"Why did you shop there?"
"It was the only store where we could shop. Mr. Monty Griffin ran a nicer store behind the old moviehouse, but we couldn't shop there until twenty years ago."
"Who stopped you?"
"Mr. Monty Griffin. He didn't care if you had money, he didn't want any Negroes in his store."
"And Mr. Wainwright didn't care?"
"He cared all right. He didn't want us, but he would take our money."
She told the story of a Negro boy who loitered around the store until Mr. Wainwright struck him with a broom and sent him away. For revenge, the boy broke into the store once or twice a year for a long time and was never caught. He stole cigarettes and candy, and he also splintered all the broom handles.
"Is it true he left all his money to the Methodist church?" she asked.
"That's the rumor."
"How much?"
"Around a hundred thousand dollars."
"Folks say he was trying to buy his way into heaven," she said. I had long since ceased to be amazed at the gossip Miss Callie heard from the other side of the tracks. Many of her friends worked as housekeepers over there. The maids knew everything.
She had once again nudged the conversation to the topic of the afterlife. Miss Callie was deeply concerned about my soul. She was worried that I had not properly become a Christian; that I had not been "born again" or "saved." My infant baptism, which I could not remember, was thoroughly insufficient in her view. Once a person reaches a certain age, the "age of accountability," then, in order to be "saved" from everlasting damnation in hell, that person must walk down the aisle of a church (the right church was the subject of eternal debate) and make a public profession of faith in Jesus Christ.
Miss Callie carried a heavy burden because I had not done this.
And, after having visited seventy-seven different churches, I had to admit that the vast majority of the people in Ford County shared her beliefs. There were some variations. A powerful sect was the Church of Christ. They clung to the odd notion that they, and only they, were destined for heaven. Every other church was preaching "sectarian doctrine." They also believed, as did many congregations, that once a person obtained salvation then it could be lost by bad behavior. The Baptists, the most popular denomination, held firm in "once saved always saved."
This was apparently very comforting for several backslidden Baptists I knew in town.
However, there was hope for me. Miss Callie was thrilled that I was attending church and absorbing the gospel. She was convinced, and she prayed about me continually, that one day soon the Lord would reach down and touch my heart. I would decide to follow him, and she and I would spend eternity together.
Miss Callie was truly living for the day when she "went Home to glory."
"Reverend Small will preside over the Lord's supper this Sunday," she said. It was her weekly invitation to sit with her in church. Reverend Small and his long sermons were more than I could bear.
"Thank you, but I'm doing research again this Sunday," I said.
"God bless you. Where?"
"The Maranatha Primitive Baptist Church."
"Never heard of it."
"It's in the phone book."
"Where is it?"
"Somewhere down in Dumas, I think."
"Black or white?"
"I'm not sure."
* * *
Number seventy-eight on my list, the Maranatha Primitive Baptist Church, was a little jewel at the foot of a hill, next to a creek, under a cluster of pin oaks that were at least two hundred years old. It was a small white-frame building, narrow and long, with a high-pitched tin roof and a red steeple that was so tall it got lost in the oaks. The front doors were open wide, beckoning any and all to come worship. A cornerstone gave the date as 1813.
I eased into the back pew, my usual place, and sat next to a well-dressed gentleman who'd been around for as long as the church. I counted fifty-six other worshipers that morning. The windows were wide open, and outside a gentle breeze rushed through the trees and soothed the rough edges of a hectic morning. For a century and a half people had gathered there, sat on the same pews, looked through the same windows at the same trees, and worshiped the same God. The choir - all eight - sang a gentle hymn and I drifted back to another century.
The pastor was a jovial man named J. B. Cooper. I'd met him twice over the years while scrambling around trying to put together obituaries. One side benefit to my tour of county churches was the introduction to all the ministers. This really helped spice up my obits.
Pastor Cooper gazed upon his flock and realized I was the only visitor. He called my name, welcomed me, and made some harmless crack about getting favorable coverage in the Times. After four years of touring, and seventy-seven rather generous and colorful Church Notes, it was impossible for me to sneak into a service without getting noticed.
I never knew what to expect in these rural churches. More often than not the sermons were loud and long, and many times I wondered how such good people could drag themselves in week after week for a tongue-lashing. Some preachers were almost sadistic in their condemnation of whatever their followers might have done that week. Everything was a sin in rural Mississippi, and not just the basics as set forth in the Ten Commandments. I heard scathing rebukes of television, movies, cardplaying, popular magazines, sports events, cheerleader uniforms, desegregation, mixed-race churches, Disney - because it came on Sunday nights - dancing, social drinking, postmarital sex, everything.
But Pastor Cooper was at peace. His sermon - twenty-eight minutes - was about tolerance and love. Love was Christ's principal message. The one thing Christ wanted us to do was to love one another. For the altar call we sang three verses of "Just As I Am," but no one moved. These folks had been down the aisle many times.
As always, I hung around afterward for a few minutes to speak with Pastor Cooper. I told him how much I enjoyed the service, something I did whether I meant it or not, and I collected the names of the choir members for my column. Church folk were naturally warm and friendly, but at this stage of my tour they wanted to chat forever and pass along little gems that might end up in print. "My grandfather put the roof on this building in 1902." "The tornado of '38 skipped right over us during the summer revival."
As I was leaving the building, I saw a man in a wheelchair being pushed down the handicap ramp. It was a face I'd seen before, and I walked over to say hello. Lenny Fargarson, the crippled boy, juror number seven or eight, had evidently taken a turn for the worse. During the trial in 1970 he had been able to walk, though it was not a pretty thing to behold. Now he was in a chair. His father introduced himself. His mother was in a cluster of ladies finishing up one last round of goodbyes.
"Got a minute?" Fargarson asked. In Mississippi, that question really meant "We need to talk and it might take a while." I sat on a bench under one of the oaks. His father rolled him over, then left us to talk.
"I see your paper every week," he said. "You think Padgitt will get out?"
"Sure. It's just a question of when. He can apply for parole once a year, every year."
"Will he come back here, to Ford County?"
I shrugged because I had no idea. "Probably. The Padgitts slick close to their land."
He considered this for some time. He was gaunt and hunched over like an old man. If my memory was correct, he was about twenty-five at the time of the trial. We were roughly about the same age, though he looked twice as old. I had heard the story of his affliction - some injury in a sawmill.