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  Ralph and his wife were sitting at the kitchen table, bleary-eyed.

  “I did it,” Amanda told them. “I won. I won the National Spelling Bee.”

  She showed them her trophy.

  Ralph turned, scratching his gut, and said, “Did you get any money?”

  Amanda said, “No, but I got to meet the president.”

  Ralph snorted. “Don’t let it go to your head.” Then he said, “The dishes need doin’. Get on ’em.”

  That’s when Ellis snapped. He took Amanda by the hand and walked her back across the field, back to the farmhouse to Miriam. He climbed in the truck and drove into town to the bank and cashed in their CDs, all the money they had in the world—thirty thousand dollars.

  The manager was nervous. “Are you sure about this, Ellis?” he asked.

  Ellis looked him in the eye and said, “I want it in fifties.”

  Then he drove back to the trailer. He didn’t knock. He laid the money on the table in front of Ralph. He said, “There’s thirty thousand dollars here. It’s yours. But if you take this money, I never want to see you again. Amanda stays with us. When you’re settled, mail me your address and I’ll have the lawyer, Owen Stout, send you the papers. I’ll send you five thousand dollars a year until Amanda turns eighteen. If you ever come back here, if you so much as step one foot in this town, the money stops. I want you out of here by tomorrow noon.”

  Ralph stared at the cash, then reached out and dragged the money across the table toward him. He looked at his wife and said, “Let’s go see your sister in California.”

  Ellis didn’t tell Miriam until that night. How do you tell your wife that you’re now parents, without a dime to your name? He waited until the lights were out before telling her what he had done.

  “I had to do it,” Ellis said. “I couldn’t bear the thought of that sweet child staying with them even one more night.”

  Miriam reached across and held him. “You did the right thing,” she told him. “I love that girl. And there’s things more important than money. We’ll be fine.”

  Ralph and his wife left the next morning. Ellis and Miriam and Amanda watched from the kitchen window. Watched Ralph and his wife carry the last box to their car and close the trunk, watched them climb in their car and drive down the lane.

  Ellis said to Amanda, “You’ll be staying with us from now on. Your mother and father are going away. Is that all right?”

  Amanda wasn’t sure how to feel. She thought she should be sad, but she wasn’t. She didn’t even cry. That worried Miriam and Ellis.

  They held her and said, “It’s okay to cry, you know.”

  She said, “I know.” But she didn’t.

  “If you ever want to talk about it, you can,” Ellis told her.

  Amanda said, “Okay.”

  Then Ellis said, “Hey, let’s go play pitch and catch.”

  Miriam watched them from the kitchen window over the sink. She was a mother now. She’d always wanted to be a mom. Now that she was, she was scared. She wasn’t sure how to be a parent. On top of that, they were broke. Ralph had all their money. Plus five thousand dollars a year. Where would they ever find that much money? But looking out the window at Ellis and Amanda playing pitch and catch, seeing Amanda catch a pop fly and hearing Ellis say “Atta girl,” Miriam didn’t feel broke. She felt blessed.

  Blessed. B-l-e-s-s-e-d. Blessed.

  Twenty-two

  The Testimony

  It was late winter when Bob Miles Jr. first noticed the workers going in and out of the Harold Morrison building. He speculated about it in “The Bobservation Post” column for the Herald: “Lots of activity at the Harold Morrison building. Wonder what’s going on?”

  People all over town read that, then laid down their Heralds and remembered back to when Harold Morrison owned and operated the Morrison’s Menswear shop in the town square. Harold Morrison died when I was twelve years old; the building has sat unused ever since. His widow never cleaned it out. You can still walk past and see the circular racks of work shirts and the suits and plaid sport jackets hanging against the west wall, now covered with a fine dust.

  Across the back of the store was the shoe department. Harold sold Red Wing boots for the men and Red Goose shoes for the boys, made by the International Shoe Company of St. Louis, Missouri. He had a big red goose perched on the counter that laid a golden egg whenever a pair of Red Goose shoes were sold. I remember my mother taking my brother Roger and me to his store the first week of September for Harold’s annual back-to-school sale. If you bought two pairs of pants, three shirts, three pairs of socks, and one pair of Red Goose shoes, Harold would throw in a package of Fruit of the Loom underwear for free.

  We would always go in the afternoon because Harold would only sell shoes in the afternoon, when your feet were biggest. People had bought shoes in the morning, when their feet were small, and two weeks later returned them for a refund. So Harold posted a sign on the wall:

  No shoes will be sold before 2:00 P.M.

  At two o’clock, he would take the Brannock device down from the nail on the wall and start measuring feet. You’d stand straight up while Harold wrestled your foot into the Brannock device and measured its length and width. Then you would pick the shoe you wanted, which was not a complicated procedure. You had two decisions—brown or black, and low-cut or high-cut.

  The best part came after your mother paid for the shoes. That’s when Harold let you reach up and grab hold of the goose’s head and pull it downward. You’d hear the golden egg rumble through the goose, a goose with indigestion, then the goose would lift her head and lay the golden egg.

  Since we got only one egg a year, it was easy to forget what was in there. The real joy was holding the golden egg in your hand and imagining its contents. The opening was anticlimactic. A couple pieces of hard candy, a stick of bubble gum, a plastic cowboy, and a fake one-dollar bill.

  Roger would open his egg while we were still in the store. But I would keep mine next to my bed, sometimes for weeks at a time, before twisting it open. It drove Roger mad. He would offer to trade for it, but I never would. When I’d open it, it was such a letdown. All that waiting, all that savoring, for some hard candy and a plastic toy.

  According to Harold, the International Shoe Company of St. Louis, Missouri, had filled one golden egg with genuine gold coins, which had never been found. Whenever you’d pull down the goose head, Harold would say, “This might be the one.” But it never happened in our town, or I’d have read about it in the Herald: “Local Boy Hits Jackpot.”

  That’s why I would wait before opening the egg. I’d shake it once a day to see if it sounded like gold coins. I’d shake it just before bedtime, then go to sleep dreaming of the things I would buy if I ever hit the jackpot.

  I had it all figured out.

  I’d buy my mother a dishwasher. I’d buy my father a drill press. I’d give 10 percent to the church. Not because I was religious, but because my parents would make me. I was not devout as a child, knowing I had a lifetime to get back on God’s good side. Now that I’m older, my walk of faith is more cautious. It doesn’t pay to make God mad when you could check out any day. Now I would give 10 percent to the church without being told.

  I would spend the rest of my money on a bicycle. A Schwinn Sting-Ray with a banana-seat and a car steering wheel for handlebars. Then Harold Morrison died and there went the dishwasher, drill press, and banana-seat bicycle.

  Bob Miles Jr. first noticed the workers cleaning out the building when he walked past the Morrison building and saw them carry out the red goose and lay it in Mabel Morrison’s car trunk. He wondered if there were any golden eggs still in the goose. Maybe that egg with the gold coins was in there. Maybe someone else wondered the very same thing and would follow the widow Morrison home and steal the red goose. She would recognize them and they would have to kill her. Maybe hit her on the head with the red goose and knock her dead.

  The thought of that brought a smi
le to Bob Jr.’s face. It would make a fascinating headline: “Local Woman Killed by Goose.” Bob grew mildly excited at the prospect of writing about a murder. We’d never had a murder for him to write about. He thought it would be a test of his journalistic skills. But Mabel Morrison made it home and had some neighbor boys carry the red goose up to the attic and store it next to the box of Christmas decorations.

  So Bob Miles is having to write about something else, which these days has not been hard. Someone from Harmony won the big lottery—five million dollars. We weren’t sure who for nearly eight months, because the winner waited to turn in the winning ticket. The only thing we knew was that it was someone from the Harmony Friends Meeting. We did know that. Back in the summer Harvey Muldock got the idea to put a lottery ticket in each church bulletin to increase attendance. He went to the gas station out near the interstate and bought forty tickets, and one of them was the winner.

  When one among you is a millionaire, but you’re not sure who, you treat everyone with kindness on the off chance he or she is the winner and will think of you with fondness and, in a fit of gratitude, share the wealth. I personally know that on three occasions Fern Hampton wanted to tell off certain people, but held her tongue.

  The lottery has done for our church what one hundred and seventy-five years of preaching could not—that is, cause us to treat one another with Christian charity. So I wasn’t at all anxious for the winner to come forward. I wanted the winner to wait until the very last day to cash in the winning ticket.

  For a while we thought Dale Hinshaw had won it. He’d sit on his porch looking at catalogs and when people wandered by and asked him what he was reading, he’d become guarded and secretive. He’d say, “Oh nothing, nothing at all,” as he hid the catalog behind his back.

  Dale subscribed to the Wall Street Journal and would read it at the Coffee Cup, in plain view. Every now and again, lowering the paper and grinning a pleased grin.

  Then he started talking about selling his old car and buying a new one. He went over to Harvey Muldock’s car dealership and asked Harvey if there was a discount for paying cash. Then he said he wanted to think it over a little while, that he wanted to look at some other cars, maybe even go to the city to test drive a Mercedes.

  But what really got people talking about Dale winning was when the Dale Hinshaws invited Ellis and Miriam Hodge over for Sunday dinner and he had travel brochures spread out on the dining room table.

  Ellis said, “You and the missus thinking of taking a trip, Dale?”

  Dale scooped up the brochures and said, “Oh, you never know. We just might.”

  Harvey Muldock and I talked about it. He didn’t think Dale was the winner. He pointed out how Dale had gone out of his way to be nice to everyone. If Dale had been the winner, he’d have been his usual annoying self, plus a little worse, Harvey said. He thought Dale was faking it so people would be nice to him.

  Then in early fall, Jessie Peacock came to my office. She was anxious. She sat across from me, her purse in her lap.

  “Pastor, I have a matter of a confidential nature to discuss,” she said.

  This intrigued me. One benefit of being a pastor was discussing matters of a confidential nature. I leaned forward in my chair.

  “How can I help you, Jessie?” I inquired.

  She reached into her purse, pulled out a small slip of paper, and handed it to me across the desk. It was a lottery ticket.

  Jessie said, “It’s the winning ticket. It was in my bulletin. No one knows but me and Asa. I’ll trust you not to tell anyone.”

  I was stunned. Five million dollars!

  The only problem was that Jessie Peacock hated the lottery. The very Sunday the tickets were in the bulletins, she had stood during the silence to speak against the lottery. She thought the lottery was immoral. She thought the government should be ashamed of itself for encouraging its citizens to gamble. She’d gone to the library to research the lottery on the Internet.

  “Did you know that 95 percent of the people who win the lottery end up wishing they’d never won it?” she told me.

  “Did you know that 83 percent of the couples who win the lottery divorce?” she went on.

  “Did you know that 68 percent of the people who win the lottery declare bankruptcy?” she asked.

  I told her I wasn’t aware of that.

  “I despise the lottery,” she said. “But Asa and I sure could use a nest egg. It’s been hard times, and we’re not getting any younger. We have ten thousand dollars set aside for our retirement. That’s it. That’s all we’ve been able to save in thirty years. And we didn’t even save it. We got it when my daddy died.”

  She clutched her purse in her lap and worried at the strap.

  I said, “Jessie, I can’t tell you what to do. You’ll have to figure that out yourself. You need to pray about it. I can’t even imagine winning the lottery. I don’t know what I’d do myself.”

  That wasn’t true. I did know. I had it all figured out. I had gotten my lottery ticket from the bulletin the same Sunday and they didn’t announce the numbers until the next Friday. That week I’d fallen asleep each night dreaming what I’d do if I won five million dollars. It was the golden egg all over again.

  I had talked with my wife about it, lying in bed. She asked me what I’d buy if I won five million dollars.

  “I’ve always wanted to buy my mother a dishwasher. I’d probably do that.”

  “That’s it?” she asked. “That’s all you’d buy?”

  “Of course not,” I told her. “I’d buy my father a drill press.”

  I had it all figured out.

  Now here sat Jessie Peacock in my office with the winning ticket.

  She said, “I’ve half a mind to throw it away.”

  Instead, Jessie and Asa kept that ticket through fall and most of winter. They still hadn’t made up their minds. They despised the lottery. They thought what it did to people was evil. But was it bad stewardship to turn down five million dollars? Was it even legal? Would they have to accept the money? They weren’t sure.

  Jessie broke in late winter. She stood at worship, during the silence, and asked for prayer for a personal problem. This perked people up considerably. They were hoping she’d elaborate, but she didn’t. She just sat down, her face in her hands.

  People sat in their pews, speculating.

  Dale Hinshaw was thinking, Jessie and Asa are having marriage problems.

  Fern Hampton was thinking, Jessie’s dying. I just know it. She’s got the cancer.

  I was thinking what our meeting could do with the tithe on five million dollars.

  That Tuesday morning, Jessie and Asa drove into town to talk with the lawyer, Owen Stout. Maybe Owen could help.

  Bob Miles Jr. spied them from the front window of the Herald as he was writing “The Bobservation Post.” He wrote, “Jessie and Asa Peacock are up and about early, visiting with the lawyer Stout.”

  Three days later, Dale Hinshaw was reading the paper. He said to his wife, “Yep, I was right. Looks like Jessie and Asa are getting a divorce.”

  Owen Stout wasn’t much help. Assuming they were there to write their wills, he had already begun to fill out the forms when Jessie pulled the ticket from her purse and laid it on Owen’s desk. His eyes bugged out and he offered to drive them to the city to the state lottery commission office.

  He said, “You’ll need a good lawyer. I can help you. You can pay me by the hour or just pay me a flat-out fee, say 10 percent. I think that’s fair, don’t you?”

  Owen Stout was figuring the numbers in his head. Ten percent of five million dollars was half a million dollars. Yes, that sounded fair.

  Jessie was talking, asking whether they had to accept the money. Owen wasn’t listening. He was trying to figure out the taxes on half a million dollars. Probably about 40 percent. That would leave three hundred thousand dollars. He began to quiver.

  He asked them, “Did you know that 92 percent of the people who win the
lottery never hire a lawyer, and later wish they had?”

  Asa and Jessie weren’t aware of that.

  The next week, Jessie came to my office. I asked her if she’d made up her mind.

  She smiled and said, “I’ve decided to make a testimony.” She told me what she had planned. I asked if Asa was in agreement. He was.

  She called the state lottery commission from my office phone. Gave them her name. Read off the numbers. Told them she’d be in the next day to collect her money.

  She and Asa left early the next morning and drove to the statehouse in the city. They walked into the rotunda. Television crews were setting up their lights. A man stood in the center dispensing orders.

  Jessie approached him and stuck out her hand. “I’m Jessie Peacock. Are you in charge here?” she asked.

  He brightened. “Oh yes, Mrs. Peacock. Congratulations! What a wonderful day this is for you. I bet you’ve been looking forward to this.”

  Jessie smiled sweetly and said, “Oh yes, we certainly have.”

  There was a big cardboard check resting on an easel underneath the lights. Pay to the order of Jessie Peacock, it read. $5,000,000. Jessie counted the zeroes. Six of them.

  Then Jessie heard applause. The governor had entered the rotunda. He came forward to shake Jessie and Asa’s hands. The flashbulbs popped. Jessie was dazed. She was weakening, Asa could tell. He put his hand on her elbow to steady her.

  “Remember your testimony,” he whispered in her ear.

  They stood in front of the check. The governor spoke, then directed Jessie to come to the microphone, which she did. She stood upright and stared into the lights. The flashbulbs popped. She opened her mouth and began to speak.

  “I despise the lottery. It preys on the ignorant. It brings out the worst in people, not the best. It encourages sloth and envy and all that I deplore. Therefore, I cannot in good conscience accept this money.”