Listen ...Sabbath's Gift

SABBATH'S GIFT by Marilyn Celeste Morris

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Chapter Two

The rusting gray Chevrolet glided silently down the caliché road, coming to a halt a good distance from the isolated farmhouse. It sat idling for several minutes as the driver, sitting immobile, contemplated the warm, sultry night. In a moment, the driver stirred, then emerged from the car, a shotgun in her hand.

She stalked down the road toward the house; her black, sturdy dress shoes scattering pebbles in front of her. As she walked, she brought the shotgun up to her chest, cradling it like a baby.

Moonlight outlined every shrub, bush and grapevine along the side of the rutted path, illuminating the brightly lighted structure at the end of the road.

The weather had been exceptionally warm for this time of year in the Texas Hill Country. Bluebonnets had bloomed way before Easter, presenting a spectacular display along the highways, into far off fields; these had given way later to Indian Paint Brush and Black-Eyed Susans; abruptly, the wildflowers had faded. Now, cicadas sang from shade trees lining Slocum’s residential streets.

"Early summer this year," old-timers nodded to each other in passing.

"Yep, this summer's gonna be a scorcher.”. The male population of Slocum fanned their beefy red faces with sweat-soaked brims of their "gimme" caps. The women, influenced by Southern tradition, fluttered small white lace-trimmed handkerchiefs in the general vicinity of their powdered, rouged faces, pausing occasionally to pat daintily at exposed portions of their glistening bosoms.

Life in Slocum proceeded in their proscribed ritual. All seasons had their litanies: Masonic Lodge, church socials, Sunday School lessons; all brought a certain measure of comfort in a time of rapid, unwelcome changes around their small community nestled on the banks of the Pedernales.

Wilma Folks had grown up in Slocum, with her sister Wanda. Her church-going, solid-as-a-rock family had been regarded as respected members of the community; however, the reality of life inside the Foulkes' house was harsh and violent. Their God-fearing father beat both the girls regularly, particularly when after he had been drinking. Nobody knew, and nobody would have believed it, if either of the girls had ever told anyone. Why, the Foulkes family appeared in their church pew every time the doors were open; Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday nights, would have been the shocked response.

Fine, upstanding family, everyone agreed; that is, until Wanda disappeared abruptly one spring day twenty-seven years ago.

The gossip began, much of it accurate. “That Foulkes girl, Wanda, is pregnant” Miz Annabelle Parker lowered her voice, as the women in the fabric store measured cotton chintz for their summer slipcovers.

“It’s the Cox boy responsible, I understand,” Miz Habanera nodded solemnly. “The one that never came back from Viet Nam,” she added for emphasis, while Miz Draper and Miz Parker shook their heads, clucking under their breath.

“I heard that boy never even had to go to Viet Nam. His daddy’s influence, you know.” She nodded wisely. “But he surely did go somewhere…so he wouldn’t have to be faced with the responsibility of fatherhood.

“No wonder Wanda had to leave town...heard she went to Austin to have the baby. Poor little thing, baby having to grow up without a father,” Miz Heabner at last decided on the rose-printed chintz. “This will do nicely for my couch, don’t you think?” She held up a swatch for the others’ approval.

“You know there’s another girl, about Wanda’s age. A good, responsible child, that Wilma,” Miz Heabner remarked.

“Not at all like her sister.” Miz Draper tittered.

“Oh, give her time.” Miz Parker sniffed. “The apple don’t fall too far from the tree, you know.”

“What a thing to say!” Miz Draper snorted. “Not when she’s so plain. No, that girl can’t possibly get in trouble.”