by Lois Ruby
“A-men!” someone said, in a throaty whisper, which was echoed by people all around her.
“Wadkins, her name was. Can anybody tell me how I can find the widow, Sister Marylou Wadkins?” I saw Mrs. Pelham go pale and fumble around in her purse for something.
“Well, Adam Bergen,” Brother James said, taking me by the shoulder. “Our little family here surely appreciates your sense of Christian charity and duty. We’ll see what we can do. You may step down, son.” His eyes burrowed into me, and I stepped down. I heard at my back, “Who else will witness on this beautiful winter morning? Who has been healed of a deep hurt this week? Who walks straighter, or bends easier? Come forward and tell us. Come, come, don’t be shy. God’s miracles are to be broadcast from the highest mountain.”
I wanted to walk right up the aisle to the back door of the church and be out of there, but a little kid patted the bench as I passed his pew; they’d made a space on the aisle for me. Just then everyone stood up to sing, and a girl with a mouthful of braces handed me a blue hymnal, open to one of those songs with eighteen or twenty identical verses. I held the book up to my face, glancing over it to see what Brother James was doing. His arms were waving in rhythm to the dreary song, while he whispered to some young guy, who then left through a door by the altar.
After that, Brother James’s voice chimed in and, as if he were a cheerleader, the pace of the song picked up.
When the hymn was finally over, I sat down in my row of the solemn faithful, ready to make a dash for the exit as soon as I dared. If they say anything about Jesus healing anybody, I promised myself, I’ll bolt. If they say anything about Jesus dying for my sins. If they say anything about Jesus.
“Brothers and sisters, before we bow our heads.…” Even with the microphone behind his back, Brother James’s voice caressed the congregation.
The girl who’d given me the hymnal leaned around the kid between us. Never taking her eyes off Brother James, she whispered, “That was purely beautiful, Adam Bergen. I babysit Miz Wadkins’s kids sometimes. She lives over on the corner of Gilbert and Elpyco. It’s the pink house with white shutters. Those babies are darling. Do whatever you can for them, praise the Lord.”
“Thanks,” I whispered, with my heart racing, then forced out an unfamiliar benediction that was used around my house only when someone sneezed: “God bless you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Told by Miriam
Sunday morning, and we weren’t in church. Marylou and I sat on her divan trying to comprise a small congregation, while Darlene sprawled on her belly on top of the comics.
I glanced around the room, which didn’t smell like Christmas, like wrapping paper and cranberry-orange relish and evergreen. Yes, there was a small tree on a table in front of the window. Gingerbread doll ornaments hung heavily from its frail branches. I had the feeling Marylou had no history, that she’d sprung up full-grown with two children of her own. Then I remembered the day in the park when she’d been saved, and Billy.
“Odd, isn’t it,” she said, in a dreamy sort of voice. “It doesn’t seem right not to be in church this morning.” She sighed and looked so forlorn.
I couldn’t tell whether she missed church or Brother James. So I asked, “Are you and Brother James going to get married?”
“Well, the truth is, he’s not exactly asked me yet.”
“Do you want to marry him?”
Marylou drew her knees up to her chin, pointing her pink-fluff slippers toward the floor. “I’ve been lonely this year without Billy. But I’m not sure. I’ve had so many changes in my life.”
“Not sure of what? That you love Brother James?”
Annie toddled in from the kitchen and flopped down on Darlene’s back.
“I’m reading the comics,” Darlene said, “and you can’t read.”
“Snoopy!” Annie pointed to the little house with the familiar dog staring up at the stars. “Snoopy-poopy-poopy.”
Marylou signaled for the girls to hush as she opened the Book in Gold Leaf to just any page. “We all love Brother James—you, me, everybody.”
“But do you love him the way you have to love him to marry him?”
“Well, I don’t know that I’m worthy of a man like Brother James. My Billy was just a plain man, nothing special except to me.” She wrinkled her forehead and began to read in earnest. I think she needed glasses. She seemed to be looking for a particular passage. I held my copy of the Book in Gold Leaf, and it felt as comfortable as a kitten nesting there in my lap. I stroked its soft leather skin. But I didn’t open the book.
Adam told me that they read only the Old Testament in their church. No, they didn’t call it a church; they called it a synagogue. And they didn’t even say “Old Testament.” They said “Hebrew Scriptures.” I liked the sound of the name. It sounded so dignified, so … Christian.
“I heard something,” Marylou said, dashing to the front door. She parted the tiny curtain over the diamond-shaped window on the door. “Oh, my heavens, it’s Brother Timothy, coming right this way, and us in our nighties!” We both pulled our robes tighter and pushed our hair into some sort of shape before Marylou opened the door to Brother Timothy.
“Good morning, sisters,” he said, all shy around us. “Brother James sent me to take all of you out of here as quick as can be. He said pack an overnight bag and whatever you need for the babies, and your Christmas packages, and any food you can spare, and come.”
“Bye-bye!” Annie cried, and she ran for her coat.
“Where are we going?” I was thinking that maybe I’d be home for Christmas after all.
“To my parents’ farm, over past Whitewater. Your mama’s coming, and Brother Vernon and Brother Benjamin. We’ll all be there.”
“Anybody else?” Marylou asked.
Brother Timothy gave us a wide grin that made his eyes all but vanish. “Me and my mama and daddy, Miriam and her folks, you and your kids, oh, and Brother James. Is that what you were waiting to hear?”
“I’ll pack directly,” Marylou said.
It wasn’t twenty minutes later that we had the little girls bundled into their snowsuits and were out in the car.
A car carved a path slowly in the ice on Gilbert Street. The driver hunched down to read numbers or names. Just as we passed him, I got a clear look: Adam! I rolled down my window to wave at him, and Brother Timothy took off like a rocket.
“Don’t kill us all, Brother Timothy,” Marylou said, clutching one child in each arm.
Had Adam seen me? I couldn’t tell. In any case, he wasn’t behind us. I guessed that he hadn’t been able to turn around fast enough on the ice to follow us, and now we were blending in with the heavy Christmas traffic on Oliver Street. I prayed he would catch up to us, follow us to the farm. But even if he did, what then?
All the way to Whitewater I twisted toward the back window to search for Adam. Two weeks before, I wouldn’t have been able to move my body so easily. Now there was no pain; I would have no pain for Christmas.
And then the light snow flurries turned to thick, angry-looking flakes that stuck to the back window, and I couldn’t see a thing.
“Might as well turn around, Miriam,” Marylou said quietly. “It’s no use.”
We were powerless, she and I, in the hands of someone as wondrous as Brother James. I nearly believed he had caused the snow to fall, to give us all a beautiful white Christmas. But in doing so, he’d hidden Adam from me.
All my life I’d lived in Kansas, but I’d never been in a farmhouse. Yet, if I’d pictured one in my mind, it would have been exactly like this one. Mrs. Hobart, Brother Timothy’s mother, opened the door wide to us and revealed a room warm with a honey glow. Her kitchen, where, as it turned out, we all spent most of the next two days, was a big homey room. Along one wall a fireplace crackled with smoldering pinecones among the thick logs. A great round table, its curled feet and legs as thick as a piano’s, as thick as Mrs. Loomis’s, sat in the middle of the room, inviting
us to help ourselves to the apples, oranges, and pears piled high in a basket at its center.
The Hobarts hugged us quickly, then gathered up Darlene and Annie as their own. Mrs. Hobart led them to a wooden wagon loaded with old toys, and the girls were busy all morning.
In some ways, those days on the farm were the most peaceful days of my life, and, even as I scanned the snowy horizon for signs of Adam, I prayed that I’d never be found.
Mama and the men arrived just after us. “Let me have a look at you,” Mama cried. “Benjamin, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her look healthier, do you?”
Uncle Vernon carried in suitcases and a Coleman Cooler full of the treats Mama had cooked for Christmas. “I’ll have a wrenched back, hauling all this stuff in,” he grumbled, but I think he was proud to be able to provide so much food.
“Where’s Brother Timothy?” Mama asked. “I want to thank him for going after Miriam on such short notice.”
“Oh, he’s out back seeing to the dog,” Mr. Hobart said, sucking on an unlit pipe.
Annie and Darlene were locked in a fight over a wooden doll, and Marylou yanked them apart. She seemed jittery to me, more impatient than usual with the girls.
But of course, she was like an animal that knows beforehand when a tornado is going to hit, or an earthquake, because not a minute later there was a thunderous knock at the door, and Brother James was among us. Because it was Christmas, he wore a navy blue suit and a white shirt with a starched collar. We all felt his strength—the men were silenced, Mama smiled meekly, Marylou fidgeted with a tissue and hovered behind me. “I ironed his shirt,” she whispered into my back.
I felt like a queen. After all, wasn’t I the one they were all there for? I bit my finger; what happened to humility? When had I become so prideful? My cheeks burned with shame.
“Have a seat, Reverend. We’re proud to have you in our home,” said Mr. Hobart, while Mrs. Hobart fussed at the stove to fix him a cup of hot cider.
Darlene said, “I never heard nobody call Bruver James that.”
Marylou looked mortified and clapped her hand over Darlene’s mouth.
Brother James smiled the smile that fills your body with warmth. “In our church,” he said, “we call each other brother and sister, but you folks haven’t seen fit to join us yet. Well, we’ll wait till the Lord lights the way to our door for you. Remember, the door’s always open. Meantime, you’re good Christian souls to take us all in this way. Brothers and sisters, shall we all bow our heads and thank the Lord for these kindly people?”
As I bowed my head, I saw Marylou gently shove Darlene’s chin to her chest.
“Sweet Jesus, we gather in Your name in this humble household to celebrate Miriam’s renewal at the season of Your birth, so many long years ago.…”
I heard the words, but the words were not what counted. What was important was the spell Brother James cast upon us all. Ordinary people a minute ago, now we were transformed into beings little less than angels.
I remembered how Brother James had been called to the pulpit when he was not very much older than Darlene, how he’d quoted Scripture from memory before he could even read, how he’d let the power of God surge through his hands to heal a woman whose eyesight was nearly gone. That day he’d had to stand on a step stool to reach her shoulders for the blessing. When he was half my age, he founded our church.
Marylou stood guard over the little girls. I glanced over at her, and saw her face in the harsh country lamplight, and felt that she was asking herself, at that moment, whether she loved Brother James enough to dedicate her life to him.
The women cooked and laid the table for dinner, while the men talked of manly things—cars, pheasant hunting, Senator Dole. I had no place in the second group and wasn’t needed in the first. I went outside and was amazed to see blackbirds filling the front yard, all of them foraging for a crumb or a berry, as the storm grew into a blizzard. I hurried back inside, pushing the door against the heavy wind.
In the blinding snow, one of the birds flew right into the window. The bird lay among shards of glass on the kitchen floor, battered. We saw its tiny chest heaving with every breath. By the time Brother James got to it, it was dead, either from the impact or from bleeding to death. How much blood does a small bird have to spare?
Mr. Hobart offered to toss the blackbird out back, but Brother James wouldn’t hear of it. “This bird is one of God’s noble creatures, and we will give it a proper burial.”
Mrs. Hobart went for a shoe box, which she lined with soft patchwork fabric and the few twigs and leaves Brother Timothy could find in the yard. We all put on our coats and stood around as the storm subsided and the sun began to set on Christmas Eve. Uncle Benjamin and Uncle Vernon dug a shallow grave in the hard earth.
The grave dug, Brother James lowered the box, and Darlene was allowed to throw the first handful of dirt and snow over the bird’s small coffin. Each of us followed, as Brother James spoke soothing words about the bird and the sacred night we shared.
Brother Timothy stood with his arm around his mother’s shoulder. Both of them had tears freezing on their cheeks.
Afterwards, when we were inside huddled around the fire, Mrs. Hobart said, “Brother James, I want to join the church.”
My heart was filled with thanksgiving, and I fully felt the words of the Twenty-third Psalm, “my cup runneth over.”
Some time in the middle of the night, when I thanked God for using me to bring Mrs. Hobart to Jesus, it occurred to me that I no longer thought of myself as the instrument of Adam’s salvation, and I wasn’t sure whether that meant he was lost, or found.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Told by Adam
Brent made himself a baloney and sweet pickle sandwich, with a few other specimens from the animal and vegetable kingdoms. The sandwich was piled dangerously high. If it had been summer, and the ceiling fan had been on, meat and tomatoes would have been flying all over the kitchen. He pressed the tower down so he could wrap his mouth around it, and after his first bite, it popped back up, like a foam pillow. “Want some?”
“You make it look disgusting. I wouldn’t eat that stuff.”
Brent shrugged, wiping mustard off his mouth with the shoulder of his T-shirt. “It’s my dinner.”
“You’re having dinner at four in the afternoon?”
“Hey, it’s Christmas Eve. We don’t officially eat on Christmas. We just eat all day and all night. So, go on. You’re tearing down this dirt road, and there’s nothing around you but frozen cows.”
“Okay, I’m going way too fast. My mother would have a seizure if she knew I was hitting fifty on an icy road. My windshield wipers and defroster are cranking like crazy, but I’m keeping the Chevy station wagon in sight all the way out there. Suddenly I check out the gas meter, and it’s twitching just above empty. There’s not a gas station in sight. I’m gonna run out of gas. I’m gonna have to walk eight miles to the nearest pay phone; then I won’t be able to call because my fingers will be frostbitten, and they’ll snap off in the holes of the dial, and besides, I don’t have a quarter.”
“Is this girl worth it?” Brent asked, curling an extra slice of baloney and sliding it whole into his mouth. “Isn’t she gonna croak anyway?”
How could I answer that? I wanted to sock him in the gut for saying something so insensitive and so true, but a part of me knew that as little as a month before, I would have said the same thing.
“Okay, so what happened? Did you follow the station wagon all the way?”
“Probably ten minutes have passed since I’ve seen an actual building that isn’t just a silo or barn. Then, out of nowhere, I spot chimney smoke blackening the sky. That has to be where they’re going. Finally the Chevy stops, a girl gets out—not Miriam, some lady from the church. Anyway, she gets out, opens the iron gate by the mailbox, closes it after the car’s pulled through, then jumps back in. The car’s gone, disappears up a winding road before I even reach the gate.
&nbs
p; “I get out to open the gate. I’m telling you, it’s cold out there. No trees for windbreakers. I’m reaching for the gate, when I hear my mother’s voice, as clear as sonar: ‘That’s private property, Adam Bergen. Open that gate, and you’ll pull back a bloody stump.’ I just can’t make myself open it. I’m trying to convince myself it’s electrified, even though that girl just opened it without frying. I just can’t do it. I can’t go up that driveway.”
“Pluck-pluck-pluck,” Brent said. “Chicken.”
“Anyway, what would I have done when I got to the house? Storm it with machine guns?”
“You jerk, you went about nine hundred miles down a dirt road, in a snowstorm, and now you’re telling me you just turned around and came home, with your tail between your legs like a little puppy dog?”
“Well, I’ve always been famous for wasted potential,” I muttered. “Anyway, I’m going back there tomorrow morning. Between now and then, I’m coming up with a plan. You want to go with me?”
“Oh, wow, that’s really tempting. But, it’s Christmas, and I gotta do family crap.” His cheeks stuffed with a cold, greasy potato pancake, he said, “I think I’m getting a car stereo for Christmas. What are you getting?” While all this was going on, we were both standing there in front of the refrigerator like we were worshipping at the Holy Ark. Brent dove in for a handful of black olives. “I mean, what are you getting for your own kind of Jewish Christmas, whatever you call it.”
“Chanukah, got that? CHA, as in gargling with salt water; NOO, as in nude; and KUH, as in duh, as in dumb. CHA-NOO-KUH. And it’s not the Jewish Christmas. It’s about freedom, not about a messiah, or the messiah. And it was over on December 19 this year. So I’m not getting anything for Christmas.” I slammed the refrigerator shut, making those bottles on the door stand up and pay attention. They must have been shaking and rattling on their shelves, wondering what act of terrorism I’d perform next.
“You didn’t get much this year, hunh? Okay, okay,” he said, backing off with a gallon of milk hanging from his thumb. The sandwich was history now, and the olives, too. He splashed the milk into a tall glass.
