A woman in the second row, big and made bigger by a bright scarf wrapped around her middle like a second skirt, wriggled by those blocking her way and danced into the central aisle. She shook from her head to her feet, her hands up and waving, the words a chant of startling beauty. “Hard, oh yes, Jesus, so hard, so hard!”
Deacon Wilbur remained unfazed. Only his glistening face suggested he was moved by the message. “Then the problem is, brothers and sisters, you are running alone.”
Marcus was not aware he had risen to his feet until he noticed that Deacon had become easier to see. “Brothers and sisters, just because you’re busy doesn’t mean you’re moving in the right direction. No. Can I have me an amen?”
The crowd sang its chant of accord.
“You’re not drawing closer to the goal just on account of you’re making good time. No. The task here isn’t to be busy. No. The world is full of the lost and alone, filling every crack in the mask they use to hide an empty heart with busy. Look around, see the desperate people shouting words they don’t want to hear. Just filling the world with busy, yeah, filling the void with everything they can.”
Deacon Wilbur was a man transformed, fierce and authoritative now, as though the cloak of age had been kicked aside. The old pastor’s face shone like it was coated with a fine sheen of oil. “Listen to me now, brothers and sisters. Listen good. Your very lives depend on this. Are you listening to me now?” When they shouted their attention, he said, “All right. Here’s the truth revealed. You’ve got to do your work for a higher cause. You’ve got to take your steps for something more than yourself. You’ve got to draw that next breath with something greater than your own selfish desires in mind. Can I have me an amen!”
The church rocked to the shouted response. Dozens more clustered and danced along the central aisle.
“Then you know what happens? You will rise up on eagle’s wings. Shout me an amen, brothers and sisters! You will run and never stumble. Let the Lord hear your joy!”
“Hallelujah!”
“You will strive and not grow weary, no. Sing your praise to the Lord!”
When the tumult quietened, the old man went on, “You got to work for something bigger, something finer, something eternal. You got to cross that great divide to make your work matter. You got to march over the bridge set in place by perfect sacrifice. The bridge God built for you and you alone.”
The upheaval grew more intense, the chants a song that carried no set tune, but swept like a lyrical wind through the church. “The bridge across the great divide, oh yes, it is the infinite gift. The holy gift. Yeah. And there is only one thing you can do to give it meaning, you hear what I am saying? You must accept this gift. You must aim your walk. No matter how scared you might be, looking down over the sides and seeing that chasm open up, yes, the one that looks dark as eternal night, the one that whispers words of death. Keep your eyes focused on the other side, the place where light dwells in all things. The place where you are welcome. Yes. The one place you can call home.”
Rising fatigue forced Marcus back into his seat. The weariness swelled until the words no longer mattered. Only the welcome they contained stayed with him. And that was more than enough. He looked around him, his gaze met by such open friendliness he wanted to weep. He found himself thinking of Dee Gautam’s words, about how home was the place that accepted him. Marcus found himself adding new words of his own. Perhaps home was the place that accepted him because of his needs. Not in spite of his lacks and failings; because of them. Then he shook his head a fraction. No. That would be too much to ask. Except perhaps for a single moment now and then, in a time out of time, one touched by the divine. Such as here and now.
TWENTY-FOUR
Monday morning brought no physical improvement whatsoever. Marcus’ body and mind both seemed stubbornly set against the day. His head pounded, his arm and gut ached, shaving was a chore, even the shower found tender places to probe. His tie defeated him entirely. As he descended the stairs, a burdensome weight remained upon his heart. He knew the reason for his concern, and was helpless in the face of it all. Today marked the beginning of the most hopeless trial of his entire career. He was wounded in body and mind and spirit. He felt lonelier than he had since the funeral eighteen months earlier. And he was sorely afraid of letting everyone down. Again.
As he entered the front hallway, footsteps clumped across the veranda. His entire frame seized up as shadows drifted by the narrow front windows. He saw with vivid clarity the gray attacker, heard the warning so loud it took a moment to realize the doorbell had rung. Marcus forced his muscles to unlock. He was fairly certain that if the gray man returned, he would not pause to ring the front bell.
Deacon Wilbur was positively dwarfed by the young man beside him. “Morning, Marcus. How are you feeling?”
“Fair.” He sketched a smile to the young man. “Hello, Darren.”
“The church elders met last night. We’ve decided to ask Darren here to keep an eye on you.”
The previous fear was still too vivid for Marcus to refuse outright. “It’s a good thought, Reverend. But I can’t afford to hire more staff.”
Deacon Wilbur demonstrated his ability to frown with his entire face. “Who said anything about you paying? Matter of fact, I don’t recall ever seeing a bill for protecting our cemetery.”
“That was nothing.”
“Don’t you say that. Don’t you even think it, not for an instant.”
The conversation was halted by the sight of four vehicles pulling in behind Deacon’s truck-Kirsten in one car, followed by Austin and Alma Hall in another, then a sheriff’s patrol car, and finally a Jeep Grand Cherokee painted Carolina blue.
The first voice he heard was that of Boomer Hayes. “Marcus! If I didn’t see you standing there in your own front door, I’d guess folks were gathering for your funeral!”
“You just hush up and take this.” Libby Hayes was quieter only by degree. “Charlie, get back here and carry this coffee cake.”
Amos Culpepper was the first to the stairs. “Good to see you up and about, Marcus. Hello, Reverend.” He nodded to the young man who towered almost a full head above the deputy. “I know you.”
“This is Darren Wilbur,” Marcus said. “He was rousted last week by the local police.”
The deputy kept a cool eye on the young man, who had turned to sullen stone. “Rousted.”
“Charged with the 7-Eleven robbery. He had witnesses who placed him on the other side of the river. Not to mention that the clerk says abuse was shouted at him and Darren has a stutter, and the clerk made no mention of any. But the officer in charge refused to listen. He needed a warm body. Darren is big enough to scare him.”
The deputy sheriff observed the young man for a long moment, then asked, “Do you vouch for him, Marcus?”
“I do.”
“Then I’ll see if we can’t talk some sense into the arresting officer.”
“Marcus!” Boomer Hayes led the crowd up the veranda steps. “I hope you’re hungry, ’cause Libby’s been up since dawn making all kinds of good smells.”
“Cultured Southern ladies are taught at an early age that food is the answer to whatever ails you.” Libby wore a pants and sweater outfit of sharp blue. “Land sakes, Marcus, the side of your head looks all bashed in.”
“You should see his gut,” Charlie said, doing his sideways climb up the stairs. “Morning, Reverend.”
“Hello, Judge. How’re you this fine day?”
“Partial to sleep. Libby made enough racket to wake the dead.”
“Momma always said food tastes better if you bang the pans.” Libby gave Darren a slow up-and-down. “They surely do grow folks big down east.”