JUNE 1972
The church picnic was not just the introduction of the new pastor but a social affair rivaling a state dinner at the White House. Instead of fine china and sterling, we had paper plates and plastic forks. Instead of steak and lobster, we ate freshly cut watermelon and coleslaw by the gallon along with burgers and hot dogs. The weight of the potato salad made the folding tables wobble.
The elders had canceled Sunday school that morning, the only time that would happen in my days there, with the exception of one major snowfall and a bitterly cold day in 1978 when the downstairs pipes burst. My father accompanied the elders to the platform and sat behind the pulpit while my mother played the piano. The organist was a teenage boy not much older than me who tried valiantly to keep up.
On Sundays, all the Massey Ferguson and John Deere hats came off at the door, and the men who had strong leanings toward unions and political platforms politely put aside their differences and mingled, though it was interesting to walk through the parking lot and see the ratio of Nixon to McGovern bumper stickers. Older women wore dresses and hose and smelled of sickly sweet perfume. Their hair was usually up, while younger women wore theirs down, cascading to the shoulders of their modest dresses. Boys wore white T-shirts under their button-ups and there was a smattering of ties, but those boys usually stretched at their collars throughout the service. You could tell the haves and have-nots from pants and shoes. Well-fitting pants meant you were in the upper echelon. High-water pants meant it had been a while since you had enough money for new. Men who owned a pair of wing-tip oxfords were on one end of the economic scale, while at the other were those with freshly hosed work boots. Men smelled of tobacco, peppermint, and shoe polish.
“Matt, you’re going to see people in church and school who don’t have much,” my mother had said that morning before we left the house. “Don’t ever look down on anyone and never laugh at anybody’s clothes. That’s the cruelest thing you can do.”
I could think of a few things more cruel, but her point was well-taken. I wondered if she was speaking from experience. She and my father had grown up in the Depression and I had heard stories about how hard things had been.
“Now I want you to look for Gwen Bailey,” my mother said. “She’s real smart. Loves to read, just like you. And she’s real pretty.”
The prospect of being set up made me sweat. I agreed I would look for her, but inside, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to interact. I was always nervous around girls, another reason I liked Jesse. I could be myself around her.
“Is Mawmaw coming?”
“She doesn’t feel comfortable in church with the medication she’s on.”
“You want me to keep her company?”
She pulled my tie tight. “Get in the car, Matt.”
Red, spine-worn hymnals populated the pew back in front of me. I sat alone in the third row, feeling every eye of the congregation and tugging at my collar. My mother had insisted I have a haircut, so my father buzzed me the day before and stray hairs scratched. The church had not invested in air-conditioning, so the windows were open and the large ceiling fans were working overtime. They did little to quell the heat. As a heavy child, I was used to sweating even in winter. But sweating outside, riding your bike with the wind in your face, was different from sweating in your Sunday best.
The song leader, Gerald Grassley, was a middle-aged man with a mustache between a prominent nose and jutting chin. He had a car and lawn mower repair shop in Dogwood that gave free oil changes to widows. Though he tried to clean them, his fingernails were always a shade of black and he wore extra Brut to cover up the smell of ether and gasoline that seemed to leak through his pores.
Gerald’s arm rose and fell the same way to any song he led, no matter the time signature. He had a nasal twang when he spoke and sang, like a younger Grandpa Jones, but his pitch wasn’t bad and he seemed to enjoy song leading. His job was to get everybody started at the same place and everybody stopped when the song was over, but whatever happened in the middle was up to God and the congregation.
To his right were empty choir chairs in a loft section beside the pulpit. Those would be filled once my mother recruited eligible singers. Behind was the baptistery, a cutout section in the knotty pine walls that looked like an oversize window flanked by velvet curtains. There was a mural on the wall behind it painted by an art teacher from a nearby high school. It was a peaceful scene of trees and hills, and a stream flowed from top to bottom, ending in the baptismal waters. Something was off in the scale, though, because the trees in the foreground were smaller than those on the hills and the sparrow that sat on the limb of a sycamore looked the size of a crow. When you stared at it long enough, you got vertigo.
I peeked over my shoulder to see if Jesse and Dickie might have arrived, but every head turned toward me, including that of a girl with a pink ribbon in her hair and a dress suitable for Easter Sunday. That had to be Gwen.
I stared at the bulletin, scanning the names of church leaders. The order of service was printed on a mimeograph machine that made every e on the page look like an o with a faint, crooked line through it. The page had been printed crooked, so you had to hold it at an angle. After the words Introduction of Now Pastor, the name Basil Blackwood was printed.
Even with the uneven printing I recognized the man who owned the horse. My heart sank and I scooted down in the seat as he stepped to the pulpit.
“As you all know, we’ve gone and hired a new shepherd. Calvin Plumley grew up here, just down the road from me. He comes from a good family. A little mistaken in their politics, of course.”
The congregation gave a reserved laugh.
“He has two children, one still in the nest,” Mr. Blackwood said. “And his wife, Ramona, has graciously agreed to accompany us each week and get the choir started again. Anybody who wants to be in the choir, be here at five o’clock tonight before the evening service.”
My mother stood at the piano and nodded, then lifted a hand toward me to stand. I was far down in the pew, trying to avoid the gaze of the man in the pulpit, but when my mother didn’t relent, I stood. I lost my balance and grabbed the pew in front of me, nearly rocking it over. It banged with a terrific crack and I waved as I sat. The girl with the ribbon smiled.
Mr. Blackwood stared at me as if the abomination of desolation had just entered the Temple.
“We’ve made it clear the reason we’re bringing in Plumley is to get us on track. We need the Word of God. What we have in this country is not the fear of the Lord, and that’s what we sorely need. I’m hoping we’ll hear messages about the great and terrible Day of the Lord. And the lake of fire God is preparing. And I’m expecting there to be some baptisms back there.” Blackwood pointed a thumb behind him. “It’s been a dry spell.”
My stomach growled, half from hunger and half from nervousness for my father. I hadn’t considered the people’s expectations of him. He had preached in churches near Pittsburgh, but there’s a difference between speaking once and walking out the door and having to live with those you’re speaking to.
“Now we don’t usually do this in the Lord’s house, but before we hear him speak and commission him, I think it’s appropriate to welcome our new pastor with a round of applause.”
People clapped work-worn hands and my mother slipped into the pew beside me. I felt comforted by her presence. My father stood and put his Bible on the pulpit. I held my breath, hoping he would say something that disarmed Mr. Blackwood and appeased the skeptics.
He thanked them for giving him the opportunity and thanked God for leading us to Dogwood. “After all the things us Plumley boys got into as kids, I’m surprised you let me in the church, let alone called me as pastor.”
There was polite laughter, though Mr. Blackwood frowned. My father’s next words made me think the man might storm the pulpit and pull back their call.
“Now I’m all for preaching the Day of the Lord, the lake of fire, hell, eternal punishment, and the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. And a helping of weeping and gnashing of teeth, to boot. The truth is the truth. You don’t hide that under a bushel. But I learned in seminary that if you preach the whole counsel of God’s Word, you can never go wrong. So we’re going one book at a time, verse by verse, and we’re going to hit the Day of the Lord when it gets here. What I think you’ll find is that there’s more about the love and grace and mercy of God than there is hellfire and brimstone. Judgment is coming—God would have to apologize to Sodom and Gomorrah if he didn’t judge us. But Jesus said that he would build his church and the gates of hell would not prevail against it. I believe that, and I want to be part of that. Do you?”
“Amen!” a few people said.
“So today, open to John, chapter one, verse one.”
I associate the sound of flipping onionskin with every Sunday and Wednesday night of my youth.
“‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’”
My father preached well and seemed to hold the congregation’s attention despite the few references to Greek words and Old Testament concepts. My mind turned toward the potato salad and Jesse. I looked at Mr. Blackwood, his jaw set as he listened, and wondered what had happened to the last pastor.
After the message, the elders rose and gathered around my father, put their hands on his shoulders, and prayed. The sound system, which was tinny and only came through one speaker, began to squeal as the man working the sound tried to pick up the prayers. When it was over, Mr. Blackwood dismissed the ladies to go to the kitchen. Several men left to get the coals going on the barbecues. My shirt was drenched by the end of the service and I couldn’t wait to get my tie off.
My mother finished her postlude and scurried to the back while men congregated around my father, shaking hands and swapping stories. I heard someone say, “I remember when you and your brother went coon hunting on my daddy’s property.”
I did not see the man’s approach or I might have run, but when I looked up, Mr. Blackwood leaned over the pew in front of me, his face inches from mine.
“I recognize you,” he said, his voice emotionless. He said the word recognize without the g—reckonize. His eyes locked on me like lasers.
“Yes, sir,” I said, a ball of sweat rolling down my neck.
“Am I going to have to speak to your daddy about you trespassing on my property?”
I wanted to tell him I was only trying to help his horse, but I said, “No, sir.”
“Then we’ll keep this between us. And don’t let it happen again, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
I quickly made my way out the back door into fresh air. Men gathered in the shade of a weeping willow. The women had set out covered dishes on folding tables. Somehow they had coordinated things so that there weren’t too many bean casseroles or pasta salads. I saw a dish at the end, set off by itself, that looked a little disgusting and smelled like somebody had died. I later learned it was called ramps and that it was a delicacy in that neck of the woods. It was the only dish I never tried.
A circular table held desserts that looked like the bread of angels. Frosted pound cakes, walnut-filled brownies, cherry pies, apple pies, pecan and lemon meringue. I wanted to grab one of everything on the table, but as a heavy child you quickly learn that people judge how high you pile your plate. Instead, you pick opportunities to secretly indulge.
“Matt, honey, why don’t you go see what the others are doing?” my mother said, gently prodding me away from the food.
Several boys were in a heated game of basketball at the sagging hoop on a dead walnut tree, and I wandered over, hands in my pockets. They would bounce the ball on the uneven ground and pick it up after every dribble. A wiry redheaded boy with a complexion that seemed too light, like Edgar Winter, made a shot and gave a teammate a high five.
“What did the Reds do last night?” someone said.
“Got rained out in Montreal.”
They were bantering about their favorite team when a big-boned girl came up beside me. She had the same red hair and light complexion as the boy playing basketball. She stared at me with abject fascination, then pulled at her dress, which could not hide her large frame or budding femininity. Her hair was short and she had the first signs of acne. Her upper lip didn’t reach all the way to the lower one, so she had the countenance of a chipmunk.
“You the preacher’s boy?” she said.
I introduced myself, holding out a hand. She took it daintily, like she wasn’t sure how to respond, and dipped her head in a curtsy like I was royalty. “I’m Shur-uhl,” she said. Later I learned that this was short for Shirley and her last name was Turley, and I immediately felt both sorrow for her and contempt for her parents. I also learned that Shirl’s father, Burl, had been a leader in the church but had died several years earlier and that the Turleys and Blackwoods were cousins and stuck closer than worms in a can.
“I’m not going to be eatin’ anything at the picnic,” Shirl said.
I wasn’t sure why she would offer such personal information, but I couldn’t think of anything to say but “Why not?”
“Upset stomach. Mommy made me all the whipped cream I could eat last night. Once you get started, you can’t stop.”
I nodded.
“Earl?” Shirl shouted toward the gaggle. The redheaded kid picked up his dribble. “This here is the preacher’s boy. You ought to let him play.”
Earl walked toward me with the basketball tucked under his arm. When he spoke, it sounded like some country singer I had heard who whined his songs. “You gotta get somebody else if you want to play. Keep the sides even.”
“He don’t know nobody,” Shirl said. “How’s he gonna get somebody to play?”
“Wait till somebody shows up,” Earl said.
“Fine,” she said, spitting the word. “I’ll be on their side, Matt. You be on Earl’s.”
“No girls!” a smaller redheaded boy said. It was the younger Turley, Verle, who hadn’t scampered clear of the family rhyme scheme.
“That ain’t fair,” Shirl said. And there began a verbal back-and-forth I sensed might become an all-out war between the sexes.
Another boy pointed toward the road and yelled, “What are they doing here?” He said they like it was a curse word.
“It’s the coon and that Woods girl,” Verle said.
“He’s only half-coon,” Shirl said.
“Half is bad enough,” Earl said. “Besides, he looks full-blooded to me.”
At the first sight of my friends, I ran toward the road waving, elated. I was trying to influence those behind me toward a little diversity and acceptance. Jesse was on her bike and had something strapped to the back. As she got closer, I saw Daisy’s legs dangling from a basket. Her legs bounced and she had a thumb in her mouth, her head bobbing.
“Dickie,” I called, “come on, we need another player!”
Jesse was out of breath, pulling up the hill to the parking lot and scanning the grounds like an explorer fearing danger in the untouched wilderness. She stopped and put dilapidated flip-flops on the gravel. They looked like she had found them in someone’s trash. Dickie looked skeptical of the gathering.
“Has the picnic started?” Jesse said.
“They’re cooking the burgers and hot dogs now,” I said. “Won’t be long. Come on, I’ll introduce you to my mom. And you can get a drink for Daisy.”
“We don’t allow coons around here,” Earl said behind me.
“Shut your mouth, Turley,” Jesse said. I could tell there was history here. History lessons came quick in Dogwood.
Shirl lumbered off. I wasn’t sure if she was afraid of the turning tide or had heard someone open a tub of Dream Whip.
Earl stepped forward and glared at Jesse. “Come shut it yourself. And why don’t you let the coon fight his own battles?”
“We don’t have to play basketball,” I said, my voice trembling. There had to be some way to defuse the situation. “Dickie, come on, let’s just go over to the—”
“We don’t allow skanks, either,” another boy said, interrupting me. He had just walked up and was taller than the others and a little older, a deeper voice. Something in his face looked familiar.
I didn’t understand the word skank, but I knew by the tone and Jesse’s reaction that it was not a term of endearment. I had heard the word coon used for black people back in Pittsburgh, but my parents said only people of low intelligence and character used that term or the n word for “colored people.” When I asked them why only people with black skin were considered “colored,” they didn’t have a good answer.
“Don’t waste your energy on them, Jesse,” Dickie said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I’m not going nowhere,” Jesse said, stepping off the bike and staring past the bigger boy to Earl.
“Nice bike, Jesse,” Verle Turley said from a distance. “What dead coon did you steal it from?”
Jesse ignored him and motioned for me to come closer and grab the handlebars. “Hold this for me, Matt.”
Earl took a step backward and grew paler, if that were possible. I wondered if he’d been through a tussle with Jesse before.
“Why don’t you two get out of here,” the bigger boy said. “Before you get yourself in a world of hurt.”
“You tell them, Gentry,” someone said.
I held up a hand. “I agree with Gentry. Let’s calm down.”
“Earl needs to be taught a lesson,” Jesse said, her voice low and gravelly.
“And what lesson is that?” Earl said, seeming emboldened by Gentry’s support.
“That you don’t call people names if you’re not ready to take responsibility for the name-callin’.”
“Okay,” Earl said, stepping forward. “Here you go, preacher boy. Hold this.”
He threw the ball hard and I wasn’t expecting it. Even if I had gotten my hands up, it would have done little good. The heavy, dusty ball hit me squarely in the nose and I fell back, closing my eyes and seeing stars. The bike fell, and I heard yelling. Daisy cried. I sat up. Ketchup on my tie and dress shirt. I touched my nose and pulled away a handful. It wasn’t ketchup.
Dust flew, along with angry shouts and curses. I wanted to jump into the fray, but I was so stunned by the ball and the geyser that was my nose, all I could do was go to Daisy. Dickie had pulled her up and was dusting her off. He shouted over his shoulder for Jesse.
Gentry and Earl were in the middle and Jesse’s bare feet stuck out from the pack, her flip-flops a memory. I heard screams of pain from the boys but Jesse wasn’t talking, just grunting and struggling in the scrum.
Shirl returned with several adults, one of them Mr. Blackwood. When he pulled Gentry out of the heap, I saw the resemblance.
“She started it!” Gentry yelled to his dad. “I was just trying to help Earl not get killed.”
“Jesse’s just like her daddy!” another boy yelled.
Earl came up for air holding scratches on his face. Claw marks, more like it. Jesse was the last one up and her hair was dirty and her T-shirt torn. She still had a look of determination, like she had given more than she’d taken and wasn’t finished.
“What happened here?” my dad said, running up.
My mother arrived with a bag of ice, somehow anticipating that someone would need it, and put it to my nose. The women of the church were always the first to see trouble. Shirl had been the one to run for help. My mother brought ice.
“They started it, Preacher,” Earl said.
“They came riding up here calling us names,” Gentry said. “And taking the Lord’s name in vain, too.”
“That ain’t true,” Jesse said, spitting some blood in the dirt beside her and hugging Daisy. “We was invited.”
“Who would invite the two of you?” Gentry said.
Jesse glanced at me, then back at Gentry. “Don’t matter. A church is supposed to welcome people, no matter who they are.”
“You all get out of here now,” Mr. Blackwood said to the gathering. “Show’s over.”
Daisy cried and Jesse held her. I wanted to say something, wanted to speak up and tell what really happened, but battle lines had been drawn and I felt more comfortable in the demilitarized zone.
“As for you,” Mr. Blackwood said to Jesse, “take your sister and the half-breed and don’t come back.”
My mother whispered in my ear, “Come on over to the kitchen and we’ll wash you up. What in the world happened?”
Dickie got on his bike and Jesse tried to get Daisy into the metal basket, but it had bent when the bike fell and there wasn’t room.
“I’m hungry,” Daisy whined to Jesse. “You said we’d get something to eat.”
“We’ll get something when we get home,” Jesse said, wiping blood from the corner of her mouth.
My mother went over to the bicycles and introduced herself. “You must be Jesse and Dickie. Matt told me about you.”
They looked at me, then back at her.
“And this is Daisy Grace?” my mother said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jesse said. “She’s three.”
“Well, look at how pretty you are. Now y’all should stay for lunch. We have plenty.”
Jesse looked at Gentry and Earl walking away and shook her head. “We ain’t wanted here, ma’am.”
“This is a celebration. Everybody in the community was invited.”
“We just came to say hey to Matt,” Dickie said. “Since we didn’t come to the service, we shouldn’t eat anything.”
“Nonsense. You don’t have to do anything to deserve a picnic.”
“We have to be going,” Jesse said, getting on her bike.
“I’m hungry,” Daisy whined.
My mother turned and there was a pained look on her face. “Wait just a minute.”
My father put his hand on my shoulder and got out his good white handkerchief and told me to hold it against my nose. “Keep your head back,” he said. “And hold that ice right here.” He didn’t ask what happened.
My mother returned with three paper bags that hung with weight. “There’s a hot dog and hamburger for each of you,” she said. Her voice sounded polite and friendly, but there was a strain in it. “I wrapped them up. I would have put some potato salad in, but it would have gotten too messy.” She leaned close to Daisy. “There’s some dessert in there, too. And a cold can of pop.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Jesse said.
“That’s nice of you, Mrs. Plumley,” Dickie said.
“You be careful with that hot dog with her,” my mother said to Jesse. “It’s easy to choke if she doesn’t chew it good.”
“I knew a guy that choked on a hot dog once,” Dickie said, but he didn’t finish the story.
Daisy opened her paper bag and looked inside like she was beholding the Holy of Holies.
“If y’all change your mind, you can come back and have some more, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jesse said. “But we better be going.”
Mr. Blackwood yelled in the distance and all the kids went running. My dad and mom walked toward the picnic hastily, as well, leaving me with my friends.
“Nice church you got here,” Jesse said. “Some places only make visitors stand up.”
Dickie smiled. “Does your daddy hold people under extra long when he baptizes them?”
“I’m sorry they said those things. I don’t understand why they’d do that.”
“You’ll understand directly,” Jesse said with a frown. “You okay?”
Her compassion moved me and I nodded, fighting off the tears. She was the one who had taken the punches and pulled hair and she was asking about me.
They started to pedal off and I called after them, “Hang on!” I sounded like Rudolph with the black nose shoved over my red one. “The burgers and hot dogs are going to get cold if you don’t eat now.”
“In this heat?” Jesse said. “They’ll probably get warmer.”
“Yeah, but if you went over on the front steps of the church, in the shade, we could eat together. We don’t have to go to the picnic.”
“I’m hungry,” Daisy whined again. She opened her bag and stuck a grubby hand inside.
“Leave that alone,” Jesse said. She looked back at me, then at the church. “I guess it wouldn’t do no harm to just sit awhile. Then we’ll head home.”
I smiled, still pressing the handkerchief to my nose. I led the three to the concrete steps, and they put their bikes down and opened their bags and ate like they had missed several meals. Daisy struggled to open her can of root beer, so I took it from her and popped the top, and it bubbled up and ran down the side.
“You guys want anything else?” I said. “I can get some deviled eggs or a piece of chicken. Macaroni salad?”
“This is fine,” Jesse said. “If she eats too much, she’ll get sick.” She took the last bite of hamburger and chewed it.
“What about some watermelon?” I said.
Dickie’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I’ll take some melon.”
Before I could leave, Jesse said, “Your mama is real nice.”
“Yeah,” Dickie agreed. “If she’d start a church, I’d come Sundays and Wednesday nights.”
“She plays the piano,” I said, trying to think of something to say.
“She give lessons?” Jesse said.
“Not yet. I mean, she used to. Back in Pittsburgh.”
“How much they cost?” Jesse said.
“I don’t know. A few dollars a lesson, maybe?”
She scowled. “Do you play?”
“She was teaching me but I wanted somebody not related. She’s been looking for someone—”
“What do we have here?” a voice said behind me. Gentry Blackwood came around the corner holding a watermelon rind. I glanced above him at a yellow jacket’s nest that had been built in the eave of the roof. A few of them buzzed around the nest.
“Don’t your mama know it’s not good to feed strays?” Gentry said to me. “Feed ’em once and they’ll keep coming back.” He spat a black seed that landed near Dickie’s foot. Daisy dug in her bag for her dessert and came out with a handful of brownie.
“If you feed a coon, he’ll just dig around in your trash at night,” Gentry said.
“What’s your problem, Gentry?” Jesse said. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“A coon and a skank at my dad’s church is my business.”
Jesse looked at me. “I thought your dad was the pastor.”
“My dad runs this church and he already told you to leave,” Gentry said. “So you best be getting out of here before we make you. And learn your lesson, Plumley. Don’t go feedin’ the strays. This is Dogwood trash.”
Something inside took over. Though I was scared of Gentry, I was emboldened by new friends. I could never win a fistfight with him, but I could use words.
“I’ve been taught that people who call others names are the ones who have the worst arguments.”
Gentry squinted at me like I was a cootie. “What did you say?”
“He didn’t stutter,” Jesse said.
“If you can’t win an argument, you attack people with names. You call a person coon or skank or trash. That means the bully doesn’t have the mental acuity to have real dialogue.”
Gentry balled one hand into a fist, the other holding the rind.
“He said you don’t have the brains to really fight,” Dickie said. “All you got is . . .”
“Epithets,” I said. “It’s an adjective used for people, usually to put them down. But sometimes the epithets turn into nouns when people accept them.”
Jesse squashed her paper bag. “You know what a noun is, don’t you, Gentry? Trash is a noun, ain’t it, Matt?”
“Absolutely. Person, place, or thing.”
“You three are crazy,” Gentry said, tossing the rind at Dickie. Dickie blocked it with his foot and let it fall harmlessly.
Gentry pointed a finger at me. “My daddy’s going to hear about this. Which means your daddy is going to tan your hide.”
“Is tan a verb?” Jesse said.
“It can be a verb or a noun,” I said. “Tan your hide means to hit a person hard enough to change the color of their skin. But a farmer gets a tan in the summer, and that’s a noun.”
“You have to go easy on him, Matt,” Jesse said. “He was held back so many times they gave him a permanent desk in second grade.”
“Yeah,” Dickie said. “He got out of the spelling bee on the word cat.”
“Two years in a row,” Jesse said.
“You think you’re funny,” Gentry said to Jesse. “You’re not going to be laughing when my dad gets through with that sorry farm of yours.”
“What’s my farm got to do with the price of watermelon in China?” Jesse said, and Dickie and I both laughed.
Gentry walked away and I had a sick feeling mixed with a feeling of victory.
“You had enough?” Jesse said to Dickie.
“I’d like some watermelon, but I think we’ve overstayed our welcome. By about a half hour.”
Daisy wanted to take her bag with her and Jesse didn’t argue. I took the rind and the smashed bags of my friends and watched them ride away. When I turned from tossing the trash in a fifty-gallon drum, Mr. Blackwood and Gentry were both watching me.