Cold Sassy Tree (50 page)

For a while neither one said anything. Then Miss Love asked, "Are you praying now, Rucker?"

"No'm. Like I say, I'm jest a-starin' at my eyelids. Ifn I went to prayin', I'd be sayin' words, thinkin' bout myself and what I want and what I'm scairt of. This way I ain't thinkin' nothin'. I'm jest feelin' God's presence. Hit makes me feel safe—like I can do anythang I got to, includin' stand all this dang pain. I reckon it sounds like foolish-ment. You prob'ly think I'm off in the head, Love, like them folks that has visions."

"No," she said softly, "because I feel it, too."

"Don't it seem like yore brain ain't cluttered up? Like if'n the Lord wanted to tell you something, you'd know what it was?"

"Yes, it feels like that," she murmured.

A covey of goosebumps thrilled up the backs of my arms, because it felt like that to me, too.

"Well, let's say a-men now. I'm th'ew lookin' at my eyelids. I rather look at you a while."

Opening my own eyes, I saw Miss Love smile, and him smile back, so tender. They lay there a few minutes, neither one speaking. Then, rubbing his whiskers, he said, "Is this Sunday?"

She nodded.

"Then I ain't shaved in ne'ly three days. Hit's got so I cain't stand whiskers, Love." He grinned at her. "See what you done? I used to didn't care." Another silence, and he said, "You miss goin' to the Methodist church, don't you?"

She hesitated. "Sometimes. Well, every Sunday. It's the way I was brought up."

"You miss thet collection plate goin' around, and Miss Effie Belle plowin' up and down the pi-ana? And all them dull an-nounce-ments, not to mention them dull sermons?"

"I wouldn't swap one of your sermons to have all that." She laughed, then got serious. "But I like being part of a congregation. I miss the people, Rucker."

"All them dang hypocrites?"

"My mother always said never expect church members to be perfect. Christians are still people."

"Well, she spoke the truth there."

"Most of us Christians need to go to church, Rucker. By ourselves, we feel uneasy about God, and we're too bashful to pray except when we're sick or scared. We read our Bibles, but we never think things out the way you do. But you—it's a wonder God didn't call you to preach, Rucker."

"Ain't I been preachin' to you?"

"I mean in a church. I mean really preach." She smiled at him so sweet.

I was getting restless. I wanted to leave. But a board creaked the first step I took, so I decided to wait a little. It being Sunday, they'd probably go on to sleep. Long as I could remember, Mama and Papa had gone to their room every Sunday after dinner and shut the door, and we knew better than to wake them up.

"I got called to preach one time," said Grandpa. "Up in the mountains when I was a-peddlin'." He laughed. "But it warn't the Lord thet called me. I done the callin'. Called myself Brother Blakeslee, itinerant Baptist preacher and peddler of fine merchandise."

"Oh, you didn't!" Grinning, she raised up on her elbow to look at him. "Why in the—"

"I'd jest come out of the War. I'd had my fill a-sleepin' in the woods and cookin' over a dang campfire. I reasoned thet them mountain folks would feed a preacher and put him up, and then buy his blankets and needles to hep with the Lord's work. Well'm, it shore did backfire! I got me a invite to preach, but I warn't into my sermon hardly when a mean-eyed man on the front row stood up and cussed me out. Said I must be the Devil Incarnate, or at least his agent, cause I shore warn't no True Believer. A-mens rose up all over thet little room."

"Goodness! What did you do?"

"Thought fast, I tell you. 'Wait a minute, folks!' I shouted. 'All what I jest said, thet was s'posed to be the Devil a-talkin'. Now if y'all will shet up, I'll tell you what God said back to thet old fork-tail varmint.' I warn't go'n let a bunch a-dang hill people run me off. I went at it, makin' up stories bout sinners thet God had punished, and spoutin' hellfire and damnation and all the other preacher stuff I could think of." He grinned. "Didn't make a dang bit a-sense, but they liked it. Wanted me back next Sunday. But I'd learnt my lesson, Love. I vowed it was the last time I'd try to tell bout my Jesus and my God to folks with rock minds."

He blew at a curl near her ear. She shivered, giggled. "Quit. That tickles."

"You rather me preach? I wisht I felt up to havin' our Sunday time in the parlor. I got a good sermon worked out for you."

"Well, I could go play some hymns."

Oh my gosh, where could I hide right quick?

"Not now, Love," said Grandpa. "I rather have you layin' here by me. You hep me forgit the pain, and I don't feel so sick."

Another silence. "What's it about?" She sounded lazy, sleepy. "The sermon, I mean."

"Something Will Tweedy's been questionin'. He don't unner-stand why Jesus said, 'Ast, and it shall be given.' He says why would Jesus say sech a thang when it ain't always so?"

"That's easy to explain, Rucker. Tell Will that sometimes God has to say no for our own good, or to teach us something, or show His power. Sometimes it's just not His will to give us a certain thing. Or He wants to test our faith and see if we trust Him no matter what."

Grandpa laughed. "Love, you sound like ever preacher I ever heard. But Jesus didn't say God might say no when we say gimme. He said God's go'n say yes. Anythang we ast for, we go'n git it. Well, hungry folks pray for food, but they shore don't all git fed. And sick folks beg Him for healin', but lots of'm die, or maybe live on in bed. Jesus had to mean something diff rent from what folks think He meant, else to my mind He was a dang fool to go round promisin' what God wouldn't do. But Jesus warn't no fool, Love. So what did He mean?"

Distressed, she sat up and said to Grandpa, "Please, Rucker. Don't talk sacrilege."

"Hit ain't sacrilege. Miss Erne Belle says when she cain't think what to have for dinner, she asts God and right off He gives her a idea. To my thinkin', thet's sacrilege."

Miss Love really laughed. "There's not a woman in the world who hasn't prayed what to cook for dinner, Rucker!"

"Well, God give y'all cookbooks for thet. Anyhow, when I got to ponderin' on it last night, the word
ast
commenced to jump at me like sheep comin' over a fence.
Ast. Ast. Ast.
But ast for what? For meat and bread? For healin' miracles? Are we s'posed to ast 'Lord, give me the answers on the arithmetic test,' 'Lord git me hired over the next feller,' 'Lord, give me a son'? Gosh a'mighty, how I used to ast thet'n, Love!" He looked long and tender at her, and kissed her cheek.

"And didn't God send you Will Tweedy?"

Gosh, I hadn't thought of that!

"Maybe He did," said Grandpa. "Then agin maybe He sent me you so I could have another crack at it." I could see Miss Love blush, and, out in the hall, I blushed. Grandpa didn't. "But I don't think He planned Will Tweedy for me. I don't even think He sent me you. You and Will jest happened in the way of thangs. God ain't said you won't git nothin' good less'n you pray for it. But I'm shore thankful for you, Love." He touched a finger to her chin and her mouth, then rested his hand on her cheek.

His voice softened as he went on. "Another thang to think on: some folks ain't said pea-turkey to God in years. They don't ast Him for nothin', don't specially try to be good, and don't love nobody the way Jesus said to—cept their own self. But they go'n git jest bout as much or as little in the way a-earthly goods as the rest of us. They go'n have sorrows and joys, failures and good times. And when they come down sick they go'n git well or die, one, jest same as the prayin' folks. So don't thet tell you something bout prayin'? Ain't the best prayin' jest bein' with God and talkin' a while, like He's a good friend, stead a-like he runs a store and you've come in a-hopin' to git a bargain?"

Miss Love frowned. "Rucker, you can't write Holy Scripture. It's already been written."

"Well, I shore can question what it means." With a heavy groan, trying to shift a little to get comfortable, he put his arm across her stomach again. "And hit fine'ly come to me in the night, what Jesus must a-meant by
ast.
You want to be like them folks with rock brains, or you want to hear it?"

She smiled. "I want to hear it."

I put in my journal all the above. Also the answer that had come to Grandpa.

"When Jesus said ast and ye shall receive, I don't think He meant us to pray 'Lord, spare my child,' or 'Make it rain for the crops,' or 'Don't let my bizness fail.' I don't even think Jesus meant us to ast for—"

"—for a house or a piano?" She put her hand on his open palm. He laughed, and lifted her hand and kissed it.

"Naw, and not even for a husband or any other sech favor. The Lord's Prayer does say, 'Give us this day our daily bread,' but thet's the only dang thang Jesus ast for in the whole prayer thet you can
letch.
They ain't nothin' in the Lord's Prayer says 'Make me well.' I'm tempted to pray thet right now, hurtin' like I am. But I don't think Jesus meant us to think we can git healed jest by beggin' for it." Grandpa laughed kind of rueful. "God made us so we want to stay alive. He put healin' power in our bodies. We don't have to beg Him to save us. All we got to do is accept bein' sick, do what Doc says, and trust thet God wants us to git well if'n we can."

Miss Love broke in. "In the Bible, Jesus only healed the people who asked Him to—and believed He could. If Jesus could heal, can't God? If we pray and have faith?"

"Well'm, faith ain't no magic wand or money-back gar'ntee, either one. Hit's jest a way a-livin'. Hit means you don't worry th'ew the days. Hit means you go'n be holdin' on to God in good or bad times, and you accept whatever happens. Hit means you respect life like it is—like God made it—even when it ain't what you'd order from the wholesale house. Faith don't mean the Lord is go'n make lions lay down with lambs jest cause you ast him to, or make fire not burn. Some folks, when they pray to git well and don't even git better, they say God let'm down. But I say thet warn't even what Jesus was a-talkin' bout. When Jesus said ast and you'll git it, He was givin' a gar'ntee a-spiritual healin', not body healin'. He was sayin' thet if'n you git beat down—scairt to death you cain't do what you got to, or scairt you go'n die, or scairt folks won't like you—why, all you got to do is put yore hand in God's and He'll lift you up. I know it for a fact, Love. I can pray, 'Lord, hep me not be scairt,' and I don't know how, but it's like a eraser wipes the fears away. And I found out long time ago, when I look on what I got to stand as a dang hardship or a burden, it seems too heavy to carry. But when I look on the same dang thang as a challenge, why, standin' it or acceptin' it is like you done entered a contest. Hit even gits excitin', waitin' to see how everthang's go'n turn out."

Grandpa stopped to move a little and his face twisted with pain. But he went on. "Jesus meant us to ast God to hep us stand the pain, not beg Him to take the pain away. We can ast for comfort and hope and patience and courage, and to be gracious when thangs ain't goin' our way, and we'll git what we ast for. They ain't no gar'ntee thet we ain't go'n have no troubles and ain't go'n die. But shore as frogs croak and cows bellow, God'll forgive us if'n we ast Him to."

"He will also help us be forgiving," said Miss Love, smiling. "Rucker, why don't you try to forgive Clem Crummy? You really ought to take your name off his hotel. You got even with him. Isn't that enough?"

Grandpa laughed. "Not quite. I want to rub his face in the dirt a while fore I let him up, Love. Somebody's got to learn him better than to cheat folks, else he's liable to land in jail. Besides, me and God ain't got time for Clem right now. We too busy tryin' to make a challenge out a-them broke ribs and this here twisted knee. And I'm busy tryin' to accept the loss a-my dignity."

Out there in the cool hall, afraid even to wiggle my foot lest they hear me, I wondered if I could ever accept Lightfoot McLendon marrying Hosie Roach.

"Well, Miz Blakeslee," Grandpa said, running his hand down the side of her waist and hip and thigh, "do you think thet's what Jesus might a-meant? Don't it make sense?"

She thought a minute. "If you talked like this at a Wednesday night prayer meeting, Rucker, most people would walk out. They'd say you're not a Christian and shouldn't be allowed to speak in God's house. But to me it makes beautiful sense. Thank you for it."

"Remind me to tell Will Tweedy, hear."

I slid down to the floor. Just by peeping around the door frame, I could still see them if I wanted to. But what I wanted to do was ponder what all Grandpa had just said.

Then Miss Love changed the subject and I had to listen instead of think. "Rucker, do you know they've made up a committee to find a new name for Cold Sassy?"

"I heard. But they'll change Cold Sassy over my dead body."

"What if they named it Blakeslee? Wouldn't you like that? Our name being on the map might help us sell cars."

He laughed. "Blakeslee is too much like Blakely. Thet's a town in south Georgia. Anyhow, the Blakeslees warn't nothin' special to the town."

"You're special to the town."

"Yeah, but not like Miss Mattie Lou. Now she was descended from two pioneer fam'lies, the Toys and the Willises both. But Toy would be a silly name for a town, and Willis ain't much better." Grandpa paused. "Will Tweedy's name ain't William, you know. Hit's Willis."

Trying again to get comfortable, Grandpa moved his arm up from Miss Love's stomach and by gosh let his hand rest right between her bosoms! And like she didn't even notice where his hand was, she moved her head over on his shoulder. Her breath quickened as his fingers traced the curve of her neck and wandered careless toward the soft flesh below.

"God hep me, Love," he said softly, "I ain't so bad hurt I don't feel nothin'!"

She didn't say a word. The smile left her face and her lips parted.

If you thought about it, me spying on them through the slit of space between the open door and the door frame was right humorous. But what was funny as heck was Grandpa with that bruised, swelled-up nose, the big knot like a horn on his forehead, the black eyes like a dern raccoon's mask, the scab over one eye like a sword slash on a pirate, the itchy three-day sprouting of gray whiskers—and Miss Love gazing at him like he was Prince Charming come to the costume ball dressed up as a toady frog.