Welcome to Fred (The Fred Books)

by Brad Whittington

  Ralph was my oldest friend in Fred, the first to befriend me when I was dropped into this hick town four years earlier. We had shared many experiences but didn’t discuss religion much. C. J., also a transplant from a big city, was my closest friend. We discussed religion not at all. Jolene, the beautiful but incurable practical joker, and Bubba, her hapless brother, were sporadic at our church. Darnell, the Terror of the Back Roads, had one religion—driving fast.

  I might have considered telling my Sunday school teacher, Mac, but he wasn’t my Sunday school teacher anymore. A truck driven by his best friend, Parker, had hit his car while he was changing a tire. Mac’s wife and daughter were killed instantly, and he was in a wheelchair for life. Scooter and Brenda had taken over the class. I didn’t even consider telling them.

  I suspect Dad knew something in me had changed. But I always suspected Dad knew a lot of things. That was one reason I was now indulging in a fit of sentimental reflection. Here I was, about the age Dad had been on that vacation, and I still felt like a sixteen-year-old kid. Where was the wisdom, that prescient certitude that he wore like an undershirt? That was one thing he hadn’t passed down. Or if he had, I hadn’t discovered it. Perhaps it was in a drawer I hadn’t cleaned out.

  I began that summer long ago with a life-changing decision. I didn’t realize at the time just how life changing. But in the next few years I was going to find out.

  CHAPTER TWO Returning to a routine after a three-week vacation is at once alien and familiar, but the first Sunday back in Fred was more alien than I expected. There was no hint of strangeness when we arrived. The building looked the same, the people looked the same, the routine was the same. But when I got to the Sunday school class, I entered alien territory.

  The first clue was that it was crowded. Heidi, Hannah, and I arrived together. Heidi would only be around for a few more weeks before she went off to college. Hannah was preparing to enter high school. I split the difference between them. When we walked into the room and had trouble finding an empty seat, we looked at each other in wonder.

  Bubba and Jolene were there. That was all wrong. The class hadn’t even started. They usually arrived late or missed Sunday school completely. Even worse, there were new faces. Squeaky was there, Ralph’s alleged girlfriend. I was miffed. After all, I was the PK. This was my turf. I had been there every Sunday for four years with little to relieve the tedium. I missed two Sundays for a long-deserved vacation, and suddenly there were strangers in the camp, very chummy with the regulars. Talk about nerve!

  Scooter opened with a prayer. Scooter and Brenda Brown had replaced Mac and Peggy after the wreck. Scooter was a deacon with a blond flattop, seemingly precision cut with the aid of a framing square. He wore boots and a bolo tie. I had pegged him as “Most Likely to Go to Bible College.” His kids already had vestiges of the begrudged celebrity and instinctive wariness that marks a preacher’s kids. It was only a matter of time.

  I looked down at the scuffed, salmon-colored tile and positioned the front legs of the metal folding chair precisely two inches in front of the third tile, a spot determined by years of experience. It allowed me to lean back against the institutional green wall at the proper angle. From this position of repose I pondered in my heart the meaning of this great host before me.

  Something had happened while we were gone. During the first half of the class I searched for an explanation. I was mystified until I traced the timeline back to the events just before our departure. Reverend Bates. Six nights of hellfire and damnation. Forty verses of “Just As I Am.” People streaming down the aisle with tears streaming down their cheeks. Revival.

  I was attending a postrevival class with an infusion of new blood into the congregation. My moment of enlightenment was interrupted by Scooter asking me if I knew the story of the rich young ruler.

  “Uh, yeah. He was very sorrowful because he was very rich.”

  “Come again there doll.” Ralph was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room. “If yer daddy was rich, he wouldn’t be sorrowful.” By which he meant he would not find an abundance of material goods to be an undue burden. (If you spend much time in Fred, you learn quickly that when people say “yer daddy” they’re not talking about somebody in your family, they’re talking about themselves. And when they say “doll,” they’re talking about you.)

  Several others voiced their agreement with Ralph’s position. Then Bubba spoke. “For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”

  My head jerked around so quickly that it upset the balance of nature and my chair collapsed with me in it. As I painstakingly extracted myself from the wreck, Jolene whispered to me, “Don’t pay him no mind. He’s been talkin’ like that fer three weeks.”

  I looked at her closely for signs of jest but only detected exasperation verging on resignation. I scanned the room. Heidi’s lips were pressed together. She shook her head. Hannah looked at me and raised one eyebrow.

  I looked at Bubba. He looked like the same old Bubba, laughing along with everyone else as I set the chair back up and reduced my formula by one inch for insurance.

  Scooter took the reins. “Bubba, yer on the right track. But I expect we might should begin back at the beginnin’. Let’s look at the verses in Mark 10.” He scanned the room over his drugstore reading glasses. “Ya do have yer Bibles, don’t ya?” A few kids nodded their heads and flipped around looking for Matthew. Most avoided eye contact and flipped to the lesson in the Sunday school quarterly.

  Bubba had a Bible that must have served most of its life holding down a very sturdy coffee table. The kind that has pages in front to record the family tree and significant life events. I looked at Jolene.

  “I think he done read that thang through three times in the last three weeks,” she muttered in my direction.

  “Bubba, read verses 17 through 20.”

  Bubba cleared his throat.

  “And when he was gone forth into the way, there came one running, and kneeled to him, and asked him, Good Master, what shall I do that I may inherit eternal life? And Jesus said unto him, Why callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is, God. Thou knowest the commandments, Do not commit adultery, Do not kill, Do not steal, Do not bear false witness, Defraud not, Honour thy father and mother. And he answered and said unto him, Master, all these have I observed from my youth.”

  “Good,” Scooter said. “So, what do y’all think? Did he really keep all the commandments since he was a boy?” Several heads nodded automatically, no sign of thought on their faces. These were the folks who automatically answered “Jesus” to every question in Sunday school, figuring the odds were better than even.

  “There is none righteous, no, not one.” This time I was ready for it. I just eyed Bubba carefully and kept my balance.

  “Good point, Bubba. What do y’all say? Have y’all kept all the commandments?”

  Some kept on nodding, like those little bobbleheaded dogs in the back car window. Others avoided eye contact.

  This question had never crossed my mind. I had certainly never killed anyone or committed adultery or stolen. Did false testimony include the time I broke a lamp and blamed it on Hannah? Maybe. Defraud? I think not. Honor my father and mother. Well . . . who’s asking?

  Jolene spoke up. “I ain’t never killed no one.”

  Ralph snorted. “Not yet, anyway. Give her time; she’ll get around to it.”

  “So, y’all agree? Think yer doin’ OK?” Some shrugs around the room. “As good as the next guy?” A few nods. “OK then, sounds like yer in the same boat as this guy. Let’s see what Jesus says. Squeaky, read verses 21 and 22.”

  “Then Jesus beholding him loved him, and said unto him, One thing thou lackest: go thy way, sell whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come, take up the cross, and follow me. And he was sad at that saying, and went away grieved: for he had great possessions.”

  “OK,
so what does that tell us?”

  “You mean now I gotta give away all my stuff?” Ralph demanded. “Can I at least keep the dirt bike?”

  “No,” Jolene said. “You can give it ta me. That way you can go ta heaven. I’ll just take my chances.”

  “That except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven.” Three guesses where that came from. I didn’t bother to look.

  Squeaky looked confused. “Wait a minute. Brother Bates said the directions to heaven are to ‘turn right and go straight.’ This guy did ever’thin’ right, but he’s not goin’ ta heaven? That doesn’t sound fair.”

  “Who said life is fair?” I asked.

  She glared at me, her little mouse-ears poking through her thin red hair. “Well, at least God ought to be fair!”

  “Touché.” I should have kept my mouth shut.

  “Squeaky, you should be careful about accusing God.” Scooter looked reprovingly at her. “Like Jesus said, ‘there is none good but God.’ He knew this guy thought he was good. Why else would He say that?”

  “All have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.”

  “Yes, Bubba, we know that. The point is that ya can’t work yer way to heaven. This guy came in all cocky, thought he had it sewed up, and Jesus took him down a few pegs.”

  I wasn’t sure about this interpretation. It said, “Jesus beholding him loved him.” That seemed a little strange to me.

  “For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.” Scooter looked on the verge of throwing a quarterly at Bubba.

  I leaned over to Jolene. “How does he know all this stuff? I know the Bible pretty good, but I can’t pull them out like that, word for word like a tape recorder.”

  “Bubba was always good at memorizin’ stuff. He knows all the players on all the World Series teams since the beginnin’ of time. And their battin’ average and all that stuff. He’s got a photogenic memory.”

  My correction was interrupted by Ralph trying to work out his salvation.

  “You ain’t answered my question yet. Do I have to give all my stuff away to get to heaven?”

  Scooter turned on Ralph. “Do ya love yer stuff more than ya love God?” he asked in a snarl.

  Ralph blinked rapidly four times and said, “No.”

  “Then ya don’t have ta give it all away.”

  Brenda broke the tension by announcing it was time to split into groups.

  In the church service I took my usual seat, far enough back for comfort but close enough to maintain appearances. I noticed Parker right off. He was on the front row, hair slicked down, wearing a new leisure suit, dark brown with light stitching. Sonia was next to him. The strap from his eye patch cut across his hair in the back.

  Thankfully, the service was a lot tamer than Brother Bates’s revival. As usual, Dad called on somebody to lead the benediction and sneaked to the back to greet folks as they came out. Dad collared me as I squeezed through the crowd.

  “Mark, it seems Deacon Fry has a proposition for you.” He nodded at the large bald man standing next to him.

  Deacon Fry blinked at me benignly and flashed an odious, ingratiating smile. I had an instinctive dislike for this man. His prayers reeked of the ponderous piety of King James rendered with an East Texas accent. He was a tall man, well over six feet, with a bulk to more than match, making for an intimidating physical presence. He was as hairless as an egg. You couldn’t even see eyebrows unless you looked closely for the vestigial line of fuzz brushed above his steel gray eyes.

  He frequently snoozed through the second half of the sermon, propped against the end of the pew, his index finger running alongside his eye, the rest of his fingers fanned out across his face. I didn’t know whether his failure to conceal his sermonic slumbers was incompetence or insult. Consequently, I didn’t know whether to hold him in contempt or resent him. But I was sure one of those attitudes was the proper one.

  He sang a sonorous, booming bass on all hymns, which might have redeemed him in my eyes had he not scooped the notes like a geriatric Elvis.

  “Yes,” he droned in his growling drawl. “We find that the feller who has been doin’ the janitor work for us is goin’ ta be out fer a spell. We have a mess of folks that could do the job, but we thought we might could give you a chance ta earn yerself some pocket money.”

  For once I had an interest in something Deacon Fry had to say.

  “OK.”

  “That’s mighty fine. It’s five dollars a week, cash money. Pastor Matt, I mean, yer pa can show you the ropes.”

  He nodded at us, detached his wife from her conversation, and led her to a black LTD.

  Parker and Sonia were next. Since I was standing next to Dad, Parker grabbed my hand and shook it. “Welcome back.”

  “Thanks.” The patch was there over his left eye. The white scar was visible from hairline to jawbone. I tried not to think of the sunken eyelid that lay beneath the patch.

  Sonia nodded at me. She seemed calm and content under a generous apportionment of makeup. Some things remained reassuringly constant.

  Parker moved on, grabbing Dad’s hand with both of his. “Welcome back, pastor. We’re glad ta see ya.”

  “Parker, I am very glad to see you here.” He grabbed Parker’s shoulder. “It’s been a long three weeks since we last talked. How are you doing?”

  Parker’s smile eclipsed the scar on his face. It almost disappeared. “Never been better. You were right with that new creature thang. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I’m not always sure how to act.”

  Dad looked to Sonia for confirmation. She pushed Parker out of the way and hugged Dad, to everyone’s surprise, including hers.

  “I been waitin’ for three weeks to say thanks. He ain’t took a drink the whole time y’all been gone.”

  “That’s great news, but don’t thank me. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I just showed up; God did the rest.”

  Parker shook his head. “You can act all modest if ya want ta, Pastor Matt. But we’re mighty proud ya showed up, if that’s what ya want ta call it.”

  “He’s quit workin’ on that truck and started buildin’ a gazebo. It’ll be a lot nicer when it’s finished out and painted, but it’s a nice place to sit in the mornin’ with a cup of coffee. Parker comes out before he goes to work and reads the Psalms and all.”

  “Well, I am impressed! We’ll have to get together next week sometime.”

  Everybody nodded their heads, and we all stood around for a few seconds, awkwardly. Then Parker said a few more welcome backs and Dad said a few more thanks, nice to see yous and they walked off together much like the Frys, only to an old F-150 pickup.

  It seemed the Fred we had returned to was somewhat different from the Fred we had left. Which was only fair. The Mark Cloud who returned was somewhat different from the one who had left. Although nobody knew that but me.

  CHAPTER THREE My newfound janitorial profit center was not of sufficient magnitude to allow me to retire from my former career as purveyor of the news. I resumed my Grit route on the Spyder bike, new driver’s license notwithstanding. Adding gasoline expenses to the overhead would have obliterated my profit margin.

  Three weeks of back issues in the pouch threatened to topple me every time I took a corner. To my surprise, most of the usual customers opted for all three, and some even gave me a dollar and told me to keep the change. I hit a windfall at the Walker estate. Parker was in the half-finished gazebo drinking iced tea, a Bible next to him on the bench seat. I scored an extra dollar tip. In the euphoria of a capitalistic ecstasy, I pointed my chopper handlebars toward the river bottom, expanding my territory.

  Predictably, my success rate fell. The river bottom is its own country. Despite the fact that I was a four-year resident of Fred, I had never seen the people who answered the door. Or who were sitting on the
porch when I wheezed up the driveway. Greeting a stranger with something besides a shotgun was unusual for this demographic. Fortunately, a skinny kid on a bike posed little danger, but buying something from a stranger went against the grain. Particularly reading material.

  I started to turn back several times, but I was seduced by what might be around the next corner. I might stumble upon a backwoods reading club searching for fresh material and move the entire stock!

  But as each succeeding corner failed to reveal such a cultural anomaly, I was forced to consider a retreat. The light was failing, and I would have to turn back to get home before the prolonged East Texas twilight bled into night.

  What lay around the last corner was a rarity in Fred—a hill denuded of pine trees, affording a panoramic view of the sunset. On the left side of the road, a rough plank house held the sun on its chimney. I viewed it with a critical eye, appraising it for telltale signs of the literati. It wasn’t a promising prospect. On the right side of the road, a green Pontiac Bonneville faced the house and sunset. A hand hung limply from the driver’s window. A thin tendril of smoke rose from a cigarette, like incense to the dying sun god.

  Here at least was a sign of life. I leaned to the right and rolled to the open window of the Pontiac. With a practiced motion I pulled a paper from the pouch while extending a leg for support. “Would you like to buy a Grit? It’s a newspaper.”

  The flaccid hand backed with coarse black hair rose slowly. My eyes were riveted to the cigarette resting in the center of the hand, between the middle and ring fingers. Or half fingers, I should say. The hand covered the bottom of the face as if to prevent a secret from escaping.

  He took a drag from the cigarette and blew the smoke out his nose. I held up a Grit with my right hand, steadying the handlebars with my left. In the silence of the gloaming, we evaluated each other.

  There wasn’t much for him to process—a skinny blond kid with hair in his eyes, shoving a paper in his face. The view from my side wouldn’t stop the presses either. Jet-black hair with a trace of gray at the temples, wide face with plenty of room for the wrinkles, bushy eyebrows, flat nose. He raised a Coke can to me with his right hand as if proposing a toast.