Holt didn’t know Bishop Pennington’s exact age, but the gray-haired preacher had been an influential figure in the community since he was a young minister during the racial tensions of the late 1960s. Maligned then as a troublemaker by those chained to the status quo, the bishop had been an agent for progress whose moral integrity and persuasive oratory influenced both blacks and whites.
Holt bounced the ball to him. The minister caught it in one of his large hands and in a single motion rolled it toward the opposite end of the court.
“Go!” he yelled to Henry in a sonorous bass voice.
Henry chased down the ball and returned it to Holt.
“Your voice is way better than mine,” Holt said, picking up the ball, “but he plays on my team.”
Bishop Pennington smiled. He walked over to the free throw line, and Holt handed him the ball.
“God casts his gifts with a broad hand,” the minister said. “I’ve got my voice. You’ve got your jump shot.”
Bishop Pennington eyed the basket for a few seconds and carefully took a shot. It went in, touching nothing but net. Holt handed the ball to him so he could shoot again, but he shook his head.
“No. One for one is a good day on the basketball court for me. And I didn’t come down to interrupt your workout.”
“I’m finished except for a few cool-down exercises.”
The bishop went to the edge of the court and slowly lowered himself to the ground. Henry trotted over and he scratched the top of the dog’s head. The minister was one of the few people in the small circle of Henry’s human friends. When Holt traveled out of town, Bishop Pennington took care of the dog.
“I’m glad to see you,” Holt said as he stretched to one side. “I have a case I wanted to ask you about. Do you know Samuel Byers?”
“Yes,” the bishop replied. “I know Sammy and his daddy and his uncles and both his brothers. I heard he was in trouble. What are the charges against him?”
“It’s a felony theft case, one count. I’m wondering whether he deserves a second chance through the first offender program or needs jail time to be taught a lesson.”
Bishop Pennington occasionally gave Holt useful background information, and he valued the minister’s insight into people and his perspectives on justice.
“Was he with someone else when this happened?” the bishop asked.
“Darryl Taylor.”
“Darryl’s been getting into trouble for years.”
“Right, but the most I can hang on him is a coconspirator charge. Byers did the crime.”
“Darryl likely put Sammy up to it, which isn’t an excuse, but spending time in jail around more people like Darryl isn’t going to point Sammy in the right direction. If he’s on probation, Sammy’s family will rally around him. He struggled in school and is more of a follower than a leader. Put him with the right crowd, and he’ll be okay.”
“I’d like to come to court when he’s sentenced so I can speak a word or two while his heart is tender. I know one of Sammy’s uncles real well. It might be good if he’s there, too.”
“I’ll be sure to let you know when it comes up.”
Holt stretched a different set of muscles. Bishop Pennington looked up at the trees along the edge of the church property where some small yellow birds were flitting from branch to branch.
“What kind of birds are those?” Holt asked.
“American goldfinch. They’ve been eating seed from a finch sock I hung up outside my office window in the church a couple of weeks ago. I hope they’re calling their friends over for a picnic.”
Holt finished stretching and retrieved the bottle of water from his car. Before drinking any himself, he poured a small amount into his hand for Henry.
“May I give him some?” the bishop asked when Henry finished.
Holt poured water into the cracked palm of the black man. Henry quickly lapped it up. Holt took a deep drink himself and offered the bottle to the bishop, who shook his head.
“Thanks, but you and Henry need it more than I do.”
Holt listened again to the call of the birds and thought about the bishop’s insight into Samuel Byers’s situation.
“I wish you could put what you know about life and people in a bottle so I could drink it.”
The minister looked up from his seat on the ground. “Are you serious?” he asked. “Knowledge comes wrapped in responsibility.”
Holt glanced down into the bishop’s eyes. The wisdom of the old man’s soul was way over Holt’s head.
“Uh, maybe not,” Holt said and took another drink of water. He held out his hand and helped the bishop to his feet.
“That saved me a few aching moments.”
It was the bishop’s turn to stretch his arms and bend over slightly. Holt screwed the cap onto the water bottle and picked up his basketball. Henry trotted around his feet in a tight circle, not sure if they were going to play some more or leave for home.
“Hey, how well did you know Rex Meredith?” Holt asked as he cradled the ball beneath his arm.
The bishop stopped and stared at him for a moment. “That’s the second big question you’ve asked me in the past few minutes. Unless you want to make me late for supper, you’d better whittle it down to a smaller size or save that discussion for another day.”
“We can save it. I don’t want you to go hungry.”
Trish plodded through the front door and collapsed in her father’s old recliner.
“The food’s in the oven,” Marge said from her wheelchair in the kitchen. “It’ll be ready in less than five minutes.”
“I’m not sure I want to go to church,” Trish said. “I’ve had a rough day. Why don’t I drop you off and come back later to pick you up?”
Ever since she was a little girl, Trish had loved the variety offered at the weekly covered-dish suppers held at the country church she and her mother still attended. As a teenager, she’d taken pride in preparing a dish that people outside her family could enjoy. But now, because of her work schedule, it fell to Marge to do the cooking. Her specialties were casseroles made with vegetables grown in the small garden they planted each spring. Much of the harvest was frozen in plastic bags to use until the next crop came in. Marge’s broccoli and yellow squash casseroles were world-class quality.
“No, you need something to take your mind off whatever happened at work,” Marge said. “And you’ve enjoyed Brother Carpenter’s series on the tabernacle.”
Marge was right. Trish had found the messages about the symbolism contained in the tent of worship and Old Testament sacrifices much more fascinating than she would have expected.
“I was stuck in the wilderness today,” Trish sighed. “Do you remember Donnie Crowder? He showed up in court this morning and convinced me to help him with a speeding ticket.”
Halfway through her story, the timer beeped in the kitchen. Trish took a squash casserole out of the oven. The dish was topped with bubbling cheese. Bits of chopped onion peeked through.
“This looks great,” she said to her mother.
“And I’m not going to let you have any if you stay here. You’ll have to eat leftovers when I come home.”
“There won’t be any leftovers.”
“It’s your choice,” Marge said.
“Okay, I’ll go,” Trish sighed.
“Do you think Keith will be there?” Marge asked later as Trish opened the door of the customized van they used to transport Marge and her wheelchair.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you call him back?”
“Not yet.”
Trish knew she should have returned Keith’s call, but her mind had been on Holt Douglas. However, she now wondered if her budding interest in the young prosecutor should be nipped like the first blossoms on a tomato plant.
Trish waited while her mother rolled her wheelchair onto the electric lift before she pressed the button that caused it to rise to the level of the van’s floor. Trish was strong enough to pick up her more petite mother, but keeping Marge in the wheelchair worked the best when going to church. Trish carefully placed the casserole dish at her mother’s feet.
It was a ten-minute drive to the church that was founded in 1865 when a group of local farming families started holding religious services beneath a brush arbor. Now the congregation met in a narrow wooden sanctuary painted white and topped by a steeple with a bell that a deacon rang before the eleven o’clock service on Sunday mornings. Covered-dish suppers took place in an adjacent fellowship hall. The church had experienced a growth spurt under Brother Carpenter’s leadership, and the deacons had recently rented two trailers formerly used by the local school system to provide more space for Sunday school classes. Stretching most of the way up a hillside to the north of the sanctuary was the church cemetery. After 150 years, even a small church could populate a large cemetery.
Trish’s father was buried in the northeast corner. She no longer glanced toward the grave every time she drove onto the property, but this evening, as she lowered her mother’s wheelchair to the ground, she noticed Marge’s eyes wander up the gently sloping hill.
“The daffodils on the grave were gorgeous, weren’t they?” Trish said. “There were twice as many as we had last year. Now that they’re gone, do you want me to put together an artificial arrangement?”
“That would be nice, but I’d like to help select the flowers.”
“We’ll do it this weekend. I don’t have to work on Saturday.”
Marge’s arms were strong enough to propel the wheelchair across the parking lot. Carrying the hot casserole with oven mitts, Trish walked beside her. Inside the fellowship hall, Trish placed the dish in the section reserved for vegetables, between a ceramic bowl of creamed corn and pot of green beans seasoned with tiny bits of smoked sausage. The meat selections on a long table included fried chicken, baked chicken, chicken casserole, barbecued pork, and a sliced ham. Trish recognized the platter beneath the ham as belonging to Keith’s mother. People were milling about the room. Keith wasn’t there. His mother, a jovial, rotund woman, came over and gave her a hug.
“Keith may get here later,” Mrs. Bonita Pierce said. “He’s on the road coming back from Montgomery.”
Trish genuinely liked Keith’s mother and believed the jolly, easygoing woman with kind brown eyes would make a great mother-in-law. Bonita encouraged Trish’s and Keith’s interest in each other with unabashed zeal. Initially, Trish had valued her as an ally. Now she saw Bonita as someone who might be hurt and disappointed. Trish sighed. Terminating a romantic relationship with someone whose family attended the church could turn out to be a big mess.
Trish joined her mother, who’d parked her wheelchair in a corner of the room. More and more people arrived and filled the fellowship hall with noise. Someone let out a loud whistle, and conversation died down. Brother Carpenter, a microphone in his hand, took his place behind a slender wooden podium.
“Before I pray the blessing for the meal, I want to let everyone know we’re in for a treat tonight. After we finish eating, we’ll be joined by two special guests who will make an important announcement about the future of the church.”
“Is it the two witnesses in the book of Revelation?” called out a man to the right of the preacher. “I’d like to know who those fellows are.”
“No, Bill. And if you remember, one of their jobs was calling down fire from heaven that destroyed everyone who was in rebellion against the Lord. We don’t want them visiting here until we all get a chance to repent.”
“I’m hungry!” another male voice spoke up.
“Which is why I’m going to pray,” the preacher replied and then bowed his head.
People quickly lined up at the long row of tables covered with food. The rest of the room was set up for seating. Trish and Marge held back. Marge didn’t like the special attention she received because of her paralysis, even though Trish tried to reassure her that people deferred to her because they loved her, not out of pity. Brother Carpenter came over to them.
“Get in line, Marge,” he commanded. “Nobody here likes you holding back.”
“I’ve tried to tell her that,” Trish said. “But she won’t—”
“All right,” Marge said grumpily as she propelled herself forward. “I’m not going to fight both of you.”
Trish looked over her mother’s head at Brother Carpenter and mouthed a silent thank-you. The two women went down the line together. Over half the squash casserole was gone by the time they reached it. Trish scooped out a generous portion for herself.
“I’ll pass on it so someone else can have some,” her mother said.
“Not me,” Trish said. “Charity has its limits when it comes to one of your casseroles.”
“Amen,” said a deep voice behind them that belonged to Marvin Frick, one of the church deacons. “I’d rather ask for forgiveness than miss out on your squash.”
When their plates were full, they returned to a table at the back corner of the room. Trish was hungry. She’d skipped lunch so she could wait for Holt and apologize.
“Where’s Keith?” one of her mother’s friends asked.
“His mama said he’s coming in tonight from Montgomery,” Trish said.
“That Keith Pierce is a hard worker,” another woman said. “It’ll be a lucky girl who catches him.”
Trish didn’t respond. The back door of the fellowship hall opened, and Brother Carpenter jumped up from his seat. Trish turned so she could see who had come into the room.
It was Greg and Valerie Stevens.