been at dawn when Myrtle had engaged him
in the battle of wits that he had lost.
An old railroad station had been built right next to the crossroads. The sign on the station read TEMPEST’S BOG , the only indicator that he had officially come into the community.
Tempest’s Bog was a place that had grown up like a sixth toe on the town’s foot, as though it was a part of Nazareth for tax
purposes, but otherwise a neglected appendage on the south side. Three men propped their chairs against the station’s east
office entrance. One whittled soft wood while the other two passed a beverage back and forth. It was tucked into a wrinkled
brown bag stained from a lot of use.
Jeb rolled down his window. “Afternoon, fellers. Name’s Reverend Nubey, Church in the Dell.”
Two of the men would not look up, but the whittler, minding his p’s and q’s, said, “Same to you.”
“You lost, Preacher?” one of the other men asked.
“I got something that don’t belong to me,” Jeb answered.
“If it’s a bag of money, it belongs to me,” the third man finally spoke up.
All three of them laughed out loud. One tucked his bottle into the side pocket of his brown overshirt.
Myrtle cried out. Jeb leaned over her and jiggled the basket. The rocking had lost its effect. She wailed until Jeb poked
the bottle into her mouth. For now, the cow’s milk would have to suffice.
He told the men, “Someone dropped a baby off on my porch last night. The doctor said I should try asking house to house.”
“Horace, you know of anyone missing a baby?” one man asked the other.
The men all shook their heads. “We got several new babies on our road, but they all accounted for, best I can remember.” The
whittler stopped his whittling.
“Maybe it’s best I ask around anyway,” said Jeb.
“You can ask all you want, mister, but I’m telling you, we don’t have no one missing a child.”
“You saying she’s colored?” one of the men asked Jeb.
Jeb nodded. He gunned the engine. It ground to a start and he threw the truck into gear. The men stared after him as he drove
down Tempest’s Lane.
Jeb knocked on the doors of three houses, each time holding Myrtle up to the person’s face when they opened the door. Some
people sat out on their porches. When one group of men and women saw Jeb hauling a basket of crying baby down the street,
they went inside and slammed the door closed. Jeb knocked anyway. He heard yelling from inside. Finally the door opened. A
young girl, a teen of about fifteen, poked her head through the open door. She had combed her hair into tidy rows that started
at her forehead and stopped at her neck. “What do you want?” she asked.
“You ever see this baby before?” Jeb asked.
She closed the door but then cracked it open. She could not take her eyes off Myrtle, who stared out of the pink blanket.
“She’s not mine, if that’s what you’re saying.”
“Is your momma about?”
The door closed. Jeb thought he had been left alone for good until the door was forced open.
“Get gone, mister!” The woman had a wide girth and full lips that flowered open when angry.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m just trying to find the mother of this baby.”
The taut lines in her face relaxed. “Baby?” She studied the contents of the basket. Then she said to Jeb, “Where’d you get
a baby?”
“My front porch.”
“Who exactly are you?”
“Reverend Jeb Nubey, Church in the Dell.” He would have extended his hand but couldn’t, so he tried his best to smile.
“Jackie, you get out here!” she shouted.
The teenage girl appeared, this time her face more sullen than before. “What I do?”
“You hear of any girl out having a baby? Maybe don’t want her folks to know?”
Jackie shrugged.
“You lie and I can tell and God can tell, so you may as well come out with it.”
“I’m not lying.”
Jeb told her, “I’ve been all up and down the street
in the battle of wits that he had lost.
An old railroad station had been built right next to the crossroads. The sign on the station read TEMPEST’S BOG , the only indicator that he had officially come into the community.
Tempest’s Bog was a place that had grown up like a sixth toe on the town’s foot, as though it was a part of Nazareth for tax
purposes, but otherwise a neglected appendage on the south side. Three men propped their chairs against the station’s east
office entrance. One whittled soft wood while the other two passed a beverage back and forth. It was tucked into a wrinkled
brown bag stained from a lot of use.
Jeb rolled down his window. “Afternoon, fellers. Name’s Reverend Nubey, Church in the Dell.”
Two of the men would not look up, but the whittler, minding his p’s and q’s, said, “Same to you.”
“You lost, Preacher?” one of the other men asked.
“I got something that don’t belong to me,” Jeb answered.
“If it’s a bag of money, it belongs to me,” the third man finally spoke up.
All three of them laughed out loud. One tucked his bottle into the side pocket of his brown overshirt.
Myrtle cried out. Jeb leaned over her and jiggled the basket. The rocking had lost its effect. She wailed until Jeb poked
the bottle into her mouth. For now, the cow’s milk would have to suffice.
He told the men, “Someone dropped a baby off on my porch last night. The doctor said I should try asking house to house.”
“Horace, you know of anyone missing a baby?” one man asked the other.
The men all shook their heads. “We got several new babies on our road, but they all accounted for, best I can remember.” The
whittler stopped his whittling.
“Maybe it’s best I ask around anyway,” said Jeb.
“You can ask all you want, mister, but I’m telling you, we don’t have no one missing a child.”
“You saying she’s colored?” one of the men asked Jeb.
Jeb nodded. He gunned the engine. It ground to a start and he threw the truck into gear. The men stared after him as he drove
down Tempest’s Lane.
Jeb knocked on the doors of three houses, each time holding Myrtle up to the person’s face when they opened the door. Some
people sat out on their porches. When one group of men and women saw Jeb hauling a basket of crying baby down the street,
they went inside and slammed the door closed. Jeb knocked anyway. He heard yelling from inside. Finally the door opened. A
young girl, a teen of about fifteen, poked her head through the open door. She had combed her hair into tidy rows that started
at her forehead and stopped at her neck. “What do you want?” she asked.
“You ever see this baby before?” Jeb asked.
She closed the door but then cracked it open. She could not take her eyes off Myrtle, who stared out of the pink blanket.
“She’s not mine, if that’s what you’re saying.”
“Is your momma about?”
The door closed. Jeb thought he had been left alone for good until the door was forced open.
“Get gone, mister!” The woman had a wide girth and full lips that flowered open when angry.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m just trying to find the mother of this baby.”
The taut lines in her face relaxed. “Baby?” She studied the contents of the basket. Then she said to Jeb, “Where’d you get
a baby?”
“My front porch.”
“Who exactly are you?”
“Reverend Jeb Nubey, Church in the Dell.” He would have extended his hand but couldn’t, so he tried his best to smile.
“Jackie, you get out here!” she shouted.
The teenage girl appeared, this time her face more sullen than before. “What I do?”
“You hear of any girl out having a baby? Maybe don’t want her folks to know?”
Jackie shrugged.
“You lie and I can tell and God can tell, so you may as well come out with it.”
“I’m not lying.”
Jeb told her, “I’ve been all up and down the street
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