The Ride: Part Three

 The Ride: Part Three

 We all stood real quiet, nobody wanting to go on this adventure, but no one wanting to dispute Furlow. We looked at our feet, then at one another. Nobody chose to look at Furlow. The silence didn’t dampen his resolve, though. He just looked at us shook his head. Across the wooden fence, the young bull calf looked at us, and I’ll swear he had a grin on his face.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Furlow said. “We’ll herd him into that chute and then I’ll tie this rope around him like us cowboys do.” He made a motion describing the action in case we couldn’t understand words. “Then,” he said, “I’ll get on and ya’ll will let him out.” He smiled. “I’ll show him who’s boss.”

Before we could act, he climbed over the fence and was in the pen with the calf, who had quit smiling.

I don’t know who moved first, maybe it was T-Boy. He always stood up for his race. I saw him one time beat Teddy Ratliff over half the county for calling him a, well I won’t say what he called him but it got Teddy’s rear end kicked over half the county. I’m pretty sure he followed Furlow first so as to plant a flag for bravery. Anyway, first thing you know, we were all in the pen and closing in on the calf, who looked for one second like he was going to charge us and the next like he was going to break the fence down and run. He chose and just stood there waiting.

The chute Furlow mentioned ran near the side of the barn at the far end of the pen. Mister General Lee had fixed two wide boards at the far end so that if you ran a cow or calf down the chute and it stuck its head between the two boards you could pull the one that pivoted with an attached rope and catch the creature’s head so you could give it a worm pill or whatever. The outside of the chute at that point consisted of a gate that could be swung open and, after the cow’s head was released, you could let it out into the pen.

Are you beginning to get picture?

Good. It didn’t us long to herd the bull calf into the chute and down to its end. He didn’t resist much. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying it. Furlow had climbed up and had one foot on each side of the chute when the calf reached the end.

“Now pass that rope through,” he said to the  two on either side of the chute and direct them to handle the ends as he drew them up and drew them up so he could hold them in one hand like you’ve seen the cowboys do. He lowered himself down until he settled down on the calf’s back in a rider’s position and pulled the ends of the rope together and held them tight in his right hand. He relaxed, took a breath, and motioned, just like a real rodeo star, for Boogy to open the gate.

Some say he made two bounds. Some say three, but it sure wasn’t more than that before the calf’s butt went straight up the air and Furlow went horizontal over where the calf’s head had been a second before but which had led a sharp turn that allowed Furlow’s body to land in a vacant spot two feet away and bounce before it settled into a dusty heap. We all ran over.

We were happy to see Furlow lift himself up chest first and bounce to his feet. “Was that a full eight seconds? he asked. Nobody spoke. “I don’t think I quite made it, he said. He looked at the calf who was standing ten feet away with the biggest smirk on his face you ever saw.

We all looked at one another, glad for the adventure to be over and for Furlow still standing. “That was some ride,” someone said.

Run that sonofabitch back in there,” Furlow said. “And somebody get that other piece of  rope.”

Next week: Conclusion, or how much damage can one person on a crazy bull calf do.

Bad Choices

THE RIDE: PART TWO

It happened this way. Boys will be boys and these boys, led by Furlow Thompson were wandering the countryside, up to no good, when they noticed that Mr. General Lee Bohanon wasn’t home. Someone said that he went to Pine Bluff once a week and stayed all day, sometimes staying all night at the Wagon Yard. That stared it all.

Mr. Bohanon raised some cows, did come timbering, and raised cotton to get by. And he got by pretty well in this little part of the world. This was after his boy was killed in the war. His daughter, Mary Custis Bohanon was married by then and his wife had died some years later. It was quiet around the place so we decided to have a look.

We didn’t intend to steal or damage anything. Well, nobody did but Furlow and we realized that only after the damage was done. Everything went well until we came across a large cattle pen behind his barn. There, standing as proud as Caesar on the Rubicon, was the prettiest half-grown bull café you ever saw.

“Would you look at that,” Bobby Joe Hankins said.

“I’ll bet he’ll go a thousand pounds,” his brother Robert said.

“Spect he’ll keep him for breeding,” Booger Shannon said.

“Let’s ride him, “Furlow Thompson said.

That silenced the crowd. “No,” he said. “Let’s ride him. Mr. General Lee won’t care.”

The thing with Furlow was you never knew when to take him seriously. You didn’t want to argue with him. He knew to many secrets wasn’t about to be shy in using them.

We waited. Nobody wanted to share responsibility, but nobody dared move. Then Furlow swirled around and walked into General Lee Bohanon’s barn like he owned the place.

T-Boy Stewart spoke up. “Is he serious?” T-Boy was the only colored member of our little gang and he knew full well that, whatever happened next, he wouldn’t be held harmless. “I ain’t havin’ nothing to do with this,” he added. “My daddy works for Mr. Bohanon.”

Before anyone could answer, Furlow came out of the barn holding two lengths of rope, each one about six feet long, a “phantom each” as they say in the Navy. “Come on,” he said. He threw the lengths of rope over the fence, undid the gate, and ushered us all into the pen where the bull calf waited, looking at us with a mixture of suspicion and contempt.

I didn’t feel good about this but followed the rest in and didn’t say a word.

 

Next week: What happened when good sense left for the day.

Doc in Danger

 THE RIDE: Part One

We never could remember how he ended up tied to a bucking bull calf.

Or, some wonder, did he really? There is argument to this day. Some say yes. Some say no. Everybody agrees, though, that it sounded a lot like him.

His name was Furlough Thompson. He was born in November of 1943, so folks that were around back then understand how he got the name. Mama said old lady Thompson had five kids already, so she was running out of ideas by then and she never had been the imaginative sort in the first place.

When her husband left to go overseas, she told everybody that her prayers would keep him safe from the Nazis. When he didn’t come home after VE day, she took it in stride. “Them French women is she-devils,” was about all she would ever say about it. She didn’t like to talk much in the first place. In more sophisticated places, they would have called her “Taciturn Thompson."

After a period of real suffering, she married a man who worked at the Arsenal in Pine Bluff and she and the kids had it better from then on, although his—her new husband’s—skin turned yellow from the chemicals he worked with and he quit going to church on account of it. At least that’s what he said. It seemed that the prayers of Furlough’s mama never got completely answered. They weren't denied, just modified on their way back from Heaven. "His ways is different from ours," was the typical response to such things back then.

But I’m “branching.” Mama always said I did that. She was kin to the Tuckers who were famous story tellers, the bunch from down around Pansy. Pansy isn’t far from the Hogeye Bend community where Pappa was from. They met, he and Mama, at a play-party get together at General Lee Bohanon’s house before the first world war. That’s the one Mr. General Lee’s boy got killed in. His name was Stonewall Bohanon but we never knew him. We all just figured his name helped contribute to the heroism that got him killed.

            Anyway, Furlough being the youngest and spoiled, without a come-home daddy, he grew up wild, unmanaged, and untamed. By the early Fifties, he was a solid member of our little group that terrorized the good folks around the Snake Island community. We first just called him “M.D.,” some for “mighty dumb,” some for “most daring,” and a few, though never to his face, for “missing daddy.” Later, someone hit on the idea of just calling him “Doc,” and that’s what he went by the rest of his life. He was fearless to a fault, ignorant of pain, and totally unable to predict the consequences of his actions. He never volunteered for, but never declined the offer of, an adventure. He was, we all felt, the very picture of bold action.

That’s where the bull calf came in. Bravery, imagination, fearlessness, leading by example, you could have assigned a bunch of motivators.

I always just laid it off on pure boredom.

Continued next Fiction Friday

Spring

 

Grains and Flowers

By Jimmie von Tungeln

 Something stirred in the damp cell, a breeze perhaps. The man drew his blanket tighter and turned toward the small window. Through it he saw the moon as a small cloud scuttled across its surface. Holding the blanket around him, he rose from the stone ledge that was his bed and stood on aching legs. “Nearly morning.” he said to no one.

            He walked to the window and placed his head close to the wooden bars. There, the fresh scent of the winter breeze replaced the cold, dead smell of the cell. He saw the feathered helmet of the guard to his left and spoke in a soft voice. “Soon.”

            The guard did not move, but the man saw him stiffen. “I do think the flowers are beautiful,” the man said. “What a shame.”

            “No talking,” the guard said.

            “Oh,” the man said. “Shall I be punished?”

            The guard turned his head in one direction, then the other. “You should be proud,” he said. “You have lived a blessed life.”

            “Of course,” the man said. “The best, most powerful, and strongest among a throng of pigmies.”

            “Do not blaspheme,” the guard said.

            “I won’t. The flowers do bring joy to both the weak and the strong.”

            “But,” the guard said. “You are not flowers.”

            “No,” the man said. “I am grain, the sustainer of life.” He looked past the guard to where a serape hung, its surface laced with dried grain stalks. Next to it hung a small chain containing wooden replicas of local flowers painted in gaudy imitation of real ones.

            A soft sound floated across the open field between the cell and the mound that was beginning to take shape on the pre-dawn horizon.

            “It begins,” the man said.

            As if being triggered by his announcement, a light appeared from the woods to the right of the ramp, then another, and another. Then there was a line of torches moving first to, then up the ramp of the mound. The uneven steps of the bearers gave the lights a sparkling effect, like the sun shining on the scales of a moving serpent. Both men watched in silence.

            Then the man spoke. “They will sleep well tonight.”

            “Silence,” the guard said. “We each do our part.”

            Something in the cell moved behind the man and he turned. A small girl, her age two smiles before womanhood arose from the other bed and moved into the pale light provided by the watching moon. She wore a woolen dress, decorated with painted flowers. Her hair was braided like the tips of cornstalks, two black strands tied together in back. She wore a necklace of silver trinkets, each in the shape of a flower. Smaller replicas dangled from each wrist. She walked in leather moccasins. They, like her dress, were covered with painted replicas of flowers.

            The girl walked to where the man stood and looked at him. She smiled the smile of a harlot and began to dance. Swirling across the room, she spread her arms in rhythm to the stamping of her feet. The beauty of her joyous face made the man’s heart ache as if a knife of ice had pierced it.

            “She believes,” he said.

            “More than believes,” the guard said. “She knows.”

            “She thinks she does,” the man said as the girl swept by him, her hands grazing his shoulder. “Do they ever stop believing?”

            “Hardly ever.”

            “How do they do it?”

            “Do what?”

            “Load such belief into a heart.”

            “They begin to build faith at the mother’s breast,” the guard said. “Faith is a powerful force if directed properly.”

            “But sometimes it weakens?”

            “Sometimes,” the guard said. “As they are placed in view of the crowd, the evil serpent Jemsnella places the sin of doubt in their eyes.” He turned for the first time. “But you know of doubt and of battles and of the warrior’s creed. One must not carry doubt into danger.”

            “Great warriors do not carry doubt into danger,” the man said. “But they often carry doubt away from danger.”

            “Do not blaspheme. You should be proud that the flowers will bloom.”

            “And that the grain will grow,” the man said as the girl danced by again, the trinkets on her necklace and bracelets making a sound like the words "shin-ing, shin-ing.” She grinned lasciviously as she passed. “So say the gods,” the man said.

            “Do not question the ways of the gods,” the guard said.

            “I do not question the ways of the gods,” the man said. “But sometimes I wish they could find ways to build faith that are less ….” He stopped as the guard turned around and looked into the cell. The girl finished her dance with a grand and graceful bow.

            “Less what?” the guard said.

            “Cruel.”

Fiction?

 

The Charleston

By Jimmie von Tungeln

The younger girl held the matchbox steady as the older bored through one side and out the other an inch or so from the front. Using a rusted ice pick, she carefully pierced the cardboard without caving in the side. Her eyes narrowed from the concentration and her tongue curled against her upper lip. Together, they repeated the process at the rear and the girl held it up for inspection. “Now for the axles,” she said.

The younger picked up two slender twigs whittled to a near cylindrical shape and handed them to her sister. She stuck the twigs from side to side through the box. “Wheels,” she said. The other reached into her dress pocket and handed her four large buttons retrieved from a discarded coat. Taking them, she held them to the sky for inspection. There were four holes in each button, pre-cut for accepting thread. In the center, the girls had bored a single, larger hole. Through this hole, she pushed one of the buttons, then the rest, onto the sticks protruding from the sides of the box.

“Won’t be long, now,” the girl said. As she positioned each wheel, she stuck straight pins adjacent to the sides of the buttons to hold them in place. Finished, she held the completed apparatus up for inspection and then rolled it along the ground. The younger girl watched in admiration.

“Works good Essie,” she said. “Works real good.”

“We got us a wagon, Mabel,” the other said. She rolled the toy along the ground twice more and then held it up. “Now we’ll work on the tongue.”

“Let’s check on the team,” Mabel said.

“Let’s,” said Essie as she rose from her squatting position. She placed the toy wagon against a great oak tree rising from the front yard. She took the younger girl’s hand and they ran to a place under the porch of the house. There they had built a small lean-to a foot-square in the shade.

A woman in her mid-forties sat on the porch in an aged rocking chair watching the girls and moving in slow rhythm as she fanned herself with a fan that proudly announced its source as The Buie Funeral Home, Rison, Arkansas. The house was a modest structure of maybe 20 feet in width. Like many others of its type, it had three rooms, one behind the other with a back door leading to a well in the back yard for drawing water. Other than the rocking chair, the only embellishments visible on the front porch were a piece of broken mirror hanging from a string and a calendar by the door outlining the year 1924.

The woman stopped her rocking and fanning long enough to bend toward where the girls were crouched. “I’m a’tellin’ you girls them baby rats ain’t gonna live the day out so you moughts well bury them now.”

Neither girl replied. The had removed a piece of filthy blanket covering a small nest of hay and twigs that furnished the bed for four recently born rats. The tiny pink things were curled into tight balls and quivered as the air hit them.

“How long afore they’s big enough to pull the wagon?” asked Mabel.

“Couple of weeks, I reckon.”

“Hot damn.”

“I heard that,” the woman yelled from the porch. “Now y’all quit tormentin’ them babies or I’m gonna whup somebody’s ass.”

Essie giggled and covered the babies. “When we get the axles and tongue finished, we’ll start on the harnesses.”

“You still got them shoe laces?”

“All we’ll need.”

The girls withdrew from under the porch and stretched in the morning sun. Both were thin. Essie was six inches taller than the younger girl with jet-black hair that contrasted with the auburn hair of her sister. Both had bobbed coiffures, apparently fashioned at home. They each wore thin, simple dresses that draped over their bodies like clothes hanging from a line. They were barefooted.

“Mama, you said Uncle Frank used to make wagons out of match boxes and hook them up to rats. Why you fussin’ at us?” Essie said.

“Them rats was growed. He didn’t use no baby rats.”

“Ours gonna be growed in a couple of weeks if you give us some milk to feed them.”

The woman rocked back. “Now you girls shut up and come on around here. We got some washin’ to do.”

“Aw Mama. Can’t we play awhile?” Mabel said.

“You can play when I tell you to,” she said, but the girls didn’t hear. Their attention had centered on a distant sound, one unusual but familiar. They both walked to the edge of the cleared area that served as a front yard.

“Hear that?” Essie said nudging Mabel. “It’s car, and it’s headed this way.”

Mabel didn’t answer. She turned to look at her mother for confirmation. The woman had heard the sound as well. She raised a hand to her mouth and Mabel could see concern on her face. “Mama, somebody’s …,” she began but the woman motioned for her to be quiet.

“You girls come up here,” she said.

The girls obeyed and stood by their mother as the automobile came closer. They heard a rattling sound that seemed to echo from the large oaks that ringed the house. Had it not been for the fact that only one road led by their home, Mabel thought that it would have been hard to tell from which direction the sound came. It just came, that was all, growing louder until they could hear, among the sounds of the engine, the squeaking of the car’s body as it labored along the ruts and crevasse making up the dirt road.

“Reckon who it is, Mama?” Essie said.

“Hush now. You girls be quiet.”

Then there was a flash as sunlight bounced off glass and the girls could see snatches of a dark form moving through the woods like an animal on the prowl. The two moved closer to their mother.

The form then burst from the darkness of the woods and a complete automobile emerged. A faded black shape marked with large rings of rust and dents bounced into view and headed straight for the house.

Instinctively, the mother shooed her daughters behind her, ready to absorb the first shock if the shape didn’t stop before it reached them.

It swerved, though, just as it reached the edge of the front yard and came to a sudden stop parallel to the front porch. The front end dipped twice as if bowing in deference and then the entire apparatus was still.

Essie peered from behind her mother. “Look, Mama, it’s Carl and Fred.” She laughed at the thought of their being frightened. “It’s just Carl and Fred. They done got themselves a car.”

Those on the porch couldn’t see them well, but to the right of each of the men sat others who appeared to be female.

“How you, Mama?” Fred yelled.

The woman didn’t answer. She looked at the car and its occupants as if they had dropped into her yard from another world.

“We come by to see you,” the man said. “How you like my car?”

The woman looked the car over from end to end. “What you boys up to?” she said.

“I done told you, Mama,” Fred said. “We come by to see you.”

“Why ain’t you boys workin’?”

The man in the rear spoke to the other who replied and then turned to face his mother again. “We off today.”

“Who’s that in the car with you?” she said as if noticing them for the first time.

“They’s some friends Mama.” He turned to the passengers and said, “You girls git out and meet our mama.”

He turned to this mother again and opened the door of the car. “They comin’ around to meet you, Mama.”

With that, those in the car emerged one by one, straightening their clothes and slapping away the dust that had covered them. As the women came around the car, the girls stepped from behind their mother and stared.

“Would you look at that?” Mabel said.

“You girls hush,” their mother said.

The women did present a spectacle for two young girls in the backwoods. Both wore similar dresses that hung straight from their shoulders and ended midways between their hips and knees and were joined by a row of fringe that ended six inches above the knee. The girls watched entranced as the fringe jiggled as the women walked toward the front porch, each on the arms of one of the men.

Fred and his companion stopped halfway across the yard. Carl took an extra step as he and his bumped the other two from behind. Recovering, they all stood at attention as if on review before those on the porch.

“Mama,” Fred began.

“Where’d you git that car?” His mother interrupted him and glared.

“Hit’s mine,” Fred said. “I bought it last week. Now Mama,” he began.
            “Where’d you git the money?” she said.

“I hauled some hogs for old man Atkins,” he said. “Now Mama …”

“Hit must have been one big load of hogs.”

“Mama, this here is Adele,” Fred said, proud of his persistence. “And back ‘air is Bobbie June. They’s friends of ours.”

“Why ain’t y’all haulin’ some more hogs if’n it’s yore day off? Can’t you use some extra money? I know we could.”

“Now Mama,” Carl said from behind Fred. “That’s what we need to talk to you about.”

“Shut up, Carl,” Fred said. “Mama, can we come in and talk to you a minute?”

The woman deliberated, still ignoring the two other women. Finally, she turned to the door, “Come on in, then. You girls stay out here.” She didn’t specify which girls so the two younger ones remained on the porch staring at the two women. They heard a door slam in the back of the house and the Mabel knew they had gone all the way to the kitchen to talk. It must be serious.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” the one named Adele said to Essie.

“Esther Mae,” she replied.

“That’s a right pretty name,” Adele said. “And what’s yours?” she said, turning to Mabel.

Mabel didn’t speak. She just turned toward Essie who nodded. “Mabel,” she said, finally.

“Well I’ll swan. Ain’t you the cutest two girls in Cleveland County?”

Before they could respond, loud voices roared from behind the closed door. The girls could only make out a word or two but they could tell it had something to do with liquor. Before they could hear more, the woman named Bobbie June spoke in a loud voice.

“Hey girls, come down here and let us show you something.”

They looked at one another. Again, Essie nodded and the two descended from the porch, one behind the other.

When they reached the two women, the one named Adele placed her hand on Mabel’s shoulder. She started to speak but sounds of loud voices from the back of the house attracted their attention. Mabel only caught the phrase “comin’ in here drunk” in the mixed confusion.

Suddenly Adele spoke. “I bet you girls don’t know how to do the Charleston, do you?”

Essie and Mabel both looked at her. “The what?” Essie said.

“The Charleston,” Adele said. “It’s the latest dance. You do know how to dance don’t you?”

“No ma’am,” said Essie. “We ain’t allowed to.”

“Not allowed to?” said Bobbie June, moving to draw their attention away from the house. “Why, you should, and I bet we can teach you in a sec.”

“You bet,” said Adele. “We been all the way to Dallas, Texas to learn it. You know where Dallas is?”

“No ma’am,” said Essie.

“Well, it’s a long way from Cleveland County, I’ll tell you that. Come here and look.”

She led the girls a few steps farther from the house and then turned to Bobbie June. “Let’s teach these girls a thing or two,” she said.

Bobbie June began to clap her hands in rhythm and, much to the delight of the girls, sang in a husky voice.

“Five foot two…

Eyes of blue..

But oh, what those five feet could do…”

They giggled when Adele began to move forward and backward in pace with singing, placing one foot in front of the other and then in back of it with arms swinging in perfect rhythm.

“Turned up nose…

Turned down hose…

Never had no other beaus…”

“Now come on, you do it do,” said Adele, grabbing Essie’s arm.

When Essie drew away, Adele said, “Don’t be afraid. It’s easy. Give it a try.”

She continued to dance and motioned for the other two to join her.

“See, just put one foot here, one foot there.”

Bobby June was joining her now, continuing to sing.

“Now if you run into…”

Suddenly Adele cried. “Look at that child.”

Three of them turned to watch Mabel who was now beginning to move in perfect imitation of Adele. She stumbled once, missed a beat, but soon was bouncing on her feet in complete harmony with the music.

“Look at that bearcat go. Kick them gams, you darb you,” said Adele. She stopped herself and joined Adele in singing and clapping as Mabel began to move in frenzied ecstasy. He eyes grew wide and her face contorted from concentration. Essie looked at her in amazement.

“But could she love…

Could she woo…

Could she, could she, could she coo?”

Bobbie June stopped singing then. Mabel continued do pour every bit of energy into dancing though there was no more music. The two women had turned toward the house when Carl came quick-stepping through front door toward the steps. As Mabel raged forwards and backwards, sounds of broken glass flew from the house and Fred came running out, dodging blows from a broom wielded by his mother. He crashed into Carl, who was halfway down the steps and the two went flying together into the four standing in the yard.

It was then that Mabel stopped dancing.

“And take them whores with you,” her mother shouted.

She needn’t have worried. The two women were already in car by then and before anyone else could move, Fred had joined them. Carl was already in front of the car violently spinning a starting crank. The engine stared immediately and he ran to the back door, crank in hand, and dove in as the car began to move. In a moment, they were gone.

Mabel and Essie didn’t move. They had seen storms before and knew that the best defense was no defense at all. Essie simply looked a Mabel in amazement. Without changing expression, Mabel winked at her.

“You girls start gettin’ ready,” their mother said. “We got to go pick up Mizz Reed’s washin’.”

The girls walked back to the house holding hands. Without speaking to one another, they walked to the spot under the porch where they had left the baby rats. Essie squatted and removed the cover. She watched the babies for a minute or so, it seemed to Mabel. The she poked them with a finger.

“Mama, I think our babies died,” she said.

“I done told you they would. Now you girls git rid of them and git ready to go.” She turned and, broom in hand, went back into the house.

“Bring me our wagon,” Essie said.

Mabel turned without a word and went to the base of the tree where the matchbox wagon lay. She picked it up and returned with it to where Essie still squatted quietly. She handed the box to her sister.

“We ain’t got time to bury them now,” Essie said. She folded the rag that covered the tiny creatures and placed it in the box as a liner. Then she picked up the tiny objects one by one and placed them in a row upon the cloth. She rose slowly and showed the box to Mabel who simply nodded.

Holding the box in front of her, Essie started walking to a copse of trees just beyond the edge of the front yard, in the direction from which the car had appeared.  As they moved from the clearing, the trees made shadows cross their forms and then they were in the cool darkness out of sight from the house.

Essie began to sing as they walked, and after a few more steps, Mabel began to sway with the music. Now Essie did the same, still holding the matchbox coffin before her as they walked farther into the cool, dark woods.

“Five foot two…

Eyes of blue…”

The Last Chapter

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

The wedding happened on a Saturday. It took place in a wooded park in the City of Armistead. Sheriff Love pulled some strings and made it happen. In a well-kept secret, he and Nelson paid for most of it, telling the couple that the funds were from a public source. It was scheduled for 2:00 p.m. but the crowd started showing shorty after lunch. By one o’clock, it had become obvious that extra seats would be needed. Two deputies departed for the Methodist church to borrow more.

Nelson arrived shortly afterwards. For reasons even he probably could not have explained, he had chosen to wear his full dress blue Navy uniform, complete with its array of ribbons and a gold insignia of an eagle grasping a trident, an anchor, and flintlock pistol. He shook several hands and then moved to one side of the area to watch. He hadn’t waited long before a loud voice behind him shouted, “Holy shit,” and he turned. It was Tricia Davenport dragging her mother by hand. She ran to face Nelson and looked him from head to toe.

“Damn, Copper,” she said. “Look at your bad self.” She pulled her gasping mother to her side and pointed at Nelson. “Look, Mama,” she said. “He could make me go straight if he was just a little bit taller.” She laughed. “And now he’s blushing. What kind of war hero blushes when a bull-dyke busts his balls?”

“Tricia please,” Ramona said. “You promised to behave.” She looked around as if to see if a crowd was gathering around them. “Hello again,” she said to Nelson.

Nelson had regained himself. “Hello,” he said. “What brings you here? Don’t tell me you are related to one of the Betrothed?”

“Oh hell no,” Tricia said. “We’re just here to see you.”
            “Tricia,” her mother said.

“Not really then,” Tricia said. “The feds came for a visit and told us all about the excitement and we thought we would come so I could meet Bridgette maybe. I hear she’s more than just hot.”

“Tricia!” her mother said.

“I’ll behave,” Tricia said. “I think I want to impress this guy. Let’s go mingle. See you around, Marine.”

“Sailor …” Nelson said, but Tricia was gone.

Sheriff Love arrived, also in dress regalia. He led a frail woman to the front row of reserved seats and they both sat. The woman’s hair had greyed and was poorly arranged, but despite that and the wrinkles, an inner beauty glowed. Nelson walked toward them. When he neared, he saw that she was wearing a beautifully tailored pink dress and an equally well-fitting green blouse. She stared straight ahead as Nelson approach. At the last minute, she turned toward him and he could see that her lipstick had missed its intended target in places. She smiled and said nothing.

“Meet my wife, Evelyn,” he said. “Evelyn, this is the deputy I told you about.” Evelyn continued to smile but said nothing. At that moment, Gina Matterson arrived wearing a formal outfit, complete with a fashionable lady’s white church hat. She sat beside Evelyn and took her hand.

Evelyn made no response. The sheriff’s cell phone buzzed. “Damn,” he said. “I forgot to turn this off.” He looked at the screen and said to Nelson, “Let me take this. It’s Acting Chief Patterson from over at Connorville.”

“Acting Chief?

“Long story. Later.” He punched the phone and put it to his ear. “Ralph,” he said. “What’s new?” He listened. “Interesting,” he said. “Interesting. That makes four counting the Weasel, don’t it?” Nodded, listened. Then said, “No problem. We understand. I’ll give Clifton your regards. See yah.” He fiddled with his phone and pocketed it. Turning to Nelson who was sitting beside him now, he said, “All hell’s breaking loose over to Connorville.”

Elvis Barker, Martin, and a statuesque woman in a white dress and a hat as elaborate as Gina Matterson’s interrupted them. The men wore matching white slacks and blue sport coats. Elvis said, “Sheriff, you know Louisa don’t you? Boats, meet my housekeeper.”

Louisa punched his arm and said, “You just added another month, boy.” She extended a hand to Nelson. “I assume,” she said, “that you’ve heard about me from these two.” She pointed to husband and son. “All lies,” she said, smiling.

Nelson returned the smile, nodded, and said to Elvis, “Quite a crowd.”

“Ain’t seen nothin’ like this since Ronnie Johnson passed,” he said leaning down to speak low to Nelson and the sheriff. “Of course they ain’t been lettin’ us go to white folks’ funerals and weddings for that long.” He winked, and led the Barker family back into the growing crowd.

Dress uniforms were the style of the day, along with white dresses. The Stubblefields arrived next and took their place alongside Nelson. Eli’s dress uniform matched Nelson’s in terms of badges and ribbons. He sat slowly and whispered to Nelson, “This thing is beginning to shrink. If I pass, don’t try to bury me in it. Just cremate me and dump my ashes from one of those C-40s over at the air base.” Nelson laughed as Eddie Glover appeared before them and said to Nelson, “About time. You got the ring?” Nelson patted a pocket, rose, and followed Glover to the front the crowd where they stood behind an exquisite white arch festooned with flowers, courtesy of Eli and Martha Stubblefield. Rick Duffey rushed in behind the crowd carrying a serious-looking camera.

            Nelson heard sounds to his left and turned to see Clifton Sikes walking toward him. He moved with a cane, resolute but unsteady. Sheriff Love was by his side, assisting him. Clifton came to the front, thanked Sheriff Love, turned, and stood beside Nelson. He wore khaki slacks and a brightly flowered shirt.

Music filled the air and the crowd turned to face rearward toward a small community center building. A park worker opened the door. Rose and Bridgette walked out, each wearing white dresses trimmed in a pale blue the color of the Arkansas sky. They each carried bouquets of pink flowers. Each wore a small band around their heads, also fashioned from pink flowers. The crowd gasped. They gasped again when Christina emerged on the arms of one the physicians who had treated Clifton. They marched through the crowd to the arch where he left Christina beside Clifton without comment.

Eddie Glover stepped forward and spoke.

“Welcome,” he said. “We are gathered here in the presence of family and friends to unite Clifton Sikes and Christina Lopez in matrimony. Marriage is an honorable estate, and is therefore not to be entered into lightly, but reverently, advisedly, soberly and with the blessing of all. Today, they will receive one of life’s greatest gift; another person to share with, grow with, change with, be joyful with, and to stand with as one when trials and tribulations enter their lives.

Although many of you know me as a preacher, the couple has requested that we avoid religion. But, as you know, I am a preacher and can’t resist a few comments.” He flashed a broad smile and the crowd murmured approval.

“With that said, let us all acknowledge that the love represented before us grew from some hard times in our community, hard times that touched almost everyone here, some more than others. We might ask ourselves, “What hope is there for happiness in such a troubled world?”

Let us think for a moment. The man that I worship told us, ‘Let not your heart be troubled.’ I accept that and offer it to you. Let us remember, as we celebrate this preciously wondrous day, that it is made all the more so by the fact the love given here grew from trials we can only imagine. Let us remember that orchids grow from the most dismal plots of ground on earth, that the greatest apostle of my faith was a hater and persecutor before he saw the light, that a former slave-runner wrote that great hymn, Amazing Grace, and that a modern and prosperous country grew from the smoldering ruins of the Nazi regime. Let us be comforted that, like the love of Christina and Clifton, wonder and beauty can emerge from the worst trials of life.”

He smiled at the couple and said. “Sermon over. Let’s get these folks married.”

The rest of the ceremony went well. Nelson found the ring as he was supposed to, Clifton placed it onto Christina’s finger, and Eddie Glover pronounced them husband and wife. Clifton, for a second, appeared ready to flee, but Christina held him and placed a loving kiss on him. Clifton responded and the formalities ended.

Clifton and Christina stayed for the duration. Nelson stuck around for a shorter time, mingling. He visited with Rick Duffey, who thanked him for the scoop and predicted a Pulitzer Prize in his future. Nelson said goodbye to Martha Stubblefield and an obviously uncomfortable Eli. Sheriff Love begged Nelson to stay with the Sheriff’s Office before he led a still-smiling Evelyn to their car. Bridgette and Rose came to thank him for everything again. Eddie Glover was with them.

“What plans loom in your future?” Glover asked Nelson.

“Rest and relaxation, maybe college,” Nelson said. “You?”

“I had intended go to the Delta and serve the poor among us who need help the most,” Glover said. “Then I found out that there are poor in my own back yard that need help, including the poor in spirit.” He looked at Rose and she took his arm in her hands and placed a head on his shoulder as Bridgett beamed.

Nelson stared at her.

“Me? Who knows?” Rose said. There may be a law school in my future.”

            Nelson took the old highway back to Little Rock. Someone watching would have deemed him deep in thought. Reaching home, he changed into exercise clothes and took a long, slow run. Back, he poured himself two fingers of Jack Daniels over ice and drank it slowly. Emptying it, he banged his fist on the table where he sat, walked to a lamp stand, and retrieved a notebook. At his kitchen table, he flipped through the notebook, took out his cell phone, and dialed a number. He waited while it operated. His face seemed to transform into a glow. Then he took a long breath and spoke into the phone.

            “Barkis is willing,” he said.

End of Sundown in Zion 

Resolution

Sundown in zion

Chapter Fifty-two

The men sat in the car without speaking. Agent Benson broke the silence. “He said he would be here?”

“He did,” Nelson said. “For us, he said he would take his morning off and get right down here.”

“His vehicle didn’t make it,” Sheriff Love said. “And he doesn’t live too far away.”

They sat for another minute. “Shit,” Nelson said. “I forgot. He might not have driven. Come on.”

The three exited and walked to the door of the building. “Are you sure about doing this?” Benson asked.

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

Benson thought. “We could get sued. “Worse, we could get shot.”

 Nelson didn’t appear to hear. He tried the door and it opened. They walked into an entryway. Farther down, near an open office door, an elaborate touring bike leaned against the wall. The office was lit and the men walked to it and entered. Sam Coulson looked up from his desk, signed a page in front of him, and stood. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m Sam Coulson,” he said to Benson.”

“Tom Benson,” the other said, “special agent with the Little Rock Field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” The two shook hands.

“Have seat.” Coulson said to the three men. When they were seated, he said. “What’s the problem?” he said. “Am I in trouble for faking a Navy SEAL’s firearm permit?”

No one laughed. “We wanted to ask you a few more questions about the young girl that was murdered.” Nelson said.

“I think I told you everything I know before,” Coulson said. “She called me once about firearms training and we discussed it. End of conversation.” He looked at Benson. “How does that local tragedy warrant FBI investigation?”

“It may involve a civil rights violation. Or it may connect with an interstate drug operation we broke up last week.” Benson said. “You may have heard about it?”

“News travels,” Coulson said. “If true, it is a real shocker about Brother Dale. Not for the others so much.” He pivoted toward Sheriff Love. “But how can I help?”

“You’re a cyclist?” the sheriff said, ignoring his question.

“Only on my days off,” Coulson said. “The rest of the time I’m a bona fide redneck.” He looked at Nelson. “Did you let my secret out?”

Nelson, too, ignored the question. “Are you sure Abbey never came here to your office?”

“Why would a young black girl come to a place loaded with wild-eyed racists carrying guns?” Coulson said.

“Because she was frightened of wild-eyed rednecks carrying guns?” Benson said.

“Know what, Sam?” Sheriff Love said, “when I was a young Marine, recently discharged as a sergeant, there was a bit of a fluff about a state senator that went hunting a lot with my father. I was working with Dad at the time. Seems like the senator was trying to get the old man to help him profit from some invoices on a state job we were working on.”

Coulson frowned and waited.

“The FBI wanted to interview me about what I might know.”

Coulson waited.

“I asked a friend who was a few years older than me and a lawyer, how to conduct myself in the interview.”

“Is this going somewhere, Sheriff Love?”

“Give me second, Sam. My friend gave me some advice I’ve never forgotten.”

“What was that?”

“Don’t lie,” he said. “Don’t lie to the FBI. Even if it doesn’t matter for jack-diddly-shit, don’t lie to the FBI. That’s an automatic five years in the pen. I didn’t, and the senator took the five years instead.”

“Are you sure,” Nelson said, “that Abbey Stubblefield has never been in this office?”

Coulson wiped his face. “Okay, okay,” he said. She did meet me here one day after closing time. I wasn’t about to bring her in while the ‘gun-nuts-for-Jesus’ crowd was here. All she wanted was to know what I knew about those so-called guards at that Ransom Center in Benton. I told her I knew nothing except that they liked to come here and shoot. That’s all I told her.”

“That sounds like it fits with the other facts,” Sheriff Love said.

“You told me,” Nelson said, “that some officer told you that she was wearing little but a necklace that read ‘poison’ when they found her body, right?”

“Right. That’s why they thought she was connected with gangs.”

“Thank you Sam,” the sheriff said. “We just wanted to clear up a few things.” He had started to rise when Nelson spoke.

“Sheriff,” he said, “Did you read over carefully the report from the medical examiner who autopsied Abbey’s body?”

“Yes, yes I did. What does that have to do with Sam here?”

“Are you as confused as I am, now?”

The sheriff thought. “Come to think of it, I am.”

“See, Sam,” Nelson said. “There was no necklace found on Abbey’s body. Maybe someone stole it. But maybe it was damaged and washed away in the rainstorm that night. What would you think if we were to take a metal detector out to the site and find that necklace buried in the mud? And what would we find if we examined that spot of freshly painted wall behind me that I noticed on my first trip here.”

The color slowly drained from Coulson’s face and he slumped in his chair. “You know, don’t you?”

“We suspect,” Nelson said. “Want to help us?”

“How? How did you figure it out?”

“The necklace could have been explained away,” Nelson said. “But what really bugged me about the whole deal with Abbey was how her car got to Little Rock if she had been killed in Armistead County.”

Coulson closed his eyes. “And I had to show up twice riding a goddam bicycle.”

“Twice,” Nelson said. “Just a stretch of the legs from Little Rock to Connorville after abandoning a car.”

“I didn’t murder her,” Coulson said, his shoulders sinking. “It was an accident.”

Sheriff Love said, “An accident?”

“She came here while I was cleaning guns after a class. I wouldn’t even let her sit. Made her stand back against that wall for propriety’s sake. I told her it was for safety’s sake. Yes, Gideon, in front of that freshly painted portion.”

His voice caught and he stopped to compose himself. He spoke again.

“Some ditzy woman from the class had left a small-caliber semi-automatic pistol charged. When I stood up to show Abbey the door, I dropped it and you can guess the rest. The shot hit right between her eyes, went through her, and into the wall. She fell not ever knowing what hit her.”

“What then?” Benson asked.

“I panicked from fear, embarrassment, and pride. I faked the execution scene, with her on the plywood and covered it all in the bed of my pickup, I waited until dark and dropped her in what I thought was the city limits of Connorville. Later, I drove her car, with my bike in it, to Little Rock, abandoned it out of sight, and spent the rest of the night in some woods with my bike. At daylight, I was just a lonely cyclist enjoying a Sunday morning ride.”

“You thought you dropped her inside Connorville?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Can you imagine how much effort that crew over there would have spent on investigating the death of a colored woman?”

After Deputy Cassidy had arrived and taken Coulson away, the three started back in somber silence. They covered several miles before Agent Benson broke the silence.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I love my job. But sometimes I hate it.”

Answers

 Sundown In Zion

CHAPTER fifty-one

 

            They all took Sunday off. Sheriff Love explained that they each enjoyed enough excitement on Saturday to last a lifetime. “Besides,” he said, “I have to take my wife to church on Sunday. We haven’t missed a service in over 47 years and we’re not going to start now.”

            Charlie was at Angela’s house. Nelson tried all that morning to reach Tina, but she didn’t answer her phone at home. He also tried her office with no luck. He read for an hour after breakfast and then fired up his computer to make notes for his report.

            The first thing that appeared on his screen was notice of an email from Tina. He clicked to it. It read.

            Forgive me, but please don’t try to contact me again. It is all over, through no fault of yours, only mine. I do not love you and will never love you. For better or worse, love is a one-time thing with me. Sex is a relief from the pain of loss, but only a temporary one. I thought perhaps you were different, but no. I loved the sex, but each time we finished, and you lay beside me, I was filled with disgust. Not only with you, but with myself mostly and with the thought of dishonoring the memory of my husband. See, I didn’t love him when we married. He represented an end to a student’s poverty and a little physical fun, that’s all. Then something strange happened as we faced life together and overcame its petty struggles. I woke up one morning and realized that I worshipped the ground on which he walked. Every time I took a breath, that feeling grew stronger. May you share it someday. Being loved can generate love, that’s not from a sociologist, but from a life’s partner of a wonderful person. When we meet on campus, let’s meet as friends. You can even take my class if you wish. Friends, that’s all. I need all of them I can find. Take care.

Tina

Nelson closed the email. He spent the afternoon making notes of his remembrances, and the evening thinking, with a glass of Jack Daniels close by.

The next morning, he walked into the sheriff’s office to find him in an expansive mood. “Come in my nautical friend. Get some coffee and sit. When they both had settled comfortably, he said, “Know what our preacher preached on yesterday?”

Nelson shook his head.

“Handling life’s surprises with the help of God,” he said. “Now ain’t that a fucking hoot? What you want to know about first?”? He stopped and spoke loudly toward the door. “Mrs. M, you’ll know all about everything when you type my report. Right now, you’ll just have to wait.” There was a familiar scuffling sound from the other side of the door. He waited.

“Now,” he said. “You’ll first want to know about Brother Dale Underhill, as he is known, right?

Nelson nodded.

“When he figured the jig was up,” the sheriff said, “he started singing. Not hymns either but a sad and tragic story. Seems greed-envy overtook him the way inertia overtakes many of our county residents. He saw those TV evangelists with their private jets and mansions, and it gnawed on him like glory gnaws on people like us.” They both smiled. “Then he read a book about those fundamentalist Mormon men out west. He and Bully spent way too much time talking about it and they hatched a plan.”

“Let me guess,” Nelson said. “It involved the Ransom Center.”

“Bingo. He used some secret network that preachers have and found this huge market for brainwashed young starlets and the two of them sprang into action.”

“Brigette said they appraised her at fifty grand.”

“That’s a discounted price,” he said, “because she was so hardheaded and difficult to train. She’s also a little old. They like them no older than 14, as a rule. Anyway,” he said. “A few sales financed their entry into a more lucrative, although riskier, field. Greed overcame caution and here we are. He says they were quitting all of their businesses after Bridgette and that delivery we intercepted. You were making things too warm for them and they all had their nests made anyway. It was off to the Caribbean after that final load.”

“Speaking of that,” Nelson said, “how did Don Dillahunty fit in?

“Seems he came to Brother Dale complaining that his wives, both former and present, were bankrupting him and he didn’t know what to do.”

“And?”

“Just so happened that the meth-gang needed a way to smuggle hard-to-get ingredients in and Don imported a lot of furniture from the Vietnamese. They, the Vietnamese ain’t above stuffing such furniture creatively. Don ask why. They are still pissed off about the war, if you ask me. Anyway, as Brother Dale put it, in that charming way of his, ‘It was a marriage made in Heaven’ and the rest is history.”

Bridgette’s mother is happy?”

“Look up the word in the dictionary and you’ll see her picture there.”

“Will they keep Martin out of the news?”

“Now there is another shocking development. I trust you didn’t fail to see a little more than rescuer and rescuee attraction during our little get together?

“Who could have missed it? That explains the portion of the letter her mom found.”
“It explains a lot of things,” the sheriff said, “not the least of which is why they took her

from the Ransom Center when they didn’t really need kidnap money anymore. They stop short of murdering for miscegenation now, these assholes. Besides, they had a better treatment.”

            “What about the crime scene?”

“They went yesterday and looked as best they could. A total wipeout. All they’ve identified so far was a section of a forearm with the letters “SW” tattooed on it, and a partial set of dentures.”

            “Believe it or not, those both belonged to Bully.”

            “Stands to reason,” the sheriff said. “I mean as far as the dentures. Man-fighting, meth, and Mountain Dew don’t make for a full set of choppers.

            “So,” Nelson said, “that about wraps in up?”

            Before the sheriff could answer, three knocks came at his door. “Ah,” he said, “Mrs. M’s secret code. This is important. “Enter.”

            The door opened and a voice said, “Agent Benson is here.”

            “Send ‘Little Jedgar’ in.”

            The door opened fully, and Tom Benson entered. He surveyed the room. “Gentlemen,” he said. He shook hands with Nelson. “I think I owe you an apology for thinking of you as a pest,” he said.

            “Oh?” Nelson said.

            “Yes. I think you’re going to get me transferred to the Beverley Hills office yet.” He turned and shook hands with the sheriff. He nodded back toward Nelson and said. “Just who the hell is this man? He got me credit for solving two interstate crimes in one night.”

            “Just a former sailor,” the sheriff said. He motioned toward an empty chair. “Sit.”

            “I don’t know much more than what I reported to you yesterday,” he said to the sheriff. “We’re getting ready to assemble all we can about Chief of Police Banks over in Connorville and his possible role in all this.”

            Sheriff Love said, “If I know the Weasel, he has covered his tracks pretty well.”

            “Our trackers look hard and deep,” Benson said. “We’ll see what his financial dealings tell us. Right now, I only have one disappointment.”

            Both men sat forward. “Oh?” said the sheriff. “A loose end? I thought all your suspects were all singing “Just as I am without one plea.”

            “They are, pretty much,” Benson said. “Except for one thing.”
            “What’s that?” Nelson asked.

            “They admitted killing Bonnie Sue Anderson. Seems she went to see Dale Underwood because there was something about Bridgette Thompson she hadn’t told anyone, something that could have stirred the pot pretty badly.”

            “Which was?” The sheriff was leaning more toward Benson now.

            “Underwood won’t say,” Benson said, “and she can’t. We may never know. But that’s not the main thing they won’t admit?”

            “What’s that?” the sheriff asked.

            Benson took a deep breath. “None of them will tell us shit about Abbey Stubblefield.”

            “Why?” the sheriff was getting agitated. Nelson showed no emotion.

            “Who knows? Maybe they think they have enough trouble without getting the NAACP on their case as well.”

            The sheriff leaned back and looked at Nelson. “Well now,” he said. Ain’t that a pisser, after all you did for us?”

            “Maybe,” said Nelson. “Just maybe they don’t know.”

            This time it was Benson who leaned forward, toward Nelson. “What do you mean?”

            Nelson shook his head and sorrow showed across it. “You fellas want to take a ride?”

 

Leadership

 When I was a boy growing up in rural Arkansas, World War II had just been over five years or so. The results of it touched everyone, each day of the week in some fashion or other.

A playmate’s father couldn’t hold a job for a drinking problem brought on by his experiences in the war.

Mrs. So and So never smiled because her boy was killed in the Pacific.

Another playmate had a neat plastic model of a B-17 but knew nothing about it cause his dad wouldn’t discuss it after he brought it home.

The preacher talked about his comrades finding religion when the bombs started falling.

My aunt found out that the preacher spent the war as a cook who never left the states.

A good friend’s father died flying a fighter plane and he now had a new father.

A classmate’s father only had one arm and she was very sensitive about it.

Many of the cartoons we saw featured characters based on Hitler, Mussolini, and Tojo.

The first kid to claim a branch of service while playing war was always a Marine.

We learned that Franklin D. Roosevelt was a true hero for bringing the country through the crisis.

Just musing today: The American military deaths from the war totaled around 330,000 in four years.

America may pass that number in Covid-19 deaths in one year.

One can only wonder what the next generation of kids will talk about on the playgrounds of rural Arkansas, if there are still playgrounds there in five years.

Whom to follow?

 I’ve quit trying to change anyone’s stance on how our country should meet the future. I’m too busy understanding mine. It isn’t that hard to understand. It’s just a bit incongruous. See, I firmly believe in the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution when it separates religion from government, further bolstered by Article VI when it states that, “…no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification to any office or public trust under the United States.”

 Ah yes. While I believe the wall between our government and any religion should be absolute, I don’t mind if an individual uses—along with wisdom, education, and critical thinking—passages of their (or someone else’s) religious diatribes to form their individual political inclinations. I do.

 Notice, please, that I said, “Individual political inclinations,” and not “governmental administration.” There’s no problem if religious beliefs help a person form political beliefs. The problem I see with so many so-called “Christians” in today’s American society is that they tend to choose, for their political fervor, those passages from the Bible that seem to grant a person of their faith the right to judge and then condemn others, mostly others who aren't like them.

 The Galilean warns against this in one of the religious writings that that help form my politics, The Sermon on the Mount. We’re not going to find more wonderful prose than this. That is why it is so odd to me that none of the self-proclaimed icons of modern American religion ever use it to justify their politics.

 Oh well. I do anyway. I combine it with another passage from the same book of the New Testament, the verses in Chapter 25, (NIV) to wit:

 34 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

 37 “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38 When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

 40 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

 41 “Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. 42 For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, 43 I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

 44 “They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

 45 “He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’ "

I’ve never heard one of the zealots whose politics are opposite mine use this as a foundation for their beliefs. In fact, I suspect that a person could carry a tablet with the words inscribed on it and use it to chase the likes of Franklin Graham and Kenneth Copeland away, much like using a crucifix on a vampire.

 That is why it saddens me so when I see old friends, some of whom even serve as ministers to the Christian faith, and whom I knew once to be kind and generous people, post stringent beliefs in the politics of a man who, knowingly or unknowingly, is the living embodiment of  one who lives a life in direct competition to both passages I have mentioned.

 It saddens me. But life goes on. As the Galilean said, “Let your light shine before others.” That's really all we can do, isn't it?