by Billie Letts
“My Scripture for today’s sermon was to have come from Second Corinthians. ‘Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver.’ ”
Ordinarily, the reading of Scripture would be met with a chorus of amens, but now the congregation was stilled by foreboding.
“But you will not hear that sermon prepared for you this morning. I’ll save that for another time. A time when my heart is less troubled than it is today.”
“Here it comes,” Sister Hannah whispered to Galilee, who was already rigid with premonition.
“While I was in the basement this morning, I made a shocking discovery.”
Reverend Thomas waited until the agitated whispering ceased before he went on.
“My friends, our holy house has been invaded by an intruder.”
A collective groan, shy of only one voice, rumbled through the sanctuary.
“As Christians,” the Reverend continued, “we strive to follow God’s commandments, including that which comes to us from Exodus, chapter twenty, verse four.
“ ‘Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.’ ”
“Amen” rose in a subdued quartet of voices as Reverend Thomas reached beneath the podium and took out an object covered by a brown towel.
“But as we know, there are those who do not heed the commandments of the Lord.”
Then, with a dramatic flourish, the preacher pulled the towel away to expose a stone Buddha, the sight of which charged the congregation with alarm.
Sister Cordelia, still traumatized by the recent vandalism of her house, recoiled in fear at the memory of a rock hurled through her kitchen window by a nine-year-old neighbor boy. Brother Junior, his emotions raw after visiting his wife in the nursing home earlier that morning, began to weep. Brother Samuel, who had suffered two heart attacks, slipped a nitroglycerin pill beneath his tongue. And Sister Hannah, always at the edge of hysteria, shouted, “Lord, help us,” which so startled her husband that he jumped and cracked his shin on the pew in front of him.
“I ask you now, as servants of our Father in Heaven, if any one of you can shed some light on what this unholy idol is doing in God’s house?”
The congregation fell silent again as, leaning forward and back, they examined the faces of their friends and neighbors. Then they turned, as if in orchestrated movement, and watched, incredulously, as Galilee Jackson struggled to her feet.
“Oh, Mr. Boo, my legs were shaking so bad I didn’t think they’d hold me up. Just the way I felt when I was a girl in school and had to stand to recite my lessons. My insides gone to jelly, mouth drying up, hands all quivery.
“I was getting up real slow, partly because these worthless old bones was thinking about going on strike, and partly to figure out what I was gonna say if I could get my mouth to work. Then out of my blue memory comes a skinny, ashy-legged ten-year-old girl jabbering in my bad ear, reminding me of the day I was called on to recite a poem by Mr. Countee Cullen.
“Now it was a long poem, but I had it memorized. Why, I’d said it for my mama at home near a hundred times and never missed a word. But that day at school, standing there in front of my classmates and my teacher, it was a different thing.
“I guess I was over halfway through that poem, word after word just tumbling out when all of a sudden, my mouth stopped working. Stopped just like that.”
Galilee snapped her fingers to show Bui the suddenness with which muteness could strike.
“I could hear the words in my head, but I couldn’t say them for the life of me.
“Then, when some of the boys started to snicker and point at me, the awfulest thing happened. I started to cry, which only made them laugh harder, the whole class by then, even the girls. And then, I wet myself. Wet myself standing right there by my desk where every student in that room and my teacher, too, could see the puddle forming around my feet.”
Galilee shifted in her chair, discomforted by the image of her ten-year-old self, which now, over a half century later, still caused her pain.
“Well,” she said, getting back to her story, “my mind played back over that embarrassment as I got to my feet in church, wondering if my mouth would fail me again.
“So you know what I did, Mr. Boo?”
Bui shook his head.
“I prayed. I prayed a silent prayer, asked God to give me the words to tell them about you, tell them about your Buddha and how you come to be living and working in the church.
“And glory to the Lord, my prayer was answered. I told it all without ever stopping, not even once. Just told the whole thing straight out.
“But when I thought I’d said all I had to say and was about to sit down, Mr. Countee Cullen’s poem flashed into my head, and this time the words didn’t get stuck there. No, sirree!
“Without even knowing I was going to say ’em out loud, the words just came sliding out, my voice as soft as churned butter, and my mouth working fine. Real fine.”
Galilee leaned forward in her chair, then closed her eyes as she began her recitation.
Lord, I fashion dark gods, too
Daring even to give You
Dark despairing features where
Crowned with dark rebellious hair,
Patience wavers just so much as
Mortal grief compels, while touches
Quick and hot, of anger, rise
To smitten cheek and weary eyes.
Lord, forgive me if my need
Sometimes shapes a human creed.
When Galilee opened her eyes, they were brimmed with tears.
“Well, Mr. Boo, when I finished, they were so quiet, froze in their seats like statues, and the preacher, he looked like a statue, too.
“Then, after what seemed an awful long time of silence, Reverend Thomas bowed his head and we bowed ours as he asked God what he should do, but before the words was hardly out his mouth, a breeze kicked up and set that chandelier to swinging. And all those little glass crystals you’d polished sent tiny beams of light dancing all over us, and as they went spinning, they made sweet tinkling sounds like music, which was surely a joyful noise unto the Lord.
“Well, the preacher didn’t hesitate after that. He just wrapped that towel around your Buddha real careful and said he was gonna put your stone right back where he found it, and then he led us in prayer again.
“And you know what he asked for, Mr. Boo?”
“No.”
“He asked God to keep you folded safely in his arms.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
BY THE DAY of Brenda’s concert, MollyO was already worn out. But she couldn’t let up. Not now. Not after she’d worked so hard to make it happen.
She’d started her promotion nearly a week ago when she hand-lettered two dozen index cards which she slipped into the sleeves of all the menus.
SEQUOYAH’S OWN BRENDA O’KEEFE
NASHVILLE RECORDING STAR WILL APPEAR LIVE AT THE HONK AND HOLLER OPENING SOON THIS FRIDAY, APRIL 4TH, AT EIGHT O’CLOCK P.M.
ADMISSION IS FREE! AND SO IS THE COFFEE!
MollyO figured she might be stretching the truth just a bit in using the term “recording star,” but she had, after all, given Brenda two hundred dollars for studio time to put one of her songs on a cassette. And though only one radio station in Nashville had aired the tape a couple of times, that seemed enough to justify star status, at least to the folks at the Honk.
She’d had to be creative to come up with something for the newspaper since Brenda had thrown such a fit about it. Finally, she’d written a small notice for the classified section, just thirty words which had ended up sandwiched between an ad for the sale of three pygmy goats and another for six dozen Vidalia onion sets. MollyO felt pretty sure Brenda wouldn’t see it as she appeared to have no interest in raising goats or onions.
For the posters, MollyO dug out of
her scrapbook a photo of Brenda singing at the Kiwanis pancake supper just before she’d dropped out of school and gone off to Nashville. Terry Stillman at the photography studio downtown had blown the photo up and printed eight-by-ten glossies which MollyO taped to large pieces of poster board. She’d put one in Bilbo Porter’s Grease-and-Go, one at Hook’s bait shop, one at the Goodwill and another in Wilma Driver’s Century 21 office.
Then MollyO spent most of one day on the phone, calling to extend personal invitations to Mrs. Miles, Brenda’s kindergarten teacher, who’d cast her as the Singing Heart in a Valentine’s Day play; Julia Campy, Brenda’s first piano teacher; Mr. Dunn, director of the junior high band in which Brenda had played cymbals and bass drum; Dutch Swain who owned Gold-N-Guns where Brenda had pawned her great-grandmother’s antique clock so she could buy a Gibson guitar, which, according to Dutch, had belonged to Tanya Tucker; Leroy Jeleski, owner of a liquor store and tattoo parlor, who’d called MollyO when Brenda, at thirteen, had demanded he tattoo the devil’s face on her butt; and Carl Phelps, the sheriff, who’d kept Brenda out of jail after he’d found her smoking pot behind the high school with a boy from Poteau.
When MollyO completed her last call, Wanda Sue, who’d been at the counter drinking coffee most of the day, said it sounded to her like the Rolling Stones were coming to the Honk. But MollyO didn’t care what Wanda Sue said. She was only trying to make sure Brenda had an audience.
The next day she drove to Ft. Smith and spent three hours shopping. Her feet were killing her by the time she started back to Sequoyah, but the seat beside her was heaped with packages for Brenda: a white silk blouse with soft ruffles at the sleeves, a light blue denim skirt and vest trimmed with fringe, navy blue boots with silver tips on the toes and earrings shaped like tiny guitars.
When she got home, Brenda took one look at the new outfit and said she wouldn’t wear it even if she did show up. MollyO tried to pretend she didn’t take the threat seriously, but secretly she was afraid that Brenda might really back out.
But when Hamp came by that evening and he and Brenda resumed their rehearsal, MollyO told herself that everything was going to be all right. Most likely.
With time running out, she turned her attention to the Honk and, with the help of Bui, Caney and Vena, gave it, as nearly as they could manage, the look of a nightclub.
While Bui put together an elevated platform which would serve as a stage, Caney worked out a way to rig up a spotlight.
MollyO and Vena covered all the tables with red table-cloths borrowed from the community center and rearranged the furniture to make room for some folding chairs Life brought from the pool hall.
Vena placed three dozen candles around the room, then filled small vases with wild roses she’d found growing in the field behind the Honk.
When everything was ready, Bui set the tables with cups and saucers, Caney turned down the lights, Vena lit the candles and MollyO took a nerve pill.
By seven-thirty, only a handful of regulars had arrived which sent her into a tailspin, but only fifteen minutes later, the tables were full, all the stools at the counter were taken and people were still drifting in.
By eight, the Honk was packed. But Brenda still wasn’t there.
“Well, where is the Nashville recording star?” Wanda Sue asked, her voice oozing accusation.
“Oh, she’ll be here,” MollyO said with all the assurance she could muster, then she retreated to the kitchen to fan the flames of a hot flash that was wilting her hair.
She didn’t want to imagine what was going on at the trailer, but couldn’t stop the picture playing in her head. She could see Brenda, arms folded, face set in a scowl, as she shook her head, refusing to budge, while Hamp…
The dining room erupted with applause as Brenda and Hamp stepped through the door.
“Thank you, Jesus,” MollyO whispered as she dabbed at her damp forehead and tried to puff up her hair.
She found a place to stand at the end of the counter beside Life, watching as Brenda gave Caney a kiss, then, making her way through the crowd, was stopped again and again by a touch, a hug from people who’d known her all her life.
When she and Hamp reached the stage and removed their guitars from their cases, Bui turned on the spotlight, causing Brenda to look up in surprise and shade her eyes for a moment.
She was wearing the new outfit MollyO had bought her. The skirt, a size six, was a bit loose around her tiny waist, but MollyO had to guess at the size since Brenda had lost so much weight.
Her face was still pale, but now, with a touch of color on her lips and cheeks, her clear, smooth skin looked iridescent beneath the light above her. And her eyes, dull and clouded for these past few weeks, sparkled with excitement.
Her hair, freshly washed and shining, fell across her shoulders in soft, loose curls the color of cinnamon, and when she tilted her head, MollyO could see she was wearing the earrings she’d bought her.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” Life said. “A real beautiful girl.”
“Well, thank you, Life.” MollyO patted his arm. “I think she is, too.”
While Brenda tuned her guitar, Hamp whispered something that made her laugh. Then, a moment later, when she looked out into the audience, the room grew quiet.
“Good evening,” she said. “It sure is nice to see you all here tonight. I’m Brenda O’Keefe and this is Hamp Rothrock, but I think most of you know us.”
Hamp strummed a chord.
“This first tune we’re going to do is one I wrote a few days ago. It’s called ‘Lost Love and Heartbreak.’ I hope you all like it.”
When I was young, I didn’t care for love songs
I thought all that despair was just for show
But I’d never felt a broken heart in those days
And you have to feel it for yourself to know
When Brenda began to sing, no one in the audience made a sound. No clink of cups against saucers, no whispered conversations, no shuffling of feet or scraping of chairs.
This is a song of lost love and heartbreak
For all those who’ve been put back on the shelf
And if you don’t feel like feeling sorry for me
Hope you don’t mind if I feel sorry for myself
They were entranced by this girl, by her clear, true voice, touched in a place they kept closed and guarded. But now, for these few moments, they let themselves remember, feel again the sweet pain of first love.
With all the problems in this world to sing of
I have some nerve to sing about my own
But my problems seem worse than the rest right now
Do broken hearts hurt more than broken bones
Brenda kept her eyes on her fingers as they found their place on the frets, but she couldn’t hide the pain that played across her face.
I tried to write a happy song
But I’ll be damned if I could
’Cause this song is a song of love
And love ain’t always good
As the last sound of the song softened to silence, Brenda lowered her head and the room settled into a stillness like suspended breath. Then one, then another, then more began to applaud, gently at first, as if too much sound might break the spell, then louder and louder until the air was charged with their rhythm.
Caney caught MollyO’s eye and winked at her as Brenda started her next song, a folk song about a fisherman who, after thirty years of trying, finally catches “Old Willy,” but can’t bring himself to keep it, which made Hooks Red Eagle cry.
Between numbers Vena and Bui refilled coffee and served soft drinks and beer. By the time Brenda finished another love song, Bilbo Porter, usually not much of a drinker, had downed three bottles of Miller and was starting on his fourth.
After two more ballads, Brenda changed the mood when she sang an upbeat song she’d written called “Stop the Presses.”
Listen up, I’m warning you
’bout a new subversive plot
To discredit the fine reporting
in the newspaper you bought
If you don’t read the papers
how the hell you gonna know
If the ghost of Old Abe Lincoln’s
in bed with MollyO
The crowd, hooting and laughing, turned to look at MollyO, whose eyes widened in surprise at hearing her name in Brenda’s song.
Man, if you don’t think that’s news
I’ve got some news for you
You ain’t gonna read ’bout talking bears
in the Saturday Review
Stop the presses,
we don’t need no more pills
If we’d all try Oprah’s diet
it’d be the cure for all our ills
Soldier Starr shook his finger at Wanda Sue, a loud and long-winded fan of Oprah’s diet, which had, over an eight-month period, enabled her to lose two pounds.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe
in everything I read
But I don’t want to overlook
some info I might need
If The Boss is getting married
I think I got a right to know
Just who it is I’m losing to
and where they’re gonna go
Bilbo, inspired by both music and beer, jumped up and broke into a jig he called the Beto Shuffle which caused his arms to jump and twist like the jointed legs of a wooden puppet. And the crowd went wild.
I’m always keeping up
with foreign policy and stuff
But well-rounded readers know
That Newsweek ain’t enough
What intellectual college boy
could ever ask for more
Than to read the gospel truth
in line at the grocery store
Still shuffling, Bilbo let out a whoop that later he would claim was required when performing the Beto.
