I drove back to the sisters’ place and found them, frighteningly, much as I had left them, with their heads upturned stupidly to the sky. Of course my return could only be construed as prayers answered, and who was I to dispute this belief? After all, my complete faith in the nonexistence of their god notwithstanding, I was at a loss to explain my reappearance.
“We knew you would come back,” Sister Irenaeus said as I got out of my car. There was an arrogance in her tone that made me immediately sorry I’d returned. Yet I did not leave. Inexplicably.
“I’d like to talk to you,” I said. “To all of you.”
They stared at me.
“Can we go inside?”
We marched up the one step, through the solid wooden door, and into the austere two-room building. I assumed the room in the back was where they slept. I gestured for them to sit and so they did. The windows were shut tight and so it was not only hot inside, but airless.
“So, you want to build a church,” I said.
“You know that is true,” Sister Irenaeus said. The others nodded.
“Do you have a plan for this structure?” I asked.
“We do.” Sister Irenaeus looked over at Sister Firmilian and nodded. Sister Firmilian got up and walked to the writing table against the far wall. She opened the drawer, withdrew a paper, and brought it to me.
I looked at it. It was a crude sketch on lined, white-notebook leaf. Two angles were depicted — from above and from in front. The church was to be a rectangle with a pitched roof.
“What do you think?” Sister Irenaeus asked.
“I don’t know how to build a church,” I told them. “However, I have a lot of money.” I let this sit with them for a moment. “And I’m willing to pay for the materials and labor to have it built.”
All their eyes lit up.
“God has answered our prayers,” Sister Irenaeus said.
Sisters Chrysostom and Eusebius immediately went into a state and started rattling away in tongues; their eyes rolled up into their heads and pretty much scared the living shit out of me. The other three carried on as if nothing was happening.
“As I was saying, I will pay for your church. But you’re going to have to find an architect to draw something usable.”
“You will do that for us,” Sister Irenaeus said.
“No, you have to do it.”
“God has sent you.”
“No, bad judgment has sent me.” I pulled out my checkbook and started writing. “This is for fifty thousand dollars. This should get you started.”
“I do not have a bank account,” Sister Irenaeus said.
I looked at her.
“We have no money,” Sister Origen said.
“You will take care of it for us,” Sister Irenaeus said.
“No,” I said, sick of saying it. “I’ll find a bank, cash a check, bring you the money, and then I’ll leave.” With that I walked out, thinking that I should forget everything, but I’d told them I’d give them the money and so I would. I wondered as I fell in behind my steering wheel if there was a bank in Smuteye.
The sign on the one-story brick building set between a dry goods store and a defunct mortuary said Smuteye Farmers Savings and Loan, and I had no reason to doubt it. I parked diagonally in an unmarked space, only because the one other car there was so parked. It was across the street from nothing. The bank was quite naturally tiny: one old-fashioned teller’s window with one old-fashioned teller, a man, and just one desk on the floor behind which sat an old white woman with a canister of platinum blond hair set upon her small head. Since the check I sought to cash was relatively large I went to the desk instead of the teller.
“I’d like to cash a check,” I said.
“I see,” she said without really looking up at me, though I knew that she had looked me over and was still doing so. “Well, have a seat and we’ll see what we can do for you.”
I sat.
“I don’t believe you have an account with us.”
“That’s true, I don’t have an account here. And it’s a rather large check I’d like to cash,” I told her.
“Hmmm. How large?”
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
She whistled and I thought I saw a disbelieving smile behind her cat-eyed, horn-rimmed bifocals. “Hmmm. Is it a cashier’s check?” she asked.
“No, it’s my own personal check.”
“I see.” She showed no reaction. At least she showed no reaction that I, not knowing her, was able to read. She began to rearrange the items on her desk. She moved her stapler a few inches to her left, then her coffee cup of pencils and pens toward her a short distance. She fussed with the edge of the blotter. “The problem, young man. What is your name?”
“Poitier.”
“The problem, Mr. Poitier, is that I don’t know you.”
“That’s very true,” I said.
“I’ve never seen you.”
I nodded. I understood her position and her reservation completely. “Would it be possible for me to have the funds transferred here from another bank?”
“You mean a wire transfer?”
“Yes.”
“You could do that. That would give us permission to dispense the money, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t create the cash for us to dispense. You see, we don’t have that kind of money.”
“This is a bank?”
“A savings and loan,” she corrected me. “Mr. Poitier, this is Smuteye, Alabama.”
I nodded.
“The only reason I’m not stepping on the alarm under my desk, aside from the fact that it doesn’t work, is that any fool can see that there’s no money here in this godforsaken hamlet.”
All of this was no doubt true, and I felt the requisite amount of pity for her and her community, but all I said was, “So, how would I go about getting my money?”
“I guess you could go over to Eufaula. Troy is closer. The bank in Perote might be able to help you. That’s not far at all.”
“Thank you.” I started to leave, then asked, “Are there any architects around here?”
She pretended to consider my question. “I don’t think so.” I was impressed that she was able to say it without a hint of sarcasm. Neither did she show any interest in why I might need or want so much money in Smuteye.
I nodded.
As I drove those desolate Alabama back roads it became clear to me, through no feat of intellect, that my merely suggesting to someone that I’d like to cash a personal and out-of-state check for such a large amount would do far more than find a raised eyebrow as accompaniment to a resounding no. And like the Smuteye Farmers Savings and Loan, the local Western Union offices were not likely to have enough money to accommodate such a hefty wire. So I was left to wonder just how I would deliver the money I had promised to the sisters. I stopped at a truck stop, a lot full of big rigs and Confederate flags, and called Podgy from a pay phone. From where I sat I watched a fat trucker play a video game and watched another walk out of the washroom still brushing his teeth.
“Okay, Podgy, how can I get fifty grand down here to Smuteye, Alabama?” I asked.
“I will wire it to you.”
“They don’t … nobody here has that kind of money. Not even the Western Union office.”
“You must go to a bigger city.”
“Or you can bring it to me.”
“I will not come to a place called Smuteye.”
“Podgy,” I whined.
“No.” Then, away from the phone, he said, “Cool, I will be right there, my good dog.”
“All right, Podgy. Find a bank in—” I looked at my map, “—Montgomery that can or will handle the transfer and let me know where it is. I’ll call you in a few hours so you can tell me. What are you doing?”