Jubilee

ߣ2 Jwilee by George Strange Bea Vickers had two things in her life that she loved more than anything else: her church and her husband or, as she sometimes called them, God and the Devil. She might have been able to keep those two separated if it hadn't been for a special Sunday in her life. She hadn't missed a service in fifty years, and the church planned to honor her lengthy loyalty with a reception for Bea and, hopefully, Gyp, who had been to church only once in his life and that a Saturday night when his coon hound Blazes treed a raccoon in the vestibule. We all thought it would take a mighty effort to budge Gyp, and we gave Bea credit for campaigning hard. All during the week she followed him around the farm, took him cookies and apples in the garden like she had done when they were first married, and didn't fuss when he came in with muddy boots. On Saturday morning she cooked his favorite breakfast, sausage and fried eggs, and that afternoon she surprised us, for we knew how she felt about liquor, by buying him a half pint of Ancient Age. A few hours later my mother came in and announced that Gyp was going to the church service. "Did Gyp tell you?" I asked. "No," she smiled. "But Gyp and Bea are sitting in rocking chairs on the porch and holding hands. Bea winked at me to let me know that everything was fine, and Gyp was getting happy as could be with his little bottle." 20 I told her that wasn't enough proof for something as stubborn as Gyp, but she felt so confident that she called the church's social committee and told them to include Gyp as part of Bea's special day. "I'll believe it when I see it," I said, and by Sunday morning my mother must have come around to my way of thinking for she woke me at 8:30 to see how things were going. On Sunday mornings, Bea got up at eight o'clock, wedged herself into a bathtub enlivened with bubble bath, and sang hymns, starting with "Rock of Ages." Her thirty minutes of selections varied, but she always toweled dry with a beach towel and "Amazing Grace." She dressed in the kitchen so she could watch coffee perk in the glass pot Gyp gave her one Christmas. The first brown stain in the clear water was a revelation, and she waited for it with strained patience. "Oh it's going, Gyp," she called out as I got to my spy station at the window. Everything seemed in good order. I held the green towel behind my back so my mother, stationed with binoculars on our back porch, could read the situation. "On my way, Bea," Gyp shouted. "Give an old man time. He appeared in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen and, out of habit, scratched himself through his red cotton long Johns, which stretched widely at the seams, especially those of the arms. He was a large man with a wide brow, bushy eyebrows that pointed up at the corners, and, around a surprisingly small mouth, short white whiskers as if every fourth day he trimmed off two days' growth of beard. His arms must have been marvels when he was young. Attached to the broad wrists were the enormous hands you would have expected, eleven inches from tip of thumb to tip of little finger, spread. His hands always looked like they'd been washed in used motor oil. Seldom cheerful when he first got up, he seemed more dour than usual, making me even more concerned about Bea's day. He took his coffee hot. The second Bea stopped pouring, the thick, white cup was touching his lips. He drew the sips quickly and shook them around with a motion like that of a puppy shaking a towel. The same kind of noise, too. Bea began working at the table, pausing now and then to brush the top of his hand with her palm. It had been her idea to...