Vestavia Hills

"Good morning, Reverend Abblepot."

"Good morning to you, Evelyn."

Johnathan Abblepot's voice filled the room with its roundness, like the scent of a good blackberry pie.

"How was your trip?"

"Oh, it was tiring at times. I am not talking about the journey in the carriage; you know I like to drive it. However, all those days of attending meetings and talking, I must confess they stressed me out a bit. "

"I understand. Having to make decisions sometimes is more complicated than accepting them. "

"Look how philosophical our Evelyn Archer has become! Let me tell you then that it always depends on the type of decisions: there are the ones that benefit many, but not all, so they weigh on the shoulders of those who make them; and ones that bring discredit to most, so these weigh on those who have to accept them. Eh, what do you think? Did eight days of conferences turn me into a more educated priest? "

"You, Reverend, were intelligent even before. That's why people love you in Vestavia Hills. "

"That's why, Evelyn, I couldn't wait to come back."

The exchange of pleasantries carried on for a while. The priest was delighted to be able to meet his whole community, to hear their voices again, and see their looks again; Mrs. Archer found the reverend's affability seducing and pleasant, like a rich detail of the otherwise tasteless decor. However, this bothered her slightly.

Abblepot had just returned from a trip he was invited to exchange opinions about faith, and management of the congregation with other reverends of the county. He had spent five days with other churchmen and a couple of days travelling there and back.

He was tired but satisfied. He knew that many in town relied heavily on him, and he was happy to be a guide and comfort again for those who needed it.

Evelyn Archer was also happy with his return, although for different reasons than those of most of the congregation of Vestavia Hills.

Happy, but also apprehensive: when there is something that you have to hide from someone, you are never sure if that someone will find out in one way or another.

Especially if this doesn't just depend on you, but on a young man who is as enthusiastic as he is foolish.

Abblepot spoke again: "Listen, Evelyn, I would like to buy you something."

"You see, Reverend, you are certainly spoiled for choice here," said Mrs. Archer, in a tired tone without letting the reverend noticing.

"Yes, thank you, Evelyn. I know yours is a well-stocked shop. But I already have in mind what I want to buy. You know, before I left, Elizabeth and I were talking about a rocking chair; we already have one at home, but the one I told her I saw here has something special. I don't know why, but it looks more comfortable than many others. "

"I know the one you are referring to," said Mrs. Archer.

"Well done. Precisely. I'd like to pay for it right away. Could you have someone bringing it home to me? "

"Don't worry, Reverend Abblepot. You don't have to pay me now. You will have your chair tomorrow. I'll have my nephew bring it to you."

"He is a good boy and a hard worker. Elizabeth also likes him very much."

Ms. Archer registered the information, and it was as if she had a small electric shock: "Say that again, please?"

"I said he's a hard worker. I made him fix the fence once, don't you remember? Then I invited him a few more times to get something chilled. "

"Ah, does your wife know him then too?" Evelyn said with excessive and ill-concealed interest.

"Of course, Evelyn. Where do you think Elizabeth was on those occasions? And she finds him very nice. Strange that he hasn't told you. Well. Look, now I have to go. I just came by for the rocking chair. I can't wait to freshen up and to hug Elizabeth and my house. See you later."

"See you later."

After the farewell, Mrs. Archer had a circle in her head: thoughts swarmed in her mind like people in the crowd of Christmas Mass. She stared, without looking at anything, at the back of Reverend Abblepot, who had gone out on the porch.

As soon as he was in the street, the priest waved hello to his right. Then he turned left and disappeared from the view of an increasingly concerned and irritated Evelyn Archer.

While heading towards the church and the vicarage, a few hundred meters away, the reverend distinguished the figure of a young man who came in his direction with quick and decisive steps.

Abblepot recognized in him, when he was closer, the grandson of Mrs. Archer. As soon as the boy was within range, he nodded at him, smiling and touching the brim of his hat.

However, the young man, after looking at him, lowered his hat and his look, to avoid meeting that of the priest and pretending not to have seen him.

3.

The following day was a sleepy Sunday morning in Vestavia Hills, a lazy Alabama town, few souls, a lot of lands, and simple life. Hardly any noteworthy event had ever come to disrupt that place which seemed so from the mists of time; the events of surprise were given by the quarrels of unsuspected families or by some higher earnings from someone due to some useful trade or an excellent agricultural year. The area where Vestavia was, also had something of Edenic, primordial, peaceful.

It was how the elders in town had always remembered it, and everyone, or almost everyone, liked it to be.

People walked lazily towards the church.

The service would begin soon after that and nobody wanted to be late. You would have been stared at severely by everyone, and you would have felt as if you had failed.

So the men in their elegant blue or black suits led their wives arm in arm, dressed in the best that the wardrobe offered, but without overdoing it, so as not to attract attention. A little further on, or further back, the couple were their children: either older or younger, dignified, the last ones with a sort of dress identical to that of the father or mother but in a miniature version.

The church was at the end of the main street, just a couple of minutes' walk from the last house in town with an all year round shiny lawn. Like a Lord's gift for that lost town's small temple, and the only ones who seemed to care about it were his inhabitants.

In the meadow, some well-kept trees, most claimed that it was there to represent the Lord's garden where the history of humanity had begun; others, however, said that it was planted for the pleasure of embellishing the lawn by the first shepherd of the community.

All around, there was a birch fence, white and with two series of sleepers, which gave the place an enchanting appearance.

Sometimes it was the shepherds themselves who took care to keep the church, the lawn, and the fence neat and beautiful. However, the devout citizens often gave a hand to look after the place most visited by everyone, at least once a week. Once they did, they felt as if they had helped a poor, properly educated their son, prayed intensely, or loaned money to a friend who would not fail to repay them.

The church entirely overlooked the community that approached it on the main road. Grumpily, with a watchful eye, the rose window above the entrance door looked at the brats who did not listen to their parents' requests, not to run or jump. It smiled benevolently at the couples of lovers who, each with their own family, who were careful not to look too much at their beloved one, imagining when they would enter the church to become husband and wife. It stood indifferent in front of all those who many, too many times, had come after years.

The building was simple. Skillfully built by those who knew little else to do in life other than that, it consisted of a 30 meters long rectangle by just under ten wide, with white wooden planks. The slate-colored roof had a slightly accentuated slope.

The bell tower was at the rear, leaning against the building, with the same colors and materials, which lapped the slope of the roof. Three not very big dark wooden steps led to the entrance, above which stood a circular window with five rays also made of white wood and a central pin in the shape of a small donut.

The reverend's house was by the church, plainly built like all who previously lived in it.

The Vestavia Hills community was a right mix of Christians: some more irritable than others and some insipient; some were pious and devoted, perhaps beyond the due limit, some had recently converted; some were good fathers and family men, others who should have learnt that role.

In short, nothing exceptional, a standard sample of various humanity with sins and holiness.

Johnathan Abblepot was the reverend of this community. He was a man as simple as the congregation he led.

A beautiful and pretty wife was waiting for him at home, giving him a lot of serenity. The two had no children yet.