Photograph by Ilkin Guliyev | Dreamstime
“Ain’t blue your favorite color?” My grandson and I were both staring at the flashing blue lights behind us.
“Yes, sweetheart. It is.” It was all I could do to speak calmly to the boy. Through the rearview mirror, I watched the officer return to his car, black boots crunching in the gravel. This whole thing had seemed so easy to do. Just regularly driving to Nashville from Memphis, and back again, in my Honda CR-V. My gray hair and four-year-old grandson along for the ride. The idea had been hatched inside Shelby County Jail while I was volunteering, singing praise songs for the Lord.
The officer led his dog, a long and lean shepherd, out of his car. Surely that nose would not be able to smell Lortabs. I whipped around in my seat, “Is your seat belt fastened?” I hadn’t intended to scare Zach.
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“What’s wrong, Granny? You mad at me?”
“No, baby. Granny’s not mad at you. Just need a bit of God’s grace.” That boy was always on the edge of a nervous breakdown, ever since his mama’s back gave out. Sandra, my daughter, spends her time on the couch and poor little Zach runs and gets whatever she needs. He thinks it’s his fault his daddy left home. But everybody knows he left for that Jezebel, Lucinda. All fluffy and prissy. Plopped herself down in the front pew and waved those hips during hymn singing so no man could deny seeing them sway.
That dog was sniffing around the back tires. Anvil had packed the plastic bags of pills into a metal case. Then he slid himself under the car and bolted that up in there somehow. “You gonna do the driving back to Memphis, lil’ man?” He ran his grimy hand through Zach’s curly hair. Anvil wasn’t the sort of man I wanted around Zach. He chewed tobacco and spit. Disgusting. I invited him to visit my church the first time we made this run. “The Lord has a plan for your life, Anvil.” I ventured to touch him that day, patting his oily sleeve. If nothing else, our clothes closet could offer him some pants that fit him. “Having God in your life can order your steps. My pastor, Brother Day, is altogether anointed. I’d love to see you at Temple of Holiness.” I took several steps back from Anvil’s chilly look. Never touched him again. There really is very little we need to say to each other. We both know what’s required. I feel bad about never telling him where my church is located. Just never has seemed like the right time.
That dog probably had a name. I considered getting out of the car and being friendly, asking the officer about his dog. I usually like dogs, have always been fond of them with their wagging tails and big, happy tongues hanging out of their mouths. I own cats myself, have four of them, all rescued after being abandoned on the green line behind my house.
Persecution. That’s the word. I know that every good Christian must experience it. Here I was, doing my best to cover the cost of my daughter’s medicines and treatments, while the devil had his dog out there sniffing around to test my faith. I wouldn’t be out here, wouldn’t be delivering drugs from one town to another, if the museum provided decent insurance for Sandra. She works long hours and gets good evaluations. But her deductible is five thousand dollars! She would stay on the couch and suffer if the Lord hadn’t shown me a way to pay for doctor’s appointments and physical therapy.
We were holding our weekly worship service at Shelby County Jail for Women when the Lord answered my prayers. One of the women, my inmate prayer partner, knew all about my worries. That night she took my hand and put a piece of paper in it. “Call Cedric, my boyfriend. He can help you.” She hugged me and reminded me, “We serve a miracle-working God!” I called Cedric and he met me at McDonald’s the next afternoon. We started praying together and Cedric gave me clear instructions. Now, I was making more money in a month than Sandra made in a year at her job. Cedric and I lifted our hands in praise every time I made a delivery to him out by the old depot.
“Ma’am? Will you step out of the vehicle, please?”
ELAINE BLANCHARD is a storyteller. And when life does not offer a story to tell, she simply makes them up. She lives in Memphis where her neighbors, friends, and passing strangers freely provide her with unending material for her craft.
SHORT AND SWEET (or not-so-sweet), the Very Short Story Contest welcomes entries of up to 750 words, maximum. Writers are encouraged to incorporate the city into their work. Winning stories will be published in Memphis and archived on memphismagazine.com. Whereas the fiction contest was in the past a once-a-year event, the Very Short Story Contest will publish a winning entry in each month’s issue. The Very Short Story Contest is presented by Novel, Memphis’ newest independent bookstore, where each winning author will be honored with a $200 gift certificate.
