Dawn of a New Day (27 page)

“Yes? What can I do for you?”

“I'm Bobby Stuart. Prue Deforge sent me.”

Looking over her glasses, Reverend Pearl said, “Sit down,” nodding with her head toward a single chair that sat in front of her desk. When Bobby perched himself in it watching her warily, she said directly, “I hate your music.”

Bobby had expected anything but this. His eyes flew open, and he opened his mouth to say something, but then realizing that his fate lay in the slender hands of the woman across from him, he nodded. “Yes, ma'am, I reckon most folks your age would.”

“It has nothing to do with age.”

“No, ma'am,” Bobby agreed, wondering how to answer the severe look she was giving him.

“I think it comes straight out of the jungle, and it's leading millions of young people straight to hell.”

Bobby blinked with surprise at this stern admonition. To save his life he could not think of a thing to say for a moment, then finally he shrugged. “Well, I won't be making any music for a while.”

“That's right. You'll be earning your keep around here. Let me see your hands.”

“My hands?”

“Your hands!” Reverend Pearl said. “Let me see them! The palms!”

Bobby extended his palms, and when Reverend Pearl looked at them she made a disgusted sound and shook her head. “Not a callus on them! We'll change that!”

Again Bobby had the impulse to get away as quickly as he could from the Sunshine Daycare Center and Reverend Pearl Riverton, but necessity kept him nailed to the chair. “I guess you got the best of the argument, Reverend,” he said. “I got some community service to do, and I guess I'll try anything you'll put me to.”

Reverend Riverton got up, and Bobby rose with her. She was, he saw, no more than five two or three, thin, and had hazel eyes. Despite the heat she wore long sleeves buttoned at the wrist, and her skirt came almost halfway between her knees and the floor.

“Do you know the Lord God Omnipotent?”

Bobby flinched at the question but shook his head. “No, ma'am. I don't guess I do.”

“The more shame on you. With all that God's done for you, and you don't even know him. Well, we'll have time to talk about that after you've done your work. Come along.” She wheeled and marched out the door. Bobby turned and followed her. She led the way to a room that contained buckets, mops, soap, and various other items of cleaning equipment.

“Clean the building.”

Bobby stared at her. “What part of it?”

“All of it. I haven't had any help here. Dust everything that can be dusted. Wash everything that can be washed, and mop everything that can be mopped. I'll be around to check on you from time to time.”

Bobby stared at the buckets and mops and sighed deeply. “Yes, Reverend,” he said meekly.

The rhythm at Logan Stuart's house fell into place very quickly. Bobby got up and went to work every morning after being fed a good breakfast by Prue. He returned every afternoon shortly after five looking exhausted and with a string of complaints against Pentecostal lady preachers. But as the week passed his nerves seemed to grow more steady, and in the evenings he would even sometimes sit at the piano and play old songs. Never rock and roll, but the real old music that seemed to come from dim memories.

Mark and Prue went nowhere except to visit their folks on the second day of their arrival. Mark had told them, “I need time. Just give me time,” and they had all been quick to agree.

Now each day he rose early and went for long walks down the road alone, always coming back looking thoughtful. Prue was afraid that he would be hit by a car, but she never thought once of warning him. She began cleaning the house, cooking the meals, going to the store, and she herself would go to visit her parents during the day. Her father would ask her each time she went, “How is he today?” and she would reply, “No better, Pa.”

Mark was wrapped in a cloak of isolation. He was glad to be back in the Ozarks savoring the hot summery days, the smell of open fields, and the fresh earth being broken by the plows. He walked in the woods with Prue, and she would mention the dogwood breaking into blossom and the cardinals that she saw from time to time.

In the afternoons he would sometimes go out to the pond behind Logan's house and fish, using night crawlers that Bobby had put in a large coffee can for him. He used no cork and quickly learned how to catch the thumping brim and the fighting bass that occupied the large pond. He even learned how to clean them, and often at night they would sit down to fresh fried catfish and hush puppies. The brim were white and tender, breaking off in flakes, and once Prue said, “I remember the first time I ever caught a fish. It was over at Jenkins Creek. You were with me, Mark.”

Mark said, “Yes, I remember,” but offered no more conversation.

It was in the middle of the second week when Prue was almost desperate. Mark seemed to be getting no better, and his parents were wild with worry about him. They wanted to see him but knew he was holding them off. She went to her home one afternoon to feed her pets, those that were still left, and brought back Miss Jenny, her canary. As soon as she brought her in the house, Mark lifted his head and said, “What's that?”

Going over to him, Prue said, “This is Miss Jenny, my canary. Doesn't she have a beautiful voice?”

Mark listened as the bird's melodious song arose, and he nodded. “I like that. I never had a bird.”

“Would you like to keep her in your room?”

Mark hesitated, then nodded. “You'll have to show me how to take care of her.”

It was some time before they had set up Miss Jenny's cage, and Prue had told Mark how to feed this tiny bird and change the paper in its cage. “She likes a slice of apple once in a while. Just cut it and slip it between the bars.”

Mark sat listening to the bird, and finally he turned to her and said, “Thanks, Prue.”

“Why, you're welcome, Mark.”

Prue turned away, but somehow she felt she had gotten closer to Mark, and as the days passed he grew more and more attached to Miss Jenny. It was during this period that Prue began to pray for herself, and for Mark, and for Bobby. She had never known what it meant to pray so hard and so long. Some days she even fasted, keeping it from Bobby and Mark, and day by day as she prayed, faith began to grow in her; early one morning she was kneeling beside her window and something came to her so strongly that she almost felt as if it were an electric shock.

“It's going to be all right,” she whispered. “Bobby and Mark. They're both going to be all right.” She bowed her head, and as the tears flowed down her cheeks, she began to thank God for what he was going to do.

B
obby Stuart had never found anything quite as aggravating as the time he put in working for the Reverend Pearl Riverton. The tiny woman seemed to have the energy of a dozen Dalmatian puppies, and she insisted that Bobby have at least half that much. Every morning he got up groaning and dreading his arrival at the Sunshine Daycare Center, and by late afternoon he found himself praying that the time would pass. Once he thought,
The first time I prayed in many a year—but it's the first time I've had a female Adolf Hitler running my life.

“I think I'm gonna quit and go back to Chicago,” he complained to Prue and Mark as they were eating breakfast one Saturday morning. He accepted four plate-sized pancakes from Prue, picked up a jar of amber sorghum, and baptized them recklessly. He cut the pancakes into four pieces, stuck a quarter of one in his mouth, and nodded. “These are good, Prue. Best pancakes I ever had.” He swallowed, drank down half a cup of the strong, black, unsweetened coffee from the huge mug beside his plate, and continued to grumble. “I declare that woman is like nothin' I ever saw on this earth! Work, work, work! That's all she ever wants—except, of course, when she preaches at me!”

“She does that a lot, does she, Bobby?” Prue had cut her own pancakes up and put a small portion in her mouth. Bobby's complaining amused her, for without his knowledge she kept in close touch with Reverend Pearl and knew that Bobby was fulfilling his obligations despite his complaining.

“Preach at me!” Bobby exclaimed. “Two fellas were in the office the other day while I was mopping. One of them said, ‘Did you ever hear Reverend Pearl preach?' and the other one said, ‘I never heard her when she wasn't,' and I popped up and said, ‘Amen, brother!'”

“Well,” Mark said as he sipped his coffee, “if she's preaching at you, I guess you're getting a break from your detail.”

“No such thing!” Bobby snorted. He crammed another huge portion of pancake in his mouth and said in a muffled voice, “She preaches at me
while
I'm working! If I didn't go off and get lunch down at the Dew Drop Inn, she'd preach at me while I was eating!”

“I don't guess a little preaching will hurt you.” Prue looked with approval at Bobby and Mark. “Both of you are looking better. Lots of this good Arkansas sunshine and fresh air.”

Mark continued to sip his coffee but did not respond. It was true enough; he did feel somewhat better, but he still had nightmares of the last patrol, and the faces of his buddies would come floating to him in the dream. Sometimes he went to bed at night feeling calm and peaceful, more than since he had been wounded. But then the dreams would come, and the faces would appear seeming to plead with him, or seeming to accuse him just for being alive, and he would wake up tense and confused, wondering why he had been spared when better men had died.

“Well, I get tomorrow off, anyway. She won't make me work on the Sabbath,” Bobby said with satisfaction. He tossed his napkin on the table, picked up his coffee, drained the cup, and started for the door. “Got to get started. Old Simon Legree will have her whip out if I'm a minute late.”

“Have a good day,” Mark mocked.

Bobby turned around and stared at him. “You know I don't care much for what people say, but that kind of hacks me off!”

“What hacks you off?” Mark asked in surprise.

“That saying! Have a good day! It don't mean nothin'!” He scowled broadly and ran his hand through his thick auburn hair. His electric blue-green eyes seemed to flash, and his voice rose as he said, “Have a good day! Everybody says that! Nobody cares whether you have a good day or not!”

“I think it's just a way of saying good-bye,” Prue offered.

“Well, why don't they just say good-bye then? You know what really set me off? When I left the trial with this muddy sentence that female judge laid on me, the guard at the door said, ‘Have a good day.' I wanted to punch him out.”

“Well, have a good day anyway, and I really mean it,” Prue smiled.

Bobby's shoulders relaxed, and he grinned back at her, which made him look much younger. “All right. You two have a good day.” He turned and left the house, got into the van, and drove away. The morning was cool for May, and he took in the men working in the fields he passed. Nearly all the houses out in the country had gardens, and women wearing cotton dresses and bonnets were out working in them. Many of them lifted their hands and waved to him as he passed, and he blew his horn in a signal reply. “You won't catch people waving to you in New York or Los Angeles,” he said. “They're all afraid you're going to mug 'em.” Then he suddenly thought,
All my life I wanted to live in those big places, and now here I am braggin' on the Arkansas hills. I must be losin' my mind. It's that woman's fault. She's gonna drive me crazy.

He reached the daycare center, parked the van, and got out. He was surrounded at once by a group of children who were holding their hands up, and he reached in his pockets and began handing out candy. He had bought a huge stock that he kept in the van, and he kept his pockets full of it. Reverend Pearl had warned him, “Those children won't have a tooth left in their heads if you keep on feedin' 'em candy.” However, she had not forbidden it, so he passed out the M&M's and silver-covered Hershey chocolates until he reached the door. “That's all,” he said, shooing them away. “Go on now!”

Stepping inside, he went at once to work. Some of the old windows had sash cords made of cotton rope, and they had broken. Now the only way to keep them up was to prop them with a stick. He hated that for some reason and was determined to replace them all with nylon. He had not said a word to Pearl about this but had gone about it on his own. Once she came and looked over his shoulder as he replaced a rotten cord, and asked, “What are you doing that for?”

“I like things to work right,” he said shortly.

“The Lord will probably come back before those wear out,” Reverend Pearl said.

Bobby turned to her and said, “I wish he would, but in case he don't, these cords will last another hundred years, I reckon.”

The two stared at each other, and she finally left him to his work.

After she left the room Bobby thought about Reverend Pearl. She had driven him out of his mind, for somehow her words had a power that he could not define. Usually they were brief words oftentimes connected with a Scripture. He had heard enough sermons while he was growing up, but he had been ashamed to even go into a church considering the lifestyle he had led for the past ten years. Now as he polished the flatware that the children used when they ate their lunches, he thought about her hazel eyes, which seemed to have the power of laser beams.
She seems to know what I'm thinkin', and sometimes I think she knows everything I've ever done.
His thoughts continued on the woman until suddenly Reverend Pearl herself came back in and said, “When you finish that, go out and bring in some sassafras roots. I been yearnin' for some sassafras tea.”

Looking up with surprise, Bobby shook his head. “How am I supposed to know what they look like?”

“You don't know sassafras roots? Your education's been neglected. Come on with me.” She marched out the door, and Bobby put down the hardware and followed her. The woods were only a hundred yards past the daycare center, and she marched him directly toward a small growth and said, “That's sassafras. Dig up the roots and bring 'em inside.”

“All right, Reverend Pearl.”

He began to work at the roots, aware that she was watching him. He said suddenly, “Well, I won't have to put up with you tomorrow, preacher lady.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Why, tomorrow's Sunday.”

“You don't get tomorrow off.”

Bobby dropped the roots and straightened up, anger coursing through him. “What do you mean I don't get tomorrow off? It's Sunday! The Bible says you're not supposed to work on Sunday!”

“You're supposed to work for the Lord on Sunday,” Reverend Pearl said defiantly, looking up at him. She was not much larger than some of the children that attended the daycare center, and yet there was a strength and a power in her that almost cowed Bobby Stuart.

“I don't think it's right! Here I've worked six days, and I ought to get Sunday off!”

“You mind what I tell you, Bobby Stuart! I've got a chore for you tomorrow!”

“Doing what?”

A rare smile played around the lips of the elderly woman. “Playing piano in church.”

Bobby stared at her, his eyes flying open with astonishment. “I'm not playing the piano in your church,” he said adamantly, “and that's that!”

“Yes, you are! I'd hate to turn in a bad report and hate to see you get throwed in the pokey, so you be at the First Pentecostal Church in the morning at ten o'clock.”

Bobby wanted to stalk away and drive off leaving her flat, but something made him say, “All right. I'll come and play for the service. What time is it over?”

“It's over when the Lord says it's over!”

“Well, could you give me an average?” Bobby asked in exasperation.

“On the average, we start when the Lord begins to move, and we stay until he's through. Usually about two or three o'clock. Sometimes a little later.”

“You stay at church five or six
hours
?”

“People stay at them dumb concerts of yours that long, don't they? You be there at church like I'm tellin' you!”

“I don't have anything to wear to church.”

“We only got one rule about clothes at our church,” Reverend Pearl said, and her eyes twinkled with a light of humor. “You have to wear clothes; you can't come nekkid.”

Bobby burst out into laughter. “All right, preacher lady. I'll be there. But what are you gonna do if I start playin' one of them Elvis Presley rock-and-roll songs?”

“You don't want to get struck dead. I wouldn't advise it.”

Bobby spent the rest of the day mostly thinking of his chore the next morning, and that night after supper he broke the news to Mark and Prue. “Well, tomorrow will be a first for me—first in a long time, I mean.”

“Tomorrow's Sunday. What are you going to do?” Mark questioned.

“Going to play the piano at the First Pentecostal Church.”

Prue laughed suddenly, then said, “I'm sorry. It's not funny, Bobby.”

“Well, it is in a way. Here half the preachers in the United States are tellin' their congregation how Bobby Stuart's leading young people to hell, and I'm going to church to play the piano for a lady Pentecostal preacher with a bun on her head so tight it makes her eyes squint.”

Mark found this amusing and chuckled softly. “I think it's a great idea. What do you say we go take the service in, Prue?”

“Oh, I'd like that,” Prue agreed instantly.

“Aw, come on! You two don't need to come. I'll feel enough like a fool without you two there.”

“No, we'll all three go,” Prue announced. She sat there listening as Mark poked fun at Bobby, and at the same time there was something going on inside her heart. She had felt the Lord speaking to her about Bobby Stuart, particularly, which surprised her. She had been praying so hard for Mark, and Bobby had been on her heart, but not to the same degree. Yet, for the past three nights she had prayed fervently for him to find God and had wanted to ask, “Lord, why should I be praying so hard for Bobby? It's Mark I love and want to see redeemed.” Now as she sat there on the porch listening to the whip-poor-wills calling their mournful tune, she prayed, “Oh, God. Maybe this will be the time. Do something in Bobby's life tomorrow at church.”

The First Pentecostal Church was a simple white frame building, and the paint itself was none too fresh. Strips of it were peeling, and Prue made a mental note to see to it that the church was painted. She herself was not Pentecostal, but she loved Reverend Pearl, who had been a character in town for as long as she could remember. She had even attended some of the services there, so was familiar with the inside of the ancient structure. Bobby was not, however. He had put on a pair of clean blue jeans and a white shirt but wore no tie. His face glowed from a fresh shave, and his hair was brushed back carefully. As he looked around the auditorium—which consisted of one single large room with home-built pine benches with no cushions, a piano, two guitars, and a set of drums at the front—he grinned at Prue. “Well, they got guitars and drums. I won't be too much out of place.”

Reverend Pearl, wearing a plain, gray dress buttoned up to the throat and at the wrists, came at once to where they stood. The auditorium was packed, and an odd expression glinted in her eyes. “Well, Mr. Bobby Stuart. Are you ready to play the piano to the glory of God?”