“Hey li’l brothers,” Corky slurred as we stepped off the sidewalk to let him pass on his bicycle.
A broken headlight dangled from two frayed wires.
The once fiery red frame was faded by rain and sun and tarnished by rust and seasons.
The spokes were missing from the wobbly wheels.
He smelled of old liquor, new sweat, and days without bath or change of clothes.
A lens on his glasses was cracked, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“What’s happ’nin brother?”
He stopped and leaned unsteadily on one leg to greet a friend across the railroad tracks.
He leaned too far and crashed to the ground with a thud and a moan.
The bemused friend untangled him from a thicket of arms, legs and metal, lifted him onto his feet, and brushed the red chalky dust and tiny jagged rocks from his shirt, pants, and skin.
“Corky, are you okay? What in the world…?”
“No…nope…yep…yes, I’m okay. Hey, where’re you off to?
“I’m goin’ to the noon Holy Week Service in town. It’s at the big church today. Let’s park your bike. You can come with me.“
“Well hell. Those big church people go to church all the time. Even on a Thursday. They must need it more than other folks do!”
“The services are for ev’rybody…Baptists, Methodists, Presbyterians, Episcopalians…ev’rybody. I reckon we all need it! Come on. It’ll do us both good.
The friend put his arm around Corky’s shoulders and they started up the road toward Main Street.
As they lumbered along side by side, the midday sun sat high in the sky and cast their shadows straight down behind them.
The town drunk going to church.
And the big church at that!
It was a sight to see.
We finished the chore poppa gave us to do so there was time before we had to be home for lunch.
“Carver, I’ve never seen a drunk person go into a church before. What ‘cha ‘spect’ll happ’n? You reckon he’ll get struck by light’nin’?”
“I don’t know but I figure som’pin’ll happ’n.”
Carver was only five years old but he knew the scientific method like a seasoned scientist.
At home on the farm he was always leading me through the steps of his way of thinking.
“Well, we did the first step in the method. We asked a question.”
“Let’s follow behind ‘em and see what happens.”
We’ve never been inside of the big church.
We’ve only seen the outside of it.
Our little church is plain and simple.
It’s a one-story building with a steeple on top.
It’s made with pine boards painted white.
There’s an iron bell in the steeple, a bell that rings us awake and calls us to church on Sunday morning.
The big church, on the other hand, is beautiful and stately.
It’s the tallest building in town.
It’s made with bricks, stones, and oak wood.
It looks like a castle on the corner of the town square.
Copper bells are in it’s towering steeple, bells that ring in each hour of the day.
The big church is the biggest church of all.
The town doctors, lawyers, bankers, and planters go there, the men and their families who run our town, who cast long shadows over us common folk.
We hid behind the grand old magnolia tree on the front lawn to watch Corky and his friend climb the steps to the heavy oaken doors that opened in toward the entrance hall.
Two men in their Sunday suits stood at the doors to welcome them to the service.
We could see around them inside of the wide doors.
On the wall there was a picture of Jesus with long brown hair and a long beard with light around his face looking up to heaven.
Under the picture there was a long table with the words “This Do In Remembrance Of Me” carved into the front of it.
There were colorful spring flowers and gold offering plates on top of it.
The men reached out to shake hands with Corky and his friend..
The friend took his hand from Corky’s shoulder to offer a handshake in return.
Corky wobbled at his sudden freedom and fell into the arms of one of the shocked men.
You should have seen that usher’s face!
He looked like he had just eaten a plain radish chased by a spoonful of castor oil!
He pushed Corky back onto the embarrassed friend and into the other usher.
He must have breathed in Corky’s smell because he turned his face away wretching and gagging.
The discombobulated group held onto each other and sort of jitterbugged their way into the church.
They stopped in stunned surprise in front of the table.
Corky raised his arms.
A bottle of liquor he was hiding in the waist of his wrinkled, baggy pants fell out and crashed onto the marble floor.
Streams of whisky flowed everywhere.
Pieces of glass gleamed in the flood of light.
“What the …?!”
“Get him out of here right now!”
The poor friend looked frantically around for a broom or a cloth to clean up the mess.
The smell of the whisky wafted over the lawn and burned our noses.
What were the folks in the sanctuary thinking?
“Go on. Get him outta here! We’ll clean it up.”
The bewildered friend took Corky into his arms and limped him down the steps and onto the sidewalk.
They hobbled away.
The men came out onto the steps.
Nervous chuckles gave way to relieved belly laughs.
“He oughtta’ve known not to bring him here. Especially when he’s drunk. Somebody needs to sit down with that boy and let him know what’s what.”
“Yeah, the next thing you know he’ll be tryin’ to bring..."
We moved on around the tree and ran for home.
- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020
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