A Stranger in the Kingdom (37 page)

COLORED CLERGYMAN FIRED ON, SHOOTS BACK

RACIAL PERSECUTION IN SLEEPY VERMONT VILLAGE?

WOULD-BE MURDERER GETS SLAP ON WRIST: WHEN WILL HE TRY AGAIN?

 

It was August 6, the morning after Resolvèd's arraignment, and to judge by the out-of-town newspaper reports, all New England was preoccupied with nothing else. I had just returned to the
Monitor
from the post office with the half-dozen New England papers Dad subscribed to, and even the Boston
Globe
had emblazoned its story across the front page of its northern New England edition.

“‘When asked if racial prejudice existed in northern Vermont,'” my father read from the
Globe
, “‘Reverend Walter Andrews stated that he supposed racial prejudice existed everywhere. But he added that he was inclined to think that Thursday night's shootout in this tiny border town had resulted from a misunderstanding. Queried as to the exact nature of this misunderstanding, the Canadian-born Negro minister of the United Church of Kingdom Common quipped: “The chap who shot at my house and me obviously didn't think I would shoot back.”'”

But no sooner had Dad started to read the Burlington
Free Press
account of the shooting and arraignment than Farlow Blake slithered through the door in his spanking white barber's apron with yet another problem. Some of the Presbyterian session members had just convened a meeting to discuss the minister in the Sunday school room of the church, and for some reason neither Dad nor Reverend Andrews had been notified.

 

“Folks, we can't allow this situation to continue to get out of hand,” George Quinn was saying. “Did you read this morning's Boston paper? The Kingdom's getting a black eye clear across New England as a result of all this publicity.”

“My main question is, why would a minister or any other law-abiding man keep a loaded gun in his house in the first place?” Elijah Kinneson said. “Not to mention continuing to harbor a girl who's no better than a woman of the streets. This is turning into a full-blown scandal.”

“The scandalous thing is Resolvèd's trying to kidnap the girl and firing at the Andrews' house, not Walt's firing back to defend himself,” my father said sharply.

I nudged Nat, ensconced beside me in the vestibule just off the main Sunday school room, into which we'd slipped moments before. I was immensely proud of my father. There was no way he was going to let these small-minded people railroad Nat's father.

“We limped along for years before we managed to find anybody willing to venture up here and tackle this job the way it should be tackled,” Dad said. “Then we got lucky. We not only found somebody, we found a good man. Walt Andrews has done more for this church in three short months than any other minister has done in years. Now you're saying you want to give him the boot because he's got an enemy or two? You're going to let an event involving Resolvèd Kinneson influence how you run church affairs? You can't do this.”

“Nobody wants to eject the man from his job, Charles. We just want some answers here. We want to know about that gun and why he had it. We want that little . . . well, frankly, that little tart out of our parsonage. It just doesn't look right.”

“It doesn't look right to hold a session meeting without the minister present, George. Our bylaws clearly state that the minister is a member of the session. Is this an official session meeting?”

“I suppose it is,” George Quinn said. “We just didn't see how we could have the man himself sit in here with us today. It would be sort of like having the defendant sit in on the jury deliberation, wouldn't it?”

“This isn't a jury,” my father said. “And I, for one, don't for a minute think Walt Andrews has done anything at all that he shouldn't have.”

“Well, Reverend Andrews is off in Pond in the Sky conducting a funeral this morning,” George said feebly. “He couldn't be here.”

“This
isn't
a jury, damn it,” my father repeated.

As the session considered what my father had said, it was quiet. It was also stuffy, at least in the cubbyhole where Nat and I were crouched among the musty-smelling folds of the stern dark choir robes, straining to hear every word in the meeting room.

“To tell you the truth, editor,” Ben Currier said, “even those of us who support the reverend the most, and I count myself among them, didn't want to embarrass him by asking him to come here this morning. Not until we've discussed the whole situation, at least.”

“Embarrass whom?”

Nat stiffened in the dark beside me. In that faintly ironical, richly resonant voice I could not mistake for any other, even if I were to hear it again today after more than thirty-five years, Reverend Andrews said, “Am I interrupting something private, gentlemen? Don't let me disturb you. I just dropped by to hang up my funeral vestments. Or should I leave them on?”

Nat and I burrowed far back into the closet, burying ourselves in the primary grade's Christmas angel costumes. The door opened and a shaft of light fell across the robes There was a cough that might have been a suppressed chuckle, then the rattle of a coat hanger. The door closed, and all was dark again.

“No need to tush off now you're here, Reverend,” George said. “We were just wondering if you'd like to tell us your side of the story.”

“That's why you didn't ask me to attend, then?” Reverend Andrews said. “So that I could tell you my side of the story? You know, gentlemen, there's an unpleasant expression for the kind of trial-without-recourse that I've apparently interrupted. I won't offend you by saying what that expression is, except that I fancy it may have originated down under in Australia.”

I thought I heard my father snort. But the other members of the session were apparently not amused.

“Where would you like me to begin?” the minister said.

“With the girl,” Elijah Kinneson said sharply. “Didn't you know the minute the girl navigated over to your house that in a small town like this there was bound to be trouble? Talk?”

“It wasn't the first thought to cross my mind, to tell you the truth. My first thought was that she needed a roof over her head. Lending a helping hand is one of a minister's duties, you know. And, gentlemen, though there's little so rankling to me as a prattling preacher who cites chapter and text from the Bible to win personal arguments, surely you'll agree that that document holds out more than a few precedents for my decision. It doesn't seem to me that I should have to apologize for trying to follow its dictates.”

“You shouldn't,” my father said.

“So you'd say you did the right thing then?” George said. “By taking the girl in? And you're still doing the right thing by keeping her? Even in view of her background and all? We're just asking, that's all, Reverend. We need some guidance on this matter. We need to know what you think.”

“I'd say it was the right thing to do,” Reverend Andrews said. “Especially in view of her background. I'm doing everything I can to find an appropriate alternative for her, if that's any help.”

Castor Oil Quinn cleared his throat. “I guess we'll just have to take your word on that, then. Now, on another matter. The matter of your gun. With all the publicity that this trouble's been getting, a number of parishioners have approached us this morning. I mean they've approached us trustees, expressing—ah, surprise. Surprise that a minister would have a loaded gun in his house in the first place, and then actually fire it off at someone. Now don't misunderstand me for a minute, Reverend. None of us at all questions your right to protect yourself and your son. But this shooting fracas at the parsonage—we just wondered why you didn't immediately call the sheriff.”

“The sheriff had been decoyed out of town, presumably by Resolvèd Kinneson, whose stated intention was to take Claire LaRiviere out of the parsonage—by force, if necessary.”

“Well, we're all relieved that nothing happened to the girl. But if I correctly recall, you were asked by a representative of the Ladies Auxiliary as well as by Elijah here to do something about the girl some days ago, and you apparently chose not to.”

“For heavens sake, man, are we back to her again? I have been
trying
to do something about the girl. This isn't as simple as it sounds.”

“No, it isn't,” George said. “Well, this, ah, inquiry, it's mainly our way of finding out what really is going on so that we can properly support and advise you.”

“Indeed? Well, don't think I'm not grateful, but I wish I'd been formally invited to your ‘inquiry' because there are some things I'd have clarified right from the start, and will now, with your indulgence. To begin with, I've never in all my life kept a loaded gun in any house I've lived in. The revolver, which was unloaded, was in the bottom drawer of my desk. The clip containing the bullets was locked in an upper drawer. Nor did I fire until after I'd been fired at. I did shoot then but not carelessly. I deliberately fired a disabling, rather than a mortal, shot.”

“I understand, Walter,” George said. “You don't have to convince me. Probably I would have done exactly what you did.”

This I doubted. I would have been astonished to learn that old Castor Oil ever had held anything more lethal than a cough syrup prescription in his well-manicured hand in his entire life.

“It's just that some people will be sure to wonder why a minister would keep any gun, loaded or not, in his desk,” George continued. “You know how folks are in a small town.”

“I'm learning fast,” Reverend Andrews said. “Ordinarily, I don't keep a gun in my desk. But frankly, after some earlier episodes, I thought it advisable.”

“So you still think you did the right thing, night before last?”

“I'd say so. What do you think?”

There was a pause. Then Reverend Andrews said, “Why don't you take a vote? I'll wait outside.”

“The question before us,” George said when the minister had left, “is whether to give Reverend Andrews a vote of confidence. I'm inclined to think we should, but this whole situation still distresses me. All I can say is vote your conscience. A yes means we accord him a vote of confidence. A no means we don't. Written ballots are best in this case, I believe.”

I could hear chairs scuffling, paper being ripped for ballots. Beside me in the dark Nat was breathing quicker.

“One thing before we vote,” my father said. “Regardless of what any of you may think personally about this matter, don't vote no today. If you do, it'll indicate that you think Reverend Andrews is guilty of something, which he isn't, unless it's being a good minister and a good Christian.”

By the end of that fall, it would seem to me that I had spent half of 1952 waiting for important decisions I had no control over, in courtrooms and elsewhere. But the wait in the Sunday school closet with both the minister's and my father's credibility at stake was one of the hardest.

“Seven yes's and one no,” George Quinn announced, and a moment later I heard the door open.

“Reverend Andrews, it isn't unanimous but seven out of the eight members of the session have accorded you a vote of confidence. I'm glad of it, sir. I'm glad the air has been cleared. I want you to know that we're behind you all the way.”

“That's good,” Reverend Andrews said, his voice equable and resonant and faintly amused. “Even the one dissenting vote, now that I think of it. As I've mentioned before, if I didn't have at least one enemy, you wouldn't be able to trust me, would you, now? Gentlemen, good morning to you.”

My father prided himself on never locking the
Monitor
during the day, but just before leaving for the session meeting he'd told me to hold down the fort until he got back, and when I dashed in breathlessly a minute or so after he arrived, he wasn't happy.

Fortunately for me, Reverend Andrews was already sitting in the single chair in front of Dad's desk.

Dad handed me a slip of paper from his notepad. It had two dates written on it: August 6, 1900, and August 13, 1900.

“Reverend Andrews wants to borrow these issues of the
Monitor
, James. Go downstairs and get them, and whatever you do, don't mix up the order of the back issues or Elijah'll have your head, and mine too.”

“Didn't I see you and Nathan having a little Sunday school class a short while ago?” Reverend Andrews said to me with a wink.

So he
had
seen us hiding in the Sunday school closet, when he opened the door. It was all I could do not to crack up as I rummaged through the stacks of old yellow
Monitors
in the basement.

Upstairs I heard my father say, “Walter, I must admit, I'm surprised that you can still be so interested in local history at a time like this.”

The minister laughed. “What should I do, abandon all hope and start knitting a big red
A?
”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it's evident to me, and has been since Julia Hefner's first visit to the parsonage to try to bully me into sending that girl packing, that half the people in this town think I'm having an illicit affair with her. No one's quite come right out and said so. But that's what they're thinking.”

“Well,” my father said, “it's understandable that you might feel resentful. In the past month you've put on the biggest and most successful shindig this town has seen in fifty years, which, by the way, George Quinn just told me brought in a little over four thousand dollars. You've had your household turned upside down by a slightly unbalanced teenage girl, been shot at by a local drunk and would-be kidnapper, and raked over the coals by your governing board for having the temerity to defend yourself.”