Primitive Church of the Weary Brethren
by Angie Smibert
The faded sign read the future home of Saint Monday's Primitive Church of the Weary Brethren. In smaller letters, across a picture of a green field, not unlike the one in which the sign was planted, was written: "Bring your weary unto green pastures." The sign had been there for longer than anyone in Palm Glades could remember. The town was only 20 years old, but every other parcel of buildable land had sprouted condos, gated golf communities, and fast food places. Bill Parsons was going to get these last two acres of green land for his client's strip mall.
He tried the number on the sign. No answer. He let it ring for a few seconds.
*****
He'd checked with the other real estate agents in town and none of them had ever been successful in contacting this church. The tax records listed only a post office box in New York. In fact, no one had ever even heard of the church, aside from the sign, of course.
Bill was ever the optimist, though, when it came to real estate, and Florida was a very optimistic place to be in the business right now. Bill had just sold a five-year-old hurricane-damaged beach house for twice its original cost.
He rolled down the windows of his Lexus and straightened the magnetic Parsons Real Estate placard on the driver's side. It was a lovely February day: 72 degrees, no humidity, and no mosquitoes. He decided to walk the property and get a few pictures for his client.
The lot was an island of green floating between a new gated community to the south, I-95 to the west, Walmart to the east, and the biggest Chevy dealership in the state to north. A cul-de-sac connected the lot to a busy four-lane boulevard. The property had utilities, flat grade, and good drainage. A few trees would have to be bulldozed, but otherwise the spot was perfect for the tanning place, nail shop, and drycleaner his client had already lined up as tenants. He might be able to fit in one of those drive-through coffee places as well.
The property had been well maintained, too. Bill couldn't see any trash or junk that would have to be removed. In fact, it looked as if the field had been freshly mowed. And he'd never noticed the picnic tables under those live oaks before. The trash barrels even looked like they'd been emptied recently.
*****
He flipped open his cell phone and tried the number again. Still no answer.
Bill caught a hint of jasmine and orange blossom in the air as he walked back to the car. He didn't really feel inclined to leave yet. He pulled the paper he hadn't had time to read this morning and his still warm coffee out of the car and headed toward the picnic tables.
A gaggle of older women in coordinating track suits power-walked by, smiling as they passed.
He sipped his coffee and took in the place. The trees nicely blocked out the view of the Walmart. The interstate was just a faint whisper in the background. And, the tiniest breeze rustled through the leaves.
*****
Bill reviewed the photos he'd taken of the property with his cell phone. In one, a pair of cranes waded in the drainage canal that bounded the lot to the south. In another, a gopher tortoise poked its head out of its burrow. In still another, the Spanish moss dangling from the live oaks caught the light in a certain way. He snapped the phone shut and spread out the newspaper.
A station wagon pulled up and three black labs leapt out of the back. Their owner threw tennis balls until the dogs lay panting in the grass, exhausted and content.
Bill absorbed himself in the sports section. The paper had a special feature today on the start of spring training this year.
The mechanics from the dealership ambled down for a smoke and a couple Dr. Peppers. The young men half-nodded at him in the way young men do. One offered Bill a smoke in exchange for the sports page when he was done. They chatted a bit about the Nationals chances this year, and then the young men wandered back up to the Chevy place.
Bill savored his cigarette over the crossword puzzle.
*****
A young couple had lunch on the picnic tables.
A 40-something guy shagged golf balls in the field.
A cable installer took a nap in his van.
Bill's phone chimed to remind him of a 2:00 pm showing he'd nearly forgotten about.
He dialed the church one last time but hit cancel before the number could ring. As traffic inched by the Walmart and the chicken place and the tire store, he made a mental note to remember to bring his kids to the future home of the Church of the Weary Brethren to fly kites this weekend.
After working in Florida for the past decade, Angie Smibert has recently returned to Virginia and turned to writing full time. Her work has appeared in Crimson Highway, Whim's Place, Flashshot, Best Little Christmas Story of 2006, Appalachian Heritage, Jackhammer, Eternity, Cosmic Landscapes, and several other no doubt now defunct magazines.