could drink out th’ other’n.”
“What about everyone else?”
“Ol’ Robert he could drink after me’n Granny, an’ Mr. Goodnight, he could drink out of th’ lid of that bottle y’ got there.”
“Rooter,” said Agnes, “run along that path to the little house—not the big one, the little one, and ask Clarence for eight paper cups. If he’s not there, look over the sink at the back door. Eight! Run!”
Rooter ran.
His grandmother grinned, revealing pink gums. “Hit’s good y’ didn’t need n’more, he cain’t hardly count past ten.”
“Thank goodness I put these in!” Cynthia withdrew yet another comestible from the basket. “I packed for a celebration, and I was right!” She peeled away the foil and displayed two small apple fritters. “They’ll slice perfectly into eight small bites.”
“Lloyd Goodnight, this is Mrs. Kavanagh.”
“We welcome you, ma’am.” Lloyd Goodnight extended his large, rough hand.
“Lloyd came to this church as an infant.”
“I was baptized in Wilson’s Creek down yonder. An’ I was twelve year old when they closed th’ church. They wadn’t nobody around to come n‘more, ’cept my mama and daddy, an’ then we moved offa th’ mountain. I come back home to th’ ridge last year.”
Lloyd Goodnight looked pleased about his homecoming.
Cynthia served the pie onto napkins. “Did you enjoy the service this morning?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I did. It was me that pulled th’ bell.” Lloyd drew himself up, beaming.
“And well done, I must say!”
“I could’ve went on pullin’, but seem like we was all ready to get goin’.”
Cynthia laughed.
“I’ve missed our old church. I carried th’ cross when I was a boy, an’ done a lot of what Clarence done today. I can still hear th’ priest say, ‘Let us pray f‘r th’ whole state of Christ’s church.’ I thought that was a mighty big thing, to pray f’r th’ whole state of th’ church across all th” whole wide world.”
“Yes,” said Cynthia. “It is a mighty big thing. And we still need it in a mighty big way.”
“We have Robert Prichard over there,” said Agnes. “Robert, will you come and greet Mrs. Kavanagh?”
Robert, who had sat on the back row and hadn’t come to the rail for communion, was leaning against a tree, looking upon the gathering with an expressionless face. He was tall and lean, and wore a short-sleeve shirt that revealed numerous tattoos.
He took his time walking over. “Hey,” he said, putting his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.
“Hey, yourself,” said Cynthia.
Rooter ran up, breathless, and surrendered the cups. “Here!”
“Thank you, Rooter.” Cynthia lined up the cups on top of the wall. “I believe we’ll each have a half cup to the very drop. Agnes, will you pour?”
“I didn’t hardly know what t’ say in y’alls meetin’,” confessed Granny Meaders.
“Hit was all wrote down,” said Rooter. “Plain as day.”
“Them words was too little f’r me t’ half see.”
Cynthia was digging slices of pickle from the jar and putting one on top of each sandwich. “I didn’t hear you speak up, Mister Rooter.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ t’ read out loud in front of nobody.”
“He was held back two year in ’is grades,” said Granny.
“An’ I ain’t a-goin’ back t’ that school after I git done in August, neither.”
“Where d’you think you’re a-goin’?” asked Granny.
“T’ hell an’ back before I go down th’ mountain in a bus, I can tell y’ that.”
Cynthia held forth a laden napkin. “Robert...”
Robert took it, wordless.
“I hope you‘uns don’t mind me wearin’ m’ bedroom slippers,” said Granny. As everyone peered at her open-toed slippers, she wiggled her digits beneath wool socks. “I cain’t hardly wear reg’lar shoes n’more, my feet swells s’bad.”
Cynthia nodded. “I understand perfectly!”
“I ain’t never seen a preacher in a dress,” said Rooter.
“What about everyone else?”
“Ol’ Robert he could drink after me’n Granny, an’ Mr. Goodnight, he could drink out of th’ lid of that bottle y’ got there.”
“Rooter,” said Agnes, “run along that path to the little house—not the big one, the little one, and ask Clarence for eight paper cups. If he’s not there, look over the sink at the back door. Eight! Run!”
Rooter ran.
His grandmother grinned, revealing pink gums. “Hit’s good y’ didn’t need n’more, he cain’t hardly count past ten.”
“Thank goodness I put these in!” Cynthia withdrew yet another comestible from the basket. “I packed for a celebration, and I was right!” She peeled away the foil and displayed two small apple fritters. “They’ll slice perfectly into eight small bites.”
“Lloyd Goodnight, this is Mrs. Kavanagh.”
“We welcome you, ma’am.” Lloyd Goodnight extended his large, rough hand.
“Lloyd came to this church as an infant.”
“I was baptized in Wilson’s Creek down yonder. An’ I was twelve year old when they closed th’ church. They wadn’t nobody around to come n‘more, ’cept my mama and daddy, an’ then we moved offa th’ mountain. I come back home to th’ ridge last year.”
Lloyd Goodnight looked pleased about his homecoming.
Cynthia served the pie onto napkins. “Did you enjoy the service this morning?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I did. It was me that pulled th’ bell.” Lloyd drew himself up, beaming.
“And well done, I must say!”
“I could’ve went on pullin’, but seem like we was all ready to get goin’.”
Cynthia laughed.
“I’ve missed our old church. I carried th’ cross when I was a boy, an’ done a lot of what Clarence done today. I can still hear th’ priest say, ‘Let us pray f‘r th’ whole state of Christ’s church.’ I thought that was a mighty big thing, to pray f’r th’ whole state of th’ church across all th” whole wide world.”
“Yes,” said Cynthia. “It is a mighty big thing. And we still need it in a mighty big way.”
“We have Robert Prichard over there,” said Agnes. “Robert, will you come and greet Mrs. Kavanagh?”
Robert, who had sat on the back row and hadn’t come to the rail for communion, was leaning against a tree, looking upon the gathering with an expressionless face. He was tall and lean, and wore a short-sleeve shirt that revealed numerous tattoos.
He took his time walking over. “Hey,” he said, putting his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.
“Hey, yourself,” said Cynthia.
Rooter ran up, breathless, and surrendered the cups. “Here!”
“Thank you, Rooter.” Cynthia lined up the cups on top of the wall. “I believe we’ll each have a half cup to the very drop. Agnes, will you pour?”
“I didn’t hardly know what t’ say in y’alls meetin’,” confessed Granny Meaders.
“Hit was all wrote down,” said Rooter. “Plain as day.”
“Them words was too little f’r me t’ half see.”
Cynthia was digging slices of pickle from the jar and putting one on top of each sandwich. “I didn’t hear you speak up, Mister Rooter.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ t’ read out loud in front of nobody.”
“He was held back two year in ’is grades,” said Granny.
“An’ I ain’t a-goin’ back t’ that school after I git done in August, neither.”
“Where d’you think you’re a-goin’?” asked Granny.
“T’ hell an’ back before I go down th’ mountain in a bus, I can tell y’ that.”
Cynthia held forth a laden napkin. “Robert...”
Robert took it, wordless.
“I hope you‘uns don’t mind me wearin’ m’ bedroom slippers,” said Granny. As everyone peered at her open-toed slippers, she wiggled her digits beneath wool socks. “I cain’t hardly wear reg’lar shoes n’more, my feet swells s’bad.”
Cynthia nodded. “I understand perfectly!”
“I ain’t never seen a preacher in a dress,” said Rooter.
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