Not so long ago that it is a distant memory, but far enough so that one can barely remember every specific detail, I lived in a small town on the border of Plantation Country and Mississippi. The Vietnam War was still raging, and we were just beating the Commies half to death with American-borne technology.
That was also the year a preacher came loping into town. A man by the name of Clive Sharpe. God only knew where he really hailed from--anyone who asked was met with a curt, “W-a-a-a-a-a-y up in Missouri, hidden between the curve of the ‘r’ and the dot of the ‘i.’”
I couldn’t ever find the town he was supposedly from.
I first met him on a muggy May morning. He wore a white tailored suit, impeccably made and dastardly expensive. His smile would make your heart flutter and your knees weak. He came in a blue Cadillac DeVille coupe, and pulled over by the curb as I was walking home from the market.
“Uh-hey, Miss…,” his voice was like molasses being poured. His accent was almost Kentuckian. The car stereo softly sang “Sweet Caroline.” I looked at the cross that hung from the rear view mirror before looking back at him. It swung blissfully in the morning sun. “I don’t suppose if you could point me towards-uh the nearest place I could freshen up… get something to eat?”
“There’s a diner on Mangrove Street, and it’s pretty darn good.”
“Bless you darling, thank you!”
Our town was full of skeptics and hostility towards newcomers, but no sentiments compared to that from our sheriff. His name was Matthew McFarland. He was respected enough, rising up to Sheriff from deputy. The former Sheriff had laid his hand on one girl too many when he was found with the mayor’s daughter. Sheriff McFarland had two grown children around my age, and a wife by the name of Betty. Her brain was filled with the aerosol spray she used for her beehive every morning. Her children were long gone; they moved to the city for their education.
Sheriff McFarland was suspicious ever since he saw the license plate of the convertible Pastor Sharpe rode into town in: it read “LUV GOD” on a Missouri plate. Sheriff McFarland also frequented the diner on Mangrove Street every morning for his coffee.
The Pastor strutted in and sat at the counter, requesting a coffee with just a touch of milk. The Sheriff approached the Pastor; his hands were on his belt buckle which he won from the rodeo when he was “only sixteen-years-old,” and he introduced himself.
“Why, I don’t think I recognize your face. Where ya from? Got a name? Some business in town or just passing through?” He leaned on the counter and lit a cigarette.
“Well Mister…,” the Pastor squinted his eyes and saw the golden badge, “Sheriff, I see! My name is Pastor Clive Sharpe, I’m a-uh Baptist minister from Missouri.” He drew his thumb along his bolo tie.
“Missouri? Some ways away. What brings you to our little town here? Going to Baton Rouge… Biloxi… or--God forbid--Mobile?”
“Oh sir, I don’t think y’all know yet but I’m the new head of the Baptist church here.”
The diner quieted down for a second. No one knew he would be here so soon. Our former minister had perished after suffering a violent stroke. May God rest his soul.
Sheriff McFarland pushed the bridge of his glasses back onto his nose.
“They uh… hired a new one already?” His brow furrowed as he searched for the right words. “Alright then… I’ll see you this Sunday with the wife, huh?”
“Yes sir! I am mighty excited to work with all y’all. I have a feeling I can…,” the Pastor paused for a moment, his lips curling into a slight smirk revealing his white teeth,“really bring change to this town.”
“Change… sure,” the Sheriff snorted, leaving the diner with a glare in his eye only paralleled by alligators.
I worked as a waitress in the Mangrove Street Diner, a remnant from post-war prosperity in our small town. The grapevine ran long and far there, crawling up your limbs and trapping you forever with its deep roots. Later that week, the Pastor came in during my shift. Recognizing me from when he first was in town, he waved me over.
“Hiya, what can I get for you today?” I greeted him.
“Hey, I know you, what’s your name? I didn’t get the chance to talk to you last time,” he smiled, reaching for my hand. I pulled away.
“My name’s Jeanine--”
“Pastor Clive Sharpe--I mean--my name is Pastor Clive Sharpe.” He insisted on grabbing my hand and shaking it with both of his. He had a silver ring on his finger and manicured nails.
“Well, Pastor Sharpe, I’m just trying to do my job. What’ll you have?”
He ordered a hearty breakfast plate, requesting extra bacon. As I tended to my other duties while his food was being prepared, I felt watched. Not watched in the way men looked at me as I walked away from the table, but something far more ravenous. Occasionally, the light would catch his sunglasses in a way that allowed me to see that his eyes were fixed upon me. It was enough to raise the hairs on my arms. I brought him his breakfast and coffee with some milk, which he kindly thanked me for. A few minutes later came another man who sat next to the Pastor. He carried an aluminum briefcase, which he gave to the Pastor. The Pastor held onto it with such strength that his knuckles turned white.
After exchanging a few words, the stranger got up, and the two men shook hands. Pastor Sharpe finished his meal before leaving with the briefcase.
“What’s the matter with him?” asked my coworker. “I thought all a pastor needed was the Bible.”
“So it seems.”