Chapter 9 – Civil War
The two women strode toward the town center. From behind,
they seemed very nearly the same size, with Juanita Jones being slightly less
rotund, and slightly shorter. Willina Hipp gave the impression of physical
fortitude in every bone and muscle. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, was
worn in a bun on the back of her head, topped off with a hat in all weathers,
which was held firmly in place by a long, sharp hatpin inherited from her
mother. Mrs. Hipp always wore dresses with long, flowing skirts and ample
sleeves, in dark colors. In winter, a black wool cape was added to the
ensemble, and school children in Greenfield called her Draculette.
Even I, the writer, am hard-pressed to understand the
friendship between these two women, because at first glance they seem so
different. Mrs. Hipp is, essentially, a womanish creature; Juanita Jones is
rather manly. Her once-blond hair is shorn off in a rude manner, her voice is
deep and resonant, and the attempts she does make at a feminine aura only lead
her into error: fistfuls of gaudy
rings, garish nail polish, shockingly bright clothing, and polyester slacks
whose tight constraints produce rippling bulges as she walks. Thus, from behind, the pair are a
contrast of flowing robes and wobbling fat. Yet they’ve been the best of
friends for over forty years.
“I do not trust that man,” Willina said of Mr. Shrilling.
“He’s up to something.”
“Musicians are always up to something, Willina. Especially
church musicians. Their lives would be sheer boredom if they weren’t.”
“Well, we must not let Jeremiah’s final service be corrupted
with Latin and Papishness. That’s Leach Street for you, Juanita, mark my
words!” When together, they always
used formal names. But when away
from her friend Juanita Jones quickly lapsed into the Jimmies, Jonnies and
Willies that rolled off her tongue so easily.
She glanced toward her flowing friend. “No worries there. I’m sure the two of us will be a match
for one skinny choir director, Willina.”
As they turned the corner onto College Street, Willina spied
a lanky form, striding toward the college gates. His head was down.
“That’s Billy Greeter!” she exclaimed. “I wonder why he’s
home?” She stopped in front of the
seminary’s iron railing. “Where’s
Jonquil, Juanita?”
“Why, she’s jump-roping. She left earlier, when the Cloudees
stopped by. I imagine she’s back home by now.”
“Good. Good.”
Willina Hipp’s eyes narrowed and she studied Billy carefully. “How long
since they’ve seen each other?”
“I have no idea! Probably more than five years. Why?”
The black hat turned toward her comrade. “Because we are commencing a war,
Juanita. A jovial, smiling and quiet war, but a war nonetheless.” Mrs. Hipp pulled herself to her full
height of 5’9”. “A war for our
college, for our seminary. A civil war in Greenfield. And James Cloudee is
their general, Juanita.”
“Yes. What does
that have to do with Billy Greeter?”
“Because we must be certain of our allies, my dear. Certain.
And those Greeters … I just don’t know.”
“Ernest Greeter has been at Hezekiah College for thirty
years! Come now, Willina.”
“Thirty-four years.”
She pursed her lips until they nearly disappeared. “And I say he may
well be in the enemy camp. And his son,” she whispered, “is just Jonquil’s
age.”
Thus they whispered and conspired all the way to the college
chapel. They made more copies of their chosen funeral hymns, and placed them in
all the chairs in the choir loft.
Sam Shepherd thought it would nearly be easier to dig the
grave himself. All the funeral representatives from Mort’s Funeral Home were
old enough to be Jeremiah Jones’s father. They were creakingly slow, painfully
quiet, rheumatically comforting.
“Now, Pastor Shepherd.
Mort’s got it all in hand.
The diggers will be here in moments. Not to worry! Every detail will be attended to.”
Sam had dealt with Mort and his cronies before. They looked very responsible in their
dark suits and stooping shoulders. But he also imagined the pain awaiting him
if anything went wrong. Like at Mrs. Busby’s funeral, when Mort’s funeral home
had placed the chairs under the tent so that the rain poured directly down the
necks of all Mrs. Busby’s sisters. Or when Mort misspelled Eliza Pandy’s name
on all the programs – Mrs. Panty! Or, worst of all, when he’d mistakenly
brought Cooter Phelps’s body out to Grandma Cloudee’s graveside service. Lily had screamed, bless her heart, and
nobody had blamed her. She nearly kissed Cooter Phelps, and that would make
anybody scream, even when he was alive. Sam shuddered inside himself, in spite
of the warm weather.
“Gentlemen,” he said stoutly, “I’m driving down to the
funeral home. I’d better see a truck full of strong men with shovels, meeting me
half-way!” And he strode off in a
flurry of protests.
Billy arrived back at his house tired and irritable. He’d
found no one at home on Highland Circle. Now he heard music coming from the
living room. It was his mother. She had the most delicate, tender touch when
she played. He stopped in the kitchen to listen. It was a sad song, probably
dedicated to some dead person. This surprised him, because on sunny days, his
mother wore white and played only songs in major keys. On cloudy, rainy, or otherwise inclement
days, she wore black and played only in minor keys. His mother’s normal predictability made him wonder at this
extraordinary behavior. He sneaked
around the corner from the kitchen, to see what color she was wearing.
She was wearing black.
“Black, and a minor key,” he wondered. “Maybe she’s confused
about the weather?”
Billy sucked in a deep breath, and breezed into the living
room.
“Well, howdy, old thing! What’s shakin’?” And he slid onto the bench next to his
mother and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“What’s with the black and morbid?”
“Billy!” She
squeezed him around the waist.
“Are you here for the funeral?”
“By accident.
Ah – that’s why you’re in black.” She nodded. “I just saw Jonquil Jones
outside! That was a shocker.”
Mrs. Greeter shuffled her music pages. “Yes, it’s quite a
to-do. I’m playing, you know. The ‘Pavane.’ Most appropriate. Except it’s supposed to be
pianissimo. But in order for anyone to hear it outside, I’ll have to play it forte. Such a shame.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Mom. Where’s Dad?”
“At the chapel with Dr. Cloudee. They’re officiating.”
“Well, I’d better take a shower and clean up,” said the son,
and went to retrieve his suitcase.
“Fitzwilliam.”
He hated it when she called him
that.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Why are you home on a Tuesday? How’s work?”
Now Billy Greeter had never really settled on what to tell
his parents. He preferred not to
lie, but he also preferred to avoid outright warfare, particularly with his
dad. So, when the crucial moment arrived, and he was called upon to give an
account of his presence, he fudged.
“I’m taking a bit of a break, Mom. Just a breather.”
“In April? In an accounting firm?” His mom was no slouch.
“Yes, well, we don’t do much tax work.” That was a lie. “And
I’ve been burning the midnight oil lately.” That was the truth, kind of.
Playing “Halo” was time-consuming. “Just a quick visit, Mums,” he said as he
worked his way to the hall. “I’ll
be right out!”
“But …”
His dad would be tougher, much tougher, to escape from.
Ernest Greeter and James Cloudee sat in the small office to
the side of the choir loft in the Hezekiah Strong Chapel. The funeral was
prepared. All that was left was
for them to don their black ministerial robes. Dr. Greeter sipped his second
cup of coffee. Dr. Cloudee
unfolded and refolded an old church bulletin in front of him, working the
creases in.
“And what did the committee say?” asked the dean.
“They were divided,” answered the pastor. “That was before Jones died, and we
decided to wait.”
“And what do you think they’ll decide, now that the post is
vacant?”
“Ernest, I don’t know. My desire, of course, is to fill the
post with a good, solid man who will guide the schools in much the same
direction they’ve always gone.”
The pastor studied the bindings of Calvin’s Institutes that lined the
shelves before him. “The college is a prized institution, dearly loved. Do you
have suggestions as to who should fill the post?”
“No, not anyone in particular just yet.”
“Yourself?”
“Heavens no!” the dean replied. “Never in a thousand years! I’m perfectly happy where I am.” He paused, cleared his throat, and paused again. The pastor
waited. “I’m wondering if it would be better to have a younger man as
president,” the dean continued,
“instead of a member of the older guard. Someone to give new life, new spirit, to the college. Jerry was a fine man, but he’d been
here too long. It’s time for the
school – really both schools – to turn a new leaf and change with the
denominational shifts and progress.”
“You’ll find little support for that view among your own
ranks.”
“But why?” the dean asked.
“Because,” the pastor coughed softly, “your Snarkian camp
will want the old guard, and only the old guard. And the Snackian camp will want either no one, or one of
their own.”
“No one! What do you mean? How could they want no one? How can a college proceed without a president?”
“Well, that’s really the point, Ernest. Some in my
denomination – I mean, in my previous denomination -- don’t necessarily want the
college to proceed. They feel its time is past. They would be satisfied if it closed its doors.” The pastor recrossed his legs, and
picked a piece of lint from his knee.
“Never!” The dean stood and paced the short length of the
room. “Why would they propose such
a thing? What harm does the
college do them?”
“No harm, Ernest, no harm. Sit down, friend.
There’s no need for anxiety yet. It’s just that, with the joining of the
two denominations, some men feel there’s no need for two colleges, two seminaries.”
Ernest Greeter pushed his lower lip out. His face was flushed. He ran his hands through his tousled
hair.
“James,” he said, “I must have your help in this. You must speak for the college on that
committee.”
“I will delay as much as I can. And of course I’ll do all I can for the college…” he began.
“Delay?! We don’t need delay. We need a new man in here as soon as possible!”
“That will be difficult, with the committee in
disagreement. Unless you have a
candidate to put forward?”
At this moment, the deep voices of two women were heard, as
they moved through the chapel’s choir loft.
The two men looked at each other in silence, but each knew
what the other was thinking. The
dean could only grumble low in his throat, furrow his brow, and rub his chin.
Copyright by M.K. Christiansen
Copyright by M.K. Christiansen
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