Moon Over Manifest

“Just listen to me, yammering on. You’ve had a long day, sweet pea, and you need to get refreshed for the last day of school tomorrow.”

That must’ve been what I needed to know.

“School?” I sputtered on my last swallow of orange pop. “But it’s summertime.” I looked pleadingly at Shady. “Don’t folks around here have to be bringing in the sheaves or something?” He gave me an apologetic look, as if he thought the same.

“We just figured you might like to meet some of the kids before they scatter to the four winds for the summer,” Hattie Mae said.

I wondered who “we” was and how many of them I was up against. “But my daddy will be coming to get me before school starts up again,” I said.

Then I saw Hattie Mae and Shady glance at each other kind of uneasy. They exchanged a look that made me feel a little wobbly and off balance, like I was standing in a train that took an unexpected curve. But I was probably just tired from my travel.

Hattie Mae put her arm around me. “Now, don’t you worry. You’ll be just fine.” As she squeezed me tight, the phone rang. “That’ll be Fred. His sciatica is acting up and he’s home with the boys. You know how men are. When they don’t feel good, the world comes to a standstill. Here’s the letter that needs fixing.” She handed Shady a key from the typewriter. “The R won’t type at all, and the L keeps getting stuck. You can take the whole thing if you want. I’ve got tomorrow’s column done, so I won’t be needing it for the time being.”

The phone kept ringing. “I’ve got to get that, Shady. It’s so good to meet you, Abilene. You let me know if you need anything, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She picked up the phone. “Hello? Yes, I’m coming. Oh, for heaven’s sake. Just leave it there. I’ll clean it up when I get home.”

Shady picked up the discombobulated typewriter and we got while the getting was good. By then it was dark and Shady led the way down an alley off Main Street. We headed back toward the tracks and ended up at a weathered establishment that appeared to be a safe distance from the respectable part of town.

I’ve lived in a lot of places. Barns, abandoned railroad cars, even Hoovervilles, the shack towns for folks with no money, named for the president before the one we got now, who didn’t seem to know that the country was in hard times. So I was prepared for anything. Except Shady’s place.

A cowbell clanged above the door as we went inside. Pastor Howard lit a kerosene lamp and set it on a long bar top. There was a mirror behind it, a sawhorse in front with some wood clamped in a vise, and an abundance of sawdust all over the floor. To top it off, there were what looked to be pews shoved up against the wall, and the two windows had honest-to-goodness stained glass.

“Well, this is it,” Shady announced, as if that explained everything.

I looked around, not wanting to ask. It was like a jigsaw puzzle I had to piece together myself. Shady’s place appeared to be one part saloon, one part carpenter’s shop, and—could it be?—one part church.

I must have been staring at the windows, because Shady said, “The First Baptist Church burned down some years back. The windows and a couple pews were salvaged. They’re being kept here temporarily, until a Second Baptist Church is built.”

“That why the pastor left?”

“Yup,” Shady answered. “I think his nerves were about shot by then.” He tried to gather up some papers and scraps of wood, as if there were traces of his mismatched life that he hadn’t wanted me to see. I looked at the floor. Footprints went every which way, probably from years of drinkers and churchgoers. I felt an ache in my heart that rose like a lump to my throat as I caught myself searching for a less busy part of the room. A small, still place where there might be one or two of my daddy’s footprints left.

Shady tossed a block of scrap wood into an empty waste can, causing a big clang that echoed. He looked at me kind of awkward, as if he knew what I’d been searching for, but couldn’t help me. “The outhouse is … well … outside. And there’s some cold cuts in the icebox. Would you like me to heat up some water so you can take a proper bath?”

“No thank you. I’m just kind of tired.”

“Your room’s upstairs. I hope you like it,” he said with a quiet politeness.

I wondered about Shady’s jigsaw life, but decided not to pry. Not yet, anyway. My daddy, Gideon, had a healthy distrust of most people but he trusted Shady. And so did I. “Good night,” I said, and climbed the stairs with my satchel.