was saying, this church might be a lot different from what you’re use to. If there’s shouting, anything like that, it’s nothing to laugh at. We don’t make fun of nobody’s religion.”

  Ursula repeated what I had just said. “We don’t make fun of anybody’s religion,” she said.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said, ‘We don’t make fun of nobody’s religion.’ That’s a double negative.”

  “Well, whatever,” I said and shut up. Making light of it did not come easy. I could hear Linda having a good time with this, and the women yelling at her.

  I didn’t say another word until we got to the turnoff to Lester’s place. “Where are we going?” Ursula asked, and I told her we were taking Lester some fish.

  When we got to Lester’s, I let Dora off. While she took him the fish I drove down past the apple tree and managed to turn the van around okay.

  “You mean somebody lives in that shack?” Ursula asked.

  “Sure. It’s small, but Lester has a nice little place there—told us we can pick blueberries and grapes when they come in.” Even as I said that, I thought to myself, That is, if we’re still in business come July or September. I didn’t even know where Sunday dinner was coming from. There was nothing in the kitchen to make even a halfway decent meal.

  From Lester’s place it wasn’t far to the Valley Church. As we were pulling into the lane, the church bell was ringing, and we could see this little white church with its steeple and bell tower. It put me in mind of that old song about the church in the wildwood. Picnic tables were about the yard, and I spotted two out houses, one on either side of the church and half hidden in the willows. We rolled up in an area near the stream, and I parked the van where a couple of pickups and a car were parked.

  Opening the van door, Ursula got off first. As the girls were piling off, I stopped Nancy and asked her to wait a minute. After every
body was off the van, I told her it would be best if we kept to ourselves what had happened the night before. I also asked her if, when we went inside, it might not be a good idea for us to sit on either side of Martha in case something else happened. She agreed.

  The shallow river running in back of the church and the morning mist floating above it made me shiver in my sweater. A breeze rustling the willows had a chill in it, but despite the cool weather, wildflowers were blooming blue all over the meadow.

  Our group stood around together while a few people were making their way inside. Linda pulled out her cigarettes and lighter, but I shook my head. She scowled and put them away.

  I was pretty sure we wouldn’t hear a sermon such as Pastor Osborne would be bringing at Apostolic Bible but, like Splurgeon said, “Carry an appetite to God’s house, and you will be fed.”

  After it looked like everybody was inside the church who was going inside, we trooped in. Our group swelled attendance to twice the number sitting there—men on one side, women on the other. Most of the men wore white shirts buttoned to the neck, and there wasn’t a necktie among them. A couple of them wore overalls. Two young boys sat with the men and turned around to gawk at us coming in. None of the grown-ups turned around to look.

  I managed to steer Martha in between Nancy and me with Ursula on my left. The rest of our group ranged over several pews on the women’s side. Once we got settled, I enjoyed sitting there, waiting for the service to begin. Although there was a musty smell from the church being closed up all week, the walls and rafters were of pine; if they would open the windows, we’d get a strong, clean smell. The old benches were made of long-gone chestnut, and with the sun streaming in, they had a soft, warm look about them. Square in the middle of the aisle was a pot-bellied stove smelling of the ashes left over from winter use.

  I could hear the stream flowing over the rocky riverbed; as I listened, I heard one rock thumping, thumping, thumping as the water poured over and around it. I wondered how many years that thumping had been drumming a rhythm, keeping time with the flow of the river.

  There was no sign of a preacher anywhere. The only creature on the platform was a wasp buzzing about the window. I picked up a fan that had fell on the floor. The fan had a picture of the Good Shepherd holding a lamb in one arm and a shepherd’s crook in the other. It was exactly like the ones we used to have in our Apostolic Bible Church before it was air-conditioned. I wished Beatrice could see it—it would give her a trip down memory lane. Next time she called I was going to ask her to give me the name of a town where I could write to her in care of general delivery. Then I could write little things like that and not waste our telephone time.

  Looking at my watch, I figured it would be two or three hours before Beatrice and Carl would stop for church out there in Arizona or wherever they were. And it was past time for the W.W.s to be starting class. Poor Clara would be up front trying to make the announcements, and the rest of them women would not shut up and listen until they got finished telling all the news in town. Then Clara would have to repeat what she had already said. She’d give all the lowdown on who was sick and what was wrong with them. There’d be a lot of talk about every case while Thelma counted the collection. Somebody would pray, and then they’d get down to the Bible study. By then half the time would be spent.

  I had to hand it to Clara, she had patience. Of course, she grew up with most of those W.W.s. They may not have had all the smarts in the world, but they did have a heart for the Lord. No matter how much they squabbled over something, when the chips were down, they came together and did what had to be done. In my book, hearts meant more than smarts, but for the most part the W.W.s were took for granted. I knew it would mean a lot to them to get to come up here—they didn’t get to go many places. And I hoped Priscilla Home got straightened out before they came. It would be so good to see them. But, I tell you, as much as I missed the W.W.s’ fellowship, I would not have changed places with a one of them. Never in my life had I felt more needed than I did right then.

  Still waiting for something to get started, I thumbed through the hymnbook. It was one of those that has shaped notes. I had never seen that kind, and it made me curious to know the why and wherefore for shaped notes.

  Finally, three women on the front pew stood up and turned around to face the congregation; nice-looking women in house dresses and wearing cardigans. One of them had a pitch pipe, and she blew on it to find the note for each of the singers. They all hummed their note, then began singing. “Some glad morning, when this life is over, I’ll fly away . . .”

  It was country singing at its best—“I’ll Fly Away” in three-part harmony. It’s hard to hear music like that and not pat your foot, but nobody did that I could see. The ladies sang all the verses, and when they ended, I could have clapped. I tell you, that trio was not half bad.

  But they weren’t done. Going through the same tuning business, they sang out on “Unclouded Day.” The gospel singers I’d see on TV slapped their thighs, snapped their fingers, and wiggled, keeping time with the music, but not this trio. Neither did the congregation show any enthusiasm; they just sat there being respectful, or bored, one.

  I wondered how Ursula was taking this music. I knew the girls liked it. Even after all Martha had been through, she would glance at me, smiling, showing she was enjoying every minute.

  Nobody seemed concerned that the preacher had not showed up. No doubt the regulars were used to him being slow in coming. If he was a circuit preacher, there was no telling how far he was traveling to get there. For me, I was enjoying the singing and didn’t much care that he hadn’t showed up.

  When “Unclouded Day” ended, the pitch pipe came out again, and in a few minutes we were hearing, “We’ll Understand It Better By and By.” That one I took to heart. With little or nothing to cook for dinner, no money coming in, our not selling that old piano, it was something in the way of comfort to know that some day we would understand why.

  There seemed to be no end to the songs those ladies knew by heart. By the time they had sung several verses of “I’m Bound for the Promised Land,” we could hear a pickup rattling down the lane. The trio took their seats, and an old man in overalls stood up, raised his face toward the rafters, and commenced singing in a throaty voice:

  I’ll meet you in the morning, by the bright riverside;

  When all sorrow has drifted away;

  I’ll be standing at the portals when the gates open wide,

  At the close of life’s long, dreary day.

  On the chorus, men chimed in doing the bass parts. It looked to me like having that old man sing that song was a regular custom in the church, something he did at every service, probably at the sound of the preacher arriving.

  The truck came to a screeching stop by the creek, and in a few minutes somebody was coming onto the porch, scraping his shoes on the steps before coming inside. I had a hard time resisting the urge to look around. In a minute, he strode down the aisle, tall as a Georgia pine, with a shock of gray hair and a flowing beard. Hugging a black Bible the size of a wallpaper catalog and holding a bundle of clothes in the other arm, he could have passed for any one of them Old Testament prophets. He’s eighty-five if he’s a day, I thought. Dressed in a white shirt that could’ve used a little bleach, a suit coat, work pants and brogans, he mounted the platform and stashed the bundle behind the pulpit. Without apologizing or saying anything, he lit into praying. It was a long, loud prayer mostly thanking God for letting him live to see another day. Then he commenced his sermon.

  “God has give me a word,” he announced. “Hit’s about the Pharisee and the Republican. Now you know me to be a all-out Republican, but all politicians be sinners a-plenty, and I don’t put one mustard seed of my faith in them. Ever’ bit o’ my faith is in the Lord God Aw’mighty, maker of heaven an’ airth.”

  An amen came from the men’s side of the room, then all the men amened him.

  “My papa told me we was once Democrats; always
had been, even when Democrats lost ever’ election. But when a Democrat made it to the White House, he bein’ president, promised not to send our boys into war and then he done it. Next day, my papa marched over to the county courthouse and signed up Republican, and we Baileys ’ave been Republicans to this day. You’ll not never find no Bailey man a-votin’ any ways but Republican.

  “Now, brethren, you all know Rockville’s newspaper is Democrat on ever’ page, up one side and down t’other. Papa would not have that paper in his house. He sent away for the Union Republican, an’ ever’ week that paper come to our mailbox aside the road. I took hit myself as long as it was wrote.

  “One day Papa was a-fightin’ the mud on the Old Turnpike. You know when the road’s knee-deep in mud it can be the mischief of a way to get to market with a load o’ corn. Old man Rivers told him, ‘Bill, if you was to vote the Democrat ticket, they’d pave this hyar road for you.’ Well, sir, my papa told Rivers in words I dare not use from behind this sacred desk, ‘Rivers, I have waded this mud all my life, and I’ll wade it up to my armpits afore I’ll vote the Democrat ticket!’

  “Enough o’ that,” the preacher said and thumped his Bible, rolled it open on his forearm. “Now this hyar story about the Pharisee and the Republican has got to be a true story, no question ast. I take hit that Pharisee must ’ave been a Democrat; he put on a good show, took ever’ opportunity to let folks know how good a man he was. Prob’ly sat on the front row in the biggest church in town, a deacon or elder, one—paid his tithes, wrote big checks, and waved ’em about so ever’body could see. Prayed a good deal—out loud an’ long prayers, the kind you fall asleep on. That’s the kind o’ feller he was. But human nature bein’ what it be, most folks would vote for him over that God-fearin’ Republican.

  “Well, I tell you right now, as for me an’ my house, we vote fer the Republican. He know’d he was a sinner, an’ he done the only decent thang a sinner can do—he felt so bad about it, he beat his bosom an’ ast the Lord to be merciful to him fer he was a sinner.