Eight Days

By Kevin and Vicki Flynn

Reflections of an unforgettable summer. This is the Deep South and the setting for eight remarkable days one hot summer in the early '50's. An itinerant preacher comes to a small town and brings with him hope and love that affect one family in particular. John's words from the Scripture bring about changed lives and changed minds, as these townspeople come face to face with prejudice and racism. This novel is for the entire family, especially, for those looking for a second chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Running Quail Press, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780986270802

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Fellow ministers of the gospel, Kevin Arrington, Craig Branch, Tim Nichols and Jeff Crockett demonstrated to us that passion for Christ and His people has no bounds. Race, social standing and creed are no obstacles for the grace and mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ.

The words of Brennan Manning continue to remind us of the true nature of God and are a compass toward home. We are forever grateful to him for his tenacity to impart the love of God.

We would like to say how thankful we are for the privilege of visiting small southern towns, living in a few and knowing that we’re always welcome to go back. The relationships that were created in these comfortable places have formed us and made us appreciate the price of freedom that the South has always paid.

We thank Joyce Norman, our editor, for her patience, long hours and dedication to make this book possible. She is not only our editor but a dear and faithful friend.

Lastly, we offer praise and glory to the Holy Spirit for inspiring Kevin to create on paper this plot and storyline, providing a place for these characters to be born. Among these new friends that came to life is John. We are so very thankful for his words, inspiration and ability to see past the expression of a person into the very spirit of God’s creation.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One-

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

ChapterTwenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter TwentyNine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter One-

Living with Pap

When I recall the summer of my seventeenth year, I remember John the most clearly. He came into my hometown like the winds that blow through the South during late summer. Those winds would pick up gently, which signaled a change in pressure, and then the smell of fresh tilled soil would awaken my senses. The anticipation of the coming storm would rise and the excitement of how fierce the storm might be would stir my imagination. I always pictured a giant ‘Force 5’ coming through the middle of town, wreaking destruction and tossing cars, cows and my Pap’s house like pieces of paper.

What you are reading is a story I’ve been wanting to tell for a long time. It’s about that special seventeenth summer and the events that changed my life forever. An average teenage boy with no big expectations. I moved in and out of that country town just like the winds that came through. I was full of curiosity and could almost feel myself growing. I had no plans for that summer and what happened caught me off guard, just like some tornado that suddenly appears on the horizon.

However, most times, it just turned out to be a sudden cloudburst and the subsequent gentle afternoon shower created a sweetness and a cooling in the air, a direct contrast to the baked ground of summer. What happened then was a mix of heat and cool that left the air so thick you could almost cut it with a pocketknife. Many saw John as threatening and ominous, but I saw the aftermath of his brief visit that summer. He left behind a cleansing rain that still lingers in my mind and impacts my life.

Git up, Bobber. Uncle Bud jest came an’ wants ya pronto! bawled Ally.

It wouldn’t have been so bad to share a room with a six year old, but to hear his whine so early on a Saturday was just too much to bear. I whistled a pillow by his head that he ducked with little effort. He had accomplished his job. I was now up and he had made his getaway. I could hear his bare feet paddling down the hallway followed by his laughter.

I stood up, scratched the top of my head and made my way to our only bathroom at the end of the hall. The door creaked open and I shut it quickly from peering six-year-old eyes and started my morning routine. Well, there I was in the mirror. I recall that I stuck out my tongue. Why, I do not know. Maybe I had seen my Dad do it so many times while he was shaving.

As I was looking at my reflection, I saw Dad’s clear blue eyes looking back at me and I saw my dimples in Mama’s smile. I wasn’t as tall as Dad and probably wouldn’t ever be. I had more of Mama’s side of the family when it came to stature. I opened the medicine cabinet and got out a razor.

It had been five months and six days since Dad had left us. During that summer, his presence was still like vapor in the air, still material and tangible, but, then reality would strike the pit of my stomach to remind me of his sudden passing.

Dad had been on his way home that cold March day when at Donaldson’s Crossroads a truck plowed into him. Dad apparently had been deep in thought as he approached the four-way stop. He was probably worried about someone in his flock who was going through a rough time. He was always there for his people and there were many nights he would come home late from, visitin, as he called it. More than likely, it had been a son or daughter who wouldn’t mind or a husband who had not come home the night before.

He never saw the truck, the officer said at the scene.

I was the first to arrive, then Pap, then Mama and Ally. Pap ran to Mama and hugged her tightly, communicating to her the gravity of what she was about to see and hear. Ally, with the look of one interrupted at play and coerced to come along, slowly began to realize what had happened. He hit the ground like a gunny sack and began to wail.

There I stood, between childhood and manhood. I waited on Mama to be the strong one and take control. She never got there. She took three or four staggering steps toward the wreckage and fell dead away. Pap caught her small frame just in time. I was between the twisted metal that was once Dad’s car and the rest of my family. I had never felt so alone, but, I muddled a prayer, Jesus help me. I don’t know what to do. What do I do?

Mechanically, I ran toward Mama, brushing aside a few onlookers who had gathered. I’m sure I knew most of them, but, on that day they were strangers to me. They had no problem standing there on the edge of the road, watching. All were satisfied and happy they were only casual observers.

The remainder of that day and the week that followed were a blur to me. I don’t remember any details much. All I could manage was to take in a breath and let it go.

I was now the man of the house. I remember standing during the graveside service a few days later, clutching my little brother’s hand and tightly holding my Mama’s. I was trying to be strong for her, to console her somehow. It was to no avail. There was no comforting her. Pap conducted the service and even his words were hollow and empty. Each word Pap spoke marked the approach of the time when Dad would be laid to rest and the final goodbye forced upon us all. It reminded me of the sand in Mama’s egg timer I used to watch as a kid, fixing my eyes on the smallest of grains and awaiting their descent to the bottom. Each one marking a moment, frozen and yet passing with no return, with no power to stop or back up time.

The whole congregation turned out for the funeral and that seemed to make it even harder. The pain they felt and the comfort they needed seemed to fall on our family. I felt frail, my strength gone. As we made our way to Uncle Bud’s rental, Mama kept her head down, counting on my arm to get her to the car.

That afternoon we had everyone over to the parsonage. The smell of fried chicken mixed with fresh baked biscuits and mashed potatoes and gravy, filled the small house like a comforting blanket on that cold, drizzly afternoon. Mama was working hard on being ok for everyone. Her smile was forced and her voice, a tuneless monotone. My mental image of her then was that her face was completely expressionless. Mama was waiting for a time to be by herself and let go, yet she continued to serve each guest a plate of food.

In the month or so that followed, there was little else she did but go about her routine of life, methodically making meals, cleaning the house and doing random things that kept her busy, but, not occupied.

Like her chores, her affection was cold and hollow, as well. Ally felt the brunt of it and spent as much time as he could away from her. I’m sure it was his way of dealing with the pain. Maybe in his little mind he thought that if he could get caught up in his imagination, then he could escape, even if for just a little while. Ally had his own way of coping, but with Mama it was only the move from the parsonage to Pap’s that seemed to have pulled her out of the whirlpool into which we all had fallen.

We had to move from the parsonage, in the back of the church’s property, to make a place for the new pastor. Brother Billy Thompson and his family moved into the tiny parsonage during a sunny day in mid-May. Cheryl, Brother Billy’s daughter, took my room and her baby sister took Ally’s.

Brother Billy was about my Dad’s age but had very little experience as a pastor. He had been an assistant pastor in a larger church and now had been called to lead Dad’s congregation. I realized how inexperienced he was by the way he helped us move out. You could see his personal anguish of not really knowing how to handle such a situation. He attempted to make up for his own sense of inadequacy by nervously joking and trying to keep things upbeat. Mama did the best she could by trying to help him along and graciously laughing at his deadpan attempts. It was only later that I realized what she was doing. What a fine woman, my Mama. But she had not done a good job packing. I guess she never thought the day of moving would actually come. Dad had always said that we were there to stay and only the good Lord Himself could make us leave. Mama used to smile when he said that at the dinner table. Then I realized that by us moving, Mama had to accept that Dad was really gone. She just wasn’t ready to let go.

That day I saw the fragile package in which life was wrapped. It pounced on us and there we were moving out as the new family moved in. The grown ups fidgeted around the awkwardness while us kids just glared at one another. I remember how I felt as I was moving things out of my room and bumped into Cheryl at my threshold. She was holding a box, just like me. When I bumped her, there was little meaning in my attempted apology. She sensed the awkwardness and regretfully, that lack of kindness marked our first meeting. Pap and Uncle Bud knew they had to get us out of there fast. They started throwing things in boxes willy-nilly and slamming those same boxes into their vehicles. I don’t think anyone has ever been moved faster than we did that day. I remember wondering if Cheryl would find something in my room that I had carelessly left behind. Hopefully, nothing she could blackmail me with at school. It turned out I didn’t need to have worried. Interestingly, she grew to become my closest friend.

Pap’s house was on the outskirts of town. It was a nice old place, even though it looked as old as he was — maybe a little older. It was all he could afford on

what the church had given him. Mee-maw had left him shortly after they had moved into the house. It was the cancer that took her. He would talk to her as if she were still there in the room with him. Sometimes when I had to get up in the middle of the night, I would see a crack of warm light from under his door and hear him phase in and out of prayers to converse with her. He spoke to the Lord and to her in one breath and sentence. I still find comfort in those times and am thankful I was a witness to his faithfulness. He always said that she is among that great cloud cheering us on to complete our own path that the Almighty had blazed for us. Even though she was gone, Pap made sure we did not forget her. She was a part of every meal and whenever you were with him, you knew she was there, too.

The house was what you would call a shotgun house — one large rectangle room. Through the main door, the house would open up into a big living room. There were double doors that divided the back wall of that room and lead to a hallway you could literally drive a car down. Five doors lead to the bedroom that Ally and I shared, to Mama’s room and then Pap’s. I remember it as a dark hallway lined with memories.

Old photos in tarnished frames stared down expressionless. When I was little, I could swear those eyes followed me like prisoners trapped in black and white, each desiring to enter the present. I would ask Pap who all those people were and he always took the time to tell me about each one. It’s like he was keeping them alive, just like Mee-maw.

Family was important to Pap and when we had nowhere to go, his door was open. The kitchen was in the back of the house, painted bright yellow. I remember it  as the happiest room in the house. It was almost startling how bright the mornings were there. That room’s brightness was more than the color of the paint. It was a feeling. It was a room where the heartbeat of this family could be heard and felt most strongly. White metal cabinets lined almost every wall as there was no pantry. Every inch was used up and there was just enough room for all of us to sit down at mealtime.

Mealtimes in our family were events. It was the touchstone that identified us. To this day, when I smell fresh cornbread just out of the oven, I can close my eyes and travel back to when the times seemed new and undiscovered. There was always something good to eat and Ally was never too far away from this bright room.

It was the same when we lived in the parsonage. Ally would sit on the back porch stoop, just outside the kitchen, and wait for Dad to come home from church. I can’t count the number of days when I would see Ally run, just as reckless and as fast as his feet could carry him, to Dad’s outstretched arms.

After we moved, most every evening when I came home, I would see Ally sitting on the back porch stoop just like he had done at the parsonage. My heart hurt to think, in some way, that he was still waiting for the sound of footsteps and the tall lean figure of Dad to appear walking up the drive, just like he used to.

Bobber, you still in the bafroom?  Didja forget Uncle Bud’s here!yelped Ally.

I closed the door on the medicine cabinet and stuck out my tongue again for good measure and turned away. A lot had changed in those five months, but we were still a family. Mama had started to be more like herself and for that, I blessed the Lord.

Chapter Two

The Ride to Town

Hey, Bobber, you ready for some work? Uncle Bud called out.

Yes sir, I replied a little half-heartedly as I climbed into the truck. Although, I was thankful for the work, with Dad gone we had to watch every penny. The church congregation had chipped in to pay for Dad’s funeral, and then some, but after that, the support trickled to a random check every now and then.

For a while after we moved to Pap’s, Mama used to go to the post box looking for a letter, sometimes more than once a day, on the lark that an envelope would appear. It got to a point where she would stop what she was doing, wipe her hands on her light green apron, as she stood and stared at the post box through the screen door. Each time I would see her do it, the day of Dad’s leaving would rush back to me as a reminder that he was no longer there to take care of us. The pain and heaviness would wash over me unexpectedly. All I could do was concentrate on breathing, like I had to do when Dad first passed.

Wake up Bobber, you asleep over there? Uncle Bud barked.

What I have learned since then, is that the darkness always seeks to capture us unexpectedly and bring us down into more darkness. Still, the Lord always provides a way of escape and at that moment, Uncle Bud was the instrument that pulled me back to the present.

The road that led to Uncle Bud’s shop in town was dusty and bumpy and his old pickup had seen much better days. Every pothole was a challenge. There were many times I was glad to have skipped breakfast. Back then, Uncle Bud would look over at me from time to time and say, Keep your lunch, boy! and then break into a howl of laughter.

Uncle Bud was Dad’s little brother. Being the baby, he got away with more than he should have growing up and was referred to as a PK, a preacher’s kid. That label was used to explain his wild and unholy behavior from time to time. Dad used to say, He was the only ‘Hell’ Pap ever raised.

Uncle Bud liked the town nightlife, at least what there was of it. There were many times he was quiet during our morning rides to his shop and I would smell the sickening sweet aftermath of the night before. It was on those mornings Uncle Bud drove a little slower and tried to avoid the bumps in the familiar road. Every now and then he would forget one and groan as we experienced the rough ride together. Looking back, I couldn’t help recalling Pap’s words during those times when he scolded him, You reap whatcha sow, Son. There’s a price to pay fer each decision ya make.

It seems he always knew when his youngest had tied one on. Mama said it was the Lord letting him know. I agreed, but when he walked in the door, it was also obvious what had gone on the night before. He would sit there with a frozen look on his face and stare at his Dad while he listened again to the words he had heard a thousand times. His back would stiffen, he would lick his lips and wince like he had been scalded or sat on something sharp. I have to admit, it made me chuckle each time I saw it happen. To see a tower of a man get all sad faced while his Daddy lit into him.

Boy, yer goin’ to wake up dead one mornin’ and then it’ll be too late.

Uncle Bud always took it and I can’t remember a time he crossed his Dad while receiving such verbal blows. It had been a long time since Uncle Bud had darkened the door of any church, but he was the only one I could think of,

outside of my Pap, who was there for us every day during those tough, long days. He had a big heart and when we were saying goodbye to Dad for the last time, he lingered ever so long before leaving.

He knew that what Pap was saying was true and even though Uncle Bud had many flaws, he had always treated the good Lord with the deepest respect and reverence. Dad always said that Uncle Bud had lost his way but, was trying to find it again. While he was no doubt the black sheep of the family, his support to Mama, Ally and me during that period was immeasurable. I wouldn’t give you two cents for those who preached Christian virtues but never put their words into action. Dad used to say, You have to look at what a man does, not what he says. That’s the true measure of a man.

All I know is, he looked out for us more than most did, and I can’t help but think that the Lord notices things like that.

That particular morning Uncle Bud was feeling especially good. He had stopped by the diner on the way to Pap’s and picked up some biscuits and bacon and was munching them down.

Hey Bobber, what say we go fishin’ this evenin’? We can get off early and light out fer the spot me and yer Daddy used to go to. Ya know it’s a special place and I’ve kept it a secret all these years. ‘Bout time I took ya there.

Yessir that would be great, not wanting to get too excited.

I knew when it came to specifics, he could not always be trusted to follow through. It’s not that he didn’t want to do what he had promised, he just couldn’t keep up with it all. That wouldn’t be the first time he couldn’t do something because he had forgotten another promise to some one else.

Uncle Bud was Uncle Bud and that was really all I expected him to be. I loved him anyway. He was kin.

We gotta lot to do today. Ole Man Jenkins wants his mower back and Joe Thornton said he would be by to get his tractor an’ we just got the parts in yesterday.

I remember looking at my fingernails and seeing a summer’s worth of grease and grime packed under them and no amount of scrubbing would get them clean.

Yes, Sir, I’ll get right on it.

Now I’m not prideful, but it seems the Lord gave me a knack for fixing things, like mowers and such, and over that summer I had gotten pretty good at it. Uncle Bud had recognized this and put me on his most difficult jobs. His motives were pretty clear. First, he knew I could do the work and secondly, then, he wouldn’t have to. It was getting to a point that if my Uncle had to do much more than tighten a screw or adjust an idle, he would give the work to me. I didn’t mind it, though. Like I said, I was glad to have the work.

Mama looked forward every week to the money I got on payday. I gave her all but a few dollars which she accepted grudgingly, with her eyes full of both gratitude and sadness. She was grateful for the money, but at the same time felt a little guilty for taking it from her own son and not being able to provide on her own. Mama worked hard to keep us going, but the only thing that was steady was working weekends at Toomb’s Five and Dime in town. It didn’t pay her much, but in an old mill town where the mill had closed years ago, it was all that was available. Work was fine, but Mama really wanted to stay home with Ally to make sure he wouldn’t turn out to be another Uncle Bud. Ally was more like Uncle Bud than me, though. He’d push Mama to the breaking point with questions and his own interpretations of what she had really said.

Mama saw different things in Ally that none of the rest of us did. She looked for the good in him and me and worked hard to bring it out. After Dad’s death, she was aloof and, well, just different for awhile. Her physical presence was there, but emotionally, she was a shell. Pap did the best he could with Ally, but without the strength and love of a parent, little problems had begun to show in his behavior. He sassed Mama and Pap, and was stubborn and strong-willed. Ally was looking for boundaries that Dad had established and I think in his own way, he wanted to cause someone to stop him from doing what he was bent on doing.

Mama was preoccupied with her thoughts of Dad and was often in her own little world while Ally persisted in looking for limits. Finally, Mama began to ease out of her place of grief and began, again, to trust God to provide for us.

It all happened one evening at the beginning of that summer in early June. We were having dinner as usual. Pap was trying to get Ally to eat some greens, which we all knew Ally didn’t like at all. Mama was listening to the banter back and forth.

No, sir, I ain’t gonna eat ‘em. They look like grass and I ain’t a cow.

Ally, yer drivin’ me pretty hard, said Pap. Popeye loves greens. You wanna grow up big and strong like Popeye, don’t ya?

Ally just stared at Pap.

Who’s Popeye?

For an instant he had been temporarily distracted, revealing that sense of awe that a child is so graciously blessed with, but only for an instant.

I ain’t eatin’ ‘em, no matter what.

Mama leaned over and pinched the soft part of Ally’s arm, right where his t-shirt sleeve stopped. Ally yelped. It had been awhile since he’d felt that sting.

Ally, stop your fussing! Listen to your Pap and eat those greens, she said sternly.

Pap and I looked at one another, both with our mouths open and full of our own greens. Pap winked at me and began chewing again. I just sat there and looked back at him and then at Ally. You could see Ally’s mouth was pouting, even though it was full of greens, but there was a hint of pleasure in his eyes, too. He had found the boundary he had been looking for. I think he would have eaten grass after all, if it had been on his plate. As much as he grimaced with each bite, he knew Mama was watching again.

The truck rumbled close to the edge of the road and sprayed gravel from the berm, pelting the scrubby little trees that had sprouted up along its side.

Look, Bobber, there’s coming a storm! hooted Uncle Bud.

I recall that my initial thought was that I wished he would drive more with his eyes fixed on the road instead of everywhere else. Once I saw he was safely in the road again, I glanced up at the sky. That time of year the weather was anyone’s guess. I could see the storm cloud over the town ahead. It was gray and fierce-looking. Lightning flashed across the sky and only a few Mississippi’s later could you hear the boom.

Ally loved thunder. He liked the boom and counted the Mississippi that Dad had taught us about how many seconds before the next lightening voice. I could picture him on the back porch looking in our direction waiting for the flash and counting, One Mississippi…Two Mississippi… then yelling out for Pap and Mama to hear how many miles off the storm was. We were about a mile or so outside of town when we hit the great sheet of rain the storm had promised.

Whoa, this’n is a gully washer! Better slow down a little. Uncle Bud slowed down to barely a crawl.

Yep, but it’ll pass, I said.

 About a quarter of a mile into the tempest, I thought I saw something up ahead. The rain was too heavy to identify anything but, as we neared, I could barely make out a lone dark figure on the side of the road. Seems he was in no hurry and it looked like he was walking along as if it was the most beautiful spring day ever. I turned my head in his direction to get a look at his face and Uncle Bud slowed down to offer him a ride into town. I remember thinking, He’s a drifter. Got no place to be, anyhow.

From what I could make out, he wasn’t a young man, but not old either. I couldn’t see his face very well for the brim of his hat was pulled down almost over his eyes. All I could make out was a rounded chin and it looked like he was smiling, like he was remembering something pleasant. He noticed we had slowed down and looked toward our truck. Just for a second or two, we looked into each other’s eyes. Suddenly, Uncle Bud hit the gas again and we began to move past the man who lowered his head without altering his pleasant expression.

What’d you do that for? I asked Uncle Bud.

I was surprised at Uncle Bud’s impatience.

Jest another drifter in these hard times. I’d a given him a ride if he’d a acted like he wanted one. Strange one, walkin’ in the rain like that. Shoulda  spoken up. Well, sir, he kin jes keep on walkin’, far as I’m concerned.

Uncle Bud kept mutterin’ under his breath.

That was the first time I saw John. That brief span of time, like so many others that were significant in my life, seemed to be unimportant at the moment. Yet, like a puzzle piece that fits to make the picture more complete, that moment was to be a defining one for me — not just for me, for everyone I knew or would ever come to know.

We finally hit some paved road as we reached the city limits line that was nothing more than the fence that divided Johnson’s fields from the first row of houses.

Looks like you were right Bobber, the rain is slackin’ off, Uncle Bud said.

Told ya. 

My hometown wasn’t much more than a smudge on a map. Years ago, back when Pap was about my age, he said it was a bustling little place with great expectations. Then, almost every one was involved with cotton in some way or another.

If you weren’t growin’ it, you were pickin’ it, Pap would say. There was a lot more land used for cotton that has long since become pasture. From that time to the present, there was just no real call to grow it anymore. The gins were the first to go, then the mills. There was one gin and a mill between Cutler’s Branch and my town. When the mills and the gins dried up, so did the people’s hopes. Sad, but, my hometown became a town that, at one time, had a future but somehow the dream and the reality never did quite meet.

Many people moved to the bigger cities a few hours away. Others made another notch in their belts and found a way to stay where they had always been. Home is home and sometimes all you can do is hunker down and wait it out.

Like so many other small southern