Grandma and Grandpa were talking about how Roby Stover had been sorrier than a hound dog before he took up with Roberta Crawford. Roby’s real name was Roberts, like there was more than one of him, but I’d never heard him called that. It was funny how their first names matched up—Roberts and Roberta. They even favored some. Both were tall and rangy. And both of them had thin hair, except Roby’s was reddish and Roberta’s a dirty blonde. Dishwater blonde, Grandma called it.
“Roberta’s not much on looks,” Grandma said.
Grandpa said that was being downright generous. He’d heard one of the men say if that girl’s face got any longer they’d have to put a feedbag on her.
Grandma started to laugh, then caught herself. “That’s a terrible thing to say about a nice girl like Roberta. She’s smart too. Graduated high school and is in the college downtown studying stenography. I wouldn’t have thought she would have the likes of Roby on a buttered biscuit. Now they’re married and she’s got him coming to services regular. There’s not a one among us who thought that would come to be.”
Grandpa said he was wrong to have repeated that talk about Roberta.
“I’m as much to blame as you are,” Grandma said, “but neither of us spoke anything that wasn’t the truth.”
Grandpa put a serious look on. “Speaking in jest is a mighty poor excuse for being unkind. We best seek the Lord’s forgiveness for acting the fool.”
According to Grandpa and Grandma, eavesdropping and gossiping were sins just the same as stealing and lying and wearing feathers. If you eavesdropped, you stole things that weren’t meant for your ears, and if you gossiped, you could besmirch a person’s good name. As for wearing feathers, all I knew was it said not to in The Rules. My mother wore a hat with feathers and no harm came, but she wasn’t a Pentecostal. I hadn’t worn any feathers unless the one I wore as Hiawatha for a program at school counted.
But I had eavesdropped and gossiped.
And I was fixing to do it again.
I could not wait to tell Sissy every word. I rehearsed it in my head, toying with the idea of whinnying when I got to the part about putting the feedbag on Roberta.
The church was dark when we arrived for the Sunday evening service. Grandma cut on the lights and started down the pews straightening hymnals, while I looked for the fan with the picture of a blue-eyed Jesus. Paper fans always stood ready in the wooden rack on the back of each pew, along with the hymnals. Each fan was the size of a small paper plate and had a flat stick attached as a handle. Sometimes you got a fan with a picture of Jesus on one side and Scripture verses on the other, while another time your fan might advertise a bank or a furniture store.
At the last meeting Sister Persinger got to the Jesus fan first and I’d had to ask her to trade, which made me uneasy because that woman had a snurl on her face all the time. She didn’t like children all that much, and she clearly harbored a particular dislike for me. It could have to do with me catching her in the vestibule pinching her cheeks all rosy before she went wringing and twisting down the aisle to sit next to Clive Farleigh, one of the few available men we had.
I looked her square in the eye.
Her lips pursed up like she had a drawstring around her mouth, but she handed me the fan before Grandma was any the wiser. Roby came in and slouched down next to Roberta, who had arrived early with some neighbors. She said something to him, and he took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The rest of the congregation arrived in twos and threes, until there were people scattered on most of the pews, though not as many as at the morning service.
Grandpa said most wanted their salvation served up in small portions.
“You might take that into consideration Sunday morning when I’ve got dinner drying out in the oven,” Grandma said.
“The Lord leads me, Rindy. I am but a lowly servant doing His will.”
“I don’t expect His will is for me to serve up a stringy roast for Sunday dinner.”
“I’ve been eating your cooking since you were but a girl of eighteen and haven’t felt compelled to complain yet,” Grandpa said.
“It wouldn’t do you to, even if you did feel the need.” Grandma turned back to straightening hymnals.
The opening hymn was sung by Sister Singletary. She was the only one up to doing a solo since we’d lost Brother Bennett to the Nazarenes. After that, Grandpa made some announcements: The roof had sprung a leak and he’d need a volunteer to help him tar it before the next rain caught them unawares. The Ladies Home Missionary Society was organizing a prayer chain for the missionaries overseas. The 7:00 p.m. Thursday men’s Bible study was starting back up again. Sunday next was Valentine’s Day, so the preaching would be on God’s love, the greatest love of all. “Now for all you fellows out there, remember to get your sweetheart a valentine or a box of chocolates,” he’d added.
Then Grandpa called for testimonies. A testimony was when someone got up and said what a terrible person he had been until he got saved.
“Why don’t the women get up and tell the bad things they’ve done?” I asked Grandma.
“It’s not seemly for women to put themselves forward. Besides,” she continued, “the women aren’t as sinful as the men, at least by my thinking. Not a one comes to mind that smokes or drinks or gambles. Now the women do sin, each and every one of us does, but our sins are things like backbiting or being covetous or stingy or vain. Folks don’t get themselves as worked up about those
