Latter rain

By Harrison Beard

It was a scorching day in Jeffersonville, Indiana — even the sun seemed to sweat. On the porch, a man lounged across two chairs, smoking a cigarette, his white shirt sleeves rolled up, braces stretched over beige trousers. He looked like he’d been there all morning and meant to stay.

A younger man, maybe early twenties, came skipping up the path.

“Mornin’, Uncle!”

The man didn’t move. “Uh-huh.”

“You know, you really oughtta stop smoking those cigarettes, Uncle.”

He shifted slightly, squinting.

“What’s it about you?”

“Well, if you want to get right with God, you’ve got to practice holiness, see—”

“Don’t give me that, boy.” Uncle sighed, ushering the zealous boy into the house with a whisk of his hand. “Go on inside and get some food.”

The kid can do what he wants. He’ll burn out like the rest of us eventually

Later that humid evening, the family sat down to a steaming roast. The boy folded his hands and bowed his head reverently, praying quietly as his father sat at the foot of the table.

His father glanced towards him. “It’s good you tryin’ to get right with God, son.”

“Yes, Pastor Robertson is amazing. You should see the miracles, Dad. He’s healing people and—”

His father sliced into the roast with a sigh.

“I was there for Pastor Mertle. I was there for Pastor Stevenson.” He looked up at his son with a frustrated gaze. “You realize he’s just a man, don’t you? Ain’t got nothin’ on the rest of us. Say, he claimed to be Elijah yet?”

The boy gave a short scoff and mumbled as he ate, his head bowed in embarrassment rather than reverence.

Mother flipped through a leaflet beside her son, lazily gazing over its contents.

“I s’pect you goin’ to that tent revival tonight, then?”

Uncle scoffed. “I’d sooner well die than sweat in some big ol’ tent.”

“I guess so.” The boy stared down at his plate, lost in thought as he studied the plain porcelain.

Father spoke up.

“You know, I met your mother at a tent revival. Lord, you should’ve seen her—”

“Dad!”

Uncle snickered. Father shared a knowing look with his beloved wife who smiled softly at his mischief, reaching for her glass as Father’s rumbling laugh filled the room.

“Nothing wrong with a bit of courtship, son.” He smiled.

After their meal, Father went onto the porch with Uncle, the sun still beating down on them even as darkness crept over the yard. Uncle held out his pack of Camels to his brother.

“Hm.”

“If Sarah finds out about this…” he mumbled under his breath as he propped one in his mouth.

“What you think ‘bout your son, Hank?”

Hank took a long drag. “What about him?”

“All this revival business.”

He exhaled a deep sigh, and a long stretch of smoke followed closely behind. “The kid can do what he wants. He’ll burn out like the rest of us eventually.”

“Here’s hopin’ it’s a cigarette and not a cigar. Listen, I gotta take a call.”

Uncle left Hank on his own out on the porch, letting the screen door slam shut behind him.

Hank felt the cool evening air and put out his barely-used cigarette against the white wooden railing. He gazed out across the land ahead of him, silently whispering a forlorn prayer into the hot Indiana night.

Image: NoName_13 via Pixabay