Gris-Gris Daughter [on hold]

Gris-Gris Daughter: chapter three

There was a gravel path off the back of the church. As Scrivener scuffed his soul across the grit a sudden yelp-warble and start of wings raked through the low brush of dogwoods and creeping rose bushes. Almost a dozen wild turkeys ran for twenty yards before unfurling dark wings and pushing off of a dirt road just in time to lift over the drooping top strand of a barbed-wire fence.

“Dadburn if that don’t git ya’ ever time.” Scrivener took the cap from his head and wiped his brow with the crook of his arm. “Pardon me, Mr. Joseph. I do forget myself sometimes, but them birds often give me a fright. But they’re perdy in their own right, I reckon.”

Just catching a glimpse of the birds comforted King a mite, transported him back home to the grapevine and briar thicket of the river that ran behind his childhood home. “Yeah, they are, I suppose. Hadn’t seen one in years.” Now that King had ducked under low-hanging pine branches, he could barely see the back of the church. The gravel path meandered through a sort of managed chaos resembling what King imaged the garden of Eden would have looked like if it had been dropped in East Texas – all of it shaded by what must have been one of the original sweet gums of the county, easily over a hundred feet tall.

King realized that he had been able to smell its sweet pitch creeping through the cavernous bark long before, but now it arrested his senses. The tree was rife with tiny mace-like seedpods dangling from clusters of star-shaped leaves. Beneath it, rose hips and raspberries battled for the streaks of light that filtered through. Presiding over the rabble was a well-kept, original pioneer’s house – stone foundation with a small stone porch just a foot off the ground. The clapboard siding was partially covered with honeysuckle vine vibrant with more than a few yellow trumpets and a buzz with bees. The front window, designed for receiving the evening breeze, was cracked open already. A screen kept the bees at bay. “Where is this place?”

“Pardon, boss?”

“Ah, sorry.” King realized he had said his last words out loud and tried to swallow them back up. “Nice place.” He replaced them instead. And as they stepped up on the porch he wondered if he had pictured Miss Munter incorrectly. Two shaker-style rocking chairs sat looking back down the gravel path toward the church. Scrivener knocked a polite little rap on the front door. King thought nobody could have heard it, but right then the knob turned from the other side.

“Well, hello, my dear Scriv. What a perfect time in the afternoon to ruin your dinner with a slice of my pie and a cup of coffee. You simply must… oh hello, you have a guest. I’m sorry.”

Right away King dismissed the fat-laden lady he had imagined and welcomed instead a wavy-figured woman his own age. Only about the floral design had he been correct, but instead of fabric stretched thin with billowing blubber it was drawn slender and subtly around her waist with a delicate tie, and then crowned lightly again over pleasant hips. A hint of a sleeve on each shoulder spoke of decency without imposing prudery.

“Yes, Miss Munter. Dis here is…”

“Oh glory to God, you must be the new preacher. Oh, we’re so very glad you’ve arrived. I don’t think I could’ve taken another Sunday of Buster and his reports on the weather. Lord I know that nature and everything wonderful under its glorious canopy is of our God, but my dear Scriv do I need the blow by blow every Sunday?”

“Why no ma’am, I don’t reckon ya’ do.”

“Why Scriv, you are always so polite. Oh heavens, I’m sorry, Mr…”

“King. Joseph King.”

“Reverend King, please you and Scriv come right on in.”

King felt like he needed to loosen his collar, then suddenly realized he wasn’t wearing one. The dusty road and heat of the day had caused him to pack his nice shirt away, and he was now in just his undershirt.