"I'm sorry, Cleavis," she told him as they watched Hightower disappearing into the night. "I swear I'm going to have a talk with those twins tomorrow. I won't have them making a scene on your front lawn."
Cleav shook his head and chucked his wife affectionately under the chin. "Don't worry about that Hillbaby. I'll have a talk with young Mr. Hightower," he said. "Sometimes a man needs a bit of prodding to make his choice."
"Oh, you don't have to do that" Esme said, horrified. After she'd forced him into an unsuitable marriage and made him support her entire crazy family, did he think she expected him to help raise and marry off her two foolish sisters? "The twins are my responsibility. I would never ask you to take that on."
Cleav placed the palms of his hands on Esme's cheeks and tilted her head to look at him.
"I know you'd never ask me to take it on, Esme," he whispered. "But I hope you'd ask me to share it."
Chapter Sixteen
Like the renewal of crops and trees all around them, spring was also the time for renewal of the soul. The Reverend Wilbur Boatwright, an itinerant evangelist, arrived for the annual Vader revival, a week of hellfire and brimstone preaching.
Because the church could be a mite stuffy, and revival meetings were famous for running long into the night, the men of the congregation constructed a brush arbor on the little knoll overlooking the church.
Six sturdy posts were driven into the ground and connected to each other with two-by-fours. A few crosswise slats were nailed as roofing and were covered with fresh-cut pine, fern, and sumac. The open area allowed cooling breezes to pass over the congregation and the makeshift roofing shaded them from the late evening sun.
Usually Esme found the sweet smell of freshly cut brush soothing, but this time she was too excited and wary to appreciate the setting. Revivals were times for reunions with old acquaintances, high entertainment, and spiritual reevaluation. While she looked forward to the fun and friends, Esme was not anxious to look closely at her life.
She'd accomplished what she'd set out to do. Her family now had a decent roof over their heads and new clothes and plenty of food. But the man she loved, the person who was now most important to her, had she made him happy?
"Why should he be?" she asked herself as she brushed his good black suitcoat. "He was tricked into marrying a woman whose ignorance and countrified ways would surely weigh him down for a lifetime!"
Esme was doing her best to learn ladylike behavior. She listened avidly to her mother-in-law's directions on keeping the house up to fashion. And she severely rebuked her sisters and father for bringing "cave manners" into Mr. Rhy's fancy house. With her sisters she pored over the ladies' magazines to ensure that their new clothes were neither immodest nor out-of-date. But the fact was, she couldn't change herself. She was still Esme Crabb, the same Esme Crabb that God had created. And she hated to face her Maker so disappointed with the job he'd done.
"Are you about ready?" Cleav asked from the doorway.
Esme nodded. "I'm just brushing your coat."
Cleav shook his head and looked at her curiously. "I wasn't planning to wear it. It's quite warm out tonight, and the crowd will be very close."
"Of course," Esme answered, blushing with embarrassment at her own stupidity. She'd thought gentlemen always wore coats. "I'll just hang it back in the wardrobe."
Cleav could see that Esme was upset.
"Do you want me to wear the coat?" he asked her. "I'd be happy to do it, if it pleases you."
"No! Certainly not."
"I just want to make you happy," he said quietly.
"I just want to make you happy," Esme answered him with a curious look. "I should have known that it was too hot to wear the coat."
Cleav reached out and took her hand. He held the palm in his own for a moment and then squeezed it encouragingly.
"I don't expect you to know everything I want, Esme," he said.
Esme nodded. He didn't expect her to know what he wanted, she thought, because he realized a woman like her, an ignorant hill woman, could never understand his needs.
"Come on, you two," Eula called from the hallway. "If we don't hurry, we'll be late for the foot washing."
Free Will Baptist, usually abbreviated with the initials FWB, were oft referred to in the mountains as the "foot-washing Baptists." The denomination, founded in Tennessee, was more famous for its insistence on foot washing as part of the communion service than for its adamant opposition to the concept of predestination, for which its name was taken.
The foot-washing ritual was performed much as it was done on the night of the Last Supper. Men and women were separated for the task. Each participant brought two clean towels: One towel was wrapped around the waist and the other hung down from it in front like a long sash. One by one the members of the congregation would perform the humbling task of washing the feet of another in a shallow basin and then drying them with the towel they wore.
Eula wasn't afraid of missing the event, rather she wanted to get the washing done before the "foot water" got too dirty. As usual, she was not the only one with this idea. More than half the congregation was better than a half hour early.
"Come on now, Esme," Mrs. Rhy urged. "I don't want a dozen people ahead of me."
