Arnold Bledsoe stood bareheaded on the courthouse steps, drenched with sweat. The summer heat beat down incessantly, bleaching the marble whiter, blinding people walking up the steps, and baking Mr. Bledsoe. He leaned on an old wooden crutch, padded with a sweat-stained rag wrapped loosely around the end stuffed in his armpit. His glasses, the same pair he bought new 40 years ago, had twisted slightly in the intervening time, and now sat on his face crooked, making one eye look higher than the other. The sweat lubricated his nose, and when his glasses slid dangerously low, he'd squash them back against his crooked face angrily, adding still another fingerprint to the lenses. There were bags of skin beneath his eyes and large jowls which hung from his cheeks. All this redundant skin flapped when he shook his head with conviction, which he did frequently.
Chancery Court was in session that day, with the usual array of divorces, custody cases, land disputes, and paternity suits. The people slowly climbing the courthouse steps came in bib overalls, faded house dresses, shorts, in halter tops, polyester slacks, bare feet; they came for justice, or at least verdict, or to watch. The lawyers, in three-piece suits, carrying briefcases, moved quickly through the heat, as if insulated by their garb. Bledsoe stood on a landing about halfway up the steps, facing people as they ascended. Their greetings were cordial and predictable:
"Mornin' Arnie."
"Howdy, Mr. Bledsoe."
"Y'all right, Arnie?"
"Whatcha know, Arnold?"
Bledsoe responded with conviction, whether he knew the person from birth or was seeing him for the first time: "God bless you." He usually knew everyone climbing the steps. Nonetheless, he wore his identification on the breast pocket of his coat: "Arnold Bledsoe, Ambassador for Jesus." At his feet was a worn box about the shape of a small coffin, and wrapped around it was a hand-written sign with the menacing warning "Get Right with God." The box contained what Bledsoe called "Gospel Bombs," tracts wrapped in cellophane and secured with a rubber band. He deposited them in people's hands, pockets, mailboxes, and empty cars, fully expecting them when opened to explode with love. Love, though, had to be tempered with truth, and was weakened if presented unconditionally. Thus, he also had some hand-written tracts he stored in his coat pockets.
"God bless you." This was for Mavis Hensley, whose third divorce was to be heard that day.
"H'lo Mr. Bledsoe. How're you?"
"My child," he answered, "the time is short. Read this message from the Lord," and he handed her a handwritten tract entitled "Our Responcibility."
Mavis, avoiding his eyes, took the tract and hurried up the steps.
"Hot enough for ya, Arnie?" The Rev. Horace Nicely struggled up the first set of steps and stood opposite Bledsoe on the landing, panting. He was obese, a problem he attributed principally to his 16-pound birth weight. He removed his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve.
"God bless you," Bledsoe began, reaching into his coat pocket. "Let me share with you what the Lord has laid or my heart." He witnessed to saved and unsaved alike.
"Much obliged, much obliged." The preacher slid the tract into his pocket without looking at it. "You doing much bidness today?"
"Just sowing the seed, Preacher Nicely," Bledsoe smiled briefly. "God gives the increase."
"Amen, Brother Bledsoe," said the preacher. "Why just this Sunday we had three saved." He proceeded to recount the essence of his sermon which had convicted the three fortunate sinners.
"Preacher," Bledsoe's gaze narrowed and his head began to vibrate, "here are the sinners," and he swept his arm up the steps and pointed at the courthouse door.
"Yes, brother," the preacher said, still remembering his sermon, "saved for all eternity. It done my heart good." He clapped Bledsoe on the shoulder and went back down the steps and across the street.
Bledsoe watched him waddle away; he leaned heavily on his crutch while he shifted weight. From somewhere deep within him a memory gurgled like water beneath the sink drain. He remembered the useless car wreck that mangled his leg, and he leaned quickly back on the good leg. But the memory continued to bubble up and brought with it a picture of Jesus hanging mangled on the cross with that useless spear sticking out of his side. The cross never bothered him, though the spear had always seemed so unnecessary since Jesus was already dead. The whole picture usually left him with a keen pain in his head, so he began flushing it, as well as the memory of the useless car wreck, out of his mind.
When he looked up again, Elmo Kitts had already begun to climb the stairs. Bledsoe hobbled to the center of the landing and held out a tract at arm's length, like a policeman stopping traffic.
"God bless you," he shot out when Elmo was still two steps away. Elmo ignored the greeting and veered to the right to continue his climb. Bledsoe, however, extended his crutch like a railroad crossing gate and repeated his greeting, shaking his head this time so that his jowls flapped. Elmo stopped, irritated.
"The Lord sees into your heart," Bledsoe declared, "and he knows how black sin is."
"Arnold, lay off," Elmo interrupted and began walking again. "I'm aimin' to go to court, and..."
"That judge ain't able to make your heart clean!" Bledsoe shouted, and stiffened his grip on his extended crutch when Elmo began pushing against it. A few people on the street began to notice the disturbance. "Don't resist God, Mr. Kitts, for rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft."
"Hit's my bidness, Arnold. Hit ain't yourn," Elmo said angrily, and pushed at the crutch like a turnstile. When did not give, he jerked it rapidly, and Bledsoe landed at feet along with the crutch. Elmo took a step over him, but Bledsoe locked his arms around the remaining foot and shouted, "Adultry! They ought to be trying you for adultry not paternity!" Elmo tried to continue his climb, but tumbled forward onto the steps and cursed.
A small, tattered man on his way to court stopped and stared at the men blocking his way. He wore a squashed cap low on his forehead and trembled as he stood. When Elmo turned around to release his foot, he saw the little man, and yelled back at Bledsoe, "Hey, leggo! Whyn't you preach at someone else fer a change? What about Bunch here? Non-support's a pretty bad sin, ain't it?"
The little man watched the wrestlers a moment longer, then knelt down and gently rested his hand on Bledsoe's locked arms. Bledsoe tightened his grip when Elmo started shoving at him. But the little man's hand stuck to Bledsoe's slimy arms like it would to a live electric wire. By this time a deputy arrived and, being unable to make sense out of the shouted comments, arrested both Elmo and Bledsoe for disorderly conduct and transported them to the county jail.
The jail, in the basement of the courthouse, was at least 10 degrees cooler than outside. Instead of bars, the cells were separated by solid steel walls; and the doors, also solid steel, had narrow horizontal trap doors two feet above the floor for the passage of food trays. A metal John without seat or cover occupied the front inside corner; above it a dull metal mirror was bolted to the wall. Across from the John a tiny steel table and bench protruded from the wall; and hung from the back concrete wall, one above the other, were metal cot frames without mattresses. Bledsoe was ushered into a cell, while Elmo was escorted down the hall to the drunk tank, a large common room with eight bunks, where he spent two or three nights a month drying out and waking up.
Bledsoe was reminded of the apostles being jailed for preaching the gospel. He considered which hymn to start with. Elmo, on the other hand, though unused to entering jail sober and in the morning, felt no honor in spending another night there. But he knew the futility of protest, and resigned himself to the postponement or even defeat of his affairs upstairs.
Bledsoe, meanwhile, had chosen "I'll Fly Away" and sang all five verses amid mounting catcalls from the other prisoners. It was the happiest day of his life. He sang off and on throughout the morning, and about noon the Rev. Horace Nicely arrived for a pastoral visit. Bledsoe sobered as Preacher Nicely entered his cell.
"H'lo again, Brother Bledsoe."
"God bless you," Bledsoe nailed the preacher.
"Sure is cool here," said Rev. Nicely. "Must be a hundred degrees out there. Seems like ever' cloud has its own silver lining don't it? The Lord provides, faithful as the spring rains, 'cording to the prophet Hosea. Why Jonah found hisself locked up"--this part delivered with his professional preaching voice--"locked up in that dungeon-ah. That dungeon prepared by the Lord-ah. That dungeon prepared just for Jonah-Hah." A few prisoners offered their 'Amens' here. "That great fish-ah--that great fish of judgment for Jonah-Hah. For even in rebellion-ah--in rebellion-ah God spared his life-ah." Suddenly his normal voice returned. "And Jonah found the innards of a fish better than rebellion from God." He then became silent.
The one-man congregation leaned on his crutch throughout the sermon, staring. The gospel, he knew, was intolerable, though he felt a good deal more like Jeremiah than Jonah. His head began to vibrate as a response rose within him, then he let it out like steam that had been trapped in a kettle: "Ya gotta die, buddy!"
The Rev. Nicely was a seasoned evangelist, unperturbed by misunderstanding. "The Lord came to seek and to save them that are lost," he quoted. "He came that we might have life, be borned again, and live no longer in sin."
"Sin," muttered Bledsoe. "Sin. All unrighteousness is sin. Woe to them that call evil good, and good evil. For the mill of our God grinds slowly but it grinds exceedingly well," and his jowls shook with the last two words.
The Rev. Nicely was as content with his defense of the gospel as Bledsoe was of his offense of the same. The preacher waddled out to the dispatcher and chortled with the sheriff for about half an hour, then left.
When Bledsoe finished his cornbread, instant mashed potatoes, canned beans, and dry pineapple upside down cake, he knelt by his cot and prayed. Much of his prayer was unintelligible to the other prisoners but at times they heard him pleading for sight for the blind, ears for the deaf, and, finally, deliverance. During his prayer the picture of Jesus rose in his mind again, on this time instead of the spear sticking out of his side, it was a crutch. He shook his head rapidly to rid himself of the apparition. As he finished there seemed to be some clamor in the waiting area, so he pulled himself up on hi crutch and stood at the cell door, peering out the tiny window. Before long a deputy escorted the pale tattered little man to Bledsoe's cell, opened the door, and shoved him in.
"God bless you, fellow sinner," Bledsoe began cheerfully; "Bledsoe, Arnold Bledsoe is my name. Arrested for sowing the seed. Suffering for my Lord." He shuffled in his coat pocket for a tract. The little man stood still for a moment expressionless but ignored his cellmate. When Bledsoe presented him with a copy of "Our Responcibility," he turned slowly and acknowledged the gift with a simple, frightened grin. He sat stiffly on the lower cot, as if he weren't sure which joint to bend first. He acted like a first grader on the first day of school.
Bledsoe stared him, contemplating strategy. His head began to vibrate as his challenge took form. "Repent and be saved!" he burst out, his loose cheeks beating against teeth. The little man looked up and said nothing. Bledsoe breathed deeply, waited, and then turned toward the door. "What did you say your name was?"
"Bunch."
"Bunch, huh? You L.Z.'s boy?"
"Naw. He's my uncle. L.Z. and my d-daddy was b-brothers."
Bledsoe turned back and hobbled to the cots. "Didn't he marry a Munsey?"
"The f-first time. Only Aunt C-Claudie d-died and left him." He stopped and rubbed his eyes. "So he m-married Beatrice C-Collins."
Bledsoe laid his crutch on the cot and sat on the steel bench with his bad leg extended. Witnessing nose to nose was a crucial event in the kingdom, like a major operation compared to the minor surgery of street witnessing. He was determined to do it right. Bunch had meanwhile picked up the crutch and was fingering the old rag that served as padding. He absent-mindedly tried to adjust it but when Bledsoe turned around, he saw the little man take off his shirt and begin to carefully tie it over the existing meager padding.
For the rest of the day, neither prisoner spoke. Bledsoe stood occasionally and glared at his cellmate. Bunch worked for an hour fastening his shirt onto the crutch, then laid it carefully on the cot and sat motionless. The next morning a tall, skinny deputy with a pistol protruding from his hip rattled his keys and finally kicked the door open.
"Stay back, Bunch," he growled. "You--yeah, you, preacher-boy. Sheriff says you can go, long as you keep yore religion to yoreself." Bledsoe slowly gathered himself up and hobbled out, the crutch burning in his armpit all the way home.
Raymond Downing was a physician working in a wholistic health clinic in Maynardsville, Tennessee when this story appeared.
Got something to say about what you're reading? We value your feedback!