The sin of Miss Twitty

The Sin of Miss Twitty - Norman A. Rubin

It was hot Sunday morning, and the still air hung heavily on the
summer's day with hardly a cooling breeze. But, to Miss Twitty, the
pressure of the hot, muggy weather was unable to disturb her thoughts,
as on this Sunday morning, the Reverend Dr. Theodore Dunstable, noted
Biblical authority, will be the guest preacher at her parish
church.
Miss Twitty fluttered about her bedroom in the small rented apartment,
checking her dress and makeup. "...Must look proper and decently," she
commented to herself. Her thin, small body dressed in an ankle-length,
white cotton frock closed at her scrawny neck, whisked about the room
in nervous excitement, as she prepared herself for the day. She
checked, once again, her thin lined oval face in the mirror above her
dressing table, flecking away a bit of powder from her large pointed
nose.
Miss Sarah Elizabeth Twitty, a spinster in the late forties, is
respected by her position as the responsible director of the town
library. Thus, she was graciously appointed to the committee of the
Church of the Saving Grace, that will welcome the eminent Reverend Dr.
Dunstable.
Somewhere in the near distance a church bell peeled the hour of eight.
Looking at her wristwatch, Miss Twitty noted the fleeting time, "Oh,
dear, must hurry. The good reverend will be at the church around 8:30."
Miss Twitty immediately gathered up her purse and white gloves, and
placed her best Sunday bonnet on the grey of her hair. She gave a quick
scrutable glance about the room, and quickly bustled from her
apartment, carefully checking the locked door.
Miss Twitty quickly made her way to the church; her thin legs almost
floated above the hot pavement. The walk was quite short, less than ten
minutes. She was not the first of the welcoming committee, but the last
to arrive at the church; Mrs. Throckmortle, a buxom middle aged matron,
and spouse of the local banker was there at the entrance to the
sanctified edifice. The matronly woman was engrossed in chatter with a
Mrs. Alice Merryworth, an aging widow, and the Rev. Melvin S. Frugal,
the respected elderly minister of the Saving Grace Church, a roly-poly
chap whose enormous paunch was attributed to the liking of a savoury,
finger-licking barbeque.
Miss Twitty was greeted with a cheerful 'Blessings on the good Sunday
morning' by the trio. After the greetings and a pleasant chit-chat, the
good minister told the ladies present, "Now that we are all here, I
will tell you about our honored guest, the Reverend Dr. Theodore
Dunstable." Before he was able to continue, a white limousine pulled up
in front of the church; the good man had arrived. Immediately the
expectant group hurried to the side of the vehicle.
A swarthy chauffeur, clothed in the proper uniform, quickly left the
driver's seat, and scurried to the right side of the back door of the
fine automobile: The good man proudly opened the door, and doffed his
peaked cap. Reverend Dr. Theodore Dunstable emerged from within,
smiling graciously to the gathered committee. The renowned evangelist
dressed in Sunday whites, bowed slightly on his tall bulky frame, and
with a flourish, he removed his wide brim fawn coloured hat from his
shaggy white maned head. His deep-set eyes, half-circled with bushy
brows, stared benevolently at his fellow believers.
The good pastor of the Church of the Saving Grace awed to the core,
stared momentarily at the craggy face of his honorable guest before he
hesitantly blurted out a welcoming speech. His hurried words ended with
"the congregants of his church will certainly heed your message." The
trio of ladies beamed graciously at the honoured guest, and expressed a
slight titter of admiration. Then the pastor extended a tremulous hand
to the famed preacher, who gripped it in a very tight handshake:
Introduction to the trio of ladies was formally made. Miss Twitty, when
introduced, stared for a moment of two, maybe a bit longer, into the
dark eyes of the eminent revivalist, and there was a faint flutter in
the beat of her heart.
"Pastor Frugal, my dear ladies," the pious Dr. Dunstable boomed in
response, "I deeply appreciate your invitation to come to your church.
It is more than an honour; it is more like a sacred duty on this
blessed Sunday morning to preach to the good and just people of this
congregation." The saintly church cleric beamed in delight and all the
ladies twittered at this flattering compliment. Following a bit of
pleasantries the pastor of the Church of the Saving Grace and the
upright ladies directed the noted preacher into the edifice. He was
then led to vestry of the church, where there was time to refresh both
soul and body, and to prepare for the Sunday service.
Precisely at nine, the organ sent off notes of grace throughout the
crowded church. Pastor Frugal, Reverend Dr. Dunstable and the pious
matrons, dressed in ordained regalia, entered solemly from the vestry
and proceeded to their designated places near the altar. The flow of
the sacred music ebbed away as the good pastor of Church of the Saving
Grace slowly strode to the altar. He gestured to congregants to stand;
then the organist's fingers pressed the keys for the opening hymn,
which the congregants responded in kind. After the hymn the good souls
took their seats. A short pause followed. The righteous Pastor Frugal
then cleared his throat and, with aplomb, read Psalm 91 from the Good
Book; his chosen passage was a comforting message of assurance, "Thou
shalt not be afraid of the terror by night... Nor of the pestilence
that walks in darkness..." The assembled flock listened and absorbed
the written sacred words.
A pregnant pause followed and engulfed the church. Then, with an 'ahem'
or two, the good pastor introduced the famous preacher of renown; few
words were needed as his fame was known to all. The Reverend Doctor
Theodore Dunstable quickly came foward and placed himself confidently
at the altar, allowing Pastor Frugal to step quietly aside. The
evangelic Dr. Dunstable stared fiercely at the seated congregants; and,
without a pause, he loudly called out his message.
"Yea, thou shalt not be afraid of the terror of the night," he
thundered, "Only those that walk in righteousness should not fear the
terror of the night. Hallelujah, praise the Lord. Those who live in sin
and carry this burden fear the devil himself. The Prince of Darkness
roams throughout the night with flocks of devasting demons searching
for the sinners. Yea, Satan is about!" He thumped on the altar and in a
low threatening voice warned, "Demons and evil spirits await the
sinners, to carry them to the foul depth of hell-fire.. Their number
outweigh the number of humans on earth; if the sinful person were able
to see these evil creatures, they could not bear the sight of their
terrible appearance. Beware!!" And the good congregants heeded the just
and warning words of the Reverend Dunstable with the feeling of
agitation in their souls.
A hushed silence followed. The Reverend Doctor scanned the congregants
of the church to see if his opening message was received. Then he
turned slightly to the gracious ladies seated behind, and the trembling
Miss Twitty noticed a very faint smile on the good reverend's craggy
face; within her spinsterly thoughts, she imagined the gesture was
directed to her. With a blush to cheeks, she demurely lowered her
sights to her hymnal. The movement of the good preacher was momentary,
as he turned to face the congregation.
Dr. Dunstable modified the pitch of his voice, as he continued in the
deliverance of his sermon. "The good and the faithful souls express
their trust in the good Lord," the warm phrases flowed in grateful
homage, "the Lord is their refuge and fortress. Hallelujah... yea,
praise the Lord!" The blessed words droned on...
The heated passion of the preacher's words and the closeness of the
warm air in the church enveloped the good Miss Twitty, enthroned in a
plush altar chair. Despite her determined effort to stay awake, the
saintly spinster's eyelids became heavy with drowsiness. Then her chin
dropped on her meager bosom followed by the closing of eyes, and Miss
Twitty, slowly but slowy drifted into the arms of Morpheus, the god of
dreams...
....It was a garden of delight with flowers of all varieties in bloom;
the trees were heavy with the green of nature's dress; the cheerful
song of birds could be heard flowing through the slight wisp of breeze;
small animals pranced about chasing each other. In the midst of this
paradise, a youthful maiden, clothed in a bountiful body with ripening
breasts and expectant thighs, waited willingly for the sight of her
true love. From her thin lips set on an angular, thin beaked face,
sighs of joy uttered forth that crinkled the wrinkled skin from the
scrawny neck to the thinning gray hair.
True to the maiden's wish, a tall bulky man with a flowing white mane
appeared almost magically in the pleasant garden. Then, after bowing
from his naked frame, the gallant rushed to the side of his beloved;
his deep set eyes, under a half-circle of bushy brows, told of deep
affection for one dear to his heart. He lovingly encircled the maiden
in fond embrace and planted kisses of endearment on her thin lips; and
with gentleness of his soul he lowered her voluptous body to the
softness of the flowery ground.....
"BOOM", sounded a thumping hand on the altar. Miss Twitty, her face,
flushed in deep blushing red, woke with a start. A flash of fire and
the mark of brimstone etched her soul. "Oh dear, oh deary me," she
muttered inwardly, as she stared shamefully at the visiting cleric.