History

Sundown in zion

Chapter thirty-four

            Nelson headed toward Connorville as the sun stood full in the sky. The morning’s route took him through a low wetlands area marked by swamps and remnants of past efforts at growing vegetables. Giant cypress trees rose above the marshy land and seemed to watch as he passed. It was silent with a minimum of late morning traffic sharing the road. Nelson leaned his left arm against the trucks side window opening and held his hand against his face in thought. The morning breeze brought the smell of willows that were scattered like serfs among the majestic cypresses. He smiled as if the smell of the willows brought contentment.

            In Connorville, he drove straight to the church and parked. This time there were no other trucks in the lot and no sign of Bully Bridges or his soul warriors. Nelson left the truck and proceeded through the office entrance.

            “I’m sorry, Mr. …,” The receptionist looked at her notes. “Mr. Nelson,” She looked again. “Uh, Deputy Nelson, Brother Dale had an unexpected visitor after we made your appointment. If you would, have a seat, and he will be with you shortly.” She straightened the papers on her desk and looked at Nelson. “Coffee?”

            “No thanks,” Nelson said. “I’ll just wait.” He moved to a visitor’s chair, sat and pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket. He read the screen and then tapped a message. He adjusted the phone to silent and returned it to his pocket. His staring into space seemed to unnerve the receptionist who kept glancing at him as if she expected him to start a conversation. He did not.

            “Have you been with the Sheriff’s Department long?” she began as the door to the pastor’s office flew open and a tall, sandy-haired man burst through it. He saw Nelson, stopped, and turned around to face the pastor who was following.

            “Now let’s get Sean in that teens’ class by next Sunday, Brother Underhill,” he said. “He thinks his pals are leaving him behind.”

            “We’ll take care of it Brother Dilahunty,” the pastor said. “No problem.”

            “He’ll be thirteen in ten months anyway,” the man said. “It’s not his fault his classmates are older than he is. It’s his mama’s.”

            The preacher stammered. “I don’t understand. His mother’s fault?”

            “Yeah,” the man said, “she insisted on starting him to school a year early.” He smiled. “Makes her feel older.” He looked at the receptionist. “Ain’t that something, Sister Rose?” He winked and gave her a lewd grin. “I want her to make me feel younger and she wants to feel older. Ain’t that true love?”

            The receptionist produced a weak smile that followed the man until he had left the office, whereupon the smile fell like a collapsing umbrella.

            “Well sir,” the pastor said, “we meet again, in a more official capacity I understand.” He turned and motioned Nelson into his office. “Come in. Come in.”

            Nelson followed him and took a seat in front of the desk of the pastor who sat and said, “You know the rules.” He smiled. “Have you accepted Christ as your personal savior yet?”

            “Been too busy saving myself,” Nelson said.

            “I have to ask,” Underhill said, smiling. “Rules are rules. Sorry you had to wait.” He nodded toward the exit. “Head deacon. He doesn’t have to make an appointment.”

            “I understand,” Nelson said.

            “Oh,” Dale said, “if only you could. That’s Don Dilahunty, one of our biggest supporters.” He waited for a response from Nelson. Seeing none, he said, “The name ring a bell?”

            “Afraid not.”

            “He’s the ‘Don’ of Don’s Almost Free Things. You know, ‘You’d have to be daft to purchase when you can’ lease for almost nothing.”

            “Not familiar with him, or it.”

            “His stores lease furniture and appliances to customers who can’t afford to purchase and have no credit history. He has stores here in Arkansas and five other states. Worth a fortune.” He stopped and considered what he had just said. “Well, he’s worth half a fortune now but it’s still a huge one.”

            “Half a fortune?”

            “A little less than a half if you add in the value of the house—a major scandal in the church and the community. A hell of a lot bigger scandal, if you’ll pardon my language, than the case of the assistant pastor who ran off with his sister-in-law.”

            “What kind of scandal?”

            “The good Brother Dilahunty and his wife Ruth were a fixture in this church for years. My dad married them when they were still teenagers. They had three kids and were the model family until bookkeeping tore them apart.”

            “Money problems?”

            “No, bookkeeper problems, as in a young twenty-something who sashayed by old Don in her short skirt one time too many.”

            “I’m beginning to understand,” Nelson said. “A messy divorce?”

            “Messy ain’t the word for it,” Dale said. “It was worse than a herd of pigs fighting over an ear of corn in a foot-deep mud hole. Folks in the church took sides and some still don’t speak to one another over it, after more than 13 years.”

            “But he’s still a member?”

            “Oh yes,” Underhill said. “He increased his tithes until the other deacons shut up about it.

After a while, Sister Ruth became a Methodist. That moved a lot of sympathy in Don’s direction.”

            Nelson allowed this to sink into his thinking.

            “Of course when the dust settled and the new Sister Dilahunty—Irena is her name—became a fixture and began donating to the various Sunday School classes, the other ladies took her in and the old men decided she sort of brought … ahem … a new image of salvation to the services. She became a pillar of the church and the community. The community decided, by the way, that Sister Ruth came out okay with her half plus the house. It’s the huge one with the pink bricks as you come into town, by the way. The one that always has a new suitor parked out front.”

            Nelson thought. “The house with all those gables that don’t match?”

            “That’s the one,” Underhill said. “As Cheech Marin put it, ‘Don customized it himself.’ They say Ruth hates it—always hated it—but stays there because she knows Irena wants it so bad and it pisses her off so much every time she drives by.” He leaned back, “But you didn’t come to hear about our most famous divorce case, did you? Have I gotten you off track?”

            Nelson shook his head and seemed to focus. “I was just thinking about something I read once,” he said.

            “Not, by chance, what our lord and savior said about rich men and divorce?”

            Nelson laughed. “You caught me.”

            “Well,” Underhill said, as they taught us in Preacher School: Jesus never had to pay rent or meet payroll.” He smiled and looked to make certain the office door was closed, then spoke in a low voice. “We put up with the results of Brother Don’s organ as long as he helps us pay for our new organ.” He began to smile but changed his demeanor. “I shouldn’t be engaging in levity,” he said. “We haven’t had much to laugh at lately.”
            “Sorry to hear that,” Nelson said.

            “One church member dead and one crippled for life in a car wreck,” Underhill said, “and two apparently gone missing without telling anyone.”

            “I saw the crowd the other day. It must have been the day of the funeral.”

            “Probably,” Dale said. “Is that why you’re here, to offer condolences?”

“No, I wanted to ask you something that might be a little difficult.”

“Difficulty is my middle name,” Dale said. “Actually it’s Dale, my first name being Jeremiah— Jeremiah Dale Underhill is the complete ignominy. You can understand my choice of a professional moniker.”

“Quite,” Nelson said. He settled in his chair and chose his words carefully. “To get back to the purpose of my coming, I think it may deal with that group of young men you mentioned.”

“Our so-called Soul Warriors?”

“They seem to be,” Nelson said, “what we might call a rough and rowdy bunch, and, I might add, the type not normally associated with a church.”

Underhill pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling. Returning his gaze to Nelson, he said, “May I share a bit of history with you, Deputy Nelson? It may help me explain why the group you call the ‘Soul Warriors’ is an integral part of this church.”

“I’ve all day.”

“I was close to my grandmother,” Underhill said, “and we used to have long talks about the old days. Would it surprise you to learn that her grandfather served in the Third Arkansas Infantry of the Confederate States of America?”

Nelson didn’t respond.

“The Third was the only unit from Arkansas that served the entire war in the east. Seems old Robert E. Lee wanted units from all the Southern states in his beloved Army of Northern Virginia to make it the ‘peoples’ army’ so to speak. The unit saw action in all the big battles from Malvern Hill to Antietam to all the big ones afterwards, including a dreadful day in the Devil’s Den at Gettysburg. They were at Appomattox where 144 men, Great-Great-Great Grand Dad among them mustered out, what was left of the more than 1,300 who had mustered in. Can you see how there may have been some bitterness in the hearts of the survivors of the Third Arkansas?”

“Perhaps. They had seen a lot, those survivors.”

 “And you’ve never heard of them?”

“I’m not a Civil War buff,” Nelson said. “Not an avid reader about wars in general.”

            “I’m surprised,” Underhill said.

            “Why?”

            “Given your background,” Underhill said, “or at least your background as the local gossip has it.”

            Nelson shrugged. “Reputations are like sails,” he said. “If you allow other people to attach them and set them for you, they can pull you along to wherever the wind blows, maybe to a wooden cross on a lonely hill, or maybe to a muddy ditch on a rocky road.”

            “Nice imagery,” Underhill said. “You have a knack for words. Would you like to speak to our congregation some Sunday?”

            “No,” Nelson said. “But go on with your history.”