Boomtown

by Nowen N. Particular

  An earth-shattering scream split the air, followed by the unique sound of a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound barber chair flying through the roof of the butcher shop. It sailed up and up and up—at least forty feet in the air—high enough to clear the entire street. Not something you see every day, a barber chair passing over the sun like an eclipse, the chrome handles of the arm rests glinting in the afternoon light, the soft brown leather seat and headrest casting a shadow onto the ground. I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off the flying chair as it reached its peak and headed back down. I could hear someone yelling something—it was hard to say who it was. My ears were still ringing from Walter’s scream.

  “Dad! Dad! Look out! ”

  At the very last second, Jonny pushed me to the side and then jumped out of the way. The chair buried itself two feet deep in the sidewalk—exactly in front of the entrance to the Red Bird General Store. It landed in the precise spot where I had been standing only a second before. If it weren’t for Jonny, I wouldn’t have needed a haircut. I would have needed an ambulance.

  The Sunday edition of three different newspapers in neighboring towns reported hearing Walt’s yell as far away as Stickville. Lazy Gunderson claimed that his prize cow was so upset that it stopped giving milk. All the dogs stopped barking for a week, and some people noticed that there weren’t as many birds in Boomtown as before, but that may have just been a coincidence.

  Myself, I lay there on the sidewalk with a bruised back-side and a splitting headache, finally remembering what Gramma Edna had tried to warn me about.

  “Whatever you do,” she had said, “don’t upset Walter! ”

  Chapter 4

  The Spirit Has Whiskers

  It was my first Sunday to preach at Boomtown Church, and I was more anxious than usual. I didn’t connect the dots until much later, but in retrospect that morning happened to be the same morning our lawn mower mysteriously dis-appeared from the front lawn. It was the first of what would become dozens of unexplained robberies that began to hap-pen all over town.

  Of course, I didn’t notice it was missing because I was too busy trying to get everyone showered and brushed and break-fasted and out the door on time. It didn’t help that one of the buttons from my suit jacket popped off and I had to sew it back on. Janice was busy getting herself ready while fixing Ruth’s hair and helping Sarah change her dress for the second time after spilling milk on the first one and getting jelly on the second, while Jonny dawdled in the bathroom.

  I refused to preach that morning with a missing button, and besides, it was my favorite brown suit, with the matching brown vest and the brown pants and my brown tie and freshly pressed white cotton shirt and the brown shoes I had so care-fully polished the night before. This was my uniform; I felt safe and confident whenever I put it on. Can you imagine the Reverend Button standing in front of his new flock with only two buttons? People would notice. They would talk. They would gossip about their new pastor, the one who was one button short of a full set. I was not going to leave the house until it was fixed!

  My obsession about the missing button was the last thing I should have been worried about. I wanted to make the perfect first impression on my congregation. But years later, when people told the story about my first Sunday morning at Boomtown Church, no one ever mentioned what I was wearing.

  We walked down the street on a beautiful late summer morning to arrive at the church about twenty minutes early. (After all my fussing, we were still on time!) The building was situated on a two-acre plot, north of the center of town and across from the park. Trees and bushes lined the sidewalks, and flowers ringed the small parking lot. The main building on the property was a picturesque white chapel where worship services had been held for more than seventy-five years. Ever since its foundation, the church had been lovingly preserved, including its lofty bell tower and the large, cast-iron bell that still rung every Sunday morning promptly at 9:05 a.m. It had beautiful stained-glass windows along each side, wooden pews with soft cushions, an old pipe organ and a loft up above, where most of the kids sat during the worship services. It was charming and pleasant and smelled of oiled wood and tradition.

  The first person we met as we walked through the main double doors was the “hall monitor,” Gertrude Feeny, the owner of Gertrude’s Beauty Parlor. She was fifty-four years old and built like a drill instructor—broad shoulders, short, muscled legs, gnarled fingers, and a stern, puckered face that looked like she was sucking a lemon. Even though she had met Janice and the girls the previous day, she acted like she’d never seen them before. She barked at us the instant we walked through the door.

  “Good morning! Here’s a bulletin. Are you visiting? Put this visitor’s ribbon on your lapel. Have you signed the guest book yet?”

  Before we could answer, she was pinning a bright, silk ribbon on each of us with the word Visitor printed in large, black letters. She pushed bulletins and flyers into our hands. She shoved a pen at me, grabbed my arm, pulled me over to the guest book, and hovered over me like a hungry vulture. I didn’t have the courage to tell her I was the new minister. I signed the book and let each one in the family do the same.

  When we were finished, she checked our entries for spelling and penmanship and waved permission for us to move along.

  Another woman standing nearby saw the whole thing. “Don’t mind Gertrude,” she said. “She’s really quite harm-less. She lost her husband a few years ago when he tried to dig their new sewer using dynamite. Should have used a shovel, I suppose. After that . . . oh well, just do what she says and you’ll be okay.”

  She smiled and continued. “You must be our new minister. I’m the church secretary, Ingrid Hofler. We’re so glad to have you here.”

  After meeting the Widow Feeny, it was a relief to see a friendly face. “Of course, Ingrid. We spoke several times on the phone. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

  I introduced Janice and the kids, and then Ingrid took us into the sanctuary to meet some of the other members. We saw a number of people we’d already met. Gramma Edna was there; Guenther from the Gun Corral, Ed. Gamelli and his wife, and Matthieu and Pauline LaPierre. While we shook hands, Sarah caught sight of two LaPierre girls and ran off to play. We were introduced to the town sheriff, Burton Ernie, and his charming wife, Laverne. We met Vera DeFazio, the song leader for that morning, and Manfred Heinzmann, the presiding elder.

  The introductions continued until Ingrid pulled us to the side. “We have a few more minutes before the service starts. Do you want to come and see where your office is?”

  The four of us followed Ingrid down a hallway that led past several classrooms. “The bathrooms are here. The storage closet and office supplies, right there. My office and your office are down here.”

  As we investigated, I noticed a series of photos hanging on the long wall of the hallway. Jonny noticed them too. “Look at all these pictures, Dad. They got names and dates under each one of them. See?”

  Each photo seemed to be of a former minister with his name engraved on a gold plaque underneath. I made a quick count as we walked along: Five. Six. Fifteen. Sixteen. Twenty-three. Twenty-four—until I finally came to an empty frame—number twenty-five. I assumed it must be for me.

  “Ingrid,” I asked, “you’ve had twenty-four pastors since the church was founded? That’s about one pastor every three years.”

  She smiled proudly. “And you’re the twenty-fifth!”

  “But twenty-four? No one mentioned anything about that in our letters or when we talked on the phone. Twenty-four pastors in about seventy years?”

  “Is that a lot? I’ve never really thought about it, although, now that I do, I suppose you’re right. First Presbyterian has had only three pastors since it started. St. Bernard’s has had only four.”

  “What happened to all of them? What about him?” I pointed at the man who preceded my empty frame. “It says ‘Pastor Sergeant Gibson, In Loving Memory, 1947–1949.’ In loving memory? What happened to
him?”

  “Oh, the dear man. I simply adored him. Tragic story.”

  “Tragic?”

  “We were having several baptisms over at Canyon Creek just below Lookout Falls when all of a sudden the weather changed. Pastor Gibson insisted on finishing even though it started raining something fierce. ‘It’ll pass!’ he said, bless his heart. He was so dedicated. Then we heard this roar from upstream. Mabel was getting baptized that day. She was just coming up out of the water, so she managed to escape—but poor Pastor Gibson—he didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what? Escape what?”

  “Flash flood. A real gully washer! Pretty rare ’round here. Washed him downstream, and he was gone. Just like that.”

  “A flash flood? Honestly? He was never found?”

  “No. At least, we don’t think so. There’s been a rumor that he turned up in Chelan County and he’s been preaching at the Baptist church in Gorton, but that’s never been confirmed.”

  “What about this one? Pastor George Stomopolis? He lasted only a year.”

  “It was just terrible. Train accident. It jumped the tracks just as he was coming home from performing a funeral. Ironic, when you think about it.”

  “And this one? Pastor Albert Vanderpool?”

  “Sink hole.”

  “And him?”

  “Lightning strike.”

  “And him?”

  “Snake bite.”

  “And this one?”

  “We’re not exactly sure.”

  We worked our way back down the hallway until we reached Phineas Cullpepper “Beloved Founding Pastor,” who had somehow survived a miraculous five years in the pulpit.

  “And what about this guy? Five years. That’s a record for this group.”

  Ingrid shook her head. “The saddest story of all. I wasn’t here at the time, of course. He was pastor long before I was ever born. But a few of the older members like Werner Holz—he’s ninety-four this year—he could tell you all about it.”

  “So what happened?” I asked anxiously.

  “Pastor Cullpepper was down south ministering to the railroad men as they put in a spur from the main line. He was always doing that, visiting the miners up in the hills or the farmers out on their farms or the railroaders down at the tracks. He was a true evangelist. On that particular day, just as he was finishing up a prayer meeting, he caught his foot on the handle of a pickax and fell backward onto an open case of nitroglycerin. They say he almost reached heaven before he came back down. Such a shame too. Everybody loved Pastor Cullpepper, or so they say.”

  By the time she finished, my eyes were red and my head was pounding. “So what you’re telling me is that you’ve had twenty-four pastors in seventy-five years, all of whom have either died tragically or disappeared under mysterious circumstances—and now I’m the twenty-fifth?”

  “That’s right.”

  Jonny exclaimed, “This is great, Dad!”

  “Great? How can this be great?”

  “It’s like a curse! Wait till I tell the other guys! Busy isn’t going to believe this!”

  “But I don’t want to be part of a curse!” Turning back to Ingrid, I asked, “What about these twenty-four other ministers? Have any of them ever been killed by a rocket boat?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Any been crushed by a flying barber chair?”

  “Nope. You would have been the first.”

  “You’re right I could have been the first! My picture would be at the end of the hall with a plaque under it! It would say, ‘Here today, gone today.’ I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “The important thing is that you weren’t hit by the rocket or the chair.”

  “But I could have been! What’s next, a falling meteor or maybe a cattle stampede?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Reverend! We’ve got you covered. All the women on the Ladies Guild are praying for you.”

  Sure, I thought. Just like you prayed for the other twenty-four pastors.

  Just then we heard the piano. I grabbed Janice’s hand and tried to smile as we weaved our way back to the sanctuary and down to the front. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, Sarah came running up the aisle and shoved a white gerbil in my face. “Look, Dad! Isn’t he cute? Can I have one?”

  “Sarah! What is that? Get it out of my face! Whose is it anyway?”

  “It’s a gerbil, Dad. It’s Katrina’s. She’s got a whole mess of them. Can I have one?”

  “What? No. Sarah, the service is about to start! Janice, can you do something about this? Ruth?”

  Ruth took Sarah’s hand. “I’ll take care of it, Dad.

  C’mon, Sarah.”

  I heard Sarah chattering nonstop as Ruth dragged her back up the stairs and to the balcony. “His name is Whiskers. See how long they are? Do you think Dad will let me have one? I wonder what it eats? I want a black one. Or maybe a white one like this, what do you think? I can make a nest in a shoebox. I got one in my closet. What do they eat? Do gerbils smell?”

  Janice squeezed my hand. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about rock slides or stampedes.”

  “No?”

  “You’ll probably die from a nervous breakdown before Sarah gets to be eleven.”

  “I think you’re probably right.”

  After the piano overture, the service started with announcements from Vera DeFazio. But before I continue, I should like to explain something about what I was expecting. After fourteen years with my previous congregation, I had gotten used to a rather somber environment. Quiet hymns played slowly on an ancient organ by a woman who was twice as old as the hymns. Long prayers and long sermons attended by silent congregants sitting on hard pews; that was the custom.

  I’m not complaining, you understand. Most of my members were elderly, having attended the same church and sat in the same seat since they were children, probably prepared to die sitting in the same spot. Most objects in the building had one of their names on a plaque indicating the date of when they or their parents or their parents’ parents had donated the pulpit or the altar or a stained-glass window or one of the hymnals. That’s the way it was. The members were like part of the furniture.

  It was my job to be their minister—to care for the sick, visit the lonely, and preach on Sundays. I had faithfully done so from the first day until the last, each day as similar to the one before as the one that followed. In the entire fourteen years I was a pastor of that church, I was never once surprised. We followed the liturgy to the letter. People stood up and sat down on cue. I preached my sermons. That’s the way it was.

  So perhaps that will help to explain why I was so amazed by what I saw on my first Sunday at Boomtown Church. I was used to a high level of formality and decorum, but the people of this church seemed to possess none of it. Vera leaped up from her seat and ran down the aisle smiling and waving at her friends as she came to the stage.

  “Don’t forget,” she announced, “October is just around the corner. We’re hosting a booth in Farmers’ Park from the last week in September until Halloween. We’ll be selling cakes and pies to raise money for our missionaries. Also, this coming weekend, the youth are having a campout on Left Foot Island. The theme this time is ‘Antarctic Adventure,’ so remember to wear your penguin costumes and your mukluks!”

  Announcements were followed by fifteen minutes of the most enthusiastic singing I’d ever heard in church. If it was loud and they could clap to it, that’s what we sang. Ingrid, the church secretary, was also the pianist and she banged away on the keys like she was pounding out flour. The members of the choir clapped their hands and stomped their feet in time with the music. Every now and then someone called out the name of a favorite hymn, and we’d sing that too. The worship could only be described as exuberant; I’d never seen people have so much fun in church before.

  After the music, it was time for the offering meditation and then the morning prayer. Manfred Heinzmann—he must have been a hundred years old if he was a day�
��stood up to deliver the prayer in a steady and confident voice, belying his advanced age. It was a surprise to hear someone of his generation talking to God as though they were friends. Manfred was genuinely thankful for the church’s new minister, and he prayed with such sincerity and concern that I was ashamed of my earlier fears. He asked for protection and long service for me. On behalf of the members, he committed them to the same. Then he closed with a simple thank you for the blessings God had granted. It was really quite out of the ordinary and wonderful.

  Then Manfred introduced me to the congregation for the first time. “Friends! As you know, in the absence of our former minister—who may or may not have drowned, may he rest in peace whatever the case should be—it is my plea-sure to introduce his replacement, the honorable Reverend Arthur Button. We hope he will endure far longer than his beloved, yet unfortunate, predecessors.”

  The announcement was met with a loud round of applause and a room full of hopeful smiles. I wasn’t sure how to take it. All this clapping in church was a new experience for me.

  “As you well know, our minister has already distinguished himself as the father of the two children who nearly burned down the entire fireworks factory. The young man, Jonathan, is sitting here in the front pew with his mother, Janice, and his older sister, Ruth. And I believe his younger sister, Sarah, is up in the balcony?”

  “That’s me!” she shouted. “I’m Sorry!”

  “Yes,” said Manfred, “we know you are, but we aren’t!

  We are thrilled to welcome you this morning! Welcome to Boomtown!”

  This was followed by sustained applause that lasted nearly three solid minutes. I was so embarrassed I didn’t know what to say. I prided myself in always being prepared for anything unplanned in church—which, of course, never happened with my former congregation. But in Boomtown, I was constantly being knocked off balance. It was one surprise after another from sunup to sundown ever since we drove over the Ifilami Bridge. Rocket boats, giant bear-wrestling lumberjack butchers, flying barber chairs, Big Bang Boom Boxes overflowing with fireworks, and now this morning—an assault by Gertrude Feeny, a hallway full of pictures of dead ministers, loud music, stomping, applause, and what next? Confused by all the attention, I counted all my buttons to make sure they were still there. Three on my vest, four on the coat. Thank goodness. I counted them again.