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Treadwell, NY—late April 2011
The house and barn had required a bit more fixing up than Ron and Winona had planned on, but after nearly two weeks of backbreaking labor, they were at last ready to begin preaching again. One of those “Insty-Print” copying places had delivered the handbills they ordered within the three-day-guaranteed time limit, and they had placed one on every windshield of every vehicle they could, in each strip mall parking lot between Treadwell and Cooperstown, along Route 28 to the northeast, and south to Roscoe, nearly thirty-five miles away. Along the road, they saw signs for the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, and Ron made Winona promise that soon they’d visit the famous landmark. They made no mention of snakes in the flyer, but instead used the code words “Pentecostal,” “Mark XVI,” and “speaking in tongues” to convey the essence of their emerging congregation.
In addition to the flyers, Ron decided to accelerate the growth of his church’s membership by running several small, discrete ads in local, free newspapers, because he knew from experience that country folks pored over every square inch of these “penny savers” in search not only of discount coupons, but local news and announcements as well.
The first week’s service saw only a handful of attendees, but the following Sunday, there were over three-dozen eager worshippers, several of whom brought musical instruments. The service itself wasn’t particularly noteworthy, but afterwards, as the people filed out of barn, an older couple stopped to speak with Ron, and what they had to say gave him great hope that, indeed, he’d chosen just the right area to establish a permanent church.
Their names were Eleanor and Everett Jones, and Ron estimated their ages to be well into the eighties. She was dressed in a traditional, two-piece woman’s suit of very good quality wool, beige, and a lavender, ruffled blouse, open at the throat. On her feet were closed-toe, black leather shoes with little bows and just a hint of a heel. Her legs were covered by taupe-colored, support stockings, and a modest string of freshwater pearls lay against her wrinkled, age-spotted neck.
Mrs. Jones had a full head of white hair—notable for its lack of blue coloring—that she wore in a braid. Her husband was tastefully attired in a dark blue, three-piece, pinstriped suit, also of wool, and a pale blue shirt with button-down collar. His tie was a classic, red and white, regimental stripe, held in place with a pearl tie tack. His shoes were black oxfords. He was mostly bald, except for a faint trace of thin white hair that ran from above his ears and around the back of his head, almost like a half-halo. Both stood ramrod straight, a testimony, no doubt, to a life filled with honest labor and good care. The only sign of infirmity between the two was a small, flesh-colored hearing aid, buried deep within the confines of Mr. Jones’s left ear.
“We’ve waited a long time for a young man like you to come to Treadwell,” said Mrs. Jones. “Most folks in our area worship mostly in Catholic or Protestant churches. A true Pentecostal church is hard to find.”
Ron smiled.
“We were just wondering when you might get to Mark 16: Verse 18,” said Everett Jones with a barely perceptible wink. “The Holy Ghost has been absent from these hills for many years, if you know what I mean.”
Ron knew the man was referring to the snakes, but as always, he had to be careful in introducing the practice to a new congregation. Still, there was no doubting the man’s interest.
“Would you and Mrs. Jones care to join us inside the house for a cup of coffee—or tea?”
“Why, thank you; I’d love a cup of tea,” said Eleanor. “Everett only drinks coffee—black, with ‘no sugar, no cream, no nothin’,’ to quote him.”
“Well, we’ve got both—coffee and tea, that is. It won’t be any trouble at all,” said Winona, who stood quietly to the side, as Ron guided the couple in through the back door of the farmhouse and into the kitchen. She waited until the three of them were inside, and then closed the door. “I’ll put some water on,” she said, filling a blue enameled teapot with cold water from the tap. “Is instant coffee, all right, Mr. Jones?”
Everett nodded his approval.
“Good. Ron, why don’t you show Mr. and Mrs. Jones into the dining room, and I’ll bring everything in in just a minute.”
* * * *
Five minutes later, the two couples were seated around the small, drop-leaf dining-room table, sipping on their beverages and taking turns in the conversation, which eventually got around to the subject of the snakes.
“You know,” said Everett, “we had one preacher here about thirty years ago who handled snakes, but he left after only a year or so when his wife got bit by a rattler.”
“Darn nice young fellow,” offered Mrs. Jones. “We hated to see him go.”
“Was it just his wife getting bitten that caused them to leave?” asked Ron.
“That and the sheriff from over in Delhi,” chimed in Eleanor. “He told him, flat out, that if he didn’t leave right away, there’d be trouble. So he left.”
“We were wondering about that,” said Winona. “Usually, we try to keep everything as quiet as possible—you know, so we don’t have any trouble with the law.”
“Well, you needn’t worry yourself one bit about that here. That sheriff’s gone, and the new fellow who took his place is one of us. Lived here all his life—and he’s a Pentecostal.”
The talk continued for an hour or so, before the Joneses excused themselves, saying they needed to get back to their farm to feed their animals.
After they’d left, Ron remarked to Winona that perhaps they had finally found a home.
“Could be,” she replied. “Could be.”
It seemed to Ron that his partner was pre-occupied, and more than a little distant.
“What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s on your mind. What is it?”
“It’s nothing—honest.”
“Then why are you so...I don’t know...agitated?”
“I’ve been thinking about Black Mountain.”
“What about Black Mountain?”
“You know...the investigation.”
“The investigation’s over,” laughed Ron. “Besides, they said there wasn’t any problem.”
“But what if—”
“Just forget all about that. We’re here now. Black Mountain is history. Besides, I think this might be just the place.” A small smile spread across Ron’s face. “After all, you did promise me that if we moved, you’d—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Winona. “Hey,” she said, obviously attempting to change the subject, “why don’t we take a ride over to the Hall of Fame? You said you’ve always wanted to go there. This is as good a day as any.”
“Oh, okay,” said Ron, with a shrug. He’d have to wait for another day to bring up the subject of marriage. It was obvious that Winona wasn’t in a mood to talk about it.
Besides, evil had other plans.