The Preacher And The Piano Player
It might have been a little early yet for church and in any case we did not plan on attending. In Fence Post the preacher lives two houses down and had said if I should ever need anything that is where I should go, and that if he wasn't there his wife probably would be. It is a neat, well cared for, modest property and his offer seemed sincere. His last name is not Waite nor is his wife's name Helen. He had two days previous invited me to his church which is just about a quarter mile away, up on the two-lane state highway. The printout he had given me--with the hand-written query on the back, ''Does Sweet Jesus Live Here?"--had given 11a.m. as the time for the first, and only, service. The church is a relatively new structure, built in the last ten years or so and though I have only seen it from the outside and it appears small, I would guess it might seat 50 parishioners.
There have been times in my life when it was suggested that I possess a certain type of courage but any courage I possess is as far as I can tell just a mask to hide my fear. Which is to say I probably would not have the requisite courage to attend services at the little church up on the highway. I can however, imagine.
I just think it's a little early.
Are you sure this is the right church?
I'm pretty sure.
But look at the doorknob, it looks rusty.
Oh I bet that's just because these people are very clean and have no oil on their hands, which would help prevent that unsightly rust.
Cleanliness is next to godliness?
Or certainly very nearby.
What time is it now? Is it still early? Why don't we go in and get a good seat?
But we're the only car in the parking lot.
Maybe the locals come in by tunnel. I'm going in, it's too hot out here.
But Bernadette...wait...I think you're right, this is probably the wrong church. It's my mistake. I should have written down the directions...what if this is a meeting hall for those local gangsters Johnny Woodman's wife was talking about? They've seen graffiti in the area, Bernadette, this is no joke. All of this I was saying to the door as it swung shut. I stood outside, defiantly, waiting for Bernadette's return and eventual acquiescence to the realization that my game plan of hesitation was better than hers. As that didn't happen right away I became impatient and entered the church.
I was greeted by a screeching electronic feedback which preceded the warm syrupy tones of my neighbor preacher. Welcome, I am so glad you all could make it. Bernadette was nowhere in sight. I waved meekly and sat down. Immediately there began a jaunty hymn hammered out on a stand up piano to the left of the pulpit. From old habit I looked for documentation and in the seatback in front of me extracted a sheaf of paper, which listed the opening hymn as--In My Heart There Rings a Melody. The piano player was a boy child appearing to be maybe ten-years-old. In the two beat following the last note the preacher said, please be seated, and as I was already seated, I momentarily stood up, before awkwardly sitting down again. I was the only one in the church, besides the preacher and the piano player. I warned Bernadette about those gangbangers, but she doesn't listen, she has her own way.
The preacher began--it's good to see some new faces here today and I felt my face flush. Luckily there happened a distraction coming from the door to the right of the pulpit and what came through that door was a procession of two women and three children, the children being teenagers, one boy and two girls. Of the two women, one was Bernadette in a flower print dress, perhaps a little large for her, and the other I ventured to guess was the preacher's wife. They all came and sat in the seats on either side of me. Bernadette by expression gave no clue. The preacher's wife, to my left, leaned over and said, I thought your wife might be more comfortable in one of my dresses. I nodded and said, hmm hmm. Bernadette, to my right, clasped my right hand with her left, and dug her nails into the back of my knuckles.
The sermon began and was a homily of some sort based on the idea that there were three ways to get what you wanted. One was to work for it, the other was to lie, cheat, and steal for it, and the third way was to accept the thing as a gift. Shortly after the sermon began I bowed my head in apparent prayer and napped my way through the most of it, waking every so often when I felt a pain emanating from my right hand.
I felt myself being lifted (perhaps spirited away) at some point and when I regained what we all might agree is a reasonable semblance of consciousness, I was back in the Jeep, driving down the highway. Bernadette, in the seat beside me, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, was very quiet, and I contemplated engagement, but opted instead for silent contemplation.
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