Mercy Me (9 page)

“I feel so sorry for Roger,” she began in her mealymouth way. “He says that praying for Maude posed a real problem for the elders, who could not support Pastor Bob's view. Fortunately, Maude died, making it plain to see that it is not right to pray for animals. Roger says Preacher Bob should've learned his lesson then and been more careful about what he prayed for in public.”

“She's talking about rain,” Clara said, as if I didn't know.

“Yes, praying for rain is a risky thing to do,” Mabel continued. “It shows poor judgment on the preacher's part. You see, Roger says Preacher Bob does not have to
deal with the questions, it's the elders. As the spiritual leaders, they are the ones who have to answer all the questions this kind of thing raises.”

Clara reached over and put a pillow behind Mabel's back. “Thank you,” Mabel said. “This old glider is uncomfortable.”

I could have crowned her!

“Now what was I saying? Oh yes. Preacher Bob should not have been so sure of himself to pray publicly for rain after the experience of the mule.”

I could not stand another word. “Pastor Osborne is not sure of himself, he is sure of God, which is more than I can say for most of them elders.”

Well, she brushed me off like I was some kind of historical female. “The elders are thinking about bringing Preacher Bob in for counseling.”

I tell you what, I was about to blow a gasket. The nerve of them people! What them two wanted was a rise out of me so they could go back and tell everybody what I said and the way I acted. Well, I said nothing, and when they saw I was not going to play their little game, they got themselves up and left.

After them two went home, I was so mad I lay across the bed and beat the pillow with my fists. I had not had a spell like that since before Bud died. It was Friday, and not one drop of rain had fallen. I couldn't bear to think of that poor man getting up in the pulpit Sunday morning with all those self-righteous, backbiting hypocrites looking up at him. “Lord,” I said, trying not to be mad, “whyn't you do the preacher and me one big favor and send us a gully washer before Sunday?”

Upon my word, I am telling you the gospel truth—twenty-five minutes later, if you go by my bedroom clock, I heard a rumble. At first I thought it was a plane flying overhead. But the rumbling come closer, and then right over my house there was a big boom. I could not believe my ears! I jumped up and went out on the porch. That cloud was as black as midnight! Sheet lightning was flashing all around, and the wind was picking up. “Lord, is this what I hope it is?” I asked.

Sure enough, in a few minutes, big drops were peppering down. The thunder was booming, and the rain was coming fast. The smell of it was delicious! I watched it coming down the street, washing everything in its path, the runoff flooding alongside the curbs, rushing down the drains. I was so happy I could've run outside in that rain buck naked!

10

It rained all Friday night, a slow steady rain. Saturday morning a drizzle set in, but in the afternoon the sun came out long enough for me to take a look at the garden. It did my heart good to see puddles running down between the rows. My tomatoes, kind of beat down by the rain, looked like they didn't know what to make of it. But they popped right back up and started growing. So did the weeds. Weeds are like sins—they grow faster than the good stuff.

By the time I got back in the house, it was coming down again. It rained off and on all Saturday night, but it didn't keep that woman from walking the street below my house. I watched her a little while, but it was such a good night for sleeping, I decided to go to bed. I made up my mind that when the weather let up and I could
hide in the bushes, I was going to get the license number of that white truck if he picked her up again.

By Sunday morning it had quit raining, except for drops falling off the trees. A lot of people didn't show up for church, but those that did—well, sheep never looked so sheepish.

Monday morning I got a note from Beatrice telling me she had taken the pie upstairs.

I was. I was pleased as punch. She was making a good start, and I felt I could drop the other bombshell on her,
so I wrote her right back. I cut it short about the rain and all, then wrote:

I was surprised Beatrice didn't call me right up after she got my letter. After two or three days I was beginning to wonder if Carl had quit coming in the store. I hoped she was just too busy. One good thing about Beatrice
is she never gets mad at me, and I must admit I have been pretty hard on her at times.

There's a hedge runs around my place, and before that streetwalker put in her nightly appearance, I took a little stool out there and positioned myself behind the hedge where I could get a close enough view to read any license plate that came along. I had my pencil and pad resting on my knee, and at about ten o'clock, there she was. Well, I tell you, I was so close I could nearly see the whites of her eyes! Her skirt was short, and them skinny legs were wobbling on heels as high as ever I'd seen. There was something draped around her shoulders like a scarf, and it looked like that was all she had on. Mercy me, I had seen such women on TV, but seeing one live was something I could do without.

She was not an older woman. Most of them aren't old, I'm told, but she looked old in the face. And she was twitching like a scairt rabbit. Under any other circumstances, I would've felt sorry for her. I tell you the truth, that woman was so thin that when she was on the other side of the lamppost, there wasn't enough of her showing for me to see! That lifestyle sure takes its toll.

Well, I'll tell you what, that little old stool is not the most comfortable thing to sit on, and as the night stretched on, I got leg cramps to beat the band and a backache to break all records. As cars were few and far between and none of them stopped, I was beginning to think my misery was all for naught.

Even the streetwalker got tired and leaned up against the lamppost. I would've gone back inside, but I couldn't
without her seeing me. I was stuck right there on that stool until she made up her mind to leave. Finally, she sat down on the curb, but still she didn't go home. She must've been desperate, to hang on like she did.

Along about three o'clock, I heard a vehicle turn the corner, and when it got in sight, I saw it was a white pickup. The driver knew right where he was headed and hardly slowed down before he stopped at the streetlight. Without a word spoken, she hopped in, and in my disgust, I almost forgot what my mission was. Fortunately, it was an easy number and a South Carolina plate. I didn't even have to write it down.

I was excited about getting the evidence, and I didn't sleep much. The next morning I was at the sheriff's office by eight o'clock. As usual, Sheriff Thigpen was the only one in the office, and he was reading the newspaper.

“Good morning, Esmeralda. What can I do for you?”

“I got a license number I want you to look up.”

“I'd be glad to do that for you.” He rolled his chair over to the computer. “Gimme the number.”

“It's South Carolina, 409 ARK.”

The sheriff stopped short, his mouth dropped, and he shot me a look I'll never forget. “What you want that number for?”

“Nothing important. Just curious.”

“Curious?” He stared at me. “It don't have nothing to do with burying that mule, does it?”

“No, nothing about the mule. Why do you ask?”

He shifted his chair back to the desk. “Well, Esmeralda, this is my son's number. If he's in any kind of trouble . . .”

I had to think fast. “Oh, Sheriff, don't you think you'd be the first to know if Horace was in trouble?”

“Well, then, what is it brings you down here at eight o'clock in the morning, wanting to know my son's license plate number?”

I tell you, the man was getting downright insistent. “Well, if you must know . . .” Then it came to me. “Sheriff, I'm planning on buying Elijah a tiller, but I have got to find something for him to haul it around town in. I was just hoping the owner of that old white pickup would be willing to sell. If the price is right, I might be able to raise the money to buy it.”

Sheriff Thigpen relaxed. “Oh, I see.” He laughed a little. “You had me worried there for a minute. When Horace buried the mule for you, he come home and told me that you and them Willing Workers is something to be reckoned with. You want me to call him?”

“No, that's all right,” I said, heading for the door. “I'll take care of it later.”

Boy, was I glad to get out of there! My conscience was beating up on me about lying like that, and I knew I had to find a tiller so I wouldn't be outright lying for long.

When I got back home, the mail had already come. Along with a bill, there was a note from Beatrice.

I read it as I was walking back to the house, skipping down to the part where she wrote:

I felt good about that letter. Given enough time to collect my thoughts, I would write her a letter and see if maybe we could get something going there.

My phone was ringing. I picked it up, wondering if it was Beatrice.

“Miss Esmeralda?” It was a man's voice.

“That's right.”

“This is Horace Thigpen. We have got to talk.” He didn't wait for me to say anything. “I'll be up to your house in five minutes.”

11

In a few minutes I heard the squeal of tires as that truck turned the corner. Horace Thigpen wheeled up my driveway so fast he clipped my blue hydrangea. I met him on the porch.