Judge Stone by James Patterson - 7

STONE FAMILY FARM BULLOCK COUNTY, ALABAMA

Saturday morning, 4:30 a.m. My alarm went off while the rooster was still sound asleep with his head tucked all snug under his wing.

I jabbed that snooze button, thinking: I. Do. Not. Want. To. Get. Up.

No.

As I stared up in the darkness, the cussing started. I muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

And then I lay there, waiting, bracing myself for the alarm. Knowing it would shriek again in a couple of minutes.

“Shit. Shit. Son of a bitch. ” Louder that time, with feeling.

I couldn’t abide the wait. Grabbed my phone and turned off the alarm, because snoozing wouldn’t save me. I dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen. Filled the industrial-sized copper-bottomed pot with water and put it on to boil before I drank my first cup of coffee. Made that pot of coffee strong, inky black. I had work to do.

Weekly breakfast at the farm was my mama and daddy’s tradition, and I’d made it my own. In a matter of hours, there’d be a long line at the food table and every seat would be filled, with the younger folks eating on the grass, picnic style.

Hopefully, I’d be smiling then, instead of grumbling and cussing. That was the goal. I intended to give a warm welcome to each soul who showed up. Even if we’d never met, or I’d encountered them in unhappy circumstances. In my courtroom, for instance.

No one was ever turned away from Saturday breakfast. So long as the guests behaved themselves, they were welcome.

If, however, they took advantage of the Stone family hospitality, well. I knew how to enforce my house rules. The rules were well-known, just common sense. No fighting, no drinking or drugs, no harassment. We didn’t see many problems, honestly. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had to instruct someone to leave.

By sunrise, I had my big pots of grits and oatmeal ready, and the first three pounds of sausage patties fried and draining on paper towels. I set the burners to warm and took off for the barn.

Foghorn chased after me, bitching like he thought I’d forgotten all about him. I tossed the seed just to hush him up. “Lazy man! Can’t you find a worm or a bug? Look around, Foghorn, you’ve got the whole yard to yourself.”

By the time my chores were done, I exited the barn and saw both of my sisters’ cars parked on the gravel drive. With Mama and Daddy gone, there were three of us left. I was oldest, Nellie was the middle child, Jordan was the baby. When I reentered the kitchen, Nellie was standing at Jordan’s elbow, giving her grief.

“Jordan, you’re burning that bacon. It won’t be fit to eat,” Nellie said.

Jordan shoved Nellie aside with her hip. “Quit bossing me, Nellie.” She made a face and rolled her eyes as she turned the knob, adjusted the heat.

I walked up and inspected the skillet. “That bacon looks fine to me.”

“Mary, you always do that,” Nellie said, her voice rising. “Treat Jordan like a baby, even though she’s past forty. Saint Jordan could set the kitchen on fire and you’d be fine with it.”

“That’s true. Jordan’s so much nicer than you, Nellie.”

The three of us toiled side by side over the gas stove in the kitchen. When Jordan’s husband, Trayvone, showed up, my brother-in-law and their two girls got to work setting up tables and chairs. So by the time the battered bus from Victory Baptist rolled up the road in a cloud of exhaust, we were ready for them.

The gears of the old bus ground together before the engine rumbled a final time. After it fell silent, the doors opened and folks climbed out of the vehicle and fanned across my yard.

Some of them were the unhoused. In Union Springs, the homeless population consisted primarily of single men who took shelter at night in abandoned buildings. But there were also women, families, too. A lot of people came for a free meal. Members of the Baptist church arrived in their own cars, bearing dishes covered in aluminum foil, to fill out our table. And friends from town, some courthouse folks, dropped in, just to be social.

Jordan sailed into the yard, waving an arm. “Welcome, y’all! Who needs a cup of coffee or a cold drink?”

The last person to step off the church bus was the Reverend Curtis Erskine. He drove the vehicle, ferrying a busload of hungry people to my farm every Saturday morning.

He stepped up to my brother-in-law, Trayvone. As the men shook hands, Nellie sidled up to me at the screen door. She said, “The rest of us grow older. But the pastor never ages a day.”

Nellie was right. Erskine was several years older than I was. Didn’t look it. “Clean living, I reckon.”

“Maybe that’s it. Or it could be that way he has, the charisma. Our congregation keeps growing. Church membership has doubled since you used to attend on Sundays.”

“Good. He’s doing his job, then.” My voice was clipped. Nellie cut her eyes at me.

“You’ve never told me why you quit going.”

“That’s because it’s my own business.” I moved away, into the kitchen pantry, to get sugar for the oatmeal. Poured sugar from the bag into the sugar bowl and stuck a clean spoon inside.

Walked back to the kitchen door where Nellie stood, staring out into the yard through the screen.

Nellie made a humming noise in her throat. “Yes, ma’am, that’s one fine-looking man,” she said as she wiped her hands on the flour sack dish towel she’d tied around her waist. “His wife doesn’t deserve him. That Doreen Erskine is cold as a Popsicle. Just look at her! Acts like she’d rather be anywhere but here.”

Through the kitchen screen, I saw Doreen Erskine. She hadn’t arrived on the bus. And she was standing away from the crowd, listening stone-faced to a small cluster of the female pillars of the Baptist church.

My sister kept on talking about her. “Doreen’s a looker, can’t deny that. Keeps her figure. But someday, Pastor’s going to stray. Just to find communion with a warmhearted soul. I’d bet money on it. What do you think, Mary?”

“I don’t care what the man does. He’s not my business,” I said.

And I meant it.