Next to God's House
fiction by Susan Long
The two-mile walk from Young’s Bottom to Kroger in Clendenin took Margaret about an hour, give or take, depending on how long she spent staring into the display windows of Dalton’s, the town’s only department store, at dresses she would never wear, for occasions she was never invited to. Most days, Margaret wore a cotton housedress, its fabric so worn and thin that if you touched it ever so slightly with your eyes closed, you might swear it was silk.
Margaret did not feel sorry for herself, did not feel that life had been unfair. She accepted it matter-of-factly, much like the sun rising each day, three hundred sixty-five days a year for seventy-two years, plus a bonus day every four years, which Margaret duly noted. Once a week, rain or shine, she walked to Kroger to buy food staples, like milk and eggs, which reinforced that hers was a normal life. But, she much preferred the sustenance provided by frozen TV dinners and Little Debbie Nutty Bars. Margaret was especially fond of the Morton 3-Course Chicken-N Dumplings.
Sometimes, the Strickland boys offered Margaret a ride into town. They’d spot her walking along the side of the road as they sped around the hill in a 1965 Chevrolet Impala. Jimmy, the oldest of the four, was usually driving. He’d slam on the brakes, roll down the window, and yell: “Want a ride?” Margaret kept walking, her thin body propelled by determined legs that had carried her this far in life, and were in no mood to quit, now.
“We were given legs for a reason, might as well use them,” she’d say, wagging her bony index finger at them.
But, when your dreams reside within the boundaries of where your legs will carry you, you may not get as far as you’d hoped.
The Strickland boys, and others, teased Margaret. They had heard about what the inside of her trailer looked like — frozen TV dinner containers stacked ten-deep on the kitchen counter, newspapers dating back years carpeting the floor, and clothes piled on every available surface. This information came on good authority, from members of the congregation of the Holy Tabernacle Church, which sat right next door to where Margaret lived. The church ladies considered Margaret one of their community projects and routinely knocked on her trailer door to offer up casseroles and free advice on proper hygiene. Margaret resisted a strong urge to throw the ladies out; instead, she quietly accepted their food and advice, and then promptly tossed those out after the ladies retreated.
A small but tidy house, where Margaret had lived with her mother, once stood on what was now the church parking lot. After their mother’s death, John, Margaret’s brother, sold the property to the church; God’s House was expanding and needed more space. As part of the deal, they included a trailer for Margaret. On the rare occasions that she was asked where she lived, she responded: “Next to God’s House.”
Margaret worked part-time at the church. The Deacon trusted her with the keys, so she’d go early in the morning to clean. All alone in the church, she felt important, like God had invited her to a private reception at his house. Sometimes, she sat down in one of the massive, mahogany pews to take a rest from mopping or dusting, but, unlike many who sat there on Sundays, Margaret didn’t ask any favors of God; she already had everything she needed.
She refused to have a telephone in her trailer, so, once a week, John drove up from Charleston to check on her. Margaret claimed she knew when he was about to arrive. Indeed, John never had to knock.
She flung open the door, rubbing her index finger back and forth under her nose.
“I knew you were coming,” Margaret said. “My nose has been itching real bad.”
“You taking your medicine, Margaret?” John asked.
“When I remember,” she said.
“You have any more seizures lately?”
“Those boys were throwing rocks at the trailer again,” she said. “I chased them away.”
“They’re just boys,” John said. “They don’t mean no harm.”
“Bobby Strickland’s sister is getting married next week,” Margaret said. “Got to clean the church real good.”
“Margaret, you’ve got to clean your own house; this place is a health hazard.” John said this each time he visited, and, each time, Margaret picked up a copy of the Clendenin Herald or Charleston Gazette from the floor, rolled it into a tight tube, and swatted John on the shoulder, a girlish giggle erupting. John counted his blessings when she chose the Herald. Clendenin was a town of about two thousand people; Charleston, the state capital, was much larger.
Margaret recorded her daily activities and observations on the gray, flattened-out, cardboard backs of empty Little Debbie Nutty Bars packages, her scrawled handwriting childlike, made worse by several strokes. On the front side of the cardboard, a wholesome looking, red-headed girl wearing a straw hat, Little Debbie herself, beamed, as though she recognized that a
mundane life deserved as much celebration as any other.
I got up at 4:50 a.m. No Gazette by 6:45. Gazette finally came at 7:20. I went to the church
at 8 to clean. Bud Johnson left his glasses on top of the organ again. I put them in the office.
Ladies Circle must have met last night, coffee cup rings on the table. At 5:50 p.m. Clifford Jones
came to the church in a red pickup truck, carried boxes and pipes and materials inside. I guess
he’s fixing the heater. His truck was still there at 8 p.m.
John felt bad for Margaret, but he didn’t see how he could do anything more to help. Everything flowed into John, nothing flowed out; his first wife got tired of the tides never turning. When she left with the girls,
he sat in the same spot for days, like a stagnant puddle of water. Finally, whatever was left inside him evaporated, and, after that, he was dry
and brittle.
I got up at 5:45. Swept and cleaned glass off the church parking lot from 6:50 a.m. to 8 a.m.
Boys throwing beer bottles, again. Brenda Strickland drove by and blowed her horn. Spent most
of the day writing down names of 55 counties in West Virginia, starting with Bs: Barbour, Braxton,
all the way up to Ws: Wood, Wyoming. Someone left the church light on. Went to check at 10:35 p.m.
To bed at 11 p.m.
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Susan Long was born and raised in Clendenin, West Virginia. Her work has appeared in the Orlando Sentinel, Voices of Lung Cancer, several AAA member magazines, and Journalism Educator. Susan has written two novels, Blue Impala, based on a short story of the same name, a finalist in Glimmer Train’s “Short Story Award for New Writers,” and Waiting in Place. A chapter from Blue Impala appeared in Appalachia Bare in 2023, and her short story, “Bookmobile,” was published there in 2024. She is currently working on a collection, Dreams of Appalachia—Take Me Home: Stories and Essays. After receiving a master’s degree in English from C.W. Post-Long Island University, Susan taught high school English and, subsequently, worked for several PR firms in Manhattan. She later moved to Orlando, where she was an assistant professor in the Communications department at the University of Central Florida and a senior writer/manager of National Promotions and Communications at AAA’s national headquarters.