Moss Farm by Van Reid

Author:Van Reid [Reid, Van]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down East Books
Published: 2016-08-02T16:00:00+00:00

16

The Honor of Kings

Eighty-three year old Martha Stivvard was hovering outside the Edgecomb City Baptist Church when the service was over and the pastor was greeting everyone at the door. Solemn and tight-lipped, she approached the Moss family and their guest as if the presence of a stranger inside her place of worship demanded an immediate explanation.

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Moss. “Here comes Martha. See if you can’t head her off, Wyman.” Wyman Moss looked as if he would rather steer a bull. Sundry went (at rather a brisk pace) to retrieve the carriage and his father’s hesitation lost the day.

“Lillian,” said Mrs. Stivvard. Once a fairly tall woman, she still walked with a straight back and looked a person in the eye as if her own were not failing. Her dress was dark and severe and the lines of her face fell rather than rose by dint of habit.

“Martha,” said Mrs. Moss with little inflection. “This is Mister Tobias Walton. Mister Walton, Mrs. Ernest Stivvard.”

Mrs. Stivvard did not offer her hand. “Are you a member of our federation, Mister Walton?” she asked.

“I cannot lay claim to that honor, ma’am,” said Mister Walton with a slight bow and a warm smile. “I belong to the Methodist Church.”

“Well,” said the woman dismissively. “I cannot say that I approve of your upbringing.”

“Martha!” said Mrs. Moss in a quiet tone.

“It is our duty to speak up, Lillian,” said the old woman to anyone nearby who cared to take instruction.

“My upbringing had little to do with it, I fear,” said Mister Walton, never losing his smile. “My parents were Lutherans,” he said, leaning ever so slightly forward, as if Mrs. Stivvard were a fellow conspirator.

This startled the woman but she was not without a practiced response. “There is but one way!” she insisted, when nothing else came to her. She regained her stiff-backed posture and some of her height.

“I’ve had the very conversation with a gentleman in my church, ma’am,” began Mister Walton, as if the subject were a great pleasure to him. “I did tell him that the presence of such anomalies (as he referred to them) as Baptists and Lutherans, seemed proof to me that God speaks in manifold ways, and as there are vegetables that grow well in sweet soil and others that do rather better in acidic ground, men are at least (and perhaps more) diverse and require an even greater variety of nourishments.”

Mrs. Stivvard’s mouth hung open but she did not immediately say anything. One could not be sure if she had gotten past being counted with Lutherans. Mister Walton bowed ever so slightly and in the most courtly manner. With all seriousness he said, “I will gladly accept my place in acidic ground, Mrs. Stivvard, since it is clear to me, from your concern with the state of my soul, that your place is in the sweet.”

Sweet was not a word that Martha Stivvard had ever in all her long life heard employed to characterize herself and she was not sure exactly what to do with it.

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