Miss Julia Meets Her Match (34 page)

The expression on the pastor’s face reminded me of someone who’d walked through the wrong door. He looked as if he was having second thoughts about what he’d gotten himself into. But I didn’t have long to ponder the pastor’s discomfort, for Mr. Dooley then introduced Skeeter McKenzie, and it took me some little while to get over hearing such a name being applied to an ordained minister, even if he was pastoring a splinter church out in the county.

Preacher Skeeter went on for some little while, spending an inordinate amount of time on the benefits of home-schooling, which I had a hard time connecting to the needs of the theme park.

Apparently, Mr. Dooley did, too, for he edged Preacher Skeeter aside and took the microphone. He turned and beckoned to someone out of my line of sight. “And now,” he said, “here is the helpmate of everyone involved in the Walk Where Jesus Walked organization. She is our backbone, our encourager when things get dicey, and the one who keeps our eyes on the prize. We couldn’t do this without her. Monique, come on out here. Folks,” he said, turning to the audience, “this is Monique Mooney, who grew up here in Abbot County, and believe me her testimony is going to fill you with Holy Ghost grace and make you shout for glory.”

I reared back in my chair, feeling the back legs sink down further. My breath caught in my throat, as every system in my body practically shut down entirely. I grabbed Sam’s hand and clamped down on it. For there she was—the woman who threatened Hazel Marie’s peace of mind and Little Lloyd’s idealized, though painfully incorrect, view of his father.

She came striding out onto the stage like she’d done it a million times before, looking for all the world like Loretta Young, if anybody remembers her. Lord, my mouth dropped open at the sight. The woman was tall, with the lush figure that Mr. Pickens had referred to. She wore a form-fitting lavender dress that flared at the knees, ending in a short train. A matching cape swirled around her as she headed for the microphone. Her hair was as black as any dye Velma could’ve come up with. It lay full on her shoulders, framing a heavily made-up face that would surely earn Pastor Ledbetter’s disapproval.

But, beneath that dramatic exterior, I thought I discerned a woman who was trying too hard to appear at ease. Her eyes, flitting this way and that, betrayed her, as did her trembling shoulders. I felt a stirring of pity, but quickly restrained it as I recalled the damage she could do.

After giving Mr. Dooley a fleeting smile, Monique leaned into the microphone and looked out at the audience. When she began speaking, I was struck by her husky voice and her slow, deliberate delivery.

“Dwayne has nothing on me,” she began as she gripped each side of the lectern. “My life has been a long and perilous journey into the depths of sin. For many long years, I poisoned my body with liquor and Virginia Slims. I wore seductive clothing and brought many a decent man down. But by the leading of God through Dwayne, I have been slain in the spirit and delivered up into joy.”

Well, that was a striking beginning, and she had the attention of every person there. The only thing was, I didn’t see any evidence of the joy she said she’d been delivered into. There was no smile, no holy glow, no sign of happiness. And I soon found out why.

“When I heard,” she went on, “that we were being led to Abbot County, I knew that the Lord was showing me what I had to do. My friends, it’s not enough to be convicted of our sins. It’s not enough to realize how far short we come from the glory of God. It’s not enough to ask him for forgiveness, which he is ever gracious to grant. No, there’s more that has to be done before the Holy Spirit is able to cleanse our filthy bodies and turn them into temples fit for his indwelling. Yes, before He can come in and fill us with his powerful presence, we have to ask forgiveness of all those we’ve hurt and wronged and spiritually damaged. And that’s what God is leading me to do tonight.”

Thunder rolled in the distance, but nobody paid any attention to the threatening sound. Every eye in the place was glued to the woman before us. If I could’ve moved from the paralysis that gripped my limbs, I would’ve left right then and there.

Stretching her long, white neck, Monique threw her head back and stared at the top of the tent. “Lord,” she prayed, her hands lifted high in supplication, “free me from the burden and the wages of sin, and make me whole again. Work on these good people, Oh, Lord, so that they will look with compassion upon this poor, prodigal daughter set back down in their midst. May they find it in their hearts to forgive the wrongs I perpetrated on so many, who didn’t even know I was alive.”

Then she bowed her head, swinging her shoulders so that the cape fluttered around her. She stood that way for a few seconds, while the rest of us waited out this dramatic moment. My breath was coming in little gasps, hardly daring to think what this woman would say next. One minute I wanted to snatch up Little Lloyd and run out of the place, and the next I was telling myself that surely she wouldn’t give chapter and verse of her unabridged book of life.

I glanced over at Little Lloyd to see how much attention he was paying, and was reassured when I saw him whispering with Latisha. I felt no call to admonish them as I would have done in a normal church service.

Monique finally got through praying, and began to testify.

“Like the Samaritan woman with all the husbands,” she began, “I took what did not belong to me. Mrs. Allen,” she said, lifting her head and peering out into the audience. “Mildred, I think of you as my sister in the Lord, I ask you now to forgive me for my trespass against you.”

Everybody turned to stare at Mildred, whose face registered nothing but astonishment and embarrassment for being singled out in such a way. She turned this way and that, trying to see if there were another Mildred Allen who was being put on the spot. Tonya, sitting beside her, gaped in equal astonishment, while Horace on the other side of Mildred shrunk down in his seat, his hand covering his face. Calvin just looked confused, probably wondering what kind of family he’d gotten himself into.

People all over the auditorium looked at one another, whispered together and shrugged shoulders in wonderment at Monique’s words. Then, in the ensuing silence, she went on to make her meaning perfectly clear. “I once—no, several times—knew your husband, Mildred, in what is called the biblical sense, but there was nothing spiritual about it. The guilt now weighs heavily on me, and I beg you to lift it off with your forgiveness. And there were others . . .”

Every eye there was fastened on Monique, as her words rang out in the open-mouthed, breath-holding silence. I felt every drop of pity for her drain away, while the full meaning of her words sunk in.

“I don’t want you to think,” Monique went on, “that I limited myself to those who belonged to faithful wives. Dwayne,” she said, turning to Mr. Dooley who gave her a weak, but encouraging, smile, “while I’m going good, I might as well get it all said. You were thrilled when Curtis offered to finance your dream, but you don’t know why he did. He did it because he wanted me, and I wanted to keep the money rolling in. But Curtis,” she said, rounding on Mr. Maxwell, who was sitting behind her. His face reddened and his eyes darted from side to side, looking for a way out. “Not enough has been rolling in, so I’ve had to make a different arrangement.”

Even as I wondered where that left Dwayne Dooley, a piercing scream cut through the heavy air, raising the hair on the back of my head. Norma Cantrell came out of her chair and, pushing her way across those sitting in adjoining seats, she scrambled toward the aisle, screaming, “You promised me! You promised me!” Emma Sue swiveled around, staring at Norma, her face lighting up as Norma publicly acknowledged the focus of her interest, which most assuredly was not the pastor.

Mr. Maxwell came to his feet and began to edge toward stage left.

“The Holy Spirit is working now,” Monique cried out in wonder, as she leaned closer to the microphone to be heard over the stir she was causing. “I can feel him here among us.”

Something certainly was working among us, but I wouldn’t’ve bet on how holy it was.

But Monique was swept away with the power of her testimony, letting it pour out with no heed to the agitated murmuring of her audience. “There were others whose marriage vows I trampled upon,” she said, raising her voice over the disturbance Norma was creating as she headed for the stage. “Mrs. Richard Stroud, Helen, your husband was weak and I used that against him. Forgive me, I beg of you. Mrs. Amy Broughton, Mrs. Mayor Beebee, Mrs. Wesley Lloyd . . .”

Lightning flashed, throwing the surrounding trees in bright relief, as I sprang to my feet and clapped my hands over Little Lloyd’s ears. Thunder crashed above our heads, as a sudden downpour of rain drummed on the tent canvas. I crushed the child to me, almost smothering him in my effort to block out that wretched woman’s words.

As the full import of Monique’s confession took hold, the audience became more and more agitated. People came out of their seats, as tumults broke out in first one place, then the other. Someone threw a chair, another crashed into a pole, loosening the support of the whole tent. The rain-filled canvas dumped a cascade of water over everybody on the right side. I heard a shriek from Mildred and saw Helen deck her husband with her pocketbook.

By this time, Norma had bulled her way up onto the stage, brushing against the podium as Monique grabbed the teetering microphone. Mr. Maxwell jumped off the back of the stage, heading for the hills with Norma, screaming like a banshee, right on his heels. Gladys Beebee lifted her skirts and leapt onto the stage. She pushed Mr. Dooley out of her way and went straight for the mayor. He cringed away from her, his arms held protectively around his head, as she slammed him over and over with her umbrella. The preachers on the stage scattered in various directions, losing every ounce of dignity they’d ever had trying to get out of the line of fire.

Mr. Dooley grabbed the microphone from Monique, causing an awful screech in the sound system. He yelled at the top of his voice. “People! People! Please, this is a testimony! A sister, convicted of sin and standing before you asking forgiveness. Everybody! Let’s sing a hymn of praise.” He swung around to the band and waved his hand to get them started. “ ‘Leaning on the Everlasting Arms,’ ” he yelled, announcing the selection as loudly as he could. The band commenced blaring forth as he lifted his voice in a crowd-calming effort:
“Lean
ing,
lean
ing, safe and secure from all alarms . . .”

But nobody was listening, much less singing. The audience erupted from one end to the other, as even those wives who’d not been named cut loose with threats and questions and accusations. Fights and screams were breaking out all over the place. All I could do in the midst of the uproar was hold Little Lloyd close and pray that he’d not put two and two together and come up with a footloose father. Sam was beside me, his arms shielding us from flying objects, urging a quick retreat. Hazel Marie sat in shocked silence, her face as white as a sheet. Lillian was aghast, her eyes wide and her mouth open. Over the rising din, I heard Latisha say, “I don’t like this place, Great-Granny. It don’t look like a theme park to me.”

In a flurry of motion, Mr. Pickens suddenly appeared in the row behind us. He leaned over, took Little Lloyd from me and lifted him over the seat. With the boy clinging to him, Mr. Pickens touched Hazel Marie’s shoulder and said, “Come on, sweetheart. I’m getting you out of here.”

She climbed over the seat and fell against him, so glad to see him that she hugged him and the boy in his arms. The three of them pushed their way to the aisle and the last I saw of them, they were halfway to the exit.

“Let’s go, Julia,” Sam said, with one arm around me, and the other reaching out to Lillian. People everywhere pushed and shoved and shouted over the racket the band was making. Mr. Dooley had given up on leading a congregational hymn, for the alarms just kept on piling up.

We got to the aisle, but it was so full of the seething crowd that we were stopped cold. In the meantime, Mr. Dooley and Monique, herself, had come down into the audience, trying to bring some semblance of decorum back to the proceedings. Things had gotten far out of hand, as old scores were being settled in the midst of legitimate marital discord. I could hear the two of them yelling for quiet, and at one point, Mr. Dooley shouted out to the band, “Stop that infernal racket!” Which didn’t speak highly of his spiritual state.

The turbulent crowd squashed me against Sam and somebody stepped on my foot. I made my discomfort known by lashing out with my pocketbook, freeing up a little space around us. Sam leaned down and picked up Latisha and I grabbed Lillian’s hand and pulled her out into the aisle.

“Stay together now,” Sam yelled out, and we began to push through the churning mass before us. At one point, I was able to look back at the stage. Pastor Ledbetter, who’d not retreated from the fray like the other preachers, had Emma Sue locked in a most unministerial embrace. In all the years he’d occupied our pulpit, it was the first time I’d seen him treat her in any way other than in a formally condescending manner. In fact, as you may remember, I’d often wondered how they’d managed to produce the offspring they had, and this glimpse of them clasped together in a public forum satisfied my curiosity.

With Sam herding us all together, we finally gained the path leading from the tent. I searched the crush of people around me, looking for Little Lloyd and Hazel Marie, but I couldn’t see them. Hoping that Mr. Pickens had gotten them safely away, I clung to Sam’s arm to maintain my balance as we were pushed and shoved and jostled along on the muddy track.

The rain had slacked off, although sprinkles from the sky and the trees continued to fall around us. Yet, hardly any unbrellas were unfurled. Some, like ours, had been left behind, and others had so many ribs broken from their use as weapons that they wouldn’t open.