Juniper Holt
Furr |1
Kelsey Furr
100 Raleigh Street
Chapel Hill, NC 27514
Juniper Holt
If Tim were a sinner, he knew exactly which kind he’d be. He’d spend this Sunday
morning lying in bed next to an ugly girl who was still too pretty for him and they’d discuss
Woody Allen movies inbetween kisses. She’d leave around lunchtime, he’d realize he’d
forgotten her name, and he would smile at the honesty in that. If Tim were a sinner, he’d own a
motorcycle instead of his ten year old Buick, and he’d know how to fix the motorcycle, too. He
would have learned while bumming his way down the European coast, just him and the bike and
a translation of Ovid. But Tim had never been homeless, he’d never owned a motorcycle, he’d
never had a one-night stand, he’d never admitted to enjoying Woody Allen films—because Tim
was not a sinner, and his quest was blamelessness.
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The thing was, it was his turn to preach—Reverend Lee was on a much-needed vacation
with his wife and two boys. Tim entered the sanctuary of Juniper Holt United Methodist Church,
crossing himself as he approached the podium. He turned to observe the congregation, the flesh
mass, the rotting apple heap. He often referred to them as Juniper Holt in his mind, as if they
were one person. Within ten years, everyone in here will be dead, he thought, except for me—he
glanced at the piano player, with her hair down—and her.
Reverend Lee usually wore a simple black robe similar in design to the ones the choir
members wore, but Tim had chosen to wear a white costume robe, unflattering and tied simply at
the waist, for his Sunday at the lectern. He saw the curious glances, a few of the members
pursing lips and narrowing eyes. But Tim was undaunted. He had chosen to wear a white Jesus
robe for two reasons: 1) it represented purity of Spirit, his greatest ambition; 2) it symbolized his
status within the Church, separate from the congregation. He focused on the altar at the back of
the stage and closed his eyes in reverence. All the elderlies were chatting to each other, and the
choir watched Tim, waiting for his cue. Before giving it, he faced the crowd and said in his
embarrassingly loud, quivering voice, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” That got their
attention, even if they only eyed his robe suspiciously. The choir began on the wrong note, as
they often did, but they stuck with the same key throughout the hymn—it helped. Tim knew the
song by heart, and sang boldly, but during the refrain he snuck Altoids. When it was time for the
announcements, the Reverend’s brother John mounted the stage and stood beside the podium to
lead the church in sharing joys and sorrows; Marcy’s mother was still in recovery at the hospital
following the stroke, Julie Wilkerson delivered her first baby boy on Saturday (he was six
pounds, twenty inches), Mrs. Lodge finally passed after battling cancer for two years, someone
donated a shed to the church’s community garden, another death, another birth, and two more
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illnesses. John made one last call for any forgotten announcements and Karl Brake stood up. He
cleared his throat and spoke in the barely discernible, melted drawl of a man more used to talking
to crops and livestock than people.
“We got hams an’ shoulders fer sale fer Thanksgivin’ an’ Christmas but if ya wanna
shoulder ya need ta git yer order in before th’ twenny-third ‘cuz they’re goin’ fas. Naw me an’
Joy are pricin’ at ‘bout sixy-fie dollars a ham—jus talk to one o’ uz soon. Aur number is in th’
directry.”
“Thank you Karl. The las thing I want to tell y’all is that Dexter Asbury, long time
member of Juniper Holt and close pers’nal friend, passed away las evenin’. We’ll be holdin’ his
funeral this Thursday and our intern Tim Macula will be performin’ the cerem’ny in Reverend’s
absence. If you wanna give money or meals to the Asbury fam’ly, Miss Olive is org’nizin all
that. Now if th’ ushers will come for’ard wi’th plates, we’ll take up th’ off’rin’.”
John stepped down and the choir wavered into a unique rendition of “Come, every soul
by sin oppressed.” Tim popped another two Altoids into his mouth. Once the two gold offering
plates were passed throughout the entire small congregation, Tim took one plate in each hand
and, standing before the alter at the back of the stage, raised both plates high into the air and
prayed in his loud voice, pausing in all the wrong places and sometimes between syllables:
“Crumbs under the table, Lord—our heavenly…Father and Lord Jesus—Christ who died.
Sparrows need not worry; lilies among the thorns in the field; and pearls of great price;
better…clothed than Solomon. You are our…King and we your people; the coming Jerusalem,
the—heaven, we await. The hairs of our heads are numbered—and sparrows…have everything
they need. We are more than conquerors and we—enter a land of milk and honey. Amen.”
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Tim then launched into his message, a beautifully crafted (if somewhat unsteadily
delivered) summation and analysis of a passage in Mark. He had preached many times at this
church over the past three years, and now that he was in his final year of Divinity School, the
sermons were almost flawless. He pulled in Old Testament texts to support and emphasize the
New, quoted prominent theologians whose names these people probably couldn’t begin to
pronounce, and tied his points together in succinct, precise conclusions. Works of art, really.
Tim the painter of words, the sculptor of Scripture, the potter of poetry—while the ancient
congregation stared dully from behind bifocals, tried to mask yawns behind their Bibles, or
nodded solemnly whenever Tim raised his voice in a particularly passionate argument. Today it
was a sermon about Bartimaeus, the blind man who called out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy
on me!” and was healed. Tim repeated that phrase as often as he could wedge it into the rest of
his talk, speaking it louder each time, expecting the crescendo of God’s presence to respond to
the simple words spoken in faith. Then they’ll all see, they’ll see God and be ashamed of their
neglect! He grew angrier at these people every time he spoke, every time they refused to listen.
Tim fondled the Altoids tin in his pocket, desperately wanting another one to calm his nerves and
create this wonderful tingling cold sensation whenever he inhaled. It doesn’t matter if they
listen, he finally decided. What matters is that I am guiltless.
Even Tim admitted to himself that they were a few snags in the delivery, even if the
written work was perfect. The part about professions, “What becomes of Bartimaeus’
profession? He was a blind…beggar, and he must have been pretty good—at it because he
was…alive. But you can’t be a blind beggar if—you can see.” Well, he would perfect it over
time. There would be many years as an ordained minister in his own church, full of people like
him and supporting him; he would have time to perfect the delivery then. Tim ended by making
Juniper Holt
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the trademark of the talk plural, and practically yelling it at the congregation: “Jesus, Son of
David, have mercy on Juniper Holt!” He imagined the vaulted ceiling cracking, splintering and
falling down around the pews as the light of heaven poured in through the gaping hole. The
golden glory of the Lord would illuminate the sins of every person and he—Tim Macula—he
alone would be found uncontaminated. But Tim delivered the final line of his message and the
roof remained intact. Regardless and undeterred, Tim called for an Amen, but that was far too
charismatic for this crowd and he received silence in response. He ate three Altoids hungrily as
he left the stage. He sat down in his usual spot, the otherwise empty front pew, which
commanded an excellent prospect of the piano player. The piano player was the only other
member of Juniper Holt United Methodist Church under the age of sixty-five; in fact, she was
twenty-two, and Tim always watched her. She, like other members of the ill-prepared choir,
wore a Calamine-pink robe with a white collar. The piano player looked like a sick-sweet
cupcake with glasses; Tim was obsessed. He’d never seen her in normal clothing, so he just
imagined she was naked underneath the costume. If Tim were a sinner, he would be the bold
kind, would find her after the service and take her to the vacant office. He would remove the
giant faux collar, and the piano player would begin to unzip her medicinally pink, polyester robe,
the only clothing she ever wore—
“We knew Dex very well and we’re lookin’ out fer Pearl now she’s alone. You know
they never had any kids.”
Tim smiled with all the sadness he could muster and shook the lady’s hand. “I wasn’t
aware. But it explains why Pearl is—trying to do so much on her own.”
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“And the…preparations? I know there might could be—comp’l’cations,” the lady
continued, either ignoring or unaware of the fact that a line was forming behind her to shake the
intern’s hand and leave the sanctuary.
“I will be meeting with Mrs. Asbury very soon to go over details. I’m sure everything
will work out fine. But we can rejoice in the knowledge that the Lord is rejoicing over Dexter in
heaven right now.”
“What a comfort.” The lady gave Tim’s hand one final squeeze and dabbed at her eyes
with a handkerchief.
Tim dutifully shook each member’s hand, looking each one in the eye with as much
conviction as he could. Some of them hadn’t been in a few weeks, some only came once a
month, some came but were never really there, some had been attending this church their whole
life and didn’t know how to stop now. It needs to be more than duty, Tim thought distastefully
as he shook another hand. And another. The hands already felt papery and cold like corpses,
like the undersides of leaves that foretell the coming storm. And you’re bringing it on
yourselves. The choir was the last to leave, the over exuberant choirmaster telling Tim what a
convicting sermon it had been, how she’d never known to pronounce Bartimaeus’ name before
this Sunday. She laughed; Tim forced a chuckle. The piano player was the last to leave, walking
down the aisle in what appeared to Tim to be slow motion. She tucked her hair behind both ears
in a motion that Tim thought was both innocent and seductive. He had never shaken her hand;
he thought they had a sort of understanding. The service would end, Tim and Reverend Lee
would stand at the doorway and greet each person coming out, but when the piano player
came—always last in line—the intern and the Reverend would already be mingling in the lobby.
Or her hands would be full of sheet music and she would merely smile and keep walking past,
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hurrying to the choir room. Would this Sunday be any different? If Tim were the sinner he
wished he were, he would block the doorway so that she had to speak to him in order to pass.
She approached the end of the aisle, smiled at Tim—and he turned quickly, walking through the
lobby and shutting himself in Reverend Lee’s office. Not this Sunday.
Tim’s old tweed jacket rested on the back of the Reverend’s chair; he put it back on after
taking off the Jesus robe. He looked around the office, imagining what his would look like when
he had one of his own. Fewer flowery quotes on the walls, not so many pictures of himself with
members of the congregation. There was one of the Reverend and the recently deceased, Dexter
Asbury. Tim picked up the frame and could barely repress a snort at the sight of Dexter, or
“Dex,” as the rest of the church fondly referred to him, who took up three fourths of the picture.
Funeral complications, indeed.
Tim was glad for the chance to perform the ceremony—one more rung of experience on
the ladder of ambition. He met with the deceased’s wife Pearl Asbury on Tuesday, but didn’t
bring enough tissues to account for her blubbery nature.
“I even cry durin’ communion,” she confessed between tears.
“Please, don’t hold back.” Tim handed her a paper towel (option B).
“Income jus hasn’t been what it used to be. We all been strugglin’ to make ends meet,
and it’s all jus so expensive—” Pearl sniffed once, twice, and crumpled into tears again.
“Let’s talk about the logistics, Mrs. Asbury.”
That helped. Pearl the Planner started talking details and calmed down considerably.
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“Amelia is doin’ flowers, which was very kind of ‘er considerin’ I really can’t pay ‘er for
‘em. I’m not sure what she’ll put together; I just hope it’s not roses ‘cause Dex hated roses.
Always brought me foxglove, irises an’ the like; happy flowers.”
Mrs. Asbury smiled, even while tears rolled over the fat folds on her neck, soaking the
knit sweater she wore.
“I understand you’re having trouble finding a coffin,” Tim said. Your husband was a
whale.
“Dex was a hefty man. The oversized caskets are jus so overpriced. It’s really all quite
ridiculous—the way they take advantage of people in grief…” Mrs. Asbury still had the ocean in
her and it came pouring out of her eye sockets in waves as if she’d never cried before.
“Yes,” Tim said slowly, after handing Pearl the rest of the paper towels. “He was rather
large. Have you considered cremation?”
Pearl choked on a sob and gave Tim a look of horror. “But that’s directly against Dex’s
last wishes! He wants to be buried in our plot here at Juniper Holt.” She gazed out the window
at the church cemetery, almost wistfully.
“Will he fit in the plot?” Tim asked, tired of skirting the question.
“How dare you! How dare you look down on my husband for livin’ his life! If there’s
something you want to say, why don’t you jus go ‘head an’ say it?”
“Mrs. Asbury, I’m merely trying to look at this from a practical standpoint. Mr. Asbury
was a…substantial man, and we need to find arrangements that will be conducive for everyone
involved.”
“And what ‘bout my husband? Does he get a say in this? He thought he did, when we
paid for a Juniper Holt cemetery plot!”
Juniper Holt
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“Mrs. Asbury, please try to calm down—”
“Calm down! My husband is dead and all you can do is sit there and tell me he was an
elephant!” She collapsed suddenly into the chair, shaking violently in her caterwauling.
“I just want to make sure you’ve considered cremation. It might be the only way around
the price of the oversized casket,” Tim said in that harsh, loud voice of his.
Mrs. Asbury kept up her incessant sniffling, but cleared the nose enough to say, “I am not
goin’ to burn my husband’s body.”
There was a kind effort to raise enough money for the casket in the few days leading up
to the funeral, but there weren’t nearly enough funds. If Tim were a sinner, he would have
thought the whole ordeal darkly hilarious. But as it was, Tim was forced to prepare a ceremony
for a man who, to the burning of his corpse and the great distress of his wife, was a glutton. This
is what your sin produces, Tim thought gravely, donning the Reverend’s black robe in order to
perform the ritualistic sending out of Dexter’s spirit. He seriously considered scrapping the neat,
orderly little speech he’d prepared and replacing it with a treatise on the seven deadly sins and
how they affect those around you. He decided against it—to be expelled on the grounds of
offending an entire church congregation in his final year of Divinity School was a poor career
choice.
If Tim were a sinner, he would have tried cocaine if for no other reason than to be able to
say he’d done it. He had never taken drugs, although he did snort some powdered Altoids once
during his senior year of high school in a moment of weakness and extreme curiosity. The
experiment was enlightening and painful—Tim had all the proof he needed that snorting
anything was a bad idea. He crunched on a couple of Altoids, considered the tin box seriously,
and then dumped the rest of the little mints into the pocket of his robe. He tossed the tin in the
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trash, placed his Bible under his arm with great care, and stepped out of the Reverend’s office to
go give a short talk on the life of a dead fat man.
Following the ceremony and the burying of the ashes, Juniper Holt prepared a veritable
banquet of a reception. How ironic, Tim thought, retrieving an Altoid from his pocket every
other minute, eyeing the food with distaste. Dexter, we celebrate your death by gluttony, your
cremation by gluttony, with gluttony. The piano player attended the funeral, although she didn’t
play the music for it, and Tim was shocked by her appearance. Despite how cold it was outside,
she wore a remarkably low-cut black dress that was altogether sinfully alluring. Whore. Tim
was angry with her. It wasn’t that she wore clothes other than the choir robe; it was that Tim
was so alone on his narrow path of righteousness. He couldn’t even force himself to remain
through the reception for manner’s sake, but trudged across the wide cemetery to stand on the
other side and observe his temporary congregation. They were like a group of flies buzzing
around old meat, like bodies being slowly stripped and eaten, bones licked clean by the Devil
and turned to rubble by the sun. I alone am safe, Tim thought. I alone am clean.