Sunday

Parish

Chapter 12: Sunday

Sunday is the day the phone does not ring. This is not true. The phone rings on Sunday the way the phone rings on every day, because the animals do not know what a Sunday is, the animals knowing only the body and the body's needs, the needs being constant, the needs being indifferent to the calendar that the humans have imposed on the week, the calendar that says: Six days of work and one day of rest, the rest being the Sunday, the Sunday being the pause. But the animals do not pause. The cows calve on Sunday. The horses colic on Sunday. The dogs eat the things that dogs eat on Sunday — the socks and the tennis balls and the chicken bones from the trash — and the eating produces the emergency and the emergency produces the call and the call comes on Sunday the same way it comes on Tuesday, with the same voice and the same urgency and the same sentence: I don't know who else to call.

But Sunday is the day Clem tries. The trying is the thing. The trying to not work, to not drive, to not open the box, to not reach in, to not find, to not treat. The trying is Renee's insistence, the insistence that began in the third year of the practice when Renee looked at Clem across the kitchen table on a Sunday evening and said: You have not stopped moving since Tuesday, and the not-stopping was visible in his face, the face showing the fatigue that the body carried, the fatigue that six consecutive days of driving and treating and reaching and finding had produced, the fatigue that was the practice's toll, the toll extracted from the body the way the river extracts sediment from the banks, steadily, constantly, the extraction being the wearing-away that the body cannot sustain without the rest, the rest that Sunday is supposed to provide.

Renee said: Sunday is ours. She said it the way Renee says things, which is once, clearly, with the expectation that the thing said will be the thing done, the expectation being the librarian's authority, the authority that says: This is the system, the system is the rule, the rule is followed. Clem followed. He follows. He follows on Sundays by not driving the truck, by not opening the box, by not answering the calls that can be answered tomorrow, the tomorrow being the Monday that will come and that will bring the calls and the driving and the work, the work waiting the way the cattle wait in the field, patient, knowing that the feeding will come, the feeding always comes.

The calls that cannot wait — the true emergencies, the dystocias and the colics and the hemorrhages — those calls Clem answers, even on Sunday, because the answering of the true emergency is not the breaking of the rule but the exception that the rule permits, the exception being the space within the system for the thing that does not fit the system, the thing being the animal in crisis, the crisis overriding the calendar the way the flood overrides the levee, the overriding being the nature's assertion over the human's design.

But most Sundays, the phone does not ring with the true emergency. Most Sundays, the phone rings with the things that can wait, and Clem lets them wait, and the letting-wait is the rest, and the rest begins with the church.

Bethel Baptist Church sits on the corner of Magnolia and Second in Vidalia, a white clapboard building with a steeple that lists slightly to the east, the listing being the result of the foundation settling unevenly on the alluvial soil that everything in the parish settles on, the soil being the river's deposit, the deposit being soft, the softness being the condition that produces the settling, the settling producing the list, the list being the imperfection that the congregation has accepted the way the parish accepts all its imperfections, by incorporating them into the identity, the identity of Bethel Baptist being: the church with the leaning steeple, the leaning being the character, the character being the thing that makes the church the church.

Clem and Renee arrive at 9:45. The service begins at 10:00. They arrive at 9:45 because Renee believes in being early the way she believes in the Dewey Decimal System, which is to say: absolutely, the absoluteness being the conviction that order is the foundation of all good things and that being early is the first act of order, the first ordering of the day, the arriving-before being the preparation that allows the settling, the settling into the pew, the pew being the third pew on the left, the pew that Clem and Renee have sat in for twenty-six years, the sitting being the habit that has become the claim, the claim that is not posted or spoken but that is understood, the understanding being the parish's version of ownership, the version that says: This is their pew, the way that is their truck, the way that is their house, the way that is their place in the order of the parish's life.

The congregation knows Clem. This is not a fact that requires stating. The congregation knows Clem the way the congregation knows the preacher and the deacons and the organist and the woman who arranges the flowers on the altar, which is: completely, without reservation, the knowing being the parish's condition, the condition of a place where everyone knows everyone and the knowing is the fabric, the fabric that holds the place together. But the congregation knows Clem in a particular way, the particular way being: through their animals. The congregation is the parish. The parish keeps animals. The animals need the vet. The vet is Clem. The Clem in the pew on Sunday is the Clem who was in the barn on Tuesday, the Clem who was in the pasture on Thursday, the Clem whose hands were inside their cattle and whose voice was in their barns and whose truck was in their driveways, and the Clem in the pew carries the memory of the barns and the pastures and the animals the way the congregation carries their Bibles, openly, visibly, the carrying being the evidence of the life.

Mrs. Thibodaux — not Marie-Claire, not the welder, another Thibodaux, the parish's supply of Thibodauxs being inexhaustible — touches Clem's arm as he passes her pew. She is eighty-one. She keeps three cats. Clem vaccinated the cats in March. The touching of the arm is the communication, the communication that says: I know you, I know what you do, the knowing is the bond, the bond that the cats produced, the cats being the connection between the woman and the vet, the connection that began with the cats and that extends beyond the cats into the general knowing, the knowing that is the parish's texture.

Earl Fontenot is not at Bethel Baptist. Earl is at First Baptist in Vidalia, the other Baptist church, the white Baptist church, the designation not spoken but understood, Bethel being the Black Baptist church and First being the white Baptist church, the two churches being the parish's two streams, the two streams flowing parallel the way the river and the bayou flow parallel, the parallel being the arrangement, the arrangement that the parish has maintained since the arrangement began, the arrangement being the history, the history being the thing that the parish carries the way Clem carries the confessions, in the body, in the structure, in the silence that covers the thing that everyone knows and no one says.

But the knowing crosses the streams. Earl knows the people of Bethel the way Clem knows the people of First, the knowing being the working-together that the farms produce, the farms where the Black hands and the white hands work the same cattle in the same chutes under the same sun, the working-together being the parish's other arrangement, the arrangement that the labor requires, the labor being indifferent to the history the way the animals are indifferent to the calendar, the labor saying: The cow must be worked, the hay must be baled, the fence must be built, and the building and the baling and the working are the things that the hands do together, the together being the parish's practice, the practice that runs alongside the other practice, the practice of the separation, the two practices coexisting the way the river and the levee coexist, the one being the force and the other being the containment.

Clem sits in the pew. Renee sits beside him. The organ plays. The organ is a Hammond, old, the sound being the sound of the Hammond, the particular warm electric hum that the Hammond produces, the hum being the church's voice before the voices begin, the hum being the invitation, the invitation that says: The service is beginning, the beginning is the gathering, the gathering is the purpose.

The congregation gathers. The gathering is the Sunday's purpose, the purpose being the coming-together of the people who live apart during the week, the people who are on their farms and in their houses and at their jobs during the six days and who come to the church on the seventh day to be together, the together being the thing, the together being the gathering that the parish requires the way the body requires the rest, the gathering being the rest, the rest being the together.

Reverend Thibodaux enters. Reverend James Thibodaux — no relation to Marie-Claire, no relation to Mrs. Thibodaux with the cats, no relation to the welder, the Thibodaux name being the parish's common property, the name belonging to everyone and no one — enters from the side door and takes the pulpit, the taking being the weekly assumption of the role, the role being the preacher's role, the role that is the veterinarian's role in different vestments, the role of the man who stands before the congregation and says: I have something to tell you, and the telling is the care.

Reverend Thibodaux is fifty-eight. He has been the pastor of Bethel Baptist for nineteen years. He is short and broad and his voice is the voice that fills the room the way the Hammond fills the room, with the warmth and the resonance that are the preacher's instruments, the instruments being the voice and the text and the pause, the pause being the silence that the preacher uses the way Clem uses the silence, as the space where the meaning settles, the settling being the understanding, the understanding arriving not in the words but in the silence between the words.

He preaches on stewardship. This is the text today, the text being Genesis 2:15 — The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it — the text being the word stewardship, the word that means: the care of the thing in your charge. The word that is the veterinarian's word. The word that is the librarian's word. The word that is the farmer's word and the teacher's word and the parent's word and the preacher's word. The word that is the parish's word, the word that describes the relationship between the person and the thing the person is responsible for, the relationship being: I will care for this. I will tend this. I will maintain this. I will hold this.

Reverend Thibodaux preaches. His voice rises and falls. The voice moves through the congregation the way the river moves through the parish, the voice carrying the text and the text carrying the meaning and the meaning carrying the weight, the weight of the word stewardship, the word that Clem hears in the pew the way he hears the farmer's voice in the barn, with the attention that is the hearing's fullness, the attention that receives the word and holds the word and lets the word settle into the space where the understanding lives.

Stewardship. The care of the thing in your charge. Clem sits in the pew and the word enters him the way the morning enters the parish, slowly, by degrees, the word settling into the space where the practice lives, the space that is the body, the body that carries the practice, the practice that is the stewardship, the stewardship being the care.

He thinks about the word. He thinks about it the way he thinks about everything, which is practically, which is with the concrete mind that the practice has built, the mind that translates the abstract into the specific, the specific being: The thing in my charge is the cow in the chute. The thing in my charge is the horse in the barn. The thing in my charge is the goat in the field. The thing in my charge is the catfish in the pond. The care of the thing is the reaching-in and the finding and the treating and the holding, the holding being the stewardship's form, the form that the care takes when the care is a veterinarian and a parish and the animals that the parish keeps.

He thinks about Earl and the roses. The stewardship of the roses being the care of the dead wife through the living plants, the plants being the thing in Earl's charge, the charge that the wife's death bestowed on the husband, the bestowal being the inheritance, the inheritance being: These roses are yours now, tend them, the tending being the love, the love being the stewardship.

He thinks about Renee and the library. The stewardship of the books being the care of the knowledge that the books contain, the knowledge being the thing in Renee's charge, the charge that the parish bestowed on the librarian, the bestowal being the trust, the trust being: These books are the parish's memory, keep them, the keeping being the stewardship, the stewardship being the care.

He thinks about Beaumont and the catfish. He thinks about Marie-Claire and the goats. He thinks about Arceneaux and the law. He thinks about the parish and the levee. He thinks about the levee and the river. He thinks about the stewardship that is the levee's purpose, the levee's purpose being the care of the parish through the containment of the river, the containment being the stewardship, the stewardship being the engineering, the engineering being the prayer, the prayer being: Hold.

The sermon ends. The hymn begins. The congregation stands. The voices rise. The voices fill the room the way the voices fill the parish, with the sound that is the sound of the people together, the together being the Sunday's purpose, the purpose being the gathering, the gathering being the stewardship of the community, the community being the thing in the church's charge, the charge being: Keep them together. Keep them together on the seventh day so that they can be apart on the other six. The together being the rest. The rest being the gathering. The gathering being the care.

Clem sings. He sings the way he does everything, which is steadily, without flourish, his voice a baritone that is adequate and not more than adequate, the adequacy being sufficient for the hymn, the hymn not requiring virtuosity but requiring participation, the participation being the thing, the participation being the voice in the congregation, the voice being the body's offering, the offering that says: I am here. I am part of this. The being-here is the worship. The being-here is the stewardship.

The service ends. The congregation moves to the fellowship hall, the hall being the room behind the sanctuary where the folding tables hold the food, the food being the Sunday's other sacrament, the food that the women of the congregation prepared and brought and arranged on the tables in the order that the women understand and that the men do not understand but that the men accept, the accepting being the other thing that the men do on Sunday, the accepting of the order that the women maintain.

Fried chicken. Rice and gravy. Collard greens. Cornbread. Sweet potato pie. The food of the parish, the food that is the parish made edible, the parish consumed, the parish entering the body through the mouth the way the parish enters Clem through the hands, the entering being the communion, the communion that is not the formal communion of the bread and the wine but the informal communion of the chicken and the rice, the communion that happens at the folding tables in the fellowship hall on Sunday afternoon.

People speak to Clem. People always speak to Clem. The speaking is the parish's reflex, the reflex of a place where the seeing of a person produces the speaking to the person, the speaking being the acknowledgment, the acknowledgment being the fabric's thread, the thread that connects the people to each other, the connecting being the parish's work, the work that is done at the folding tables and the gas station and the co-op and the library and the church, the work of maintaining the connections that constitute the community.

They speak to him about their animals. This is the thing. This is the thing that happens when the veterinarian goes to church, the church becoming the clinic's annex, the fellowship hall becoming the consultation room, the fried chicken becoming the waiting room's magazine, the conversation over the folding table becoming the conversation over the examination table, the people telling Clem the things they would tell him at the clinic but that they tell him here, at the church, on Sunday, because the telling does not recognize the calendar any more than the animals recognize the calendar, the telling being constant, the telling being: My cow has a lump on her jaw. My dog is limping. My horse is off his feed. The telling that is the confession's cousin, the telling that is the farmer's opening, the opening that may lead to the medical issue or may lead to the other issue, the other issue being the one that the medical issue conceals, the medical issue being the door through which the human issue enters.

Clem listens. He listens the way he listens everywhere, with the attention, with the patience, with the reception that is the ear's practice, the practice of receiving what the parish gives. He eats the chicken. He drinks the sweet tea. He stands in the fellowship hall with the congregation and the congregation is the parish and the parish is the practice and the practice is the Sunday and the Sunday is the rest, though the rest includes the listening and the listening is the work and the work is the rest, the paradox being the practice's paradox, the paradox that says: The work is the rest and the rest is the work because the work is the care and the care is the life and the life does not divide into the working and the resting, the life being continuous, the life being the parish, the parish being the practice.

They drive home. Clem and Renee in the truck, the truck that is the practice's truck but that is today the Sunday truck, the truck carrying not the veterinary box but the two of them, the two of them being the Sunday's cargo, the cargo being the husband and the wife, the couple that the practice and the library produced, the couple that the parish made.

The house on Carter Street. The porch. The green rocking chair and the other chair, Renee's chair, the wicker chair with the cushion that Renee bought at the antique store in Natchez, the cushion being the comfort, the comfort being Renee's contribution to the porch, the porch being the shared space, the space where the practice and the library meet, the space where the husband and the wife sit in the afternoon and the afternoon is the Sunday afternoon and the Sunday afternoon is the rest.

Clem sits. He rocks. The rocking is the rhythm, the rhythm of the chair on the boards, the rhythm that is the Sunday's music, the music that is not the Hammond's hum or the congregation's hymn but the simpler music of the chair and the boards and the body in the chair, the body resting, the body doing the thing the body does not usually do, which is: nothing. The nothing being the rest. The rest being the nothing. The nothing being the Sunday's gift, the gift that Renee insisted on and that Clem accepts, the accepting being the love, the love that says: I will rest because you ask me to rest, and the asking is the care, and the care is the love.

Renee brings the sweet tea. The glass sweating in the heat, the condensation running down the glass the way the rain runs down the window, the running being the heat's evidence, the heat being July, July being the condition. She sets the glass on the arm of the chair. She sits in her chair. She opens a book. The book is the Sunday's activity for Renee, the book being the librarian's rest, the rest that is the reading, the reading that is the librarian's version of the rocking, the librarian's rhythm, the eyes moving across the page the way Clem's chair moves across the boards.

The parish is visible from the porch. The flat green land. The soybeans. The levee. The sky. The sky that is the July sky, high and white with the heat's haze, the haze being the humidity made visible, the humidity that is the air's weight, the weight pressing on the parish the way the river presses on the levee, the pressing being the condition, the condition being July, July being the heat.

The river is behind the levee. Clem cannot see the river from the porch but he can feel the river, the feeling being the awareness, the awareness that the river is there the way the animals are there, present, constant, the river moving south behind the levee the way the animals move through the parish behind the fences, the river and the animals being the parish's two presences, the two things that are always there, always moving, always producing the need that is the practice and the force that is the levee's reason.

He sits. He rocks. The afternoon passes. The afternoon passes the way the river passes, slowly, constantly, the flow of the time being the flow of the rest, the rest being the time, the time being the Sunday, the Sunday being the gift.

He does not think about the practice. He tries not to think about the practice. He thinks about the practice. The thinking is the habit, the habit of the mind that has been shaped by twenty-eight years of the practice, the mind that sees the parish and sees the animals, sees the soybeans and sees the cattle in the fields beyond the soybeans, sees the levee and sees the river and sees the flood that the levee prevents, the mind that cannot stop seeing because the seeing is the practice and the practice is the mind and the mind does not rest on Sunday any more than the animals rest on Sunday, the mind being an animal, the mind grazing on the parish the way the cattle graze on the grass, continuously, the grazing being the feeding, the feeding being the sustaining.

But the body rests. The body rocks in the chair. The body holds the sweet tea. The body breathes the July air. The body does the thing the body needs, which is: stop. Stop moving. Stop driving. Stop reaching in. Stop carrying. The stopping is the rest. The rest is the body's stewardship of itself, the stewardship that says: This body is the thing in my charge. This body must be cared for. The caring-for is the resting. The resting is the Sunday. The Sunday is the care.

The light changes. The afternoon light becoming the evening light, the gold becoming the amber, the amber becoming the thing that the parish produces at the end of every day, which is the beauty, the beauty of the light on the flat land, the light making the land glow, the glowing being the parish's evening offering, the offering that says: The day was the work. The evening is the beauty. The beauty is the gift. The gift is the rest.

Renee reads. Clem rocks. The porch holds them. The evening holds them. The parish holds them.

The phone does not ring.

The phone does not ring and the not-ringing is the silence and the silence is the rest and the rest is the Sunday and the Sunday is the gift and the gift is the evening and the evening is the porch and the porch is the chairs and the chairs are Clem and Renee and Clem and Renee are the Sunday, the Sunday being the day the practice pauses and the pausing is the stewardship, the stewardship of the body, the body that has been inside a thousand animals and that must rest so that it can be inside a thousand more.

The evening deepens. The light fades. The parish settles. Clem rocks. Renee reads. The sweet tea is gone. The ice has melted. The glass sits on the arm of the chair, empty, the empty glass being the Sunday's measure, the measure of the time that passed while the glass was full and then empty, the time being the rest, the rest being the Sunday, the Sunday being done.

Tomorrow is Monday. Tomorrow the phone will ring. Tomorrow the truck will start. Tomorrow the box will open. Tomorrow the practice will resume. Tomorrow the stewardship will continue, the stewardship that is the care, the care that is the practice, the practice that is the life.

But tonight is Sunday night. Tonight is the evening on the porch. Tonight is the rest.

The rest is enough.