Raven 1

by D M Barrett

  “What do they sell for?” Mr. Wooden asked.

  “They are not cheap; but, what would you expect to pay?” the preacher queried.

  “I’d wholesale them for 15 cents. It’s a perishable and there will be some spoilage over time. I’d be happy at 12 cents or less,” Mr. Wooden said in a business-like tone.

  “They are only looking for 10 cents a gallon in the Ferguson area. If you can get them from Ferguson to your warehouses, then we have a deal,” the preacher responded.

  Leon Kyle spoke up and said, “They don’t take up a lot of room and we can deliver them twice a week to reduce any spoilage. Mr. Lester would probably agree to deliver them from Ferguson to Lebanon for a penny a gallon.”

  “Looks like you have made another sale, pastor,” the wholesaler stated.

  “I understand that we are signing a contract on the extracts,” the preacher said.

  “Let’s adjourn to my study and meet the lawyer. He has some questions to be answered to complete the paperwork,” Mr. Wooden explained.

  As the two men entered Mr. Wooden’s study, a tall handsome young man stood and said, “My name is Steven Brown. I represent Mr. Wooden and his business interests.”

  “How can I be of assistance?” the preacher inquired.

  “I understand that Smith’s Apothecary and Community Church have entered into a partnership to manufacture and sell flavored extracts exclusively to Mr. Wooden,” the lawyer said.

  “That is correct. The name of the partnership and brand is Uncle Joe’s and it is a general partnership,” the preacher replied.

  “Will you be the general partner executing the distributor agreement?” Mr. Brown asked.

  “Yes,” the preacher said handing him some paperwork.

  “What is this?” the lawyer asked.

  “It’s the suggested retail and wholesale costs of the various products,” the preacher responded.

  Mr. Wooden said, “Let me look at it.”

  “It should be to your liking,” the preacher said with a smile.

  “Indeed,” Mr. Wooden said as he handed the information to the lawyer and nodded.

  “I have completed the document and attached the pricing list as an addendum. I will need both of you to sign the document and initial the pricing addendum,” the lawyer instructed.

  After the paperwork had been executed, the preacher asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, but I have a client that could use a few prayers for this afternoon,” the lawyer said.

  “What’s his situation?” the preacher questioned.

  “Our doctor is in trouble with the state medical licensing board for fondling a single woman. I don’t believe the Lord himself could save his medical license,” Mr. Wooden said.

  “When and where is the hearing?” the preacher asked.

  “It’s in Nashville at 2:00 pm today,” the lawyer stated.

  “Can I go with you and provide encouragement and support?” the preacher pleaded.

  Henry Wooden responded, “Here’s a $20 donation for your time and trouble preacher. You may need to reserve some of that for a good funeral sermon for him.”

  “Brother Wooden, there is an old spiritual song that goes:

  Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel?

  Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel?

  Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel?

  Then why not every man?”

  “Preacher, I’m a betting man. My money is on you and the Lord today. The two of you have made a lot of good things happen for a lot of folks lately,” Henry Wooden said with conviction.

  “Come on Daniel. The lions are waiting,” Mr. Brown said.

  * * *

  When the two men entered the hearing room, the physician was seated at a table near the front. He stood to shake his lawyer’s hand. The preacher offered his hand and introduced himself.

  “What’s your role in this witch trial today, preacher?” the young doctor asked.

  “He’s going into the fiery furnace with us today,” the lawyer remarked.

  “I don’t think we’re gonna come out of this furnace, pastor,” Dr. Marcus Whitman said sadly.

  “Don’t forget about the fourth man in the fire, brother. He’s here today, too,” the preacher said defiantly.

  At that point the five members of the licensing board entered the room and asked the participants to be seated. While the three men had been talking, a young, attractive, brunette, and what appeared to be her father, seated themselves at an adjacent table.

  The chairman of the licensing board began to speak, “Dr. Marcus Whitman has been charged with the non-chaperoned, inappropriate examining, touching, and fondling of a female patient superfluous to any medical necessity.”

  “How do you plead?” the board chairman asked.

  “Not guilty,” Steve Brown responded.

  “Sir, may we have a brief recess?” the preacher requested.

  “Are you representing Dr. Whitman, too?” the chairman inquired.

  “My name is Thomas Preacher Mann. I am 1927 graduate of the Vanderbilt School of Law. I graduated valedictorian of my class and served as editor-in-chief of the Vanderbilt Law Review. I opted to attend Vanderbilt Divinity School and received my Master of Divinity degree with a perfect 4.0 grade point average,” the preacher responded.

  “A fifteen-minute recess is granted,” the chairman announced as the board exited the room.

  “What are you doing?” Steve Brown asked with disdain.

  “The Lord’s work,” the preacher said as he walked toward the adjacent table.

  The preacher extended his hand to the older gentleman and said, “It is a pleasure to see you again State Senator Jemison. This lovely young lady must be your daughter.”

  “Evelyn, this is Brother Thomas Mann. He’s one of the brightest law students that I ever taught during my tenure at Vanderbilt. He decided to attend divinity school rather than continue as a federal prosecutor,” the senator said.

  “I am pleased to meet you,” Evelyn said while extending her hand.

  “May I inquire what happened without causing either of you any unnecessary embarrassment?” the preacher inquired.

  “Here’s the real story, Tom. That jackass doctor has been trying to court Evelyn for the last year after he first treated her for consumption. It finally came to a head when he grabbed her and kissed her on her last office visit,” the senator explained.

  “Sounds like he deserves an old-fashioned Tennessee ass whoopin’ more that losing his career,” the preacher remarked.

  “You’re probably right but this will get him out of Lebanon; and out of our hair,” Senator Jemison said.

  “Miss Evelyn, how do you feel about what’s happening?” the preacher asked gently.

  “I think he’s a good fellow and a fine doctor. But daddy has plans for me that don’t include Dr. Marcus Whitman. I’m okay with that,” she said.

  “Senator Jemison consider this compromise: He gets a reprimand and a two-year probation period. He has to relocate his practice to Ferguson. He has to stay away from Miss Evelyn during those two years,” the preacher suggested.

  “Will he agree to that?” Senator Jemison asked.

  “He’s run out of options,” the preacher said with a smile.

  “What about it, Evelyn?” her father asked.

  “I think it’ll work,” she said with a smile.

  The preacher returned to the table with Dr. Whitman and Attorney Brown. He sat there silent for a minute or so.

  “What’s the deal?” the doctor asked.

  “The Lord has turned down the heat in the furnace; but, we’re not out of the fire yet,” the preacher replied.

  “Do whatever it takes, preacher. Do whatever it takes,” Dr. Whitman said as Steve Brown nodded.

  The board returned and the chairman asked, “Are you ready to proceed on Dr. Whitman’s behalf?”

  The preacher stood and responded, “Sir, during the recess we’ve been a
ble to work out a compromise, subject to the board’s approval.”

  “Let’s hear it, son,” the chairman said.

  “Dr. Whitman is to receive a written reprimand to be placed in his file. He is to receive a two-year probation period, and is required to relocate his medical practice to Ferguson, Tennessee. He is enjoined from seeing, speaking to or corresponding with Miss Evelyn Jemison, the complainant, during those two years. If at the end of that period, he has fully complied with those terms, his record will be expunged,” the preacher explained.

  The chairman looked toward the young lady who responded, “Yes, sir.” He then looked to Senator Jemison who was nodding affirmatively.

  “Dr. Whitman do these terms meet with your approval?” the chairman asked.

  “Yes, they do,” the physician replied.

  A hush fell on the room as the board members began to discuss the situation. They looked alternatively at the chairman and back to Dr. Whitman, Steven Brown, and the preacher.

  As the chairman began to speak, the preacher stood, and the chairman said, “Mr. Mann, how can we be assured that this man will follow these terms? There are no peer physicians in the area to provide a watchful eye over his activities in the community.”

  The preacher said without hesitation, “I am the pastor at the Community Church in Ferguson. I live there. I know all the business people, merchants, farmers, and residents there. If he blinks wrong, I will know it.”

  Before the chairman could respond, Senator Jemison stood and said, “Gentlemen, I have known Brother Mann for over a decade. He is an honorable man and one of great integrity. You can believe what he says. He will do what he promises.”

  The chairman looked at the preacher and said, “These terms are accepted, and Dr. Whitman is given two weeks to relocate to Ferguson, Tennessee, and with lack of any better wording, with local supervision by Pastor Thomas P. Mann.”

  Steven Brown looked at the preacher and said with astonishment, “The fourth man showed up, preacher!”

  “The Lord sent a state senator,” the preacher said with a smile.

  “What now, lawyer, preacher, or whatever you are today?” the physician asked.

  “Call Joe Scott at Scott’s Apothecary in Ferguson. Tell him the Lord is sending you to Ferguson and that you’ll need that physician’s office in the back of his pharmacy,” the preacher instructed.

  “What do I say about you?” the doctor asked.

  Tell him the preacher said, “The Great Physician is sending him a local one.”

  8: Friday the 13th

  It had been a long time since the preacher had slept till 8:00 am. The last time he recalled getting up that late was the day after he graduated from Vanderbilt Law School and the party the night before. He blamed this time on the big evening dinner last night at Miss Rosie’s.

  The preacher hurriedly bathed on the back porch’s outdoor shower and got dressed. As he placed his left foot on the edge of a pew to tie his shoe, he broke the shoestring. Stifling a slight profanity, he determined that he would drive over to Discount Grocery, buy a new set of strings, and be able to begin his visitations.

  The preacher closed the church door and made his way to his truck. He noticed that the truck was slightly tilted to the left. Upon a closer examination, it became apparent that the left front passenger’s tire was flat. This time he just couldn’t hold back the slight profanity and said, “Damn!”

  When he got to the store, Jack Wright stated the obvious, “Preacher, I thought today was visitation day. You’re getting a mighty late start.”

  “No doubt,” said the preacher.

  “What do you need?” the merchant inquired.

  “Apparently, a rabbit’s foot but I’ll settle for a pair of black shoestrings,” he replied.

  As the preacher paid for the merchandise and headed for the door Jack Wright said, “Wait, I have a package for you from Miss Ruby, the seamstress.”

  “I’ve been expecting that. Let me have it and I’ll open it,” the preacher responded.

  The preacher opened the box and pulled out the contents. It was a one-piece, short, white ladies’ undergarment.

  “I like the ruffles,” Jack Wright said with a chuckle.

  Becoming increasingly more irritated at the day’s events, the preacher proclaimed, “That’s not for me you jackass. I ordered a white dress shirt!”

  “Looks like you’re in check, preacher,” the storekeeper said with glee.

  “What are you talking about?” the preacher inquired.

  “Well, your wearing ladies’ undergarments sure trumps me keeping a quart fruit jar of moonshine under the counter and occasionally sharing a swig with that Lewis girl,” Jack Wright explained.

  The preacher quickly turned to leave the store and muttered a few unintelligible words. They sounded like a string of profanities, but the shopkeeper couldn’t be sure.

  “Where you headed?” Jack asked.

  “To Miss Ruby’s as though it’s any of your business,” the preacher said with a snarl.

  “It’s a long walk,” the storekeeper said.

  “Well, sell me a tire patch kit and I’ll fix it,” the preacher replied gruffly.

  I’ve got one opened. Mind the store and I’ll fix it for you,” Jack said.

  “How much will it cost me?” the preacher queried.

  “Consider it my weekly contribution,” Jack said.

  “Very well, but you still need to show up at services occasionally,” the preacher barked.

  “Indeed,” the proprietor muttered as he headed out the door.

  Hoping to settle his agitation a bit, the preacher turned on the store’s radio to listen to the morning gospel music show on WNOX-AM.

  He heard a familiar voice begin an old gospel song called ‘Welcome Table’. It was Miss Marilyn Mitchell singing. The part of the song that shamed the preacher said, in pertinent part:

  “I’m gonna tell God how you treat me

  Yes, I’m gonna tell God how you treat me

  One of these days, hallelujah

  I’m gonna tell God how you treat me

  Tell God how you treat me one of these days,

  One of these days.”

  “He won’t be surprised,” the preacher announced with a raised voice toward the radio.

  The preacher heard a vehicle stop at the front of the store. He reached for the radio’s volume control and turned it down.

  A gentleman that appeared somewhat of a mountain man in his 50s entered the store along with an attractive blond young lady in her early 20s. The young lady appeared to be the man’s daughter.

  “I’m Clifton Clowers and this here’s my daughter, Margie,” the man announced.

  “I’m the preacher. My name is Thomas Mann. How can I be of assistance?” he asked.

  “We heard that there’s a doctor in these parts. Margie has been puking a lot lately and we need to see him,” Mr. Clowers explained.

  “Dr. Marcus Whitman has an office in Smith’s Apothecary down the street. I’m sure he can help,” the preacher remarked.

  “Much obliged,” Clifton Clowers said as he nodded and turned to leave the store.

  “Glad to help,” the preacher said.

  Just after the Clowers’ left, Jack Wright made his way from the church to the store. His shirt was soiled, and he was sweating profusely.

  “Preacher, you picked up a nail in that tire. I had to use a patch and a plug. I’m claiming two weeks’ donation for that job,” he said.

  “You’ll have to take that up with the Lord. I do the collecting. The rate is between the two of you,” the preacher said with a smile.

  “Anything good happen?” the store owner asked.

  “No sales but Clifton Clowers and his daughter stopped by,” the preacher reported.

  “That’s very unusual. They don’t usually come off the mountain this time of year,” Jack Wright remarked.

  “He said his daughter, Margie, had been suffering from some stomach pr
oblems and he was looking for the doctor’s office,” the preacher explained.

  “Well, that makes more sense,” the proprietor said.

  “What’s the story on him and the daughter?” the preacher inquired.

  “Clifton lives off the land. He runs trot lines in the river in the spring and summer to catch fresh fish to sell. He traps mink, muskrat, fox, and beaver in the fall and winter,” Jack Wright explained.

  “What about the grown daughter?” the preacher inquired.

  “She’s a ginseng hunter spring through fall,” Jack said.

  “I don’t know much about the ginseng business. Enlighten me,” the preacher asked.

  “Wild ginseng is sold by the pound. Most of it goes overseas to Asia. It’s believed to have medicinal qualities. A ginseng root that looks like a person brings more per pound than a regular ginseng root. There’s lots of it in these hills,” Jack Wright said.

  “Where does she sell it? What does it sell for?” the preacher asked in rapid succession.

  “There’s a company in Knoxville that buys wild, dried ginseng, hulled black walnuts, and tanned furs. Wild ginseng dried sells for about $20 a pound – more if it is shaped like a human body,” the storekeeper said.

  “How many roots does it take to make a pound?” the preacher asked.

  “It depends on the size but about 50-60 roots from local wild ginseng,” the shopkeeper replied.

  “Sounds like they both do quite well living off the wild,” the preacher suggested.

  “They keep their business confidential. I recommend that you refrain from asking them too many questions,” Mr. Wright recommended.

  “What’s it used for?” the preacher asked.

  “People that use it claim that it boosts your energy, relieves stress, helps people with diabetes and high blood pressure, and does other things,” Jack Wright explained.

  “I could use a little more energy,” the preacher remarked.

  “If I were you, I’d leave it alone, preacher,” Jack Wright warned.

  “Why would that be?” the preacher asked.

  “The last thing an unmarried preacher needs is extra lead in his pencil,” Jack Wright said sheepishly.