6

“EDDIE! BE CAREFUL!” Bill Ligon called out to his new friend as quietly as possible. Today was Bill’s turn to hide behind a tree, along with his younger brother, Tyree, who crouched behind him. They nervously glanced around in every direction, watching for approaching cars or even early rising pedestrians who might be passing by the white Gallatin Junior High School just after sunup on a Saturday morning. From their safe distance in the shadows, Bill and Tyree watched Eddie slowly climb up the outside wall of the school gymnasium, using the strong vines that grew alongside the brick walls for footing and something to grasp.

Every time Eddie’s foot slipped from a vine, Bill’s heart jumped to his throat. He could envision the headlines already: “White Boy Falls to His Death,” with the additional tag line: “Two Negroes Jailed for Encouraging Him to Climb Wall.” Bill’s imaginary headlines weren’t far-fetched. That’s the way the justice system worked in the South in the early 1960s. If a black person was involved in an incident, it was their fault.

Fortunately, Eddie didn’t fall. He climbed to an upper window that had been left unlocked, pulled it open, and crawled over the windowsill. A few moments later, he was in! He turned and waved to Bill and Tyree. The Ligon brothers raced to the gymnasium’s front door, where Eddie met them and let them inside the school.

All three boys ran onto the basketball court and stopped short, gawking in wonder. Eddie had been to the school to watch some junior high basketball games, but he had never before played on this court. Bill and Tyree had never been inside the building.

All three of them stood awestruck as their eyes swept the spacious gym.

“This must be what heaven looks like,” Tyree quipped.

The court was replete with brightly shining hardwood flooring. It had real Plexiglas backboards, straight orange rims, and new nets. Even for Eddie, who was accustomed to practicing behind his house, this was a treat.

“You did it, Eddie! Way to go,” Bill said. “I was worried when you slipped on those vines out there. But you did it!”

“I just did what you said,” Eddie replied with an “Aw, shucks” expression. “After the junior high game yesterday afternoon, while there were still a bunch of people on the bleachers, I went up and unlocked the window. Nobody noticed. I was just hoping Mr. Evans, the janitor, didn’t come around and check the windows after I left.”

Bill laughed. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know a white boy could be so devious.”

“Oh, I can be devious,” Eddie said seriously. “My heart is as black as yours. Er, uh . . . well, you know what I mean.”

Bill slapped Eddie on the back. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Let’s shoot some ball.” The boys bounce passed the ball back and forth as they crossed center court, and then Bill took it the rest of the way to the top of the key, where he launched a long jump shot. Swish! “Oh, what a beautiful sound!” Bill yelled. “We don’t hear that sound over at Cousin Ella’s court.”

He bounced the ball to Eddie, who sank a long shot from the far side of the gym.

Tyree ran up alongside Bill. “Are we gonna get in trouble for being in here, Bill?”

“Nah, we’re with Eddie,” Bill said as he retrieved a rebound. “Besides, there ain’t nobody else playing basketball this early on Saturday morning. Not whites or coloreds. We can play for several hours before anyone else shows up around here.” Bill passed the ball to Tyree. “Let’s see whatcha got.”

Tyree dribbled back to a position just behind the foul line and executed a perfect set shot. “Whoooweee!” All three boys whooped it up, enjoying the echo of their voices in the large gymnasium. They played for more than an hour and got so caught up in shooting, rebounding, and shooting again that they never heard the door open. They didn’t see the imposing figure standing with his hands on his hips, a gun on his right side, and a billy club on his left.

For a moment, Officer Howard Barton, a longtime member of Gallatin’s police force, watched the boys totally immersed in playing basketball, oblivious to his presence. He shook his head and almost grinned, but then he straightened and yelled, “Hey!”

Eddie was shooting a jump shot. He seemed to stop, suspended momentarily in midair. Bill was watching the net, ready to retrieve the ball as soon as it ripped through, and Tyree had his back to the officer. All three boys froze.

“Uh-oh,” Tyree said under his breath.

“What are you boys doing in here?” Barton bellowed, his voice echoing off the bare walls of the gymnasium.

Silly question. It was quite obvious what the boys were doing. The real question was how they got into the gym without supervision. And who had the audacity to let two black kids into a white school? “Get over here, now!” he barked, pointing at a spot in front of him. “And bring that basketball too.”

The boys dutifully obeyed Officer Barton’s commands. Eddie scooped up the basketball and joined Bill and Tyree, who stood in front of Barton. Bill and Tyree looked at the floor; Eddie stared at the policeman’s gun.

“What are your names?” Officer Barton asked. “You first.” He pointed at Eddie.

“Eddie Sherlin, sir.”

“And what about you?” He nudged Bill on the shoulder. “Look at me, boy.”

“Ligon,” Bill said quietly. “Bill Ligon. My mama is Anna Ligon, the schoolteacher,” he added, hoping the officer would recognize his mom’s name and be aware of her sterling reputation in town.

“And I’m Tyree,” the younger brother chirped.

Bill elbowed Tyree, as though to say, “Shut up!”

Officer Barton ignored Tyree and glared at Bill. “And how did you get in here?” There was no question in his mind about who was at fault. Clearly, this black kid had broken into the building.

Bill appeared to weigh his words carefully. “The window was open, sir.” He raised his hand slowly and pointed to a window above the bleachers, the same window Eddie had crawled through from the outside wall.

“Hmmph.” He looked at the high window and grunted again. “Where do you live, son?” He addressed his question to Eddie.

“Morrison Street, sir. Over behind the railroad tracks.”

“Okay. Let’s go. Come with me.” He nodded toward the exit doors, and the three frightened basketball players moved in that direction. Barton followed closely behind, making sure the gym doors locked behind them. Once outside, Officer Barton nodded toward his black-and-white patrol car parked in front of the school. “Get in,” he said, pointing at the car. He looked at Bill and Tyree. “You two get in the back. You get in the front seat with me,” he instructed Eddie. The boys quickly followed his orders.

Officer Barton locked the car doors and pulled out. Bill and Tyree sat silently in the backseat, staring out the windows. The officer looked over at Eddie when they stopped at the traffic light downtown. “What’s your daddy’s name?”

“Jimmy Sherlin.”

“Jimmy Sherlin, the fella who leads the church choir over at First Assembly?”

“Yes, sir. That’s my father.”

Barton nodded, thinking Eddie was going to be in much more trouble with his dad than he was right now. “And is your mama home?”

“Yes, sir. She was when I left this morning.”

Officer Barton cast a sidelong glance at Eddie and raised his eyebrows. “And apparently you left rather early this morning.”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

They drove on in silence and arrived at Eddie’s home in minutes. Barton pulled the squad car into the gravel driveway and turned off the engine. “Let’s go.” He turned to Bill and Tyree in the backseat. “You two stay right here. Don’t move a muscle.”

“Yes, sir,” both boys mumbled.

Officer Barton got out of the car and marched Eddie to the front porch. The officer looked over at the double-seat swing tucked on the right side of the small porch, in front of the double windows. Then he rapped on the door. Eddie stood at his side as they waited for someone to answer the knock.

Betty Sherlin clutched her heart when she opened the door and saw Eddie standing next to the policeman. “Eddie!” she blurted. “What’s going on?”

“Mrs. Sherlin?” Officer Barton ignored her outburst.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Betty opened the door wider. “Come in.”

“No, thank you, ma’am. We can talk right here. As you might have guessed already, we’ve had a bit of a problem this morning.”

“We have?” Betty looked at him and then at Eddie, who immediately dropped his gaze to the porch floor.

“Yes, ma’am, we have. Seems your son and those two colored boys broke into the school this morning.” Barton nodded toward the backseat of his patrol car, where Bill and Tyree sat motionless.

“Eddie?” Betty Sherlin’s surprise was genuine. Clearly she was shocked her son would do such a thing.

“Yes, Eddie,” the officer said. “Is Mr. Sherlin home?”

“No, he already left to make some rounds. He’s an insurance man, and he usually does some collections on Saturday that he can’t get to through the week because folks are working, and—”

Barton raised his hand. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.” He turned toward Eddie. “Son, I want to speak to your mother privately. You get on inside. And I don’t want to see you in my car ever again. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Obvious relief swept over Eddie.

“You stay out of trouble,” the officer said gruffly. “And stay away from those colored boys, ya hear?”

“Ah, yes, sir.” Eddie said quietly as he slipped behind his mother and went inside the house, far enough to get out of Officer Barton’s sight but probably close enough to still hear what he was saying to his mom.

With Eddie gone, the officer’s facial expression and tone softened. “They were just playing basketball, ma’am. They weren’t doing anything bad. But they did not have permission to be in the gym. And then there’s the matter of those two.” He nodded toward Bill and Tyree. “That is trouble just waiting to happen.”

“I’m so sorry,” Betty Sherlin said. “That isn’t like Eddie to get into trouble. He’s a good boy.”

“I’m sure he is, ma’am.” Officer Barton pushed back his hat. “Let’s hope he stays that way. I’m not arresting him. But I expect that you and Mr. Sherlin will handle this matter.”

“Oh, yes, sir, officer. I assure you that Mr. Sherlin, I mean Jim, will apply the rod of instruction. I’d do it myself right now, but I’m certain Eddie’s daddy will want to address it with him.”

“All right, that’s fine. You have a good day, ma’am.” The officer raised his index and middle fingers to his hat in an informal salute. “I have another matter to attend to.” He looked toward the backseat of the car.

The officer stiffened and strode to his vehicle. He opened the door and peered at Bill. “And where do you two live?”

“Right over there.” Bill pointed out the rear window, toward a small brown house on the edge of the whites-only park.

“Over by the church?”

“Yes, sir.”

Officer Barton shrugged, slid behind the wheel, and started the car. He drove down Morrison and turned to the right, driving along the fenced-in whites-only park, all the way to Bill and Tyree’s street. The patrol car eased around the corner and up the hill, stopping in front of a brown house. Officer Barton turned around in his seat and glared at the boys. “Get out of my car. And if I ever catch you in the whites’ school again, I’ll have your backsides out on a work detail faster than you can blink. Now, scram!”

“Yes, sir,” Bill said. “Thank you, sir.” He and Tyree bounded out of the backseat and away from the patrol car as quickly as they could.

That night Eddie was in his tiny bedroom when Jim Sherlin returned home from work. He could hear loud voices in the kitchen and knew his mother was informing his dad about Officer Barton’s visit. He cringed as the voices escalated in intensity. He hated it when his parents argued—especially when it involved him. Eddie knew his dad would not respond well to his breaking into the school, and he might be especially upset about his playing basketball with two colored boys.

A short while later, Eddie heard the familiar strains of George Beverly Shea singing “Amazing Grace” on the family phonograph. That meant that whatever the conversation between his mom and dad had been, it was now over and his mom was immersing herself in the Bible, trying to find absolution, if not forgiveness, for all the nasty things she had said to her husband.

Jim Sherlin reached inside the coat closet. He moved aside some coats and found what he was looking for—a three-foot-long smooth stick, about the thickness of a thin drumstick, made from hickory wood. Jim ran his hand over the smooth wood and tapped it against his thigh. While the stick rendered less damage and pain than Jim’s hand, it could deliver a serious welt.

Delilah was drying the supper dishes near the sink and Debbie was doing her homework at the kitchen table when their dad, with his mouth set in a firm line and his shoulders squared, walked through the kitchen carrying the hickory stick. Neither girl said a word, and each pretended not to notice, but both feared what was about to happen.

Bo looked up as his dad moved through the living room on his way to Eddie’s room. His eyes went wide and he swallowed hard, clearly understanding Eddie’s coming punishment.

Jim entered Eddie’s room without knocking. He shut the door behind him.

Eddie sat on the bed, pretending to read a sports magazine while trying to ignore the hickory switch in his dad’s hand.

“Hey, Dad,” Eddie said amiably. “Have a seat.” He nodded to his bed.

Jim did not sit down. “Son, I want to talk to you about what happened today.”

Eddie dropped his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“Bend over.” Jim did all the talking from that point. He also did the switching. Jim swatted where he knew it would hurt the most—on the back of Eddie’s thighs.

The whoosh! of the switch traveling at a rapid speed and the whap! of it connecting with Eddie’s thighs could be heard throughout the small house. Betty sat in her easy chair, sipping her coffee and reading the Bible. With each swat of the switch against Eddie’s flesh, her stomach churned. She closed her eyes and tried not to listen, but Eddie’s bedroom door could not silence the hickory stick’s contact with her son’s flesh or the sounds of his cries. She leaned over and turned up the volume on the George Beverly Shea album playing on the phonograph.

She glanced toward her daughters, who busied themselves in the kitchen, pretending they didn’t notice the beating. But they too flinched with every swat. Even Bo grimaced as the hickory stick slapped Eddie’s bare skin.

Finally, it was over. Jim emerged from Eddie’s room and looked back at his younger son lying on the bed, choking back sobs. He stepped into the living room, glared at Betty and Bo, who briefly looked up and then returned to what they were doing, as though everything was normal. Jim stood motionless for a moment. Then he announced: “I’m going out to the garage.” He stormed through the living room and out the kitchen door, as Delilah and Debbie quickly moved out of his way.

It wasn’t the first time Jim had whipped Eddie with the switch. Disobedience in the Sherlin home often brought out the hickory stick. When Eddie delayed too long coming in from shooting baskets or one of the girls disobeyed Betty or Jim or Bo back talked once too often, the switch made an appearance. Although the switch was sometimes a reflection of Jim and Betty’s own frustrations in life, their sincere desire was to raise children who respected the laws of God and man. They were convinced the biblical proverb “Spare the rod and spoil the child” was true, so they took that aspect of parenting quite seriously.

Eddie didn’t awaken on Sunday morning to the swish of a basketball slipping through a net. Instead, he woke up to the nightmarish memories of the whoosh of the hickory switch making contact with his thighs.

Jim Sherlin’s voice broke through the quietness. “Let’s go, you guys. Time for church. Mom’s got your oatmeal on the table. Get a move on.”

The sounds of Betty’s gospel quartet music playing on the phonograph greeted the Sherlin siblings who were still rubbing their sleepy eyes as they slowly made their way into the kitchen. “Mornin’, Mama,” each one dutifully offered.

“Good morning. Let’s go. Eat and then get on your Sunday clothes. We can’t be late for church. Daddy’s got to meet with the choir before service this morning, so we need to be there even earlier than usual. Hurry, please!”

Eddie gulped down his oatmeal and hurried to his room, where he put on a clean pair of pants, a white shirt, and a necktie. He bent over and crammed his feet into the black church shoes his mom had bought for him last year. They were already too tight and didn’t help his gimpy walk one bit.

Bo dressed in much the same way, wearing a slightly larger version of Eddie’s church outfit. The girls, of course, wore their finest flowing cotton dresses and patent leather shoes reserved for Sundays.

Decked out in a dark suit, white shirt, and bright orange tie, Jim Sherlin held the door for his family as they exited the house and piled into their car for the quick drive across town to the Assembly of God church. Wearing a high-necked dress with long sleeves, Betty Sherlin sat stiffly in the front seat and adjusted her beret-style hat that served as her head covering. Most of the “spiritually mature” women who attended the Assembly of God church felt it inappropriate to be seen in a church service without something covering their heads, indicating their respect for biblical doctrine and church traditions. Nobody in the church dared suggest that Saint Paul’s admonition that women should not be seen in church without a head covering had a cultural meaning in his day that had long since been lost to believers in the twentieth century. Quite the contrary. “Saintly” members of the church considered women who refused to wear a hat or some sort of covering on their heads as “loose women” who probably went to dances and smoked cigarettes too.

The pressure exerted by his sisters and brother squeezing into the backseat with him exacerbated the stinging in Eddie’s legs. He didn’t say anything, but he was glad the trip to the church on South Water Street was a short five-minute ride. Jim parked the car between a lined space—their usual spot—in front of a small sign that read Choir Director. The Sherlins arrived well before the service began, piled out of the car, and headed inside the sanctuary. Eddie limped along behind the others.

About the same time, across town, Bill and Tyree Ligon, also dressed in their best Sunday suits, were hobbling into the Original Church of God in much the same manner as Eddie. Although Officer Barton had not spoken to Anna Ligon about the boys’ escapade, she had somehow heard about it. Anna Ligon was not a woman to be trifled with. She was as strict with Bill and Tyree and their sister, Delores, as the Sherlins were with their kids—maybe even more so. Anna’s husband, William Sr., had left the family when Bill was very young, forcing her to be both mom and dad to the kids, and she played both roles superbly. Thankfully, Anna’s mama, Callie Bennett Bransford, lived nearby, as did other relatives, so they all watched out for the Ligon children and made sure they behaved. And when they didn’t, Anna wielded a strong hickory switch as punishment.

Also, the Original Church of God, the “sanctified” church where Anna’s family worshiped on Pace Street, was attended by fewer than thirty people, all coloreds, so everyone knew everyone and everybody watched out for one another. The adults especially kept their eyes on the kids. The congregation was much like an extended family. Bill and Tyree never could have gotten in trouble with the police without their mama finding out.

The Ligon family members were faithful to the Original Church of God and held a profound respect for their pastor, Lula Mae Swanson, a no-nonsense gospel preacher who served three other area churches as well. Pastor Lula Mae, a bishop in her domination, was a small, dark-skinned woman with a slight build. Always impeccably dressed in a black, blue, or white business suit with a matching hat, Bishop Swanson was both a concerned minister and a shrewd businesswoman. In addition to preaching, she managed the first Negro-owned nursing home in Middle Tennessee.

Bishop Swanson was a dynamic speaker, and when she preached, people listened; when she sang, they swooned at her beautiful voice. She had a forceful personality and a quick wit, combined with an abundance of charm. She also hosted and preached on a radio show on WHIN for which Bill and his family members sang gospel songs along with her. Bill’s grandmother, Callie Bransford, prayed down the glory, and, of course, Bishop Swanson always read the Bible and presented words of encouragement.

Sunday morning church service at the Original Church of God was an exuberant experience. Even for people like Bill, who preferred his religion on the quieter side, the energy and spirit of the people—not to mention the Spirit of the Lord—created a contagious atmosphere of hope.

A Hammond B-3 organ played by a middle-aged Negro man backed up, echoed, reiterated, or otherwise responded to everything Sister Lula Mae said from the pulpit. “Let’s have some lively testimonies this morning!” said the pastor, followed by a riff on the B-3 to emphasize her point. “I mean current and lively testimonies,” Bishop Swanson said. “I’m glad the Lord saved your soul a long time ago, and we’re glad he brought you out of Egypt into Canaan, but what has he done for you this week? Come on, now, get up and tell us!”

Sister Lula Mae didn’t have to beg for witnesses. Men and women popped up all over the sanctuary to tell of what God had done for them over the past seven days.

“I was sick and the Lord made me well,” one woman said.

“I got me a new job, glory to God,” a man in his forties said.

Punctuating each testimony, the Hammond organ added a musical “Amen.”

“My child was having trouble hearing, but Sister Lula Mae and Sister Bransford, thank God for her, prayed for my baby. And today, my little girl can hear!” The small crowd burst into applause and cheers.

With the entire congregation now on its feet, Bishop Swanson looked over the room. “That’s so good to hear from the mamas and the daddies, but where are my young-uns? What’s the good Lord done for you this week?” Her searing gaze searched the room for a young witness, and finding none, Bishop Swanson was not above calling on someone. “Brother William. Young Brother Bill Ligon. What has God done for you this week?”

Taken aback by Sister Lula Mae’s question, Bill did not have a prepared answer. But he knew better than to be silent when the pastor made a special request. “Well, er, uh . . . the good Lord brought me here to church today to hear the Word,” Bill finally said.

The B-3 roared its approval and the audience cheered. Sister Lula Mae looked down from the pulpit and smiled at Bill. All was well with the world.

Inside the simply decorated Assembly of God sanctuary, Eddie and Bo Sherlin sat quietly toward the front on one of the pine-colored pews with padded red cushions. “I hate sitting up so close in church,” Bo leaned over and whispered to Eddie.

“I know what you mean,” Eddie replied. “But you heard what Dad said. He told us to plant ourselves on one of the pews up front.” Both boys would have much preferred a back-row seat, but with Eddie’s whipping still fresh in their minds, they weren’t about to press their luck.

Jim Sherlin stood in front of the choir, composed of about twenty middle-aged women and a few elderly gentlemen, along with two teenage girls and one teenage boy with closely cropped hair. Of course, Betty, Delilah, and Debbie sang in Jim’s choir as well. Jim and Betty occasionally sang together with another couple in a gospel quartet, so they had some experience singing in public. And similar to most churches in the Nashville area, a few of the choir singers were quite good—practically professional quality. Many of the others in the choir were mediocre “gospel wannabees” who regularly attended Wally Fowler’s All-Night Singing, a live radio show broadcast on WSM from the Ryman Auditorium, home of the Grand Ole Opry.

The choir members showed up on Sunday mornings excited to try some of the vocal gymnastics exhibited by the gospel pros. Usually, the results were less than pleasing, but Jim always reassured his choir members. “Christians are instructed to sing and make melody in our hearts,” he said, “and to make a joyful noise unto the Lord.”

Joyful? Maybe. On key? That was another matter.

Following some lively congregational singing, the choir stood to perform “How Great Thou Art,” the number they had practiced especially for the morning service. Jim Sherlin stepped up and smiled at several of the women in the front row of the choir. He didn’t use a conductor’s wand to lead the choir. Instead, he used his hands to keep time and employed exaggerated physical gyrations of his body to help emphasize the music’s swells and crescendos.

The choir sang the majestic anthem as though they were singing at Carnegie Hall in front of thousands of people, rather than in Gallatin before the small but enthusiastic crowd of slightly more than one hundred all-white worshipers. When the choir came to the third verse, Jim nodded toward Violet Johnson, a pretty woman in her late thirties, to sing that stanza as a solo. Wearing a provocative scoop-necked dress, Violet smiled at the choir leader appreciatively.

Nobody else noticed the interchange between the choir director and one of his prize pupils—nobody but Betty Sherlin.

Reverend M. C. Daley, a fireplug of a man and a fireball of a preacher with a loud, gravel-throated voice, brought a powerful message that morning about the prodigal son. Preacher Daley believed in “full-body preaching.” He didn’t merely speak the Word; he flailed his arms, banged on the pulpit to emphasize his point, and even sometimes stomped his foot. The congregation responded with equal excitement and enthusiasm, occasionally shouting out “Praise the Lord!” or “Preach it, Brother!” or whatever came to mind. Some people stood up in the middle of the sermon. Every so often when someone really got “in the Spirit,” they would run a quick lap around the inside of the sanctuary and then back to the front of the church. The more unusual expressions on the part of the parishioners sometimes frightened Eddie.

Preacher Daley railed against the sins of drinking and carousing and “whoremongering” in which the prodigal son engaged after demanding and receiving his portion of his father’s inheritance while the father was still alive. “And after that boy had wasted all of his daddy’s money on riotous living, he found himself in the pigpen of life!” Preacher Daley bellowed. “There he was, looking at the mush and sayin’, ‘Mmm-mmm, that stuff looks mighty good. But wait a minute! Even my daddy’s servants have better food than that. I’m gonna get up and go back home and tell my daddy that I have sinned.’”

Reverend Daley looked right into Eddie’s eyes as he preached about sin. Eddie squirmed. He felt the man of God was staring straight into his heart. Eddie always felt nervous in church. He feared that he might slide right into hell in the midst of every service. He assumed that he could never be clean enough—never quite good enough to satisfy God. To lessen his sense of conviction, he stared at the cross behind the choir loft and avoided looking at the preacher’s face. But looking at the cross only heightened Eddie’s sense of guilt.

Reverend Daley preached on, shedding his jacket somewhere in the middle of his message, walking down among the congregants, pointing his finger in various faces, and then finally returning to the pulpit to conclude his sermon. Pastor Daley didn’t merely preach to impart information, he expected his listeners to respond.

“The choir will now sing hymn number 214, ‘Just As I Am,’” he said. The preacher lowered his voice to a sonorous tone and implored: “If you’ve never come home to your heavenly Father, today might be your day. You come.” He nodded toward the altar railing with a padded step at the front of the church, where several people seeking God were already kneeling to pray. “You may have been out there with the pigs. Your heavenly Father still loves you. Don’t wait another moment. You ain’t gonna get any cleaner on your own. While the choir sings, come and ask God to clean you up.”

Eddie fidgeted as the congregation stood to sing.

Jim Sherlin was already in position, motioning the choir to stand as the organist played the well-known, evocative invitational hymn sung at the close of Billy Graham crusades. Several more members of the congregation made their way to the kneeling rail while the choir sang the first, second, and last verses.

The service concluded, and Eddie felt relieved to have survived another altar call without losing his composure. With all the thoughts and emotions he experienced these days, it was getting tougher each week to escape the searing eye of Reverend Daley. Worse yet, it was almost time for the annual revival, during which the congregation participated in at least a week of services geared toward the evangelism of unbelievers and the rededication of believers. Eddie knew his folks would require him to attend every evening. He shuddered as he thought about it.

Following the service, Reverend Daley and his wife greeted the members of the congregation as they made their way out of the church. While people stood in line to shake hands with the pastor or hug his wife, the members interacted among themselves.

“Wasn’t it a wonderful service?” Francine Smithfield said to Betty Sherlin.

“Oh, yes, it was.” Betty smiled at Francine. Betty smiled at several more parishioners as they inched along toward the pastor standing in the doorway.

“That was a fantastic song you all sang this morning,” an elderly woman said to Jim.

“Thank you, Sister Miriam,” Jim answered. “And didn’t Sister Violet do well on the solo part?”

“She certainly did. That girl can sing like a birdie.”

Standing next to Jim but turned slightly away from Sister Miriam’s gaze, Betty Sherlin rolled her eyes. Oh, yes, Violet is definitely some chickadee.

The Sherlins greeted the preacher and his wife and then made their way toward their car. They were no sooner inside the vehicle with the doors closed before Betty’s smile turned to a scowl.

“And why did you have to let her sing?” Betty spat, refusing to look at her husband.

“Wha . . . ?” Jim put the car in drive and headed out of the church’s parking lot. “Who are you talking about?”

“You know perfectly well who I am talking about. Why did you have to give that slut a solo?”

“Betty! Watch your mouth. Not in front of the kids. And besides, she is not a . . . she’s not that. She’s had a rough time since her husband left her, that’s all.”

“She looked pretty smooth this morning. And it was plain to see that you couldn’t keep your eyes off her. Have you been stopping in to visit her on your insurance route? I’m sure she would love to see you.”

“I don’t even know where she lives.”

“And she can’t even sing. If she didn’t dress like a whore, nobody would even pay attention to her.”

“Betty! I’m warning you.”

Betty turned her head and stared out the window. “You could have given the solo to me. You know I can sing, buster.”

“Yes, Betty, I know you can sing,” Jim growled. “You are a great singer. You have no reason to be jealous. I wanted to give Violet a chance.”

“I’m sure you did,” she nearly shouted.

The verbal jousting continued all the way home, and once again Eddie was only too glad the ride was a quick one.

But not quick enough.

“Mama and Daddy, please don’t fight,” Delilah cried from the backseat. She and Debbie burst into tears. Bo, seated next to Delilah, stiffened and his face looked as though it had turned to stone.

Eddie felt a tear trickle down his face. He knew his mom and dad were good people, but their inconsistencies bothered him. He didn’t understand how they could be so spiritual in church on Sunday and during Wednesday night Bible study and then be so mean to each other outside of church. He wished there was something he could do about it, some way he could draw them back together.