by D M Barrett
“Indeed,” the preacher replied.
About that time the phone rang, and Mr. Wright answered. He handed the receiver to the preacher. The voice on the other end of the phone announced that it was Dr. Marcus Whitman.
“How can I help you, Dr. Whitman?” the preacher asked.
“I’m calling you to warn you that Clifton Clowers has his rifle and he’s headed in your direction,” the physician exclaimed.
“How does that relate to me?” the preacher asked in a puzzled tone.
“Margie is pregnant, and she has announced that the baby belongs to you,” Dr. Whitman said bluntly.
“That’s ridiculous! The first time I saw Margie was today and sent them to your office,” the preacher exclaimed.
“Preacher, Clifton Clowers is not to be trifled with. He thinks you have deflowered his daughter and he’s looking for satisfaction,” the doctor said bluntly as he hung up the phone.
“What’s the problem, preacher?” Jack Wright asked.
“Margie Clowers is pregnant. She has announced to Dr. Whitman and Mr. Clowers that I am the father of her unborn child,” the preacher said with dismay.
“Whew! You sure didn’t need any ginseng,” the store owner noted.
“Listen to me. The first time I ever laid eyes on that girl was today,” the preacher explained.
“Looks like you got two choices,” Jack Wright said.
“What are those choices?” the preacher asked.
“Get married or get shot,” Jack instructed.
“We need to find a third option – quickly,” the preacher responded.
Clifton Clowers walked through the front door of the store. He was carrying a rifle in his arms and had his eyes fixed on the preacher.
“There’s obviously been a misunderstanding here, Mr. Clowers,” the preacher said with a slight stammer.
“I’m here to give you an understanding, pastor,” Clifton Clowers replied.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” the preacher responded.
“Today is Monday. You’ve got until next Saturday to do right by my daughter and marry her,” Mr. Clowers said firmly.
“I can’t marry her. I hardly know her,” the preacher remarked.
“Well, you know her in the biblical way. Her belly is full of your child,” Mr. Clowers said as his face reddened.
“I’ve never laid a hand on Margie. That child is not mine,” the preacher protested.
“Let me explain it to you plainly, preacher. You’ve been ruttin’ my Margie and got her pregnant. If you keep sayin’ it ain’t your child and besmirching her good name, there’ll be a funeral next Saturday instead of a wedding,” Clifton Clowers said emphatically.
“Now Clifton, we’ve known each other a long time. I know this preacher well. He will definitely do the right thing by Miss Margie. Just give me some time to settle him down,” Jack Wright interjected.
“He’s got till noon next Saturday. That’s provided he keeps that trap shut about the baby not being his,” Mr. Clowers said as he turned and walked toward the door.
“Now what am I going to do?” the preacher asked of Jack Wright.
“If you don’t hear wedding bells, You should hop the next train and head for Nashville and points beyond,” the shopkeeper suggested.
“Don’t be ridiculous. That child’s not mine,” the preacher stated emphatically.
Jack Wright placed his right index finger vertically across his lips to silence the preacher’s protestations. Needless to say, this Friday the 13th got worse as the day progressed.
* * *
It wasn't long before the news had spread across Ferguson and beyond. Jack Wright spent the next few hours of the day taking congratulatory messages for the wedding.
Miss Rosie offered to host the wedding reception at her Bed and Breakfast. The preacher received several offers from locals to serve as best man.
The preacher was convinced that his reputation had been irreparably harmed by the accusation. Nevertheless, most of the town’s people saw it as a positive thing.
When the preacher had finished sorting through the various phone messages and offers, he cast an exasperated look at Jack Wright. The storekeeper suggested that he still had time to board the Mountain Excursion for Nashville.
“I’ve spent a horrible day,” he said to Mr. Wright.
“Have you done some thinking on that third option?” the storekeeper asked.
“Yes. We need to find the real suitor and father of that child,” the preacher replied.
“It has to be someone local. Clifton never lets her take a trip alone. In fact, he’s with her most of the time unless he’s in Knoxville selling furs, black walnuts, or Margie’s ginseng,” Jack explained.
“Who is near to her age, unmarried, and able to get around unnoticed?” the preacher asked.
“There are a few local boys, but they are all afraid of Clifton Clowers and stay away from Margie,” Mr. Wright said.
“What about any that pass through Ferguson regularly?” the preacher inquired.
“There’s a young fellow that drives a Coca-Cola truck from Lebanon to Crossville twice a week. He stops here twice a week,” Jack Wright said.
“What’s his name? When is he due again?” the preacher asked.
“His name is Wesley Hall. He’ll be here before long. It’s one of his delivery days,” Mr. Wright said.
“I’m walking down to see Dr. Whitman. Keep Mr. Hall busy if I’m a little late returning,” the preacher instructed.
“No problem,” the store owner said.
When the preacher walked in Scott’s Apothecary, Joe Scott loudly shouted, “Congratulations!”
The preacher shook his head and asked, “Is Dr. Whitman here?”
Dr. Whitman stepped through his office door and greeted the preacher. He offered his hand in a congratulatory fashion.
“We need to talk,” the preacher said bluntly.
“You should have talked to Mr. Scott about protection some three months ago,” Dr. Whitman said with a beaming smile.
“How can I prove that it’s not my child?” the preacher asked.
“After the child is born, we can check all three blood types. Occasionally, a mismatch could indicate a different father,” Dr. Whitman explained.
“I mean BEFORE next Saturday,” the preacher said earnestly.
“Not possible. Maybe in fifty years some smart fellow may figure that out,” the doctor said.
“I really need you to come down to the grocery store. I have a suspect stopping by,” the preacher explained.
“I’m not sure how I can help medically or scientifically,” the doctor said.
“When we get there, you announce the news to Jack Wright in front of that young man. I’ll start talking about our big plans to leave Ferguson for Nashville. Just follow our lead,” the preacher instructed.
“It’s worth a try. A bluff is all we have,” the physician responded.
At the grocery store the Coca-Cola man was filling the drink box. The two men walked in together with the preacher suggesting that Dr. Whitman tell Jack Wright the good news.
“Mr. Wright have you heard that the preacher and Clifton Clowers’ daughter are getting married next Saturday?” the physician asked.
“That’s what he needs to do quickly seeing that she’s with child and all,” Jack Wright replied with a wink.
“Is he talking about Margie Clowers?” Wesley Hall asked.
“Yes, and we’re moving to Nashville the afternoon following the wedding,” the preacher explained.
“Why are you leaving Ferguson? I thought you liked it here and the folks liked you,” the young man asked.
“To tell you the truth, Margie is about three months pregnant and folks around here frown on that sort of thing,” the preacher explained.
“Three months pregnant? Are you kidding?” he said with an astonished look.
“Dr. Marcus here determined her to be pregnant. She claimed that I was th
e father. His tests confirmed it. I’m not necessarily in love with her, but I’ll marry her to save her name and reputation,” the preacher said bluntly.
“You are going to marry a pregnant woman you don’t love?” Wesley Hall asked as his face reddened.
“Well the deadbeat polecat daddy won’t do the right thing,” the preacher said with a sneer.
Upon hearing the preacher’s insult toward the child’s father, Wesley Hall landed a strong punch of the preacher’s right cheek. He fell to the floor with a decent cut on his face.
Before he could reply, Wesley Hall said, “I’m the father of that child. The first time I heard about this was right now. You are a polecat for planning on marrying her and not loving her. That doctor is a quack. His tests don’t mean anything.”
“Now Wesley we all had no idea that you were the father,” Jack Wright explained.
“Well, I am, and that preacher better stay away from her,” he shouted.
“Where are you going, Wesley? Dr. Whitman inquired.
“I’m headed out to find Clifton Clowers and tell him the truth and that I love Margie,” he responded.
“Preacher come on down to the office and I’ll treat that nasty cut,” the physician offered.
Once inside his office, Dr. Whitman applied some antiseptic on the wound and put in three stitches to hold the edges of the wound together. He finished and began putting away his instruments.
The preacher began to speak, “Dr. Whitman, this has been the worst Friday the 13th of my life. I broke a shoelace this morning, had a flat tire, received a pair of ladies’ undergarments from Miss Ruby instead of a white dress shirt, and had a young woman accuse me of debauchery. I guess the bad things are finally over today.”
“Preacher, I hate to be the harbinger of bad news, but have you noticed those few red spots on your neck?” the doctor asked.
“Well I saw a couple when I shaved and concluded they were mosquito bites,” the preacher replied.
“Unbutton your shirt and look on your chest and abdomen,” the doctor instructed.
The preacher did as the doctor said. He saw a dozen or so red spots scatted across his chest and abdomen.
“What is it?” the preacher asked excitedly.
“It’s German measles or three days measles. They are highly contagious, and you have to be quarantined in a room at Miss Rosie’s for about four days,” the doctor responded.
“What can we do?” the preacher asked frantically.
“The pharmacist can dispense some itch cream, and these German measles will have to run their course,” the physician said.
About that time Clifton Clowers stuck his head in the examining room and said, “Preacher, I am truly sorry about the situation with Margie. I hope you’ll see fit to forgive us.”
“You are both forgiven. I think it worked out well for both Margie and Wesley,” the preacher said.
“Preacher, I’d be much obliged it you’d tie the knot for them next Saturday,” Clifton Clowers said slightly pleading.
“I’d be happy to do the honors, Mr. Clowers. But this doctor says I’ve got a case of the measles,” the preacher replied.
Looking directly at Mr. Clowers the doctor said, “He’s got three-day measles. He’ll be well in plenty of time to perform the wedding next Saturday.”
“No doubt,” the preacher said under his breath.
9: The Night Of Broken Glass
It was the fourth day since Dr. Marcus Whitman had diagnosed the preacher with an acute case of rubella. He had been quarantined to a room at the end of the hall in Miss Rosie’s Bed & Breakfast.
His meals and symptomatic care had been provided by one of Miss Rosie’s employees, Anna Mae Crowder. The employees there began to confidentially refer to the preacher as the impatient patient.
A day and a half before, Anna Mae Crowder, refused to provide any more care for the preacher. When questioned, she told Miss Rosie that she’d rather be in hell with a broken back than spend another day with the sick preacher.
By early morning the preacher had bathed, dressed and waited for Dr. Whitman to give him a final check out before returning to his daily duties. He had endured enough time in the sick bed and the quarantine.
There was a knock on the door and a woman’s voice inquired, “Can I come in?”
The preacher, thinking it was Anna Mae, said, “Now Anna Mae, about yesterday . . .”
Before she could enter, the voice replied, “Wrong girl. I’m Beth Bilbrey, the county nurse.”
The preacher looked toward the door and saw a mid-thirties slender, very attractive lady with chestnut brown hair wearing a navy skirt, navy jacket and white blouse. He was expecting the traditional white nurse’s uniform and nurse’s cap with a black stripe.
Before he could say anything, Nurse Bilbrey explained, “Dr. Whitman has several appointments this morning. Instead of keeping you waiting, he asked that I examine and release you.”
“I’m all for that!” the preacher exclaimed.
She motioned for the preacher to remove his shirt and she continued, “I heard you were almost the groom in a shotgun wedding last week.”
“Actually it was a rifle, but it got worked out,” the preacher said bluntly.
“Well, you would have started with a ready-made family and a nice patch of land atop Brotherton Mountain,” the nurse remarked.
“Is gossiping part of your bedside manner, Nurse Bilbrey?” the preacher asked sarcastically.
“I’m just trying to keep the mood light, preacher. I hear your last nurse preferred being in hell with a broken back rather than providing care to you,” she replied.
“That’s what I’ve been told,” the preacher said sheepishly.
The nurse listened to the preacher’s heart, checked his breathing, and examined the few remaining but faded red spots on his abdomen and back. She noticed two entrance wounds on his upper left chest and two corresponding exit wounds on his upper back.
“Did you receive these wounds during the Civil War?” the nurse asked with a slight chuckle.
“I ended up on the wrong side of a grenade in the trenches in France in 1918,” the preacher replied.
“Tell me about it,” Nurse Bilbrey requested.
“That’s another story for another day,” the preacher said as he looked downward.
“I’ve got one more thing to do and then you are free to leave,” the nurse explained.
“Whatever it takes,” the preacher said.
“I’m putting some skin ointment, prescribed by Dr. Whitman, on these remaining few spots. You should use it for the next couple days,” she instructed.
“Did Joe Scott make that up?” the preacher queried.
“No, this is a commercial product. It was not compounded by Pharmacist Scott,” she replied.
“Excellent! Scott and Whitman tried to poison me two days ago with alcohol and morphine. It was laudanum put in a different bottle and relabeled,” the preacher said.
“Why was that medicine prescribed for you?” the nurse questioned.
“Joe Scott said it was measles medicine ordered by Dr. Whitman. I drank about half a bottle and it knocked me out for a whole day,” the preacher said gruffly.
“It was probably prescribed for the benefit of the folks at Miss Rosie’s rather than you,” she retorted.
“What are you saying?” the preacher asked with a surprised look.
“The broken back in hell – remember?” the nurse asked.
The nurse placed her stethoscope in her bag and handled the tube of ointment to the preacher.
“How much do I owe you?” the preacher asked.
“I’m the county nurse. I get a monthly salary. But I can accept a social courtesy without it being seen as a bribe,” she replied.
“Pardon my ignorance, but what is a social courtesy?” the preacher asked with an uncertain look.
“Put your shirt on. You’re buying me breakfast,” she said flatly.
The preacher
and the nurse walked down the stairs to the large parlor at Miss Rosie’s. They moved to the dining area and ordered breakfast.
As they finished their meals, they were greeted by Miss Rosie. She informed them that the older gentleman seated on the parlor couch wanted to speak to the preacher. There were two children sitting near him: a pre-teen girl and a boy a few years younger.
The preacher rose from the dining table and walked toward the elderly gentleman. He looked up and smiled at the preacher.
“I’m Tom Mann, the preacher here. How can I be of assistance?” the pastor inquired.
“I’m sick and I need a doctor,” the man replied.
“What’s wrong with you?” the preacher asked.
“Now if I knew that I wouldn’t need a doctor, would I?” the elderly gentleman replied slightly sarcastically.
“Indeed,” the preacher replied.
“I’m Norman Weitz. These are my grandchildren: Ben and Louise. We are on our way to Nashville,” the man explained with labored breathing.
The preacher motioned for Nurse Bilbrey. She crossed the room and he introduced her to Mr. Weitz and his grandchildren.
“Miss Rosie is going to get you folks a place to stay. The county nurse is going to give you a preliminary examination. I’m going to Dr. Marcus Whitman’s office and bring him back between his morning appointments,” the preacher explained.
The old man agreed, and Miss Rosie placed the three in downstairs adjoining rooms. The nurse followed Miss Rosie and Mr. Weitz into his room.
The preacher went to the phone in Miss Rosie’s parlor, picked up the receiver, cranked the handle, and after a few moments said, “Miss Sarah, this is the preacher, I need to speak with Dr. Marcus Whitman. It is urgent.”
Dr. Whitman answered the phone and the preacher informed him of the situation. After some slight protesting, the doctor agreed that his next appointment would have to wait for a while for him to handle this emergency.
Dr. Whitman arrived in a few minutes and proceeded to examine Mr. Weitz. It wasn’t long before the exam was finished, and the physician approached the preacher.
“What’s the verdict, doc?” the preacher asked.
“Death,” the physician replied bluntly.
