“But he’s got three kids in high school,” Ray said, “and Mrs. Chambers comes to town just like nothing happened.”
“Well,” Jay said, “something happened in those bushes that night, and it had to do with coveting thy neighbor’s wife.”
At that moment, the organ began the first chords of “When the roll is called up yonder.” It was Aaron’s favorite hymn, the prelude to his closing pitch. As the congregation finished the last chorus, Aaron’s voice rose over the Cantor sisters in the front row, over old George Brown who thought his voice was a match for the Lord’s, and he began his final words: “When the roll is called up yonder, will you be there?” Aaron pleaded in a singsong rhythm that rose and fell with the tune. “Will you be safe among the flock of God? Will you walk among the lilies in the presence of our Lord and Savior? If you have not accepted the Lord as your personal Savior, come forward today and accept Him. Come down the aisle now and accept Him. All this I pray in Jesus’ name, Amen.” And the “Amen” struck exactly as the last note of the song was hit by George Brown. It was a perfect performance.
Aaron always knew in advance, of course, if anybody would be coming down the aisle, simply because he knew everyone in the congregation. Aaron had worked on some of his neighbors for thirty years before he got them to convert, and even then it was usually because a family member was very sick, or dying, or had left home. Family tragedy always made people vulnerable to a reassessment of their station with the Lord, and Aaron never missed a chance to make his case. Jay suspected that was why preachers were so willing to visit the sick at home, knowing it was their best chance to add a notch to the ministry’s scoreboard.
As the organ sounded the postlude, Reverend Aaron hurried to his position out on the front steps, eager to assess the congregation’s reaction to his sermon. Ivy and the girls joined him. The congregation liked to see Ivy at Reverend Aaron’s side, partly because it reinforced their view of a ministerial family, and also because Ivy’s granite countenance reminded them of Aaron’s unquestioned adherence to the tenets of the Bible; they simply could detect no frivolity in her face. Nor was she a threat to anyone. Devoid of any outstanding attribute—neither beauty nor talent in handicrafts or sewing—Ivy could not inspire envy. Indeed, she was the architect of the only chicken casserole to avoid at church picnics. Ivy saw cooking as primarily a bodily necessity, certainly nothing to tantalize or embellish with garnishes, herbs, relishes, or sauces. With six children to feed every day, the need for quantity far outweighed quality.
As the last of the congregation cranked up their Model A Fords, Ivy left Aaron’s side and marched over to the boys. “I hope you’ll come to the Funks for the picnic. Bertie says several families are coming, including the Garveys.”
Jay nodded approval. He and Ray usually got together with their best friend Ed Garvey on Sunday afternoons, often down at the mill, just to talk or play baseball with whoever showed up. Today they would have to postpone their plans until after the picnic. On the other hand, Jay knew he didn’t have to show up. It wouldn’t be the first time he had skipped out on a family gathering.
When the Langstons arrived at the Funks’ farm, Elmo Funk was still wearing his suit and dragging a weather-stained picnic table from behind the house. He positioned it under the sycamore tree, whose broad leaves with long limbs grew straight out from the trunk, forming a perfect umbrella. Later Bertie Funk would bring some blankets out for people to sit on, although most families brought their own designated picnic blanket, large enough to hold their entire contingent and colorful enough to be admired by their friends.
Ivy was making tea in the kitchen with Mrs. Funk when the Garveys arrived. Ed and Eunice had been the Langstons’ best friends for thirty years, ever since Ed decided to build the mill. Aaron Langston had organized the neighbors to help put up the main structure, a two-story post-and-beam frame with brick exterior, and the lumbering water wheel that lapped up power from the Saline to turn the grindstones. There was never any talk of loans, or paybacks, or favors to be done. The community knew it needed a mill, and with their help Ed Garvey was going to build one.
Aaron opened the screen door, handed Ed a glass of tea, and motioned him over to the picnic table. The two men were comfortable together, having survived storms, weak crops, and worst of all, family deaths from diseases like chicken pox and tuberculosis. It was in the swimming hole near Ed’s mill, a shallow basin of water formed by runoff from the water wheel, that Aaron and Ivy Langston’s third son had drowned. There was never any blame for these occurrences, only a deep grief that the all-knowing hand of God had decided to strike in this time and place. But a Sunday picnic in the summer of 1911 was a pleasant occasion, marked by the warmth of the Kansas heat, dry and enclosing, safe and reassuring about the shoulders.
“Everyone says you gave a stem winder at the church this morning,” Ed said.
“I noticed you didn’t make it over,” Aaron replied. “How’s your leg?” Aaron always gave Ed a ready excuse, the arthritis in his leg, for not attending church, even though Ed hadn’t been to one of Aaron’s services in years and had probably never witnessed one of his evangelistic performances down by the river. But Aaron knew Ed was a religious man, hard in his interpretation of the Lord’s teachings and unforgiving if he caught anyone cheating on the weight of his wheat. As a business practice, Ed may have given the Lord too large a role in his calculations. One farmer who tried to sell Ed moldy corn was banished from the mill forever and had to haul his feed more than twenty miles to the mill near Ellsworth. On the other hand, when the worst farmer in the county finally ran out of money and hope, left his wife, and disappeared into the badlands of Texas, Ed took in the abandoned woman and her ten-year-old daughter, Francis. Then the mother disappeared, and Ed paid for Francis to go to the orphanage near Russell. He had strong views about the right way to live, views guided by a rigid interpretation of the Ten Commandments, reinforced by the admonitions of his friend the Reverend Aaron.
“I read that Teddy Roosevelt is coming to Kansas this week,” Aaron said. “The federal government is gonna build a monument to John Brown over at Osawatomie.”
“That’s typical of the government,” Ed said. “The man blows up a town, kills a whole bunch of people, gets himself hanged, and we declare him a hero.”
“They’re gonna name a park after him, John Brown Park,” Aaron said.
“Slavery was wrong,” Ed replied, “but so is killing, and John Brown was crazy.”
“Our former president is just back from Africa, where he killed more than 10,000 animals,” Aaron said. “He’s having trouble keeping busy.”
“Old Taft isn’t having any trouble,” Ed said. “At three hundred pounds, we don’t have to worry about him riding any camels around the world.”
“He’d kill a horse,” Aaron observed. “Break his back.”
“I bet my white mules could carry him,” Ed allowed. “They have backs of stone. Those mules can pull a plow in a line as straight as string, and do it all day long.”
Aaron let the conversation sag, not having much to say about Taft or mules, but he did want to ask about school starting next month, and Ed was on the township school board.
“I see you voted for an eight-month school year,” Aaron said. “That’s a little hard for me. You know Ray is doing all my farming now, but I can’t get Jay to stay home more than a week at a time, and there aren’t many kids available. I need to hire some boys from Nickerly. How about a seven-month school year?”
“I understand your problem,” Ed said, “but my problem is Mrs. Garvey. Everybody who comes in my place with a load of grain wants his kids for another month. But she thinks school is everything. Got that Chambers girl to go to college, then threatened to throw me out of the house if we didn’t hire her to teach.