“A few of us rednecks went the way of the educated white collars,” Thom Jeff muttered through a mouth full of mashed potatoes, just loud enough for everyone to hear. Nina kicked again. This time she hit her mark, and Thom Jeff grunted. They exchanged glares.
Bob ignored Thom Jeff’s comment. “The next big change had occurred in 1971, when Brother Willie died. At that time, the congregation called Matthew Zimmerman, one of the first African American graduates of Duke Divinity School as co-pastor, and we decided to hold worship services at the Little Rock Church and to convert the Second Baptist building in downtown Wilkesboro into a day care and community center to serve the children and youth of the community. And we decided to incorporate into the Second Little Rock Baptist Church, even though there was no First Little Rock Baptist Church. As one member put it, ‘We must decrease in order that Christ might increase!’ I liked that sentiment,” Brother Bob admitted.
Aunt Nora finally spoke again, “That’s a fascinating story. And how is it that a handsome fellow like you is still single, Brother Bob?” She smiled sweetly and batted her eyes at him over her glass of iced tea.
“I was married once.”
“Widowed or divorced?” Ham was amazed at Aunt Nora’s forthrightness. It was unusual in North Wilkesboro to be so straightforward.
“Divorced.”
“Oh dear, what happened?” Aunt Nora pressed.
“Pulpit committee went through this with Brother Bob, and we was satisfied that Brother Bob’s divorce was in line with biblical teaching,” Cornelia interjected.
“Oh was your wife a pagan or a cheater? I believe those are the two ‘biblical exceptions’? Not that it matters really. We have divorced ministers and deacons galore over at Pullen, don’t we Wilson?” Wilson grunted.
“Brother Bob warn’t involved in no affair or nothin’, Nora, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at. Like I said, the pulpit committee went over that with him.” Cornelia raised her eyebrows to indicate the interview was over.
“Things just didn’t work out, Nora. I prefer not to talk about that. It was a long time ago, and I think it important to honor what’s left of the relationship by not dragging it through the mud,” Bob said.
“Who’s ready for dessert?” Nina asked, rising from the table and filling the awkward silence.
“Your pecan pie, I hope, Nina,” Aunt Nora said. “Let me help you.” She left the table and joined Nina in the kitchen.
When she was out of the room, Cornelia whispered to Brother Bob. “I’m so sorry about that. Nora has always been headstrong and a little forward.”
“That she has, that she has,” her husband Wilson said. It was the first and only time he spoke during the meal.
Everybody ate their pecan pie, and Wilson and Aunt Nora got in their Cadillac de Ville and headed to Chapel Hill. Brother Bob got on to his Harley Davidson and headed back to the parsonage. Dubya and Cornelia went back to their house. Ham and Diane washed dishes while Michael Allen dried. Nina put them away, Thom Jeff fell asleep in his easy chair and snored. Ham had learned things about Brother Bob he didn’t know even after ten years. And he liked and trusted him more now than ever before.
Chapter 7
On his way to school Monday morning, Ham saw Uncle Carl had already left the hearse for repair at Moore’s Garage, the same place Ham had left the Studebaker for repairs (turned out to be the starter). He pulled over to the side of the road and walked back to Moore’s shop. It was just after 7:00 a.m. so the Moore brothers hadn’t arrived. Ham found the bullet hole in the passenger door about two inches below the door handle. It was a small hole matching the .22 pistol Uncle Rose had brandished Saturday night. Ham whistled, got back in his car, and drove to school.
Ham parked in his familiar spot in the student parking lot. It was raining, so he walked into the gym, which was the shortest route to his first period class. Across the gym, he saw the assistant football coach, Trey Groves, about to enter his little cubbyhole of an office. They were the only two in the gym at the moment. Ham yelled across the gym, “Coach Groves.” The natural intonation of his voice caused the second word to come out louder than the first. Across the gym, Coach Groves heard only his last name. Irritable and tired from the long fight the night before with his estranged wife, Coach Groves took immediate offense at the apparent infraction.
“Ham, get over here right now!”
“Yes sir.” Ham was taken aback by the obvious anger in Coach Groves’s voice.
“Dammit Ham, how many times have I told y’all not to call me by my last name? It’s disrespectful and I won’t tolerate it!”
“But Coach Groves, I did say Coach. You must not have heard me across the gym. I’d never disrespect you like that.”
“Bullshit Ham! I know none of you athletes respect me.”
“Coach, I played football for you for four years. ‘Course I respect you. I never done nothin’ like this before. I promise you I said ‘Coach.’”
By now Coach Groves had become unhinged. “Nah, you boys think I’m just a washed up teacher and all. Ever since my wife took up with that damned quarterback over at Starmount High, I’ve been the laughin’ stock of the county. I’m gonna teach you a goddamn lesson, Ham, you and everybody else will never forget!”
Coach Groves went behind his desk and pulled out his paddle. The paddle was actually a baseball bat with the barrel end shaved and smoothed to make a flat hard surface. Ham had heard of the baseball paddle—it had a name, but he couldn’t remember it—but he had never actually seen it or knew anyone who had ever been on the receiving end of it.
“Pull your pants down and bend over the desk, Ham.”
“Sir?”
“I said, ‘Pull your pants down and bend over the desk,’ dammit.”
“But Coach—”
“Just do it.”
Ham complied.
“Boxers, too.”
Ham pulled his boxers down below his knees and bent over Coach Groves’s old school issued oak desk. Ham could not believe what was happening to him.
WHACK. Coach Groves brought the paddle down on Ham’s exposed buttocks with violent force. Ham grunted.
WHACK. A second blow harder than the first landed on Ham’s backside. For a reason he would never be able to explain, Ham snickered. Maybe it was because of the absurdity of the situation, him standing with his jeans and boxers down around his ankles in Coach Groves’s cubbyhole office. Maybe it was to keep from crying. Maybe it was because at that moment he remembered the name of Coach Groves’s paddle—Jose, after Chicago Cubs outfielder Jose Cardenal, whose signature was engraved on the unshaven portion of the barrel of the Louisville Slugger bat. Kids used to say, “Jose, can you see Trey?” He even remembered the model number—C271; that bat was known for its large sweet spot.
Ham may not have known why he snickered, but Coach Groves did. “Makin’ fun of me again, you
