A Short Story by Russ McLean (1998)
The high-field was one of his favourite spots. In the winter they tobogganed here and on days when they lingered until twilight you could see the lights of each farmhouse, made play-size by the distance, come up against the snow. But now, it was hot July and haying time. He snaked the wagon down the long slope forward as a cluster of men lugged bales by their strings and slung them onto the load. They said little and the sweated grunts got louder as the load grew higher. He nudged ahead weaving between the rows of bales.
Just now, as he sat with the engine idling, waiting for them to sweep this part of the field clean, his father called down from on top of the load, "Shut her off and we'll have a drink." He pivoted to the ground in front of the large rear wheel and got out the jug of water and tin dipper. The men drank in turn, water splashing down their chins. He put the empty jug back in the moss-filled container and climbed back on the tractor as the men took off their hats and mopped their brows in the shadow of the load. It was then that he heard the car, at first faintly, coming up the lake road, headed toward the village. He grew anxious when he recognised the Volkswagen sound.
Two long spreading branches of a tall white pine down the slope of the field framed the roadway. He listened to the steady putter of the engine and soon a red Volkswagen appeared at the edge of his vision as though it had come from behind the trunk of the tree. It progressed along the winding road dropping from sight from time to time when it dipped into gullies. Each time it disappeared behind houses or clumps of roadside trees he hoped it would turn off the road because, near the centre of the scene laid out below him, at the point where the road reached beyond the outstretched branches of the pine, stood the garage.
He did not want her to stop there. He wanted to call out and warn her. To tell her that they were watching. To tell her that they knew. Maybe, he hoped, the others would not notice. Maybe they had not heard the car in the distance. But they did notice, and each stood quietly as Joan's Volkswagen slowed and turned in to Cecil Milligan's garage.
He liked Joan and now he was upset because the men were laughing about her. He knew they were not laughing about her car. It was about what had happened the day of the picnic. "Perhaps it's her choke", said one. "Maybe her points need cleaning", said another, to large guffaws. "No, I'll bet it’s her intake valve needs work", said the third, and they laughed even harder until his father muttered something and the other farmers fell silent. Far below, Cecil opened the garage door and the VW disappeared inside.
His memories of that summer picnic evoked sensual fantasies in the years that followed. She had picked him up after he had fallen and skinned his knee. He sat on her lap and turned to bury his face to hide his tears from the others playing tag. She held him tightly at first and rocked slightly while he stopped crying. As the pain subsided, her long brown hair teased his face and nostrils and her fingers gently stroked the hair on the nape of his neck. He was surprised by the softness of her breasts in contrast with the rest of her strong firm body.
He had not expected her to be soft like mothers and grandmothers because Joan was as strong as a man. In the strawberry fields he had watched her carry a full crate of berries, balance it on one hand and squat straight-backed to pick up extra boxes. At the ball game she had swung the bat like a man and when she threw the ball, she threw it overhand. And so, he found the strong arms that scooped him from the gravel where he fell, and the rock-hard thighs on which he was placed, in marked contrast to her cozy embrace.
She sat him on the bench and knelt before him, one hand cupped behind his knee, firmly holding his trembling leg, while the skilful fingers of the other hand plucked the gravel from the wound. She rinsed the wound and then, when he stood beside her, she had hugged him to her firm belly and kissed the top of his head. "You'll be ok now. Go play. There'll be hot dogs soon". When he slowly turned to join the fray, comforting fingers lingered for just an instant and tickled down his shoulder blades as he moved away.
But now, the men were laughing about her and he felt to blame. He wanted to tell her what he had said to Sister James about Mossy Bank. He wanted to let her know the grownups had argued when Sister James came to his house after the picnic, that Sister James thought Cecil was a reprobate, that his grandmother said that it would all blow over, and that Uncle Ralph, who didn’t go to Church and didn't call people Sister and Brother like his mother and father did, yelled at Effie James' and said it was none of her god damned business, but that Sister James said Mona had to know.
Now, as he edged the tractor further down the slope, he decided he would warn her at evening prayer.
But it was too late. That evening at the Tabernacle the service was just beginning when she arrived. He turned to see her tip-toeing, quietly up the aisle. She flashed a quick smile at him then lowered her gaze as though to signal him to return his attention to the pulpit. But he did not. She moved like a deer, strong and graceful, smoothing her pretty floral dress beneath her as she settled effortlessly into a pew. Then, as people do after they have entered a meeting in progress, she slowly raised her head and glanced around. She looked puzzled when no familiar nods or smiles acknowledged her. Then her eyes became riveted for a moment on the empty seat near the front. Mona was there as usual, her five children arrayed beside her. Cecil's seat was empty. When she glanced at him again, he sensed she knew she was no longer among friends.
The service proceeded as usual though without much spirit. His mother was the last to testify and said that when she stopped to count her many blessings that there was only one other thing that she would wish for, and that was that her brother Ralph would be saved. She asked that they would all pray for him that he might "see the light" and "come to Christ". It was then the Pastor brought that part of the service to an end by asking them to bow their heads and join him in prayer for "Ralph and all of those who have lost their way." As he began to pray, against a muttered backdrop of "amen!", "Yes, Lord", "praise Jesus", and "Hallelujah", Joan quietly got up and left.
He did not see her again that summer. From time to time the Volkswagen passed by but she never stopped. His parents said she had gone to visit relatives. The summer moved into fall; raspberries, corn, then apples and when frost killed their canopy, pumpkins squatted in the mud. Joan had decided to stay in town to go to business school. She would be a good secretary, but father did not know how he would manage in berry season. But there is nothing like a fresh start.
Mona sat alone with her children in church that winter. Joan did not return until the following summer. The city had not been kind. There was a tired look in her eyes. She no longer owned a car, because living in the city was very expensive, and so uncle Ralph had gone to pick her up at the bus stop. She was back just in time for the Revival.
All that week an evangelist was thundering his sermons in a Crusade for Christ at the Tabernacle. Every evening they came from miles around to listen to him preach and to hear his family sing and play instruments, many of which had never been seen in the village. It was better than radio. The pulpit was mounted with two microphones, and loud-speakers boomed out the message of the full gospel as the Reverend Doctor waged war on sin. Each evening many came to the altar to be saved while others stood and wept as they reaffirmed their commitment to Christ. The congregation rejoiced as the revival spread and many back-sliders returned to the fold. Some had been healed. Brother Amos could see much better despite his cataracts. Brother Ferguson, who had suffered severe back ache ever since being knocked over by his bull that spring, had his first good sleep in months. Sister James, afflicted for years with headaches, felt the heavy claws lifting from her head when she had the laying on of hands. Mona wept and testified that she had been delivered from torment when the Reverend cast out the demon of jealously in the Blessed Name of Jesus. By Thursday, it was standing room only. That was the night when Joan came back to Christ.
He looked around and saw her coming into the Tabernacle, hesitantly, and flicked his hand upward from his lap in secret greeting as she settled into a pew. He thought that this was a good night for her to come because she would not receive much notice amongst the many visitors. He didn't know that glory was about to touch down.
Summer was at the full and the windows were open to catch the evening breeze from the lake. In moments, when the evening stilled, the sweetness of Phlox from the nearby Parsonage garden filled the air but with each breeze the scent of hay, lately mown, came wafting timothy and clover.
The congregation thrilled to the harmonies of the Evangelist and his Wife and their children. There seemed to be no end to their versatility and each song was accompanied by yet another instrument. At times the audience joined in, and then at others sat mesmerized as the music cascaded over them. The sound swelled, and the vocals became steadily more complex and emotive until the Wife provided the crowning. The Evangelist and his children slowly retreated from the mikes, leaving her with radiant smile, alone at the pulpit. There was an expectant hush and then she sang Amazing Grace. The audience sat in a euphoric stupor as the final round soprano notes trailed to "was blind, but now I see-ee."
Then silence.
The crickets, sounding in the night air, had just returned to the threshold of hearing when the Evangelist swept forward to the mikes. He loudly intoned in a sepulchral voice, "We are living, in the closing days of time."
The sermon was powerful and focused on the Biblical prophesies and the signs of the times. Those who had come merely to hear the exotic sax and the pleasing xylophone were soon captivated by his words. His melodic voice came through the mikes and wrapped around the audience, while his piercing glance stabbed the heart of every sinner. At times, with both arms outstretched and palms upturned to heaven, he pleaded for deliverance, and then, with finger pointing directly at any who dared meet his hypnotic gaze, he warned of eternal torment for those who did not heed. His well-thumbed Bible was pounded, slammed, waved, then held aloft, open, perfectly balanced on backward palm, gold edged pages gleaming, as he challenged any sinner to stand against the Holy Word of God.
In due course, and with perfect timing, this barrage of words softened to an altar call with hushed passion. No sooner had this started than his Wife and children began softly singing in the background. At the outset it was Rock of Ages gently harmonized just loudly enough so as not to intrude on the tension of the moment.
“Yes friends. I feel His spirit. I feel His presence here tonight...”
... cleft for me, let me hide my soul ...
“The sands of time are running low brothers and sisters ...”
... and the blood, from the ri-ven side, which flowed …
“There is someone here tonight with a heavy heart, and I am feeling your anguish. I sense the loneliness in your soul. Jesus wants to wash away your sins and sooth your aching heart. Come ... come forward now ... come to Jesus ... come and pledge your soul to Christ.”
... naked, come to thee for dress;
helpless, look to thee for Grace ...
“He loves you, just as you are. We all have sinned and come short of the Glory of God. You are not alone. He knows your every care.”
... foul, I to thy fountain fly;
wash me, Saviour, or I die…
Seamlessly the music became, Just As I Am.
“I am afraid tonight. I have a terribly foreboding premonition. I sense that there is someone here tonight who is receiving their final call ... Sinner, this may be your last chance. He loves you ... don't harden your heart against him ...”
... withou-out one plea …
... but tha-at thy blood was shed for me ...
“Do not let false pride damn you to eternal flame. You are not sitting there on the edge of your seat ... you are on the edge of eternity. And Jesus is here ... arms open, waiting to caress you with his eternal love.”
Ju-ust as I am-m, and wa-anting not
to ri-id my soul of one dark blot,
to-o thee, whose blo-od can cleanse each spo-ot,
O Lamb of Ga-awd, I come.... I... come.
It was then he saw, out of the corner of his eye across the aisle, that Joan had her head bowed and that she was shaking. She stood, sobbing, and made her way unsteadily to the front and fell on her knees at the altar.
“Thank you, Jesus,” said the Evangelist; but as the music sweetened into Softly and Tenderly it was swamped in a chorus of praise from the audience. Electricity filled the air, and when the Evangelist left the pulpit and leaned over the rail and touched Joan's uplifted forehead, she convulsed and rose up speaking in tongues.
As the strange words tumbled uncontrolled from her mouth, she spun and fell face down before the altar convulsing from head to foot. The Church reverberated with ecstasy as one after another became blessed and spoke in tongues. Many others streamed up the aisles to join Joan at the altar. The Pastor slipped off his jacket and laid it across her thighs which were now exposed as she sobbed and writhed as each wave of glory broke over her. Many remained very late that night to pray with Joan while she tarried with the Lord, face aglow.
Decades later, during a visit home to the village, he accompanied his mother to the Glad Tidings Tabernacle. Cecil's presence in the casket accomplished what he had refused to do all those years. The pastor spoke of the wonderful wife and children for whom Cecil had provided. He told of how Cecil had worked hard building his reputation as an honest mechanic, a friend of farmers, an old-fashioned craftsman who took pride in his work. He had visited him after the stroke, Cecil had squeezed his hand and tried to speak when he prayed. He said that although Cecil was not a Church goer that he had always paid his tithe. He said that he knew in his own heart that Cecil had made his peace with God before he died.
Mona “held up well" during the service. She sat quietly in the front pew amidst sobs from the children and grandchildren who flanked her.
As he drove his mother home, they passed Picnic Cove where he had scraped his knee all those years ago. “I didn’t see Joan there, is she still here?
“Oh yes. She’s a regular, but she may be in town this weekend. I’ll tell her you asked.”
“Never married, eh?”
They drove on in silence as his mind returned to that day. Had he not gone up to Mossy Bank might they have never known? They had hotdogs and marshmallows roasted on sticks before going swimming. Then, when the Pastor began to organize them in pairs for the three-legged race, he opted out because his skinned knee had begun to stiffen. He drifted over to the picnic benches where some of the adults were sitting in the shade. Joan was telling Cecil the sound her car had made that morning and they were all laughing. Cecil thought it sounded like the choke and said he would "go and have a look at it". Joan protested, but Mona said, "Go ahead Joan. He's not happy unless he has his head under the hood of a car." They laughed again and Cecil and Joan walked along the beach to the foot bridge over the creek and disappeared up the path through the trees to where the cars were parked.
Soon he tired of watching the races and it was then he thought of Mossy Bank. He knew that if he climbed the wooded ridge, which sheltered Picnic Cove, he would come to the creek near the little waterfall. There the creek tumbled into a spring-fed pool. The sloped bank that curved around the north side of the pool was green with moss even in the drought of summer. Brook trout would be lying in the shadow of the boulders that sat on the gravel bottom.
He made his way up the slope of the ridge pausing from time to time to glimpse the picnickers below: Most were clustered around the three-legged racers cheering, others, mainly children, frolicked in the lake. Soon he reached the top and as he moved further into the woods he could hear the slow summer gurgle of the waterfall.
They did not see him at first. He squeezed through a clump of bushes and stepped out to the far edge of the pool from where they stood. For a few seconds he stood there silenced by his own surprise until something alerted them that they were not alone. "What are you doing here?" asked Joan, but before he could answer she talked about how Cecil had fixed her car and how he was going to show her where there were some blackberries along the creek. Cecil waded quickly to the bank and slipped on his shoes and said: "Well, I'd better be getting back". Joan suggested that maybe he'd better go back down the trail by the creek if he was in a hurry because she wanted to go look for blackberries above the falls.
Cecil disappeared quickly, socks in hand. Joan took time tying her sneakers and then said, "Let's go up the creek a bit to see if the blackberries are ripe." He knew they weren't ripe, but he liked being with Joan and so they went together. She was not in a hurry and they skirted the waterfall and walked along the edge of the creek before they turned back down the ridge toward the picnic. When they arrived back at the beach, Cecil was already there playing horseshoes. Joan drifted into the cluster of onlookers.
When Sister James saw him she said sternly, "Good heavens child! Where have you been? Your mother's been looking for you." He told her that he had been up at Mossy Bank pool, and she replied that he had no business being up there on his own. He protested that Cecil and Joan had been there too. "Cecil and Joan?", she asked, "What were they doing at Mossy Bank?" He didn't quite know how to describe what he had seen, and so he replied that they were wading. Sister James paused and then asked with a chuckle, "I'll bet Cecil's kids were playing in the pool with you. Weren't they?"
"No”, he replied, “it was just them."
That is all he said. He did not say that Joan was standing with the legs of her coveralls rolled up past her knees - one strap hanging loosely on her hip, her left hand resting on Cecil's shoulder. Cecil stood barefoot in the shallow water, shirt undone, looking into her tanned face with his thick mechanic's hands lightly resting on her hips. The sun flickered and glinted on her hair as the poplar leaves above the pool stirred in the summer heat and her lips said words which were lost in the murmur of the waterfall as her right hand, dripping water, gently brushed across his cheek.