Signs in the Blood (22 page)

“But, Dorothy,” persisted Elizabeth, horrified at this sudden revelation, “there's got to be something we can do—”

Dorothy shook her head. “We've done ever last thing the doctor said and it ain't done no good. And first thing this mornin' she called me in to her room. Said she was going to crack the Bible and see what the Lord could tell her. So I handed her the Book and she closed her eyes and opened it up. She kept her eyes shut and stabbed her finger right down at the bottom of a page. ‘Read it out to me, Dor'thy,' she tells me, her eyes still squinched tight. ‘Read it out.' So I looked where her finger's a-restin' and read it to her. Hit was in red for hit was Jesus's own words and hit said, ‘Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.'”

Dorothy's voice trembled, then broke. She cleared her throat. “Well, Birdie opened up her eyes and just looked so peaceful. All she done said was, ‘Well, then, I reckon I can do like my Savior.'”

Elizabeth had more questions, but it soon became apparent that Dorothy was doing everything that could be done. “And I'll stay here long as she needs me. Birdie and me always has got along good.”

A jumble of thoughts assailed Elizabeth as she drove home. Why hadn't she been aware of Miss Birdie's illness? Surely she should have noticed
something.
“They started her on chemo and blood transfusions and she was holdin' up real good and didn't want to tell nobody,” Dorothy had said, “but ever since Cletus's funeral she's been goin' down. I believe she likely ain't got but a few months left.”

And then there was the amazing effect of the Ezekiel verse.
My hand was warm and tingling and then the bleeding stopped,
she marveled, as she reviewed the events of the past hour.
It was amazing to me, but not to Birdie and Dorothy. They
knew
it would work; it was just an everyday folk remedy to them. Was it just the power of suggestion on Birdie's unquestioning faith? That's what Ben would say. But why did my hand have that
feeling,
that current running through it?

A glance at the clock told her that she had just enough time to get something to eat and change clothes if she still planned to go to the service at the Holiness Church that night.
Birdie said that it didn't matter about Cletus; to let it be. My poor little Birdie! She's worn out from the disease and the chemo—! But even if she thinks she doesn't care anymore, I need to know the truth. I owe it to her and to Cletus. Maybe it doesn't matter, but I told Harice Tyler I'd be there and be there I will. I want to hear the praying and singing and Aunt Belvy's message and I want to see them handling snakes. And after the Ezekiel verse . . . well . . .

Her hasty supper done, Elizabeth changed into a suitably modest long-sleeved blouse and long denim skirt. While she was brushing her teeth, the golden glint of her little earrings in the mirror caught her eye. She rinsed her toothbrush, considered for a moment, then quickly took the gold hoops from her earlobes and laid them by the sink. She studied herself, her deep blue eyes reflecting levelly back. Suddenly she undid the elastic band that secured her thick braid, letting the silver-streaked waves of dark hair ripple halfway down her back. She stared into the mirror, remembering that most of the women, young and old at the Holiness church had worn their hair long and loose-flowing. Harice Tyler's words,
“I can tell you ain't no Holiness woman,”
rang in her ears.

For a few seconds longer she contemplated her reflection. Then, remembering the time, she swiftly rebraided her hair. Again she studied the mirror. Finally she threaded the gold hoops back into her earlobes and left.

CHAPTER 18

A
D
EEP
A
NOINTING
 (
S
ATURDAY
N
IGHT)

T
HE LIGHT OF THE BALMY SPRING EVENING WAS
fading and Elizabeth's resolution wavered as she approached the little white building that was the Holiness Church of Jesus Love Anointed with Signs Following. She pulled into the crowded parking lot and sat there a minute, motor still running.
What the hell are you doing here, Elizabeth? It was different when you were coming with Miss Birdie. Did you drive all the way over here to find out more about Cletus? Or was it to see Harice Tyler again? Are you just ignoring the possibility; no, the probability that Cletus was drowned in the Tylers' trout flumes? And, you know, if that's true, Harice would have had to be involved. His old daddy couldn't have carried a body off to dump it in the river.

Light poured from the church door and windows and children chased one another up and down the concrete block steps. A family in a rumbling truck pulled up beside her and clambered out, Bibles in hand. They nodded and smiled at her, then walked eagerly toward the plain little building. She watched them, thinking how happy they all looked. The two little girls in pretty old-fashioned dresses skipped ahead of their parents, who were greeting friends on every side. Her eyes followed them to the steps and then she saw him.

He was standing in the open door looking up and down the parking area, no more than a black shape against the yellow light of the interior, but she recognized him instantly. At the same moment, he caught sight of her jeep and started down the steps. A giggling cluster of teenage girls accosted him at the foot of the steps but he waved them off and continued. Elizabeth cut off the motor and headlights and hastily removed her earrings, dropping them into her purse.

“Evening, Sister Goodweather,” Harice Tyler said as he opened her door. “Aunt Belvy told me that Miss Birdie couldn't come so I wanted to make you welcome myself.”

Escorting her into the church, he introduced her to a large, friendly-looking woman sitting on a bench near the front with a gaggle of small children. “Sister Morris, this here's Sister Goodweather from over to Ransom. She's here to see what this church is about.” The woman smiled widely and slid over to give Elizabeth the seat on the aisle.

“We think a lot of Brother Tyler,” Sister Morris said in an undertone, her eyes on Harice as he mounted the dais to exchange greetings with several other men. She pulled a squirming child into her lap and gave it a paper fan to play with. “He's been right lonely since his wife went to be with Jesus.”

Elizabeth wondered if Harice Tyler's wife had died of snakebite. But she just smiled and asked, “Is all this good-looking bunch yours?” nodding toward the five young children who were ranged on the bench beyond Sister Morris.

“My grandbabies,” the plump woman acknowledged with a proud smile. “I got fourteen, but these is the least uns. They love to go to church with Mamaw.”

A squabble between the boy and girl sitting nearest the wall demanded the grandmother's attention, so Elizabeth watched the congregation as they prepared for the services. Now the men on the dais were embracing one another. She had been surprised, on her first visit, to see these rugged country men kissing one another on the cheek, but her reading had explained that this had been prescribed by Paul in his epistle to the Romans, “Salute one another with an holy kiss.”

Women were hugging women and settling their children along the benches. Aunt Belvy swept in, tall and imposing, and sat a little apart in a front pew, leaning back against a cushion that must have been placed there especially for her. Two young women whom Elizabeth remembered from her previous visit hurried into seats near the front, giving her strangely unfriendly sidelong glances as they passed. Harice and five other men took their places on chairs and benches behind the pulpit. Beneath the table to the side were three flat snake boxes.

The service began with a burst of spontaneous prayer. The men at the front knelt on the floor, leaning over their chairs or benches while the rest of the congregation hunched over the back of the benches in front of them or leaned down, covering their faces with their hands. The noise of loud individual prayer that had so startled Elizabeth on her first visit now took on a different aspect.
Not really cacophony,
she thought,
more like an avant-garde symphony.

She had bowed her head in respect for the beliefs of this church where she was a guest, but she watched those around her through her half-closed eyes. To her right Sister Morris seemed to be running through a litany of names, asking blessings on each one and occasionally noting special problems. “Jesus, please help Angie Lee. It's her first baby and she's scared. Please put your arms around her and comfort her . . .” and across the aisle a very old man was praying for “them that's wanderin' and lost, Lord. Gather in yore sheep to yore heavenly fold.”

As the service continued with singing accompanied by an electric guitar, an organ, and several tambourines, Elizabeth was struck by the unselfconscious ease with which the congregation filled the sanctuary with their faith.
This,
she thought,
this is what it means to “Make a joyful noise before the Lord.”
The simple little building seemed to rock with fellowship, freely given and received. The invisible barrier that Elizabeth had deliberately erected around herself on her previous visit dissolved and she felt not so much an observer as a participant in the service. She enjoyed singing the emotional gospel songs—“Prayer Bells from Heaven,” and a rousing rendition of “He Will Set Your Fields on Fire”—happy that her unmusical croak was drowned out by the exuberant voices of those around her.

The guitar and organ quieted as the first man stood to speak, but the jingle of the tambourine continued in a steady undertone, occasionally increasing in volume as the shouted responses of the congregation rang out. The preaching was predictable, as before, but this time she was able to focus on the consolation rather than the threat offered by the message. And when Sister Morris suddenly thrust a pudgy grandbaby into her lap and stood and shouted out, “Marema akailo, kareen a todai!” Elizabeth merely rocked the drowsy child and snuggled it till it fell asleep, gripping her shirtfront with a sticky hand. She felt very near tears, but a smile had spread itself across her face and she began to wish that she had a tambourine.

She became aware of a growing feeling of anticipation in the churchgoers assembled there listening to the preaching. The woman at the organ began to play quiet chords and the electric guitar occasionally wailed an instrumental amen to the speaker's message. The congregation rustled expectantly, longing for the visitation of spirit that would bring down a deep anointing on some of their number. At the front, Aunt Belvy had risen to her feet and was swaying back and forth. The tambourines and organ grew louder, beating out a quicker, more insistent rhythm, and each new speaker was greeted with shouts of “Tell it!”

A sweet-faced old man testified of his miraculous escape from illness—a bleeding ulcer that had been cured when the church members had laid hands on him. He was making his way back to the deacons' bench when Aunt Belvy threw up her right hand and shouted out, “Yea, I say unto the sinner, yea!” She wheeled and strode down the aisle to Elizabeth's side. Elizabeth found herself handing the dozing baby back to its grandmother and rising to meet the prophetess, just as Birdie had done. The two tall women faced each other; dark brown eyes locked with deep blue.

“You must persevere; seek in the rocks of the mountains and in the living waters. Two, there are two joined in blood and water. Two by the hand of the father, two by the false prophet.” Aunt Belvy's deep voice had filled the little sanctuary, but suddenly she lowered it to a soft whisper, seemingly meant for Elizabeth's ears alone. “I say unto thee, thou shalt not deny the gift.”

The dark eyes, so dilated that they seemed to be bottomless pools of midnight water, bored into Elizabeth's, then rolled back, leaving only the whites showing, and, as before, Aunt Belvy slumped in a near faint. And, as before, she was caught by two men and helped back to her seat.

The guitar and organ fell silent. Elizabeth felt the combined gaze of the congregation on her and hurriedly sat down as Harice Tyler stepped to the pulpit. For a long heartbeat or two he stood looking approvingly at her. Then, in a low voice that grew steadily in volume and intensity, he began to preach. “Brother Eldon was speakin' just now of being healed by this church. We know that it's one of the Lord's gifts to some of his children: Some have prophecy—” He glanced at Aunt Belvy, who was rocking back and forth where she sat. She nodded her head and put up a shaking hand. “Some have discernment.” He gestured toward someone in the back of the room who called out “Praise His Name” as a tambourine was rattled vigorously.

“Some have the gift of tongues, like Sister Morris.” A sharp bang on the skin of the tambourine and a steady jingle followed these words.

Elizabeth's neighbor on the bench smiled and said in a conversational tone, “Bless Him.”

“What do we make of a sinner who's been given one of the gifts? A sinner who can lay a hand on an old woman and stop her bleedin'? A sinner who says she don't believe? Well, I tell you this: God is mighty. He can work through a sinner but at the same time He's a-callin' that sinner, He's a-showin' what he can offer, and He's waiting for that sinner to come home.”

Harice Tyler was not looking at Elizabeth, nor were those around her, but she felt her face glowing red. The sermon moved on to God's mysterious ways and became too loud and too quickly spoken for Elizabeth to follow easily. The organ and guitar now kept pace with the preacher's impassioned words. As the momentum picked up, many of the people in the room rose, swaying and dancing in place. The music grew louder still and the baby on Sister Morris's lap wakened and put out its arms to Elizabeth, wiggling its fingers and demanding, “Hold you?” She took the toddler back in her lap, grateful for the distraction.

Elizabeth had closed her eyes and bent her head to inhale the sweet fragrance of baby shampoo and to consider what Aunt Belvy's message might have meant
. . . if I believed that sort of thing. A false prophet and two joined in blood and water. Water again . . .
when she became aware of a subtle shift in the atmosphere of the room. The
amen
s and
hallelujah
s that had punctuated Harice Tyler's sermon had become louder, and the jingle of the tambourines was being answered by a dry buzzing sound.

She opened her eyes to see a heavy young man dancing in front of the pulpit. A black timber rattler was draped around his neck, its tail a blur of motion. A few feet away Harice was lifting two brilliant copperheads in his right hand and bringing them close to his face, so close that their slender forked tongues flicked delicately at his lips. His eyes were squeezed tight and his head was thrown back. On his face was a look of rapt exaltation.

Across the aisle from Elizabeth, one of the young women who had given her such an unpleasant look. Buxom and dark-haired, she was wearing a modest blue-flowered dress with a wide lace collar. Her pretty face was shining with happiness and her lips were moving constantly as she approached the man with the rattler and held out both hands. He paused in his dancing, slid the serpent from his shoulders, and laid it across her open palms. She raised the heavy snake above her head and began to turn in graceful circles, her long dark hair fanning out around her.

Elizabeth realized that amidst the loud music and shouted exhortations there was a quiet bustle of movement in her pew. All the small children were being shepherded to the back of the church, away from the handlers on the raised dais. Sister Morris and her brood were squeezing past her, the children gaping at the serpents and reluctant to move. As Sister Morris plucked the sleepy baby from Elizabeth's lap, she leaned over to say with a sweet, gap-toothed smile, “You stay here, Sister Goodweather, and see what faith in the Lord can do. I believe this deep anointin's been sent because you're here.”

Elizabeth watched, spellbound, as the snakes were passed from one to another of those who felt the call to handle. She had read that believers were sometimes bitten, and that, of these, some died, though many lived to handle again. The library book had quoted a handler from Kentucky: “Some folks say the snakes is doped up or their fangs is pulled but I'm here to tell you, buddy, this thing is real.”

This thing
is
real,
she thought, seeing the snakes being handled casually, even roughly. These ordinary people, these farmers, factory hands, mothers and fathers were in a mystical state as genuine as that of any whirling Sufi, any meditating Zen monk awaiting
satori,
as any person of any faith seeking to attain oneness with God by abandoning reason and trusting to spirit. The danger was real, the snakes were real, and the faith was real. The handlers all seemed to be in a deep ecstasy, beyond disbelief, beyond doubt, beyond fear.

Harice Tyler had passed over his two copperheads to a waiting deacon who clasped one in each hand and hopped across the dais, calling out in unintelligible staccato syllables. Tyler watched him and then, glancing toward Elizabeth, reached into the third snake box. He lifted up a fat yellow rattler and held it out to the congregation like an offering. The snake lay placidly across his splayed fingers, its questing tongue daintily tasting the air. The guitar and organ that had been pounding out an earsplitting anthem, three parts gospel, one part rock and roll, grew softer. The insistent rhythm pulsed in a compelling beat as Harice Tyler held the big yellow rattler out and said, “This is for someone.”

For a moment, caught up in the music and the mystery, Elizabeth thought,
I could do that.
She imagined holding the snake, silky and cool, strong and firm, in her hands and looking without fear into its slitted pupils. She had a momentary vision of herself dancing barefoot before the Lord, a copperhead in each hand, and Harice Tyler at her side. Harice Tyler was staring steadily at her now and holding out the big rattler, which lay unmoving in his hands.