CHAPTER THREE

Pastor Mark MacDonald sat at his kitchen table, forehead cradled in one hand. With the other, he wiped salty tears off the aquamarine laminate as they ran from the end of his nose and splattered in front of him. An inch to the left, and they would’ve blotted the ink on the check he’d just written to the Hollow County Utility Company, the last item in the stack of bills he needed to drop in the mail to prevent himself from being considered delinquent. After that payment, the balance sheet math worked out to precisely six dollars cash remaining in his pocket and almost nothing in the bank. It was just enough money to buy one week’s worth of groceries from Beard’s with some left over, but not enough to gas up his Plymouth.

The rusted P15 sat at a quarter of a tank when Mark returned home from church the day before. It was good that he didn’t have anywhere he had to go except for Beard’s. Not until Sunday anyway, when the congregation expected him to deliver the second of his four Gospels sermons that would end, as it reliably did every year, with Easter’s glorious Good News.

They were demanding bastards, his flock. Not to mention cheap and lazy. Oh, they would make a joyful noise all morning long if the sun was shining and the bars had closed early the night before. As soon as they were asked to volunteer or tithe, they were up and gone like a fart in the wind. The Fed’s recession had ended nearly a year ago. The Depression? More than a decade previous. You wouldn’t know it by the contents of the collection plate, in any case. If Mark dared preach to them about giving their ten percent, he inevitably received the after-service earful about how Bessie didn’t bring her price at the stockyard or that corn prices were on the decline thanks to the Federal Reserve trying to fix post-war inflation. Not Eisenhower’s fault, of course.

For going on ten years, he’d guided the faithful in Lost Hollow through their triumphs and tragedies. He’d celebrated the return of our boys in ‘47, only a year after he’d first mounted the pulpit. He’d mourned every loss of life or farm since. For all that time, he’d begged the congregation for one volunteer—just one—who would find it in his heart to help maintain the church by taking on the role of the treasurer or dropping in during the week to give the pews a polish before Sunday service.

It made no difference. The elders, who were pretty much elders in title only, primarily wanted to hear themselves lecture their Sunday School peers. Meanwhile, their wives whispered behind their hands about the latest marriage on the rocks because the good-for-nothing came home drunk again late last night. To Mark, it was as if everyone in Lost Hollow had escaped The Depression with cash in hand and nothing to worry about but gossip and scandal. Everyone except him.

“Ten years,” he said to his kitchen. His voice rang foreign against the walls. “Ten years without a volunteer and a raise. Hell of a thing.”

Despite the Fed’s efforts, and contrary to Mark’s piteous ego, inflation had indeed taken a toll on Lost Hollow residents since the war ended. He knew that because he relied almost exclusively on the congregation’s contributions for his income. Thus, Mark MacDonald had been hit harder than most, but only because he had been honest.

The Hollow Creek Nazarene Church’s board had offered him thirty percent of the weekly tithes for his salary. The rest was to be deposited directly into the church’s bank account where it would be used for emergency maintenance on the church itself or charity when times got tough for any single parcel of Lost Hollow’s vast swaths of farmland. Well, for any of those farmers who happened to attend Hollow Creek Nazarene, anyway. Most Lost Hollow residents considered themselves Baptists, not Nazarenes. Since the nearest Baptist church was on the outskirts of Hollow River, a good fifteen miles from Lost Hollow, Mark figured there probably weren’t very many local Baptists who attended service regularly.

He sat up straight against the back of the kitchen chair and tore the utility payment from his checkbook. A glint of light on the brass collection plate on the opposite side of the table caught his eye. His thirty percent of that take had paid his bills and were about to buy his groceries for the week, but that was all. He was a preacher, treasurer, and janitor for his small community church, three jobs his ungrateful flock squeezed out of him for the price of one. So who would miss it if he decided to go around the board and grant himself a small pay raise?

The church hadn’t donated money to any local farms even at the height of The Fed’s recession. The only person maintaining the church building was Mark himself. An extra ten percent in his pocket would go a long way toward ensuring that ends continued to meet. He might finally afford a few things he’d wanted lately, too. Perhaps he could buy some books to read beyond his battered old copy of the Good one. Or maybe he could buy a radio or, Heaven help him, a television set so he could finally see an episode or two of that I Love Lucy show everyone was always talking about.

However, there were stories about the star of that show being a dirty commie. That’s how the television folks got the Devil into you. They secretly insert their politics in their funny shows so it all seemed normal somehow. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. The Devil box may be a form of mind control. That explained how a congregation could be so stingy with their tithes during a supposed economic boom.

Mark slid the stack of freshly paid bills aside, then hooked the lip of the collection plate with his index finger and dragged it toward him. He’d counted and banded the bills just that morning and had already set aside his thirty percent, the aforementioned six dollars, for his groceries. Bumping his take up to forty percent meant that he could pluck an additional two dollars out of this week’s collection and add it to his pocket. That would put at least seven gallons of gas in the P15. Seven gallons should be more than he needed if he didn’t make any trips to Hollow River for a while.

Yesterday’s tithes had been particularly low: twenty dollars out of a congregation made up of about fifteen families. He figured the community was saving up for Easter tithing, which was always the highest tithing day of the year. It meant he could expect to pick up an extra two-fifty or even three dollars on a perfect Sunday. He would never be a rich man, but he could be comfortable at least.

A tingle of taboo ran up his arm when he lifted two creased and limp singles from the banded bundle of donated farm income. A bittersweet grin curled his lips as the sensation crawled down his back and into his balls, causing his scrotum to prickle and scale upwards inside his boxers. It pressed itself against the wall of his groin. Was this actual sin? If so, it was no wonder the sheep often strayed from the flock. If peeling a couple of extra dollars from the collection caused this type of sensation, what must it feel like to drink a glass of beer on a Saturday night? Or fuck a whore under a broken streetlamp in an alley by the bar? Pastor Mark MacDonald felt good for the first time since he’d left the church sanctuary following Sunday service.

He pushed back from the table and folded his arms across his chest, smiling broadly. Even if he only netted an extra two dollars per week with his new pay increase, it could add up to a significant lifestyle increase by the end of a year. Two dollars a week is an additional hundred and four per year. Not quite enough to buy a television, but it would get him about halfway there.

Of course, that’s assuming he only added two dollars per week to his pocket. If Eisenhower’s economy continued to improve and progress made its way from Hollow River into the surrounding countryside like Lost Hollow, the offerings in the Sunday collection plate could only grow.

Increased offerings that added to Mark’s happiness could also improve his sermons. He could finally find some inspiration somewhere, could move his congregation to do more. Lord knows he would love to get the perpetually atoning Peter Mayberry off his knees and into some volunteer work for the church itself. If he busied himself with holy things, he wouldn’t have to worry so much about whatever ungodliness was dropping him at the altar of repentance every Sunday morning after the sermon.

Of course, Mark’s guilt could catch up with him, in which case he would end up like Peter. Imagine being a man so paralyzed by fear of discovery of whatever was pricking his conscience as well as the threat of being cast into the fiery depths of Hell by his judge and maker. Best not to think about that.

Mark stood and swept the kitchen table’s contents into his arms. He carried the collection plate with the remainder of Sunday’s offerings in it to the bathroom. There, he pulled open the medicine cabinet, removed an empty Phillies box from its depths, and stashed the bills inside. He’d retrieve them on Wednesday when he made his once-per-week trip to First National Home and Farm over in Hollow River to make the church deposit. Lost Hollow, bless its heart, had no branch of the bank for itself. That’s why most folks around here simply carried cash and stocked up on a good supply of mason jars. Occasionally, there was talk about opening a branch in Lost Hollow’s town square, but so far, no progress on it. Thanks to Mark’s new raise, he could afford some patience. He could comfortably buy the gas to make the drive to Hollow River.

The offerings stowed, Mark shut the medicine cabinet. He winced as he turned away from it, his knee twinging in protest at the sudden strain. Getting old. He was forty-two, and it showed. The flame of wavy, reddish-orange hair atop his head had thinned ever so slightly around his temples. The luster and ambition that used to sparkle just beyond the layer of green in his eyes had dulled as his eyelids grew heavier with age, their corners cracked with crow’s feet. On Sunday, he had tried grinning at himself as he readied for church, hoping it would make him look younger. It only succeeded in revealing the extra layers of jowl that had congealed under his skin during his decade in Lost Hollow. Alongside his bulbous cherry nose, they made him look hangdog and tired. Money had been too much on his mind for too long. His weary countenance was proof of that.

Mark ambled to the kitchen where he dropped the empty collections plate back on the table. It would sit there until next Sunday morning when he took it to church for another round of begging and disappointment. He donned his father’s plaid tweed sport coat, a ratty thing from the early 1940s handed down to him after his dad passed on. Then he grabbed at his front and back pockets to verify that he was, indeed, carrying his keys and wallet and started for the front door. Groceries and gas were the order of the day from here on out.

He was just about to close the door behind him when he heard the patter of raindrops on the dead leaves around the singular maple tree that adorned the center spot in his meager front yard. A rolling clap of thunder and visible, heavy droplets darkened the Tennessee chert that topped his driveway.

Mark stretched an arm through the half-ajar door and retrieved his beige porkpie from the hatrack just inside, another relic of his father’s. Today was the first day of spring in Middle Tennessee, after all. That meant that a man who planned to run errands for an hour or two in the afternoon might need his hat.

Ten minutes later, Mark swung the P15 into the parking lot at Beard’s Grocery, bringing it to a leisurely stop at the farthest of the two gas pumps that sat out front. He pressed the horn twice—two short beeps to summon service—and watched the door for a response. Eli Wynn, the farmhand that Jimmy and Georgia Blalock sometimes dragged to church with them, was darting inside. Seconds later, the door banged open again. Jerry Beard emerged wearing a pair of navy-blue coveralls with a long, white shop rag flapping like a dog’s tail from the back pocket.

“Fill ‘er up, would you?” Mark asked when the boy approached.

“Yessir,” Jerry replied. “Want me to wash the windshield and check the oil for you?”

Mark glanced at the sky. “Nah. I don’t think a windshield washing will do much good today, do you? Just park it and bring the keys inside if you don’t mind. I’ve got to get cracking on my grocery list.”

“Yessir,” Jerry repeated. He set to work on the pump.

Mark exited the P15 and strode up the porch steps just as a fresh clap of thunder rumbled overhead. A burst of raindrops rang loudly on the metal roof that covered the porch.

Just in time, he thought. Hope it passes soon.