arkansastraveler (18 page)

She kissed my cheek, then gave me a smack on the butt. “Oh, you are just runnin’ off at the mouth to hear your head rattle. Go get ready for the singin’ and wear a dress. They already figure we’re a bunch of western heathens out there in California. No use adding more grease to the frying pan.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

In our room downstairs, Gabe was slipping on a grayish blue tweed sports jacket over a dark gray shirt. “Elvia said to tell you she’d left with Emory already. Do I need a tie?” he asked, using a lint brush on his slacks.

“Nah. I’m not even going to wear nylons.”

“Pagan,” he said, grinning, then checked his watch and said, “You’ve only got about a half hour.”

“Plenty of time,” I said, pulling my dress out of the suitcase. I gave it a shake and eyed it critically. Could I get away without ironing it?

“No,” Gabe answered my unspoken question.

“Then fetch me the iron,” I said with a sigh.

Lucky for us the church was within walking distance, because the parking lot was full, and the streets near the brightly lit brick building were jammed with cars and trucks trying to maneuver into any spot available.

“Wow, looks like everyone’s turned out for this,” I said.

“Your uncle was saying this morning that it’s the first attempt at joining the two churches,” Gabe answered.

The contrast in the two congregations’ mode of dress alone made an interesting sociological study. The white church members were dressed somewhat casually, with sundresses and even some pantsuits; the men eschewed ties for this loose midweek service. The black church members tended to dress more elaborately, the women in bright-colored, classy suits with matching shoes and purses; the men wearing neat, pinstriped suits and silk ties. There were many more hats in their group, both on the men and women. The only group dressed exactly the same were the teenagers, who favored baggy pants, pierced ears on both sexes, and the boisterous laughing common to that age group no matter what race. Children of both races darted around the parking lot screaming and playing, unconcerned about this possibly momentous day.

I couldn’t help wondering when the division by race started to take place. When they stopped being teenagers? When they got married, had children of their own? Would Amen and I have gradually moved apart as friends if I’d lived here? I liked to think we wouldn’t have. Elvia and I never had. Our friendship had always come before our backgrounds. We became friends long before we’d even understood that we had real cultural differences.

I nodded and said hey to people I knew as we walked toward the sanctuary’s doors. The pews were packed, forcing Gabe and me to squeeze into the second to last pew.
Behind us, a row of teenagers giggled and whispered mock insults at each other.

“I guess some things never change. The back row was where
we all
used to sit when we were teenagers,” I whispered to Gabe. “Brother Cooke used to get so mad because there’d be grease spots on the wall from the boys leaning their heads back.”

“Brothers and sisters,” a big-chested black man boomed into the microphone. He introduced himself as Brother Folkes, pastor of Zion Baptist. “Welcome to God’s house. A house He built for all His children, no matter what their color. Praise His Holy Name.”

Spirited shouts of “Amen” and “Tell the story, brother,” came from the rustling audience. They seemed to all come from one side of the church. I realized then that the people, like a wedding between the Hatfield and McCoy clans, had segregated themselves, black on the bride’s side, white on the groom’s. There were a few sprinkled dissenters on each side. Gabe and I had sat on the black side without realizing it. I noticed that four rows ahead of us, Emory and Elvia were also on this side. Miss DeLora, who had been a member of Sugartree Baptist almost as long as Dove and Garnet, sat on the white side, second row, aisle seat, the same place she had sat since I was in the nursery. As one of the few black members of Sugartree Baptist, she was in a particular place of wisdom regarding this merger.

“Looks like this togetherness plan has a ways to go yet,” I whispered to Gabe.

Gabe glanced behind us at the teenagers, still giggling and whispering, though at a much lower level now. They were intermixed, their common ground age not race. “Maybe it’ll happen with their generation.”

“I hope so,” I said.

Brother Folkes called on us to open our hymnals to page forty-two and sing as the two choirs shuffled in. It was an appropriate choice of songs—“When We Get to Heaven,”
“Leaning on the Everlasting Arms,” and “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” The two sides of the church did their best to sing together, the result being somewhat choppy in pacing and spirit. After the songs, when the two choirs were finally settled up onstage, one in sedate navy robes with white collars, the other in bright purple robes with shiny gold collars, Brother Folkes handed the podium over to a young redheaded man who was apparently the youth minister. He started reeling off the activities of the week involving the youth of both churches.

“Got any room there?” Duck whispered. I nudged Gabe, and we moved over.

“How’s Quinton?” I whispered back.

“They let him go,” he said. “But not until I brought in one of the toughest criminal lawyers in Little Rock and we threatened to sue the city, the police chief, and the mayor. They’re really wanting to pin this on someone quick, and Quinton made himself a perfect target.”

“But what do they have on him really?”

“Nothing except the fact he might have been the last person to see Toby before he was killed. Quinton says he just harassed him some and then, when Toby was getting close to home, took off and went back to his apartment. The problem is there’s no one to verify his story he was home in bed by midnight. The estimate is Toby was killed around two
A
.
M
.”

“What a mess,” I said, sighing.

“No kidding,” he agreed.

“Where’s Amen?”

“She’ll be here for the pie social afterwards. Hopefully not too many people know about this yet. Quinton’s kicking himself like crazy, afraid he’s messed up any chance Amen had of getting elected.”

“I sure hope not,” I said, but I wasn’t optimistic. Innuendo and rumors could irreparably hurt a person’s reputation, especially in a small town like this. If nothing else,
there was a good chance Grady would win because of the sympathy vote. Fair or not, there were probably some people who would hesitate voting for Amen simply because of the slightest hint of criminal activity concerning her campaign manager nephew.

After the announcements from the youth minister, there were general announcements, and then Brother Woodward, Sugartree Baptist’s current minister, said a few words and led us in prayer.

“We’re doin’ things a little different tonight, folks,” he said, his flushed face nervous. His thin blond hair clung damply to his sweating face. His anxiety surfaced in his occasional pause for a deep breath. You had to admire him, though, for attempting a merger between these two churches. A lot of people on the Sugartree Baptist side of the church didn’t look very happy or cooperative. “In the spirit of brother and sisterhood, we’ve decided to conduct this prayer meeting with a musical bent. The ushers will be passin’ out programs that will tell you when it’s a group sing, but feel free to sing whenever the spirit moves you. Tonight we just want to worship the Lord as one body.”

We settled back and for the next forty-five minutes watched two disparate churches attempt to become one. The side we sat on was definitely more comfortable with the energy the choirs were displaying as they sang their many gospel favorites—“Nothing But the Blood,” “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” “I Come to the Garden Alone,” and “It Is Well with my Soul.”

Sugartree Baptist choir was doing their best to get into the joy and enthusiasm that Zion Baptist exhibited, but it took all the spontaneity they possessed to just sway a little and occasionally nod their heads. I watched Dove up in the choir standing next to Garnet and I could tell she was itching to be over on the other, more active, side.

Then the pianist started the strains of “I’ll Fly Away.”

“Oh, Lordy, here it comes,” I said, louder than I realized.
Gabe and a couple of people around me turned to stare at me with curious expressions. Next to me, Duck just laughed. He knew what I meant.

“I’ll Fly Away” was Dove’s all-time favorite gospel song. I’ve known the words to that song since I was three years old. I think it was the second song I ever learned, the first being my daddy’s all-time inspirational favorite, “Singin’ the Blues” by Marty Robbins.

As Dove liked to say, that song
moves
her. She cannot sit still when she hears that song. They won’t even play it Sunday morning at First Baptist in San Celina anymore at the request of some of the more staid members. In the spirit of Christian harmony, Dove didn’t protest . . . much. They play it at least once a year, at an evening service, and make room for Dove to be spiritually moved.

As the song began, I watched her start swaying. Then her hands started to clap. Then her head started to bob. Now, what she was doing, feeling the music, letting it take her away, wasn’t unusual to the members of Zion Baptist. It just looked out of place on the side she was on.

Her hands flew up. So did Aunt Garnet’s eyebrows.

Next to me, Gabe chuckled. I elbowed him and whispered, “Don’t you be laughin’ at my gramma.”

“I’m not,” he said, still laughing. “I think it’s great.”

By the time we were singing the third verse, she’d floated over to her purple-robed friends from Zion Baptist and had thrown herself totally into the music. Aunt Garnet’s face looked stiff enough to iron canvas on. In the front row, I spotted Isaac, who was smiling, clapping, and watching Dove with pure love in his face. Dove didn’t look anywhere but up, her eyes following her uplifted hands in making a pure and joyful noise to the Lord.

By the end of the forty-five minutes, almost the whole church, except for a few old fuddy-duddies, were up clapping, singing, and feeling as one.

“Maybe this will work!” I shouted to Duck over the noise.

“I hope so,” he said. “But Wednesday evening’s one thing. Sunday morning’s another.”

I nodded, knowing he was right. The old saying was true that Sunday morning was the most segregated hour of the week. But it was a start.

At the end, before both ministers closed in prayer, Brother Folkes mentioned Quinton’s “troubles” and asked for guidance and deliverance without stating what his troubles were.

Afterward, in the fellowship hall during the spirited pie auction, I caught up with Emory and Elvia.

“Have you seen Amen?” I asked. A cheer went up. Someone had bid fifty dollars for a strawberry rhubarb pie.

“She took Quinton home,” Emory said. He slipped his arm around Elvia’s shoulders. “Said she’d drop by here afterwards. Since she was the one who arranged this, she feels obligated.”

“This has to be tough for her,” I said, glancing around at the chattering crowd, still mostly broken up according to skin color. A skinny bald guy wearing a pinstriped suit bid thirty dollars for Dove’s chocolate-coffee pie. “Darn, I wanted that. I hope she made one for us to eat.” I glanced over at the kitchen.

“Amen really needs to be here,” Emory said. “Her competition sure is.” He nodded over at a group of black men in dark suits and colorful ties. Grady Hunter was telling them something, using his hands in broad, open gestures, attempting to persuade their skeptical faces.

“He sure seems able to keep going in spite of his tragedy,” I remarked.

“A true politician,” Emory said. “I just hope that Amen realizes what kind of world she’s attempting to break into.”

“If anyone has the backbone to bring honesty and integrity to politics, it’s her,” I said confidently. A last bid for
a pie went up . . . thirty dollars for Aunt Garnet’s lemon meringue. “Uh-oh, the competition is in a dead heat. Elvia, let’s avoid the bloodshed and see if they need any help in the kitchen.”

“Go with her, darlin’,” Emory said. “Try and snag me a piece of Dove’s chocolate-coffee pie before it’s inhaled by the hungry masses. Pretty, pretty please?” He took her hand and made elaborate kissing noises over it.

Elvia pulled her hand away in mock irritation. “Your cousin is crazy,” she said to me.

“Tell me a new story, sister Elvia,” I said, looping my arm through hers and pulling her toward the kitchen. “Go outside and help with the ice cream,” I said to my cousin. “Half those ice-cream makers have to be hand-cranked. They’ll need your muscle.”

Inside the warm, steamy kitchen, women were busy cutting every kind of pie you could imagine—lemon meringue, dozens of chocolate, pumpkin, apple, cherry pies with lattice crust, pineapple cream cheese, rhubarb, blackberry, butterscotch, peanut butter, and even a long rectangular blueberry pie baked in a commercial-sized cobbler pan.

“Wow,” I said, picking up a pie in each hand. Both had brown-tipped meringue I knew would have a slight crunch when you bit into it. “Everyone must have made double pies, one for the auction and one to share. Grab those two berry pies,” I said to Elvia. “We’ll take them out to the table.”

“Thanks, girls,” Shirley Arnett said, giving us a grateful smile. “We’ve got more pies than hands, that’s for sure, and that bunch is a’gettin’ hungry out there after seein’ the pies auctioned.” She leaned over and called out the kitchen window. “How’s the ice cream comin’, boys?”