David L Thornburg [Thornburg - Sooner Fled

Its hard to conduct a funeral service for someone you dontknow, especially on the first day in town. I looked around at the small groupof unenthusiastic old people gathered at the grave. They didnt look like theywere expecting much.

I glanced down at the Bible in my hand. The worn blackleather still gave off a whiff of Detroit air pollution, but it disappearedquickly in the clear Oklahoma air.

My Fathers house has many mansions. If it were not so, Iwould have told you. The youngest person in the group by thirty years was nota mourner, but the secretary for the Oak Valley Community Church. Stephanie wasthe one who met me at the church door this morning with my marching orders. Ithad been a short night. In fact, it was about one in the morning when theunmarked FBI car parked in front of the parsonage, and the agent unlocked thedoor to let me in.

Stephanie said the funeral would start in half an hour, andshe hopped in the passenger seat of the car. Youll never find it on your own.Its outside of town.

God comforts us, so that we may comfort those who need it.

The widow cleared her throat. She didnt seem very upset.More like impatient. She kept exchanging surreptitious looks with aseptuagenarian in a fine, classically tailored suit. The same breeze thatcaused her veil to flutter lifted the silk tie from his chest.

Frank Clemson wasnt what youd call a faithful attender,Stephanie said on the way to the cemetery. More like a grumpy old man who keptto himself. He seemed to have money, but I dont know what he did. His wifewill be there. Shes a good twenty years younger than he was. Whoever else isthere will probably be what I call the founding fathers, old folks who have runthe town forever.

So they know where the bodies are buried, I said.

She did not respond. She was cute enough in a wholesome, corn-fedway, but she apparently didnt have a sense of humor. We continued out of OakValley, where I had not seen any oak trees and the flat plain was unbroken byanything resembling a valley.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who arecrushed in spirit. I looked past the grievers who were not really grieving tothe wheat fields and the enormous azure sky. A far cry from the concrete jungleand skyscraper canyons I was used to. Lets say the Lords Prayer together.Since we were in the buckle of the Bible belt, everyone knew the words.

In the car, Stephanie had said, There must be some moneysomewhere. Clara, my friend at the hospital, said right after he died out oftowners came out of the woodwork. All of them wanted to talk to the widow andVassel, the big shot lawyer. Clara said it would go from whispers to shoutingand back to whispers. It must have been pretty upsetting, considering how awfulthe death was to begin with.

That got my interest. What do you mean?

A hit and run. The only time the old man would leave thehouse was to walk to the post office every day. He could have had front porchdelivery for mail even though they lived a ways out of town, but he hadeverything delivered to a P. O. box. Very close to the vest. Anyway, he wasalmost home last Thursday when a car ran all the way over him. Then, it backedup until it ran over him again. At least thats what the sheriff said it lookedlike.

Clouds and cows slipped by the car windows for a while.

I guess he was messed up pretty bad. The wife had toidentify him when she got back to town.

Where was she?

She goes to Dallas all the time. Shopping, I guess. Sheslived here longer than Ive been alive, but she doesnt fit in. Likes nicethings. Seems to think shes a little too good for us Okies.

They werent from here originally?

Nope. Dad says he remembered when they came to town,probably from somewhere back east.

Very mysterious, I said.

And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen.We all finished in unison. I closed my Bible and the casket was lowered intothe ground. The widow tossed a flower in, without so much as a sniffle. Thesharp dressed man, who I assumed was the lawyer, tossed in a handful of dirt. Acouple of the grey ghosts followed his example, but most turned and shambled tothe line of parked cars.

The lawyer brushed the dirt off his hands and approached me.Im Clete Vassal.

Peter Andrews, I said, and we shook on it.

This is Vera Clemson.

Thank you for your kind words, Reverend, she said.

Im sorry for your loss. The next line of the ritual.

Vassal said, And thank you for performing the service onsuch short notice. You just got into town this morning?

Last night. Late.

Im not involved in the church as much as I once was, but Iwas surprised they found a replacement for Pastor Bradley so fast. Consideringhe left so unexpectedly.

He was fishing for information I didnt have. Im just happyto be here, Mr. Vassal, and I hope to see you in church one Sunday soon.

You just might. In any case, were looking forward to havingyou in our community.

He offered his arm to the widow Clemson and they made theirway to the funeral parlor limo.

Stephanie and I were alone at the graveside. No reason tostay, she said, unless you want to watch the bulldozer shove the dirt backin.

I had seen that plenty of times already. No, lets go.

We were almost to the car when the gentle rural breezecarried the argument to us.

I am looking! Vera was standing at the open door ofthe limo.

Vassals words were indistinguishable, but they seemed toinflame her even more.

I know what he wants. I want it too. Give me more time! Shegot into the car, and the lawyer shut the door forcefully.

I wonder what that was about, I said.

Very mysterious, indeed, said Stephanie.

I spent the rest of the afternoon at the church office,feeling caged and avoiding my secretarys questions. As a police chaplain inDetroit, I didnt log much office time. Instead, I counseled officers, went ondeath notifications, coordinated community programs for at-risk kids, and wasusually on site during big operations and SWAT actions. Five years as anofficer on the street before getting my ordination gave me some cred with thedepartment. They let me on the front lines where most chaplains did not get togo.

Which led directly to being in the Witness Protection Programin a rural communitys church. Not a good place for an adrenaline junkie.Stephanie was not satisfied with the cover story provided to me, so she keptcoming in to the office and digging for details. By the end of the day she wascompletely dissatisfied with my vague answers.

Dinner at the local diner was not much better. The localpastor in a small town is a figure of much interest, I learned.

I was eating with the leader of the churchs board ofdeacons, John Gray, who had recently taken over the Ford dealership from hisdeceased father, which automatically made him a mover and shaker in the town.At 30, he was a couple of years younger than me, married to his high schoolgirlfriend, and starting a family. Deeper roots than I was likely to have for along time.

He knew everybody, and introduced me to whoever walked by.The constant barrage of questions made it a challenge to keep my storystraight.