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Authors: Marcus Brotherton
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classroom is the third. Furnace room is in the fourth—although if you ask me, coal is a waste of money when we’ve got a perfectly good stand of trees right next door.”
“You’re the church secretary?”
“You expecting somebody else? Name’s Myrtle Cahoon, but everybody calls me Mert. I’ve been administrating this office now for eighteen years, but you’ll only find me in this place an hour each day. Time’s wasting and I also sell eggs and put up fruit and deliver mail to a rural route and drive the school bus mornings and afternoons. My husband, Clay, is a kindhearted dirt farmer, the purest man you’ll ever meet. He’s ailing with fevers, can’t work anymore, and needs medication, and medicine ain’t cheap. You got any more smart questions?”
I shrugged. “I suppose you could show me around.”
“Nothing to see. This here’s the church building. Out back are the privies, a bar of soap, and a faucet for washing hands. There’s a toolshed with a ladder in it, and next door is the parsonage where you’ll stay. To the west lies a hundred and eighty acres of slash pine forest deeded by the church board, and you’ll need to start now to put in a winter’s stock of firewood if you want to stay warm next cold spell. You’re also welcome to chop and sell all you want for your personal savings, and if you ask me, a strong fella such as yourself would be a fool not to spend every waking minute doingexactly that. I left two keys for you on my desk—one for the parsonage, one for the church. Reverend Bobby will be dropping by in an hour to explain more of the job. Have I left anything out?”
“Reverend Bobby?”
“The missionary who’s been holding the church together during the war. Didn’t the sheriff explain anything?”
“Not much, no.”
“Well, the expectations are straightforward. No smoking, drinking, drunkenness, chaw, gambling, movie going, dancing, loud music, novel reading, gum chewing, card playing of any sort, or unchaperoned visits with ladies in the parsonage. You’ll work more than a full day and receive lower than normal wages, but since it’s a preaching job that’s to be expected. Consider yourself lucky to have a job. The church will need to know your whereabouts at all times, so leave a note on my desk each morning with your schedule as you know it. The phone rings in my office and it’s rigged to a bell in the parsonage, so you’ll know it when you hear it. May sound obvious, but be sure to answer the phone whenever it rings. The car you drive must be nice enough to look presentable, but not so nice as to put on airs. Same goes with your clothes. Wear a shirt with a collar at all times and a suit jacket with a tie when making pastoral calls. Make sure your shirt is well ironed. Have I forgotten anything?”
I stood silent, letting it sink in. I had no idea the scope of expectations placed on preachers.
Mert pointed to her car. “I best be off. The cleaning supplies are in the furnace room. You’ll want to get started on the sanctuary—this being Friday, Sunday’s coming quick. Where’s your books and things—they still being shipped?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Well, we should get along fine, Reverend Slater. I’m firm but I’m fair, and as long as you preach the gospel, keep your sermons short, and don’t cross me, you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
“Worry about? What do you mean?”
She held out her hand and we shook. “I sign your checks.”
It was only eight o’clock in the morning yet the sun was already hot. I wandered behind the church, scoped out the fuller layout of the property, then ambled over to the parsonage front door and peeked inside. It wasn’t locked neither, and inside was a living area with a stone fireplace, an old couch, and one hard-backed chair. A kitchen lay beyond it with a table and the other three chairs along with a sink, stove, and fridge. To the right lay a bedroom with a bare closet and a double
“You’re the church secretary?”
“You expecting somebody else? Name’s Myrtle Cahoon, but everybody calls me Mert. I’ve been administrating this office now for eighteen years, but you’ll only find me in this place an hour each day. Time’s wasting and I also sell eggs and put up fruit and deliver mail to a rural route and drive the school bus mornings and afternoons. My husband, Clay, is a kindhearted dirt farmer, the purest man you’ll ever meet. He’s ailing with fevers, can’t work anymore, and needs medication, and medicine ain’t cheap. You got any more smart questions?”
I shrugged. “I suppose you could show me around.”
“Nothing to see. This here’s the church building. Out back are the privies, a bar of soap, and a faucet for washing hands. There’s a toolshed with a ladder in it, and next door is the parsonage where you’ll stay. To the west lies a hundred and eighty acres of slash pine forest deeded by the church board, and you’ll need to start now to put in a winter’s stock of firewood if you want to stay warm next cold spell. You’re also welcome to chop and sell all you want for your personal savings, and if you ask me, a strong fella such as yourself would be a fool not to spend every waking minute doingexactly that. I left two keys for you on my desk—one for the parsonage, one for the church. Reverend Bobby will be dropping by in an hour to explain more of the job. Have I left anything out?”
“Reverend Bobby?”
“The missionary who’s been holding the church together during the war. Didn’t the sheriff explain anything?”
“Not much, no.”
“Well, the expectations are straightforward. No smoking, drinking, drunkenness, chaw, gambling, movie going, dancing, loud music, novel reading, gum chewing, card playing of any sort, or unchaperoned visits with ladies in the parsonage. You’ll work more than a full day and receive lower than normal wages, but since it’s a preaching job that’s to be expected. Consider yourself lucky to have a job. The church will need to know your whereabouts at all times, so leave a note on my desk each morning with your schedule as you know it. The phone rings in my office and it’s rigged to a bell in the parsonage, so you’ll know it when you hear it. May sound obvious, but be sure to answer the phone whenever it rings. The car you drive must be nice enough to look presentable, but not so nice as to put on airs. Same goes with your clothes. Wear a shirt with a collar at all times and a suit jacket with a tie when making pastoral calls. Make sure your shirt is well ironed. Have I forgotten anything?”
I stood silent, letting it sink in. I had no idea the scope of expectations placed on preachers.
Mert pointed to her car. “I best be off. The cleaning supplies are in the furnace room. You’ll want to get started on the sanctuary—this being Friday, Sunday’s coming quick. Where’s your books and things—they still being shipped?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Well, we should get along fine, Reverend Slater. I’m firm but I’m fair, and as long as you preach the gospel, keep your sermons short, and don’t cross me, you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
“Worry about? What do you mean?”
She held out her hand and we shook. “I sign your checks.”
It was only eight o’clock in the morning yet the sun was already hot. I wandered behind the church, scoped out the fuller layout of the property, then ambled over to the parsonage front door and peeked inside. It wasn’t locked neither, and inside was a living area with a stone fireplace, an old couch, and one hard-backed chair. A kitchen lay beyond it with a table and the other three chairs along with a sink, stove, and fridge. To the right lay a bedroom with a bare closet and a double
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