Free Mercy Me by Margaret A. Graham Page A

stores, down at the washerette,the barbershop, and the beauty parlor—everywhere I went. The weather just got hotter and drier, not a cloud in the sky. The only reason the W.W.s didn’t let me in on their grapevine was that they didn’t want to be caught short if it did rain. Hedging their bets, don’t you know. But by Friday it still had not rained, and they couldn’t stand it no longer. Two of them came up the walk, and since they’d waited a long time to throw in my face about the preacher praying for Maude and getting no answer, I figured this was the time they would bring it up.
    I served them ice tea on the porch. Clara didn’t say much; she seemed nervous and mumbled something about how we all of us believe in prayer. Still hedging her bets.
    Mabel Elmwood, who is usually quiet until everybody else has had their say and she can tell which way the wind is blowing before she puts in her two cents, had no hang-up about speaking out.
    â€œI feel so sorry for Roger,” she began in her mealymouth way. “He says that praying for Maude posed a real problem for the elders, who could not support Pastor Bob’s view. Fortunately, Maude died, making it plain to see that it is not right to pray for animals. Roger says Preacher Bob should’ve learned his lesson then and been more careful about what he prayed for in public.”
    â€œShe’s talking about rain,” Clara said, as if I didn’t know.
    â€œYes, praying for rain is a risky thing to do,” Mabel continued. “It shows poor judgment on the preacher’s part. You see, Roger says Preacher Bob does not have todeal with the questions, it’s the elders. As the spiritual leaders, they are the ones who have to answer all the questions this kind of thing raises.”
    Clara reached over and put a pillow behind Mabel’s back. “Thank you,” Mabel said. “This old glider is uncomfortable.”
    I could have crowned her!
    â€œNow what was I saying? Oh yes. Preacher Bob should not have been so sure of himself to pray publicly for rain after the experience of the mule.”
    I could not stand another word. “Pastor Osborne is not sure of himself, he is sure of God, which is more than I can say for most of them elders.”
    Well, she brushed me off like I was some kind of historical female. “The elders are thinking about bringing Preacher Bob in for counseling.”
    I tell you what, I was about to blow a gasket. The nerve of them people! What them two wanted was a rise out of me so they could go back and tell everybody what I said and the way I acted. Well, I said nothing, and when they saw I was not going to play their little game, they got themselves up and left.
    After them two went home, I was so mad I lay across the bed and beat the pillow with my fists. I had not had a spell like that since before Bud died. It was Friday, and not one drop of rain had fallen. I couldn’t bear to think of that poor man getting up in the pulpit Sunday morning with all those self-righteous, backbiting hypocrites looking up at him. “Lord,” I said, trying not to be mad, “whyn’t you do the preacher and me one big favor and send us a gully washer before Sunday?”
    Upon my word, I am telling you the gospel truth—twenty-five minutes later, if you go by my bedroom clock, I heard a rumble. At first I thought it was a plane flying overhead. But the rumbling come closer, and then right over my house there was a big boom. I could not believe my ears! I jumped up and went out on the porch. That cloud was as black as midnight! Sheet lightning was flashing all around, and the wind was picking up. “Lord, is this what I hope it is?” I asked.
    Sure enough, in a few minutes, big drops were peppering down. The thunder was booming, and the rain was coming fast. The smell of it was delicious! I watched it coming down the street, washing everything in its path, the runoff