The Anointing

T H E A N O I N T I N G by Rebecca Phillips The tiny frame church had been painted a brilliant white by the men who erected it years ago in these Tennessee mountains, but the paint had long since blistered and peeled, leaving dull grey streaks along the now dingy white boards. The gold cross atop the steeple was repainted in the spring however, and glistened in the August sun, reaching toward the hilltops and heaven. Lorene hesitated a moment outside the weathered structure, offering up her private , selfish prayer—in contrast to the ones being said inside. Then she walked away, her mind's eye fixed on the top shelf of the pie safe in her kitchen, on the pink carnival glass pitcher there with its horde of tightly rolled dollar bills, secured by rubber bands. Eighty-seven dollars at last count. 29 She moved quickly along the worn gravel path, despite the heat of the afternoon and the fact that her stride was thrown off balance by her pregnancy. But the vision of the money in the glass pitcher combined with her new-felt clarity of purpose seemed to propel her steps. The day was breezeless, the heat oppressive . Once or twice Lorene turned her head to the side and raised her shoulder to blot the sweat from her upper lip on the thin cotton of her flowered shift. She could feel the ridges of perspiration under her breasts, which lay like gourds upon her swollen abdomen. She passed the small, fenced-in cemetery where eight years earlier, when she was only fourteen, she had buried her firstborn amidst the pockmarked, tilting headstones of the Moodys, Harrisons, and McFarlands. Raymond, her husband , had driven sixty miles to Johnson City to purchase the grave's marker—a flat grey rectangle with cherubs etched in the upper corners, sounding trumpets, summoning to heaven Benjamin Coy McFarland, born February 15, 1970, died February 17, 1970. He bore the names of his grandfathers, yet both of these men, at whose deaths this child should have mourned, had stood at his graveside, as snow threatened to fill the narrow opening in the ground before the casket could be placed in it. Lorene's next son, born in the winter following Benjamin's brief life, thrived. Lorene pictured him as she walked, with Raymond kneeling beside him in prayer, in the church which diminished behind her with every step she took. She had never become a real member of the community within the church. The people had welcomed her, because of Raymond, but as the years passed it was clear she was not truly one of them. She had wanted to be, particularly at first. Then she had awaited her own salvation expectantly, as though it were a second bridegroom. Her hope dimmed eventually though and sometimes she would even slip out of the church services after an hour or so and sit on the steps in front of the one-room building, staring at the mountains. Her departure often went unnoticed as the small room swelled with the humming and moaning of the worshipers while the Spirit descended upon them. Even Raymond made no comment when Lorene occasionally left. She had detected disappointment in his pale blue eyes only once—a month earlier when the congregation stayed late into a July afternoon and, after almost fainting, she hurriedly left the room. Hers was not the swoon that fell on many of the women, when the Spirit took possession of them so that their arms and legs jerked and they babbled mysteriously. Lorene's near fainting was more simple. She explained to Raymond later, "It's just so close in there. I can't get a breath sometimes." That was when she thought she saw in his face the flicker of disappointment that she had not finally experienced what the others did. But he smiled and threw his arm around her shoulder as she continued . "It's the baby. Gettin' so big now, takin' up all my breathin' room. It's gonna be another strong, healthy one." She knew Raymond loved this unborn child, just as he did Little Ray...