before you go upstairs. That spotlight on the rostrum shows up your liver spots.”
Laura handed Essie her compact. While she stood in front of the mirror, Marietta and C.J. came running in.
“Mama,” panted Marietta, “C.J. wants to know can he take me out for a hamburger tonight after services?”
“I’ll bring her right home,” swore C.J.
“Not to your home—
ours
, I hope,” said Laura.
“Yes’m, Sister Laura.”
“I guess it’s all right, son, if she wants to go,” said Essie. “But behave your-all’s selves.”
“That’s settled,” said Laura, “so get on up with the band, C.J., where you should’ve been. Marietta, you hear that Tambourine Chorus shaking, don’t you?”
“Yes, Aunt Laura,” said Marietta getting her robe from the closet.
“Tell them musicianers, C.J., to give me and Essie a lot of noise when we appear on the stage—rostrum, I mean. I want plenty of
Thank Gods
tonight, honey, bass chords, drum rolls, tambourines, and hallelujahs from all of you-all.”
“Yes, ma’am!” answered C.J., as he and Marietta ran up the stairs to the rostrum.
“The Spirit don’t need all that ballyhoo and theatre kind of build-up,” murmured Essie.
“No, baby, but Laura Reed does. Are you all set to ascend the pulpit?”
“I’m set to ascend.”
“Now, I wonder how come them drums upstairs stop playing just when I’m ready to appear?” growled Laura.
“You know Sister Birdie Lee’s weakness,” Essie said. “I bet she’s heading down here.”
“That little old hussy we picked up in the gutter can really beat some drums,” admitted Laura, “even if she is kinder hateful.”
Essie was right. Birdie Lee came scooting down the stairs. “Excuse me, you-all, but I drunk so much beer when I was a sinner that I’m still going to the Ladies’ Room. Excuse me!”
“Hurry up, sister, and pee,” said Laura, “so you can roll them drums when I step on the stage. Come on, Essie, we’ll wait upstairs for Birdie to return. I like plenty of noise when I mount the rostrum. You can sneak in the pulpit quiet if you want to, but I want the world to know when Sister Laura Reed arrives. Let’s we ascend.”
25
ONE LOST LAMB
T o make his conversion believable, Laura felt, it would have to be worked out carefully, and fortunately she had a flair for such things. The hymn she chose for Buddy’s cue to salvation was “The Ninety and Nine.” With her pianists, Laura rehearsed it several times.
“You’re around the church so much these days, officiating and helping me,” said Laura to Buddy as they drove through Central Park one afternoon, “that lots of saints are wondering how come you don’t belong to our church—how come you’re not converted?”
“So it would be good business then if I came into the fold, huh?”
“It would cover little Mama,” said Laura, “and I wouldn’t have to answer so many questions.”
“Since nothing exciting ever happens in the middle of the week, suppose I get converted Wednesday,” said Buddy, curving past the Tavern on the Green.
“Fine!” cried Laura. “That might cool Essie down a little. But listen, Daddy, after you get converted, don’t go getting
too
holy. Just learn to melt a little more. Be a little nicer to me, and don’t be so hard.”
“Don’t
don’t
me, sugar,” barked Buddy, stopping for a red light, then playfully ramming a fist under Laura’s chin. “I know how far to go, up or down, right, left, or in between.”
“Which is what I like about you,” murmured Laura. “Baby, you dig the angles.”
“All the angles.” Buddy flashed his lighthouse smile as their car purred away.
“There were ninety and nine that safely lay
In the shelter of the fold …”
Laura never looked prettier nor sang better than she did that Wednesday night as the services drew near the close. Her tambourine lay silent on the altar. Only the two pianos played softly, very softly, behind her. Laura had expressly commanded
Laura handed Essie her compact. While she stood in front of the mirror, Marietta and C.J. came running in.
“Mama,” panted Marietta, “C.J. wants to know can he take me out for a hamburger tonight after services?”
“I’ll bring her right home,” swore C.J.
“Not to your home—
ours
, I hope,” said Laura.
“Yes’m, Sister Laura.”
“I guess it’s all right, son, if she wants to go,” said Essie. “But behave your-all’s selves.”
“That’s settled,” said Laura, “so get on up with the band, C.J., where you should’ve been. Marietta, you hear that Tambourine Chorus shaking, don’t you?”
“Yes, Aunt Laura,” said Marietta getting her robe from the closet.
“Tell them musicianers, C.J., to give me and Essie a lot of noise when we appear on the stage—rostrum, I mean. I want plenty of
Thank Gods
tonight, honey, bass chords, drum rolls, tambourines, and hallelujahs from all of you-all.”
“Yes, ma’am!” answered C.J., as he and Marietta ran up the stairs to the rostrum.
“The Spirit don’t need all that ballyhoo and theatre kind of build-up,” murmured Essie.
“No, baby, but Laura Reed does. Are you all set to ascend the pulpit?”
“I’m set to ascend.”
“Now, I wonder how come them drums upstairs stop playing just when I’m ready to appear?” growled Laura.
“You know Sister Birdie Lee’s weakness,” Essie said. “I bet she’s heading down here.”
“That little old hussy we picked up in the gutter can really beat some drums,” admitted Laura, “even if she is kinder hateful.”
Essie was right. Birdie Lee came scooting down the stairs. “Excuse me, you-all, but I drunk so much beer when I was a sinner that I’m still going to the Ladies’ Room. Excuse me!”
“Hurry up, sister, and pee,” said Laura, “so you can roll them drums when I step on the stage. Come on, Essie, we’ll wait upstairs for Birdie to return. I like plenty of noise when I mount the rostrum. You can sneak in the pulpit quiet if you want to, but I want the world to know when Sister Laura Reed arrives. Let’s we ascend.”
25
ONE LOST LAMB
T o make his conversion believable, Laura felt, it would have to be worked out carefully, and fortunately she had a flair for such things. The hymn she chose for Buddy’s cue to salvation was “The Ninety and Nine.” With her pianists, Laura rehearsed it several times.
“You’re around the church so much these days, officiating and helping me,” said Laura to Buddy as they drove through Central Park one afternoon, “that lots of saints are wondering how come you don’t belong to our church—how come you’re not converted?”
“So it would be good business then if I came into the fold, huh?”
“It would cover little Mama,” said Laura, “and I wouldn’t have to answer so many questions.”
“Since nothing exciting ever happens in the middle of the week, suppose I get converted Wednesday,” said Buddy, curving past the Tavern on the Green.
“Fine!” cried Laura. “That might cool Essie down a little. But listen, Daddy, after you get converted, don’t go getting
too
holy. Just learn to melt a little more. Be a little nicer to me, and don’t be so hard.”
“Don’t
don’t
me, sugar,” barked Buddy, stopping for a red light, then playfully ramming a fist under Laura’s chin. “I know how far to go, up or down, right, left, or in between.”
“Which is what I like about you,” murmured Laura. “Baby, you dig the angles.”
“All the angles.” Buddy flashed his lighthouse smile as their car purred away.
“There were ninety and nine that safely lay
In the shelter of the fold …”
Laura never looked prettier nor sang better than she did that Wednesday night as the services drew near the close. Her tambourine lay silent on the altar. Only the two pianos played softly, very softly, behind her. Laura had expressly commanded
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