Snoop to Nuts by Elizabeth Lee Page B

known as a talker, someone of many words and many roads to where he wanted to go. President of the church board, he could drive meetings way into the night, with most of the board members coming out without a clue what he’d been talking about to begin with.
    But Rivervillians are mostly kind people. We all sat quietly while Hawley, in his brown seersucker suit with sweat rings under his arms, shoe black hair brushed tight to his round head and sprayed in place, rambled on about the pastor, about the church, and about God’s strange messages delivered in strange ways.
    I looked at my watch. Half an hour the man had been at it. Going over and over the pastor’s kind ways, how he’d folded his arms around the congregation the moment he came to town, and how there’d been no dissention among them since the Reverend Jenkins had pulled the reins of leadership into his strong and capable hands.
    From time to time there was a muffled sob from down front, where Dora and Selma sat. Mostly there were sighs, as Hawley droned on and on.
    The church was hot. Too many warm bodies in too close a space. I could feel my head lighten, and feared I might topple over.
    Another reason I didn’t go to church anymore: The church ladies of Riverville saved their heaviest and most flowery perfumes for Sunday services and funerals. And the men—a good slap or two of cologne before heading out. Then the ushers shut the doors to the church and let them all stew in one thick potpourri until, more than once, back when I was a kid, I’d gotten light-headed and stumbled out into the fresh air and sunshine, falling to the grass to get my equilibrium back.
    I looked behind me when I heard the door open. All I saw was that it wasn’t Hunter, who hadn’t showed as he’d promised. I felt a slight shiver of anger then pushed it out of my mind.
    Hawley was going into the second half hour of his eulogy, beginning to rock back and forth on his high-heeled boots. I didn’t think I could take much more. He’d gone way beyond listing the qualities of Pastor Millroy Jenkins, all the way into upcoming plans for the new addition to the church and how the church was prospering. Forgetting where he was and what he was doing there, he even laughed out loud a time or two—thanking God for a bull market that was bringing them all such great prosperity.
    He went on to talk about the upcoming ground breaking, inviting everyone—“If you invested in the church or not”—to come and be a part of the glorious celebration.
    I was about to nudge Justin to move his knees aside and let me out, when Morton Grover, saloon owner and also on the church board, rose from his seat in a front pew, where he’d been sitting next to Dora and Selma, to go up and stand quietly beside Hawley, his head down, hands folded in front of him. I figured the poor guy had to get back to the Barking Coyote and was out of patience with the garrulous Hawley.
    Hawley glanced at the man now standing next to him and looked perplexed, as if he didn’t have a clue what he wanted. He kept right on talking and carrying on until he finally pulled in a long breath and Morton stepped right into the momentary quiet to invite everybody out to the cemetery for the interment, then back to the church for a luncheon afterward, provided by the church ladies. Hawley’s mouth dropped open, obviously having more to say on the subject of church improvements and their burgeoning coffers. The pallbearers were out of their seats as if a gun had gone off. The people followed, standing at attention as the casket was rolled out the doors and into the hearse, which then drove the pastor around to the back of the church acreage, where tombstones lined over two acres of flat and sandy ground.
    My family linked arms and walked, instead of drove, out to where the casket was set over a yawning hole in the earth. There were more words said, this time only by Elder Perkins. Everyone was directed to file by the casket for