Читать книгу Fri Nov 22 00:00:00 CST 2019 - Bryan Woolley - Страница 18

DENNIS

Dennis Pointer pushed his chair away from the chrome-and-plastic breakfast table that served him and Judy both for eating and for work and went to the tiny kitchenette to empty the ashtray into the trash. He lifted the electric percolator to weigh how much coffee remained and got his mug and refilled it, then settled himself at the table again, in front of the typewriter. He struck a match and lit a cigarette and balanced it on the edge of the ashtray, then took off his thick glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. He picked up the Revised Standard Version Bible that Judy had given him last Christmas. He loved the feel of the soft morocco leather and the golden glow of his name embossed on the cover and the thin India paper and the golden edges of the pages. It was a fine, expensive Bible. He turned the pages with care, scanning them.

He envied some of his fundamentalist classmates, who believed in inspiration. They never labored over sermons, they said; they depended on the Holy Spirit to tell them what to say and never knew what their message was going to be until they stood in the pulpit. Dennis had heard their sermons in his homiletics class at Southern Methodist. They were full of fire and maudlin sentimentality. They had convinced him more strongly than ever that he was doing right, writing the sermons in full, like essays, and delivering them in his conversational way. What he lacked in fervor, he made up in reason, in common sense, in intelligence.

But the page in the Underwood portable remained blank, and he was getting nervous. He wished he believed in the power of prayer, in divine guidance. He picked up the cigarette and took a puff, then a swallow of coffee. Maybe he should just start typing, just type whatever came into his mind. Maybe that would bring an idea. He snuffed the cigarette and placed his fingers on the keys.

Sometimes I wish the old prophets of Israel and Judah were still alive. Their messages were so current, so timely, and yet they contained the small, hard kernel of immortality that makes them relevant, even urgently important for all men in all ages. Sometimes I wish I could sit down Jeremiah or Amos or majestic Isaiah and get his advice and encouragement.

Advice and encouragement about what? What relevant, urgently important message did the prophets have this week for his tiny flock at the Broadway Junction Methodist Church in a grove of blackjack trees beside a narrow road on a prairie full of farmers a hundred miles northeast of Dallas?

The inspired men knew how to read the signs of the times and place them under the judgment of God. They placed their fingers on the pulse of a sick nation, pinpointed the causes of the disease, and predicted the inevitable outcome of the illness if the patient refused to admit it was sick and call on God to heal….

Call on God to heal? Was that too Pentecostal? Being the weekend pastor of the Broadway Junction Church made him aware of the Pentecostals and the sermons they wished he would preach. There had once been a Pentecostal church at the Junction, and a Baptist church, but now only his remained. So the Baptists and the Pentecostals came to hear him, too, in that grove with the outdoor privy behind the little white church and the black soil into which he sank to his ankles when it rained, a century removed from Dallas and Southern Methodist University and the debates and discussions of the Perkins School of Theology.

“Who caused the boll weevils, preacher?” a farmer had asked him once. “The Lord or Satan?”

He remembered the question more clearly than any he had asked or been asked at Perkins but couldn’t remember what his reply had been. He wished he could. There might have been a clue to himself, to what he was about, in that answer. He didn’t believe in a personal Satan or demons or any of that, but the farmer hadn’t seemed disturbed by his answer. Did he even believe in a personal God? Had he blamed the boll weevils on Him? He wished he could remember. He wondered if the farmer did.

Micah of Moresheth is one of my favorite prophets. He lived in a society which was very similar to our own. The nation Judah was prosperous. The people were still enjoying the remnants of King Solomon’s glory. On the surface everything looked strong and permanent. But beneath the surface the nation was sick, and Micah knew it. The people were given to drunkenness and immortality. The rich were exploiting the poor, seizing their lands, cheating them out of their money, making them live in hovels on the outskirts of the city, in filth and poverty. Then the rich were telling each other that I was because the poor were naturally inferior, or lazy, or less blessed in the eyes of God, that things were as they were.

Why didn’t he just come out and say the sermon was about the Negroes?

He didn’t know Judy was up until she put her arms around his neck. She smelled of sleep, and he felt her warmth through her quilted nylon robe. He craned his neck and smiled at her. “How you feeling?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Groggy. I just woke up.”

He turned his chair and felt her forehead. “You’ve still got a fever, I think.”

“Maybe it’s because I just woke up,” she said. “God, I don’t want to spend another day in bed.” She glanced at the page in the typewriter. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to get a sermon started.”

“How’s it going?”

“I don’t know what I want to say.”

“Well, it’s only Thursday.”

Dennis looked at his watch. “Friday.”

“You’ve got plenty of time,” Judy said.

“Yeah, but I wanted to get a good start on it. Tomorrow’s going to be busy. It would be easier to finish if I got a good start now. If I knew what I wanted to say.”

Judy removed her arms from his shoulders and moved to the couch. She sat down as if the walk had been an effort, then stretched out and laid her head on one of the blue flowered pillows. Her blonde hair was matted. Her blue eyes were unnaturally bright.

“What are you doing?” Dennis asked. “Go back to bed.”

“I’m tired of bed. It feels good to be up.”

“If you still have a fever in the morning, I’m going to take you to the doctor,” Dennis said.

“It’s just the flu. He would tell me to take aspirin, drink liquids, and go to bed. I’m already doing that. Anyway, you would miss Kennedy.”

“I could take you after that.”

“What time are you going to Love Field?”

“His plane arrives at eleven-thirty, I think. I’d like to be there by eleven.”

“Is that early enough? Won’t there be a big crowd?”

Dennis grunted. “I wish. I may be the only one there.”

“Is it really like that?”

“No, but almost.”

“Why don’t you ask somebody to go with you?”

“I asked Ben and Weldon, but they said they didn’t want to cut class. I think they were afraid.”

Judy sat up. “What do you want?” Dennis asked.

“A Coke. I can get it.”

“No. I’ll get it.” Dennis took his mug into the kitchenette and poured the last of the coffee and unplugged the percolator. He got a Coke from the refrigerator and rummaged in a drawer for the bottle opener and pried the cap off. He handed the cold bottle to Judy. She moved her legs enough for him to sit down beside her.

“What are you cutting?” she asked.

“Greek. And ethics, if I don’t get back in time. I’m OK in both of them.”

“Dennis…”

“What?”

“Don’t you ever miss Boston?”

“Sure. I miss it right now. It may be snowing there by now.”

“Why don’t we go home for Christmas?”

“You know why. We can’t afford it.”

“Well…” Judy moved her finger over the sweating Coke bottle as if drawing a design. “I talked to papa today, and he offered to pay the fare.”

“I still can’t,” Dennis said. “A minister can’t leave his church on Christmas.”

“Oh, darling! I don’t think they would mind. They’d probably like not having to go to church on Christmas. They’d certainly understand your wanting to be with your family.”

Dennis shook his head. “I can’t, Judy. Why don’t you go?”

“Without you? What fun would that be? And who would play the piano for you?”

“We could sing a cappella. You don’t need a piano for Christmas carols.”

“Thanks. You make me feel real important.”

“Well, we don’t, do we?”

“Dennis, I have an idea. Why don’t you work out some kind of laymen’s service they could do without you if they wanted? Leave it up to them. If they want a Christmas service, they can have one without you. If not, everybody can stay home and have fun.”

“Judy—”

“We could go skiing….”

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” Dennis said. “I’ll think about it. We’ve got time.”

“If we’re going, we have to make plane reservations.”

“I’ll think about it. Go to bed.”

“Nuzzle me.”

Dennis leaned to kiss her, but she said, “Not on the mouth, idiot.” He kissed her neck just below the ear. Her skin was too warm.

“You’re not going to try to teach tomorrow, I hope,” Dennis said.

“No. I still feel lousy.” She groaned. “I’d better set the alarm to call Wilkes. He gets upset if he has to find a substitute after seven thirty.”

“Won’t they use the same one they had today?”

“Well, he’ll have to call her before she gets assigned to somebody else.”

“Go to bed, then.” Dennis stood up and grasped Judy’s hands and helped her from the couch. He held her close for a moment, then released her and backed away. “Take some aspirin.”

Judy pulled her robe closely about her and shivered and turned toward the bedroom. “Don’t work too long,” she said.

Dennis returned to the typewriter and stared at the page, while Judy brushed her teeth and set the alarm. His head ached. He had smoked too much. The coffee was making him nervous. He searched for his train of thought, wondering if he even had one. He longed for something to click in his mind, for some door to open and let light in. But he couldn’t wait for it. He touched the tabulator key for a new paragraph.

Micah thought it was time somebody said something. So he did.