Gregory was another thing entirely.
Peachie Gregory—with those spidery limbs and those bushy brows that met in the center of her forehead and that pouting mouth full of silver braces—I didn’t completely understand it when I first saw her play the piano, but I wanted her almost as much as I envied her talent.
She dominated my thoughts when I was awake, and in time I began seeing her in my progressively worsening dreams—real dreams, not made-up visions—dreams of limbs brushing limbs, and lips whispering into lips in a parody of holy prayer. Then I began manipulating my thoughts to ensure that my dreams would include her. At my lowest, I dreamt about her without benefit of sleep.
By age thirteen, when I began to use my hands, I knew I was bound for hell.
I couldn’t turn to my parents, so one Sunday I went to the restroom to speak with Brother Morrisohn.
He said, “Have you prayed over the matter?”
“Yes,” I answered, “but the Lord hasn’t answered yet.”
He smiled, showing those incredible teeth. “Maybe He has and you just don’t understand His answer. I’m sure He’s leaving it up to you.”
“Leaving it up to me?”
We stood inside the combination men’s washroom and lounge his money had built. Four stand-up stalls and four sit-down stalls lined one wall. A row of sinks lined another. In the center of the room, five plush chairs formed a semicircle around a floor-model color television. We were between services, so a football game was airing. Otherwise, the television would have picked up the closed-circuit feed and broadcast the service to the Faithful who found it necessary to be near the facilities. These days Brother Morrisohn, pushing close to his promised four score, attended most services by way of this floor-model television. His Bible, hymnal, and gold-tipped cane rested in one of the chairs.
“I don’t care what anyone tells you, God gets upset when we turn to Him for everything. Sometimes we’ve got to take responsibility. Elwyn, it’s your mind and your hand, and you must learn to control them. Otherwise, why don’t you just blame God for every sin you commit? God made you kill. God made you steal. God made you play with yourself.”
Brother Morrisohn was so close I could smell his cologne. His teeth made a ticking sound each time his jaw moved. Suddenly, he began to tremble and coughed a reddish glob into his hands. He moved quickly to the faucet and washed it down, sighing, “Age. Old age.” Then he turned off the faucet and looked down at me with an embarrassed smile.
I said to him, “What about the dreams?”
“Dreams?”
“The nasty dreams about … Peachie.”
“God controls the dreams,” Brother Morrisohn explained. “They’re not your fault.”
“Okay.”
“Control your hands.”
“I will.”
Brother Morrisohn was himself again. In his black suit and tie, he stood tall and handsome. All signs of weakness had vanished. Old age would not get the victory. God would get the victory.
He mused, “Peachie Gregory, huh?” The old saint pointed with his chin to the television. “That was Peachie last Sunday backing up Sister McGowan’s boy, wasn’t it? She’s a talented girl. She and that Barry McGowan make a great team. He can really sing.”
Now Barry was not my favorite brother in the Lord. Barry was a show-off, and he had flirted with Peachie in the past even though he was much too old for her. He was a high school senior. But now I smiled because soon he would be out of the way. “Barry just got a scholarship to Bible College,” I announced.
“Good for him. He’s truly blessed. But that Peachie is a cute girl, isn’t she?” Brother Morrisohn chuckled mischievously. “If you’re dreaming about her, Elwyn, by all means enjoy the dreams.”
I handed him his cane. He patted me on the head.
He was a great saint.
Praise be to God, as I grew in age, I grew in wisdom and in grace. With His righteous sword I was able to control my carnal side.
While she lived often in my waking thoughts, it was only occasionally that I dreamt about Peachie anymore, and even less frequently were the dreams indecent. Awake, I marveled at how through the Grace of God I was able to control my mind and my hand.
At sixteen, I counted Peachie as my best friend and sister in the Lord. We both served as youth ministers. Together, we went out into the field to witness to lost souls. As a pianist, she demonstrated a style that reflected her classical training. Disdaining my own classical training (we both had Sister McGowan for piano teacher), I relied on my ear to interpret music. Thus, on first and third Sundays of every month, she was minister of music for the stately adult choir; on second and fourth Sundays, I played for the more upbeat youth choir. As different as our tastes were, we emulated each other’s style. I’d steal a chord change from her. She’d borrow one of my riffs. We practiced together often.
By the Grace of God, genuine affection, however guarded, had replaced the envy and lust I felt for Peachie as a child.
Thus, when Brother Morrisohn passed in the late summer of ’79, it was my best friend Peachie whom I called for support.
“They want me to play,” I said.
“You should. He was very close to you.”
“But my style may not be appropriate. When I get emotional, my music becomes too raucous.”
“Do you think it really matters?”
I tried to read Peachie’s words. For the past few weeks she had grown cranky and I had chastised her more than once for her sarcasm, which bordered on meanness.
“Yes,” I said. “I think it matters. It’s the funeral of a man I loved dearly.”
“Well don’t look to me to bail you out. Play what’s in the book.”
“I hate playing that way.”
“Then play like you know how to play. Play for the widow. Play for Brother Morrisohn. Play like you have thirty fingers.”
“Okay. I just hope the choir can keep up.”
“We can,” Peachie assured.
Then we talked about what songs I would play and in what order and some other mundane things, and then somehow Peachie ended up saying, “Don’t worry, Elwyn. The Lord will see that you do fine. And I’ll be there watching you too.”
“Bless His name,” I said.
“Glory be to God,” she said.
So it was a funeral, but you wouldn’t know it from my playing.
Keep up, choir, I thought. I’m syncopating. Keep up!
I played for the stout old ladies of the Missionary Society, who sat as Brother Morrisohn’s next
