After the sermon and a final song by the Godwin twins—who sang an unaccompanied version of “How Great Thou Art”— the man whom I now knew as Elder Timothy Lawrence approached me in the church’s center aisle, obviously excited to see a new face among the few but faithful of his congregation. “You’re Jim Edwards’s niece,” the young pastor said, pumping my hand after the Sunday morning service at Upper Creek Primitive Baptist Church. “I recognize you from the funeral. Again, so sorry about your uncle.” The man’s face went from grinning to solemn so quickly it seemed a rehearsed reflex.
“Thank you,” I said. “He will be missed.”
Shoulder to shoulder, with Karol, Mae-Jo, and Bob behind us, we stepped down the aisle toward the door of the chapel, where parishioners slipped out of the warmth of the room and into the cold outside air. “I understand you’ll be staying for a while. To fix up the old house on Main Street.”
“Is anything a secret in Cottonwood?” I answered with a smile.
He returned the smile. “My family and I don’t live here, and still I manage to keep up with the gossip.”
“You’ve not been here long, I understand?”
“No, ma’am. This is my first church as elder.” From the aisle that ran along the front wall of the church and behind the rows of pews a young woman, pretty and modestly dressed, approached us. “There you are,” he said to her. Then, back to me, “This is my wife, Cheryl.” His arm went around her shoulder. His hand squeezed her in affection, and she smiled up at him, looking all of not yet twenty years old.
“Nice to meet you, Cheryl.”
“Cheryl, honey, this is Jim Edwards’s niece. Remember I told you I’d performed his funeral.”
Performed his funeral. Performed . . . The choice of words struck me as odd. Elder Timothy Lawrence hadn’t known Uncle Jim. Never really taken the time to get to know him, in spite of my uncle’s refusal to step into the church building.
For the first time I wondered what had happened that had caused Uncle Jim to have such resistance to formal worship. By now we’d reached the door. I tightened the sash around my coat, said “nice to meet you” to the child bride of the young preacher, and turned to Mae-Jo and Bob. “Wrap your scarf around your head, Aunt Mae-Jo,” I said. “Otherwise the cold might get in your ears.” I sounded a great deal like Aunt Stella now.
Mae-Jo complied as Uncle Bob, handsome and strapping at seventy-four years of age, winked at me and said, “She has my love to keep her warm.”
Aunt Mae-Jo bopped him on the chest with the back of her hand. “Oh, you,” she said as though disgusted. But I could see she loved her husband very much, and for a moment, I thought of Evan.
Karol and I had Sunday dinner—lunch—with Aunt Mae-Jo and Uncle Bob, then returned to the big house around three in the afternoon. Mae-Jo had sent both of us out the door with plates heaped over with food and an admonishment not to do any work the rest of the day. “It’s the Sabbath,” she said. “Keep it holy.”
I took her words to heart. I put the plate of food on the kitchen counter, the house so cold I need not open the refrigerator, then went upstairs, lit a fire, and curled up on the bed under a quilt for a nap.
I woke two hours later. I had dreamed of Evan, that he had been with me at the church, that he had placed a warm scarf over my shoulders and adjusted it around my head. “Here,” he said. “I don’t want your ears to get too cold.”
Still lying on my side, I placed a hand over my exposed ear and pretended it had all been true. “Evan,” I whispered. “Why don’t we have what Mae-Jo and Bob have? Where did we go so wrong?”
I looked at my watch. It was shortly after five, and I thought to call Mother.
“Mae-Jo tells me you went to church with her and Bob this morning,” she said after our hellos.
“I did. Karol went with us. Did she tell you that?”
“Why didn’t you come to church with Daddy and me?” Mother expertly avoided my question. “You could have seen Stephen and had Sunday dinner with us.”
“I hadn’t really planned to go to church at all, Mother. Aunt Mae-Jo insisted and . . . I went.”
“Did you have anything to eat?”
“Of course. Do you think I’m starving myself to death over here?”
“I still don’t know what you’re doing over there.”
“Are we going to get into that again? Because if we are, I’ll let you go.”
Mother remained silent until she said, “Did you know Evan has been calling your father?”
“Still?”
“He misses you, Jo-Lynn. You two really should try to work this out.”
“He called me.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“And?”
“And we got into a fight. As usual.”
“Oh, Jo-Lynn.”
“Why are you blaming me?”
“I’m not blaming you, Jo-Lynn. I just . . . I don’t know.”
“Your tone says you think I’m in the wrong.”
“Well, maybe I do. I believe marriage is for better, for worse. I believe that when you have problems, you stick with each other and work those problems out. Jesus gave a pretty short list of reasons for marriage to end, you know. ‘We just don’t see eye to eye anymore’ wasn’t on the list.”
“I know . . .”
“And don’t think for one minute that my marriage to your father has been all good. We’ve had our problems.”
“I’ve never even heard a single cross word between the two of you.”
“That doesn’t mean we haven’t had them. I never believed in arguing in front of children.”
“Why not? If you argue and then make up, wouldn’t that demonstrate that love covers a multitude of sins?”
“You sound like a preacher.”
“Mmm.”
“Why must you argue with me all the time, Jo-Lynn?”
“I don’t argue with you all the time.” The irony of my statement was not lost on me, and I smiled. “Just sometimes . . . like now.”
“You shouldn’t argue with your mother on a Sunday.”
I felt my face break in a grin. “Oh, Mother. You’re such a peach. Even when you frustrate me, you make me smile.”