Carolina Brimstone

“I do believe the heathen folk would call that being born under the wrong sign,” said Constance with her grey brows arched to their peak, though her eyelids scarcely raised above her pupils.  This, of course, was her trademarked cue for laughter, feigned or otherwise.  The three women seated on the parlor sofa across from the old woman willingly obliged their host.  The youngest of the gaggle, Betsy – a girlish, red-haired housewife – shifted on her cushion almost awkwardly, perhaps uncomfortable with the conversation, or perhaps uncomfortable with the overwhelming summer heat which covered Darlington, North Carolina like an unshakable blanket.

            “Constance Hennfield, you are so bad,” said Betsy, attempting to appease her host, drawing out the last word with a smirk to intimate that Contance was not bad at all, though the Devil himself may truly have resided within her.  “The poor boy hasn’t had the most pleasant of lives, I’m sure.  I’ve heard his daddy beat him something awful, before he skipped town, that is.  He never was a brain in school.  Then to lose his job at the hardware store…  I should say, he just had a string of bad luck.”

            Constance swayed back and forth in her wooden rocker with a perfect tempo.  It was her throne, from which she held court every Friday night. Her courtiers varied on a weekly basis, though only a chosen handful were ever invited regularly.  No music played.  No testimonials spoken.  Only idle whispers and unholy snickering could be heard above the rhythmic rocking in the home of the Darlington Baptist Church’s Sunday School teacher.

            “My girl, there is no such thing as luck,” said the old woman in her motherly, southern drawl.  “‘Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that also will he reap,’ says Galatians 6:7.”

            “And you know that boy was tryin’ to sow his seed all about town,” quipped Diane Bibby, a dark-haired young woman to the right of Betsy.  “Why I even caught Jeremy on my porch talkin’ to my Jenny not a week ago.  I shooed his filthy little hind right down the steps before he could get another word out.”

            “Down your steps and up another set, I’m sure,” chimed in the hitherto silent woman seated furthest to the left on the davenport.  Julie Myers, closest in age to her host, pursed her lips and adjusted herself upon the cushion.  “That boy’s nothin’ but trouble!”

            “Was,” corrected Constance.  “He was nothin’ but trouble.”

            “His mama is a wreck!” said Diane.

            “Well, if she had bothered to raise him right-“

            “Who lets a boy out in the middle of the night like that?

            “Carousin’ and boozin’, no doubt.”

            “And then… wham-“

            “My stars-“

            “Just walkin’ down the street.”

            “No more than a mile outside town.”

            “I heard the car never even stopped!”

            “Out-of-state registration is what I heard.”

            Betsy twisted her nose at the last line in the hymn.  “Who could know all that if nobody ever saw?” she asked, bringing a drastic halt to the singalong.

            The grey host, ever rocking, uttered a deep and knowing hum beneath her breath.  She made a point to address each of the ladies, looking them sternly in the eyes, allowing her gaze to fall lastly and most heavily upon Betsy.  “Somebody always sees, dear Betsy.  Even if it is God himself, somebody always sees.  Somebody knows your deeds, no matter how secret you think you’ve been.  The sins of the unrighteous will be made known to the world.  All will be lain bare before the glory of the Almighty.  ‘There is no darkness, nor shadow of death, where the workers of iniquity may hide themselves,’ so says Job.

            Betsy cleared her throat and sheepishly set down to the coffee table her glass of sweet tea, which she had been delicately sipping throughout the length of the latest bout of gossip.  The evening was again quiet, save the rocking, for all across Darlington supper was ended.  The dishes were done.  Newspapers and knitting needles were in disinterested hands, as little unwashed ears were falling to pillows for the night.  But the peace and comfort of the stillness was robbed by the air – humid, dense, and oppressive.  The citizens had been suffering through several weeks of unforgiving North Carolinian summer, with no reprieve at sundown.  Clammy hands gripped the daily news.  Sticky thighs crossed one another.  While upstairs, little legs kicked at the covers, flailing restlessly in the unbearable warmth.

            The passing of Jeremy Lawrence only served to heat the town further, as mysterious small-town deaths often do.  Foolish accident, drunken mishap… murder – nobody knew, but all would speculate in steamy ignorance over the latest unsolved Darlington fatality.

            And in the parlor of Constance Hennfield, hotter was it still, as the atmosphere was saturated with hot rumors and bawdy chatter.   It was during yet another bout of simmering conversation that the condensation from Betsy’s glass slid slowly down the side of the cup, coming to a rest in a cool ring upon her host’s coffee table.

            “My Lord,” huffed Constance, in grave exasperation.  The lyrical sweetness of her country accent nearly evaporated.  “Do you not see the coaster not a foot away from your nose?”

            Betsy held her breath as she hurriedly placed a small doily beneath the glass.  Her face turned as red as her amber hair.

            “Bless your heart, sweetie,” cooed Diane.  “This being your first time in Connie’s house, I’m sure you didn’t know.  Connie is a stickler for coaster use in her home, aren’t you dear?”

            “Yes,” stated Constance coolly.  “Amongst other things.”

            “Your house looks beautiful as usual, Connie,” sang Julie.    She rarely missed an opportunity to interject a word of kindness to her host – ever the peacemaker, ever the sycophant.  “How do you manage this entire place on your own?”

            “I wake up at a Godly hour, you know,” said Constance.  “I don’t waste my time in idle merriment; not until the chores are done.  The hairdresser can always tend to one’s roots tomorrow,” she said with an almost imperceptible nod toward Betsy.

            A ringing silence prevailed.  The air in the room closed in tighter around the guests.  Constance sat nearly still, save her toes undulating ever so slightly to keep her rocker swaying at its slow and steady pace.  Diane and Julie fidgeted with the ends of their respective dresses, occasionally pressing them down upon their laps.  Betsy bit her lip.  Sweat ran down her forehead and flush cheeks.  She peered blankly out the parlor window, then scanned the faces of the room.  Not a single eye met hers, as even Constance’s eyes lay shut peaceably, her nose pointed heavenward – a manifest picture of piety and prayer if one had not known any better.

            “Oh my,” said Betsy, forging counterfeit surprise.  “I didn’t noticed how late it was.  I’m sure my Steven will be wondering what’s taking me so long over here.”

            “You can assure him it’s been church matters of the highest import,” said Julie with a faint smile.

            “I will, surely,” grinned Betsy.  She stood and made a move to the front door, pausing before Constance.  “I thank you for a wonderful evening, Connie.”

            “Please,” responded the elderly without opening her eyes, “it’s Mrs. Hennfield.”

            “Of course, Mrs. Hennfield.  Thank you again.”

            Constance took a deep breath and exhaled.  “Good night, dear.”

            Betsy looked to the other two one last time.  Both donned expressions that thinly veiled their anxious desires for her departure.  “I’ll see you ladies in church,” she said shortly.

            The screen door snapped shut with a clap.

            “I’m glad that unpleasantness is over with,” whispered Julie.  She fanned herself with her hand – a fruitless effort to dispel an omnipotent heat.

            “She needn’t worry about Steven wondering where she is,” said Diane.  “I’m sure he’s passed out for the night,” she added with a drinking motion from her right hand.

            “Always with a beer in his hand,” continued Julie.  “Mowing the lawn, tinkering with his car… wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he showed up to service with a bottle.”

            “But I suppose anything will do to wash down her cooking.”

            “Did you eat that potato salad?”

            “If you mean tuckin’ my tongue to the side and lettin’ it slide down the back of my throat?  Then yes, I ate the potato salad.”

            “Youngsters nowadays…”

            “Just like that Jeremy.”

            “Up to no good.”

            “Then wham.”

            “Runned right over.”

            “Gracious, what has happened to the youth in this town?”

            “I don’t know.  I truly don’t know.  But I’ll tell you, this generation is steerin’ us down quite an unruly path-“

            “Now, ladies,” interrupted Constance.  She had been listening quietly to the latest flurry of sentiments, basking in the heat of the night and the heat of conversation without a single drop of perspiration to show for it.  “Let us not misdirect our enmity for the current state of affairs; for it is not youth which is owed the blame.  The Apostle Paul, himself, instructed young Timothy: ‘Let no man despise thy youth; but be thou an example of the believers, in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity.’  No it is not youth, dears, which carries us to the precipice.  It is ignorance – a blindness cast over the eyes of any who should but stray a little – a pitiful ignorance to which we must assign fault.  The devil’s greatest tool is convincing a man that he and God Almighty do not exist.  For if Good and Evil do not exist, then neither does Truth.  And without Truth, then man is free to live as he pleases, seeking out all the desires of his heart and all the pleasures of the world.  And, that, ladies is the speediest way to eternal damnation.”  Constance stopped her rocking for the first time in an hour’s passing.

            She opened her eyes and solemnly folded her hands upon her lap.  “These are the signs of the End of Times, ladies – that false prophets should strike the name of God from our vocabulary, and cause our people to follow the teachings and whims of mere men and false idols.  Do not be fooled.  Guard your minds from such teachings, lest their temptations lead to your demise.  Yes, dear ones, safeguard your minds, safeguard your children. And when the Lord calls upon you to act as his instrument of purification, do not hesitate, but rather answer the call with a willing spirit and a righteous heart.”

            The evening was wearing late. Outside the sweltering town of Darlington slowly released its accumulated heat up to the moonless night, up into the hazy star-strewn southern sky, even up unto Heaven itself.  But within the home of Constance Hennfield the temperature never dropped, and in fact, seemed to rise as the evening waned.   The bleach white walls of the parlor radiated.  Each of the three guests glistened with perspiration, tugged at their collars, and attempted in vain to appear comfortable in the presence of their pious host.  Even Julie, who was no stranger to the heat, bobbed her foot in nervous discomfort.  All the while Mrs. Hennfield rocked without a hint of distress, relishing her private inferno.

            “Well I suppose we should leave Connie to herself,” spoke Julie, breaking what felt like eternal silence.  Her fellow supplicant shot up from the couch immediately, both retrieving their purses and donning their hats without delay.

            “Yes, dear, it’s best y’all get back to your homes and back to your families,” stated Constance in a motherly tone.

            The two women each extended their highest gratitude for the pleasant evening as they made their way in file toward the door.  “See you at service, Connie,” said Julie over her shoulder with a foot over the threshold,

            “Oh Julie, dear, that reminds me,” called Constance.

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “Would you and John be so kind as to pick me up on your way?  My car is at the mechanic’s.”

            “Of course!” responded Julie.  “Nothing too expensive I hope.”

            “Just fixing a dent in the hood,” hummed Constance with a subtle smirk of content.  “Caught the tail end of a doe the other day,” she added after a pause.

            Julie smiled and nodded, but the smile quickly melted away as she turned once again to leave.

             Constance lifted her head from the back of her rocker and eyed the dismayed face of her guest.  “Remember the Word of the Lord,” she stated, leaning back once more.  “‘I know thy works, and thy labor, and thy patience,'” she began slowly and deliberately.  She paused and breathed in deeply, and for the second time that evening she ceased her rocking.  “‘And I know how thou canst not bear them which are evil,’ so says the Book of Revelation.”

            Julie mustered her most polite smile and slipped out quietly.  The door clicked softly.  Constance remained still for a moment.  She shook her head in voiceless disapproval. Exhaling heavily out her nose, she began rocking once more.  With a perfect tempo she swayed, and to the beat she began to sing, boastfully and heartily.  A song of praise – a song of worship – she sang to her Heavenly Father.  Onward Christian soldier, marching as to war.  With the cross of Jesus going on before. But as the song carried on, the volume diminished, and Constance Hennfield began to dose, her mind one with the mind of her Lord. Swaddled by the inferno of her parlor and the fires of her zeal did she drift off to a self-assured sleep, dreaming of Paradise, while envisioning her next act of obedience to her god on earth.