Lost Girls of Millbrook

MILLBROOK, ALABAMA | SUMMER, 1976

REVEREND MARTIN claims to have met God in his dreams last night. Seen him with his own two eyes.

“The Lord was as a light from heaven,” he recounts from the pulpit. “A light that filled my soul with such a warmth and radiance, it could not be anything less than holy.”

His voice echoes throughout the church hall, the walls and high, wooden ceiling amplifying the sound. His flock sits enthralled. The women have removed their mink coats, hanging them over the back of their seats, and the men have removed their fedoras and leather gloves, though some clutch them in their hands, resting on their knees.

They listen to his every word, the way a child listens to a bedtime story, and he tells his tale as one. His eyes are closed and his arms spread out wide, fingers splayed. A halo of light, projected by a portable lamp, shines on him, and he turns and faces the congregation.

“He came to me as a man, as I have told you before. He came to me, and he asked of me, ‘Will you spread the gospel? Will you tell them the word of the Lord?’ And I said yes, without a second thought, and I was filled with a joy and a purpose that I had never felt before.”

“That’s wonderful, Martin,” says one woman, dabbing at the corners of her eyes.

“You were blessed,” another adds, nodding along.

The men look at him in wonderment, and he opens his eyes and looks around.

“This is the message of the Lord,” he says. “To me, a man of great sin, and to you, my flock. I have been redeemed. I have been born anew. I have been reborn in the name of Jesus Christ.”

Everyone in the pews stands up and applauds, their clapping so thunderous it’s hard to tell where one person begins and another ends.

“Praise be!” my father calls out.

“Hallelujah!” shouts another.

The applause and praise go on for a full minute before those standing begin to sit down, and Reverend Martin holds out his hands to quiet them.

“But now, let us give thanks. Let us pray, and let us give thanks.”

Today is one of the rare times that the Church serves lunch after service. It’s usually a small, potluck style spread consisting of a meat and three, but the ladies outdid themselves today.

We line up obediently behind Reverend Martin as he leads us downstairs to the church basement. Daddy takes the lead, with me following closely behind and Athena bringing up the rear.

The women set up the old-fashioned wooden tables with plastic plates and napkins, paper cups and utensils, and platters and casserole dishes laden with food. There’s barbeque ribs and fried chicken, deviled eggs and potato salad, biscuits and gravy and coleslaw and cornbread, and a big, glass bowl of sweet tea and a smaller bowl of lemonade.

The men talk to each other, laughing and joshing as they pick up their paper plates and join the line.

“Stay behind me, girls,” says my father, glancing at me and Athena over his shoulder.

I have no intention of disobeying. I’ve learned my lesson. Even if I wander, my father will find and bring me back, followed by a scolding after church that will linger all night.

Athena is uncomfortable in her white dress and black dress shoes. Her feet hurt, and her face is still red from the heat. The sanctuary was like an oven. There were no air conditioners, so the only relief was the slight breeze from the windows, but even that was minimal.

She hates church, and she feels seriously guilty about that. She feels bad for not liking the sermons and the hymns and the long-winded speeches, and she feels guilty for not wanting to participate in the various church functions. She doesn’t like the people or their narrow minded, close-to-home, all American ideals. She doesn’t like their politics and their war on communism, the way they demonize anyone who isn’t exactly like them.

Despite everything, she stands behind me now like a delicate porcelain doll, a perfect blend of her own youthful innocence and Daddy’s hospitable Southern roots.

The line is moving ever so slowly, and when we’re almost to the front, I see the Reverend and his wife standing beside the table, offering the food and chatting with the church members. They’re an interesting pair. My father says she was a real beauty once, a tall, statuesque woman with long, flowing hair, dark and shiny as a raven’s wing, but those days are long past.

Her face is pale and sallow, her lips thin and colorless. Her body is gaunt, the skin clinging to her bones, and the only color she has are her eyes, a bright, piercing blue, and her hair, now mostly gray, tied back in a severe bun.

The Reverend’s hair is thin and patchy, and his skin is a bit darker than his wife’s, like the fake wool her coat is made of.

As the line moves along, several other people approach our father to make small talk. They don’t know how much he hates it. Every Sunday, on our way back, he goes on and on about the stupid things they say to him and the inane, boring conversations they make him endure.

Neither of us can muster any pity for him; this is the inevitable cost of being one of the most revered and admired figures in town.

It’s our turn in the line, and he picks up two paper plates and hands one to me. I hold onto mine and pass the other to Athena, who takes it hesitantly, her discomfort growing with each passing moment.

We shuffle forward, and Reverend Martin smiles brightly as he approaches us from up front.

“Girls,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. What a lovely sight you are, Athena.”

She blushes. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’m glad you’ve taken to the Lord,” he continues, and he gives her a meaningful look, nodding. “And I’m glad you’ve been spending time with the congregation. I was a bit worried you’d end up a little hellion.”

Athena’s eyes widen, a deer in headlights. I rack my brain for something to say, but before I can speak, the Reverend chuckles with a shake of his head.

“I’m just playing with you, honey,” he says, winking. “You’re a good girl. A smart girl. And I bet your daddy is very proud.”

I heard my father huff; there’s always been some sort of unspoken tension between them. Jealousy, perhaps.

“Seph, get some baked beans, come on. You’re holding up the line.”

I move quickly, taking a scoop of beans and putting them on my plate. Athena, too, takes a small spoonful, and she and I step aside so that the other congregants can receive their food.

There are several bottles of Coca-Cola in the metal cooler up front, and it takes every bone in my body to not lunge over and grab one — but Daddy says that it’s for the men. Us girls drink lemonade or water, because drinking alcohol “isn’t being a good Evangelical.” He says that maybe next month, when I turn eighteen, I can have a Mr. Pibb.

𖨆

“You need to stop encouraging the Reverend,” says my father, giving Athena a look as he takes his seat in the third folding chair.

Despite claiming to not be hungry, Athena speaks with her mouth full of mashed potatoes and gives him a puzzled look, eyebrows furrowed.

Daddy looks around before going, “Don’t give me that look. You know exactly what I’m talking about. He knows good and well that I don’t want him speaking to you two unless it has something to do with the Church, and he does it to piss me — as it were — off.”

He looks around again. Nobody else is seated at our table. All the others are scattered across the room.

Athena swallows her food and wipes her mouth, and then she shakes her head.

“Oh, I wasn’t doing anything,” she says. “He was just talking.”

"Oh, he was just talking,” he mocks, raising an eyebrow. “He was just talking, Seph.”

I choose not to respond, though it is cowardly. But I’ve learned from experience that speaking up for Athena only leads to my own punishment.

My father looks at the both of us, and his anger seems to dissipate. He looks away, his eyes darting about, and he sighs.

“Listen,” he says, his voice quiet. “This isn’t your fault. I apologize.”

He doesn’t seem to expect an answer.

“We just need to stay focused,” he says. “This is important, girls. The church is important. What we’re doing is important. So, if someone is distracting you or causing you to be unfocused, it’s better if they’re not around, don’t you see?”

“But, I’m not distracted,” Athena protests, fairly confused as she glances at me. “Not at all.”

“You know as well as I do that that isn’t true,” he argues. “Now, I want to make sure this is understood. You girls will not be fraternizing with the likes of the Reverend or his wife, is that clear? I want that man far away from my daughters. Do you hear me? Far. Away.”

He looks between us.

“Am I making myself clear, or do I need to be more specific?”

“You’re clear,” Athena replies, and she turns her attention back to her food, pushing her cornbread around her plate.

Daddy’s eyes clashed with my own. “Seph?”

I glance over at Athena, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I nod in agreement, because I have no choice.

“Good,” he says, adjusting himself in his chair. “Now, sit up tall, both of you.”