One Mississippi (14 page)
M
OM’S WAGON BLEW
a head gasket, so Dad had to drive me to Full Flower Baptist Church in the company Oldsmobile. He only got one day off, he said, one day a week with nothing to do but go to church and watch a little TV, and here he was spending half the afternoon driving me to the other side of the world. “What is this thing you’re doing, anyway?”
“A church musical.”
“Oh, that is sweet. Do you think you might ever get a real job? Fellow I work with has a boy same age as you, he’ll be rolling pipe in a pipe yard this summer.”
“Wow, lucky him,” I said.
“Don’t you sass me. That boy will be making real money while you’re goofing around doing your ballet dancing or whatever.”
“I play the piano, and I’m getting twenty bucks a rehearsal,” I said. “If you’d let me borrow the car, I would drive myself.”
“Not in this car. You want to drive? Save your money and buy a car.”
I considered how much more pleasant life would be if I just bought a parrot and taught it all of Dad’s lines.
“How am I supposed to get a job when we live in the middle of nowhere and you won’t let me drive?”
“You figure it out,” he said.
The truth was, Dad didn’t like me all that much. I made him uncomfortable, and vice versa. He had pretty much given up on all father-type activities, except for the Sunday-morning funnies with Janie. It was their tradition, the two of them on the sofa poring over
Beetle Bailey
and
The Family Circus
.
Dad and I had our own tradition: he assumed everything I did or said was designed to piss him off, and I did my best to oblige. Every time I opened my mouth, he was there to point out whatever was stupid, rebellious, or wrong about what I said. Sometimes I wondered what other dads said to their sons — if they weren’t yelling at each other, what on earth did they talk about? I would have to ask Tim. Although I remember him saying he and his dad didn’t talk much either.
“I give you one job to do,” Dad was saying, “one little job, in return for which you get a roof over your head and all you can eat. And you can’t show me even that little bit of respect.”
“What job?”
“The yard. In back, that place I pointed out to you yesterday. Did you finish that? No. You intentionally forgot. You laid around on your butt all weekend, and now you’re off to play with your little ballet-dancing friends.”
“All I do is cut the grass.” My voice started shaking. “Okay? That’s all I do. I come home, I cut grass. I get up before school and cut grass. I cut grass all weekend. Twelve months a year. The yard is three acres, okay? It will never stop growing. I am never gonna be through cutting it, do you understand? It is never gonna be
finished.
”
His hand shot out fast and smacked my face. “Don’t you smart-mouth me!” I saw white stars dancing in the air. The echo of the slap resounded in the car. “Wait’ll you have a real job,” he said. “You will pine for something as easy as pushing a lawnmower.”
“I can’t wait, Dad,” I said, rubbing my jaw. “I mean it. I wish I had the money, I would pave that yard over for you right now. Today. Just asphalt it over. You’d never have to see another blade of grass as long as you live.”
“This is Van Winkle Road,” Dad said. “What did you say this place is called?”
“Full Flower Baptist Church.” It had been a few months since the last time he hit me. When we were younger he used to hit Bud and me all the time, usually for some infraction he considered serious enough. But in the past few years it always happened like this, out of nowhere, no warning. For no reason at all. Like something he couldn’t control.
“Full Flower?” he was saying. “That sounds Chinese or something.”
“It’s Baptist,” I said.
Dad said, “All the real nut cases are Baptist. Your mother’s whole family, for starters. Crazy bunch of idiots and alcoholics and cripples, and every one of ’em a hard-shell Baptist.”
“There it is — Dad, slow down! Oh, you passed it.”
He heaved a sigh at the massive inconvenience of having to turn around.
For me the name Full Flower had conjured up an image of a quaint little church, but this place was huge, like a shopping mall with a steeple. You could fit two or three Minor High Schools inside the main building, and there were other sections branching off, and a big high-ceilinged part in the middle.
“Look at this,” Dad said. “Jesus H. — look at that — four, five, that’s eight Cadillacs in a row! How much are these people paying you?”
“Twenty dollars.”
“Ask for more. These people are rich.”
I climbed out. “Thanks for the smack in the face, Dad. I’ll get a ride home with Tim.”
He drove off shaking his head at how I could continue to smart-mouth him with my face still burning from his hand. I’m sure he thought my persistence was ridiculous.
The heat shimmered the air above the asphalt. Tim came loping over, his guitar case bumping his knees. “Hiya, Skippy!”
“Apparently Jesus drives a Cadillac,” I said, wondering if one side of my face looked redder. Tim didn’t appear to notice.
We walked up the covered passageway into the blissful chill of the sanctuary. The dark vastness of the place stopped us in our tracks. “Whoa. . . .”
This had to be the swankiest church in Mississippi. Stained-glass windows admitted thickly colored light that gave everything a deep yellowish cast. Ranks of pews marched to a rocket-shaped pulpit, an altar table of sleek polished granite. Suspended above the altar was a silver cross, hanging swordlike in midair above a stage full of chattering teenagers.
I spotted Mrs. Passworth beside the drum set. She was delighted to see that we’d actually shown up, and immediately presented us to the Combo: Ben, the skinny bass player; Byron, on drums, with a frizzy blond Afro; Mickey, the long-haired guitarist. They showed Tim where to plug in. I sat down at the piano. They handed me a spiral-bound book of sheet music. The cover featured an elaborate handwritten script:
C
HRIST
!
A Musical of the Lord
Words and music by Edwin B. Smock
Tim thumbed through the score with an expression of rising joy. Mrs. Passworth waved over the young choir director, a skinny guy with goofy glasses, a droopy bow tie, and a goatee. “Boys, this is Eddie, our Minister of Music. You’ll be in his hands from now on. Eddie, these are some of my best students from school — this is Tim, and that’s Daniel.”
“Boys, welcome!” Instantly I knew that Eddie’s nasal honk was enough to make this whole enterprise worthwhile. You could summon geese with that voice. His handshake was moist and sincere. “Welcome aboard, deelighted to have you. You’ve met the rest of our Combo?” Ah, so: that word must have come from him. “It’s pretty simple musical structure on the surface, three or four chords in most of the songs.” He turned the pages over my shoulder. “I didn’t write a piano part, so you can just play arpeggios, whatever you think. I’ve got my work cut out for me with the chorus. Basically all I need from you guys is to keep the beat and stay out of my way, okay?”
Sure, we could do that.
It dawned on me that Eddie must be Edwin B. Smock, composer and lyricist of
Christ!
“Hey Eddie, did you write this whole thing?”
“You bet I did,” he said, grinning, “and don’t give me any you-know-what about it!” He went off to gather the choir.
Tim wore a big doofus smile. “Deeelighted,” he said. “Did you get a look at these songs, Skippy?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But I have a feeling we’re going to be very happy here.”
This was one great-looking bunch of Christians. Not a pimple in sight — why do Christians always have such great skin? Also these Jackson girls wore clothes you didn’t see in Minor. Every one of them was showing off a spring tan with a skimpy blouse or sleeveless top, short-shorts, miniskirt. The boys looked sporty too — plaid pants were in that year, and Van Heusen velour pullovers in colors called “mustard” and “rust.”
I recognized a few kids from Minor: Celia Karn and her brother Greg, John Henry Ward and his sister Mary Virginia, Kirby Cook, Beth McDonald, Cathy Sessums, Tammy Lyall, Erin O’Bryen.
I flipped to the first page of the book.
ACT I
“Christ!” (Jesus, Chorus)
“Hey Mary, Guess What?” (God)
“Joseph, You’ve Got to Believe Me” (Mary)
Tim strummed the opening chords. “Oh Dagwood, this is better than I ever dreamed. Did you get a load of our Minister of Music?”
I smiled. “I surely did.”
Byron the drummer overheard us. “Eddie’s cool,” he said. “He’s only twenty-three, and he wrote the whole show himself. He’s amazing. You’ll see.”
Mickey twanged a note on his electric guitar. “What’s the matter, these guys don’t like Eddie?”
“I’m sure he’s great,” Tim said. “We just met him.”
“He’s a professional,” Mickey said. “He’s been to New York to see real live plays on Broadway. What shows have you seen?”
“This is my first,” I said. “I was hoping you guys could show us the ropes.”
“Jesus loves you,” said Ben the bass player. “That’s all the ropes you need.”
“Right on,” said Byron. “You guys are saved, right? I mean, why else would you be here?”
I recalled Dianne Frillinger’s scary dad asking the same question. I thought these guys must be joking, but Tim knew they weren’t. “Yeah,” he said, “we got saved about a year ago.”
Mickey frowned at me. “You don’t look all that saved to me.”
“Oh yeah,” I assured him. “One hundred percent.”
Tim said, “J.C. is my man.”
“Okay folks, listen up!” Eddie clapped his hands. “Is everyone excited?”
The girls applauded and went “
Whoo!
”
“Cause I know I am,” Eddie said. “Y’all chorus have been working so hard all spring. Now we’re ready to put this baby together, and take her on the road. Are you prepared to stride forth and make musical theater history?”
Everybody shouted
YES!
like at a pep rally.
“Like to introduce two new members of our Combo,” said Eddie. “That’s Tim on guitar and Dan on piano, everybody give ’em a big Full Flower welcome!” They clapped for us. We waved hello.
“Now listen up, people,” said Eddie. “There were those who predicted we’d never even get this far. And yet — here we are. On our way. This is the fulfillment of a dream for me personally. And before it’s over, I think this experience will touch each of us in ways we never expected.”
“Praise the Lord,” said a girl with lovely red hair.
“Praise the Lord,” Eddie said. “Now we’re headed into the homestretch. We have to make it great — not just good. This will be our first full-length run-through. Y’all know I’m a tough taskmaster, but you need to remember, when I’m being tough, it’s for you. With all the love in my heart. So just keep that in mind when I get on your nerves, which I plan to, a lot.”
Everybody chuckled.
“We’re with you, Eddie!” Mickey gave his guitar string a comical twang.
“Way to go! Way to go! I love it!” Eddie cried. “Now, the opening number is our grabber, folks — we gotta seize the audience by the throats and never let go. I want snappy, excited, bouncy . . . I want
bounce.
Combo? Kick us off.”
The chorus spread in three ranks across the stage. Byron rapped his drumstick on the rim, a peppy two-four rhythm. The choir sang:
Christ!
La la la la la, la la la
Christ!
La la la la la, la la la
If you’re feeling sad and blue
Who’s got real good news for you?
Who died on the cross for you?
Christ!
La la la laaaaaaa!
“Okay that’s good,” said Eddie, “but I really want to feel that punch when you say it —
Chrrrrist!
Like that! Okay? I don’t hear my baritones. Boys, sing out.”
Up With People, the New Christy Minstrels, the Fifth Dimension, the Pepsi Generation — Eddie Smock drew inspiration from all over. Tim and I kept our heads down and played softly. We dared not look at each other.
He was born in Bethlehem
No room at the inn for him
Pilate wanted death for him
Christ!
La la la laaaaaaa!
“Okay, well, that harmony’s still pretty rough,” Eddie said, “but hey, doesn’t our new and improved Combo sound great? Fantastic! You guys add a whole new dimension! Now, I want to just plunge on ahead.”
The second song featured a tall, good-looking boy, Ted Herring, as God, singing to the Virgin Mary, a beautiful brunette named Alicia Duchamp.
Hey Mary, guess what?
You’re gonna have a baby!
Yeah, ready or not —
I know you don’t believe it!
Of all the gals in Galilee
You’re the only gal for me
Hey May-rayy, guess what?!
Ya gonna have a Savior boy!
The songs were not rock and roll, but they were authentically snappy, lively show tunes. Eddie was a guy with a dream. He was also the most excited, cheerful guy in the room. He laughed and poked fun at our mistakes without hurting any feelings. He was not much older than we were, though he tried to look older with that goatee. I’d never seen anyone so comfortable in charge of other people.
From the sunny faces of the choir I could see that they’d all been saved, and Eddie was a hero to them.
I doubted I would ever fit in here. Everybody seemed a little too happy.
Eddie called a ten-minute break while he worked out the dance moves for the second big production number, “Third Manger on the Right.” Byron and Mickey said, “Hey, guys, come with us.” We went out of the sanctuary, down a maze of long twisting hallways.
Tim said, “Where are we going?”
“To hell if you don’t change your ways!” Byron said with a grin.
Mickey stopped before a tiny elevator, punched the button with his elbow. “They just installed this thing for the rich old ladies who can’t hack the stairs,” he told us. “Gotta keep those big offerings coming in.”
We crowded in. I didn’t really like being jammed in this tiny space with all the other boys. A steel gate slid shut. The elevator rose slowly.