All Nature Sings

The Abercrombie Company

From Chapter One

Somerville needed a new hospital. The folks in the little South Carolina town did not know that, but it was the truth. Fortunately, there was one amongst them to see the necessity.

My name is Sam Purdy. I’ve been a resident of the backwater burg since way back when. I was an orderly – and later a nurse – at the old hospital, which was in its past life a large plantation manor. Treed with magnolia and portico-ed of porch it was at one time quite a handsome abode. But by the time I took up my duties the old charm had faded; melted to insipidity like sweet ice tea left sitting too long in the sun.

The fellow I speak of to see the necessity of a new hospital went by the name of Abe Cromby. He wasn’t a native of Somerville. Rather, he came from across the state line, to hail from the big city of Charlotte. That’s my hometown, too, and I moved to Somerville long before the Cromby’s showed up to make things interesting for the sleepy little tucked-away town.

Somerville sits on the Black River, a slow narrow winding affair that gets its name from one of the local families and not due to anything like a dark muddy bottom or a polluted nature. The town is a lot like the river’s waters that back up behind the spillway just east of Bottom’s Bridge – serene and little stagnant.

Time’s effect on Somerville has been like those waters, too. Before flowing on by it lingers awhile, or “sets a spell” as my grandmum used to say, to leave its mark. It has left it on many a thing, like the dusty gravel roads that used to be Indian trails, a run-down library housed in a Revolutionary War powder magazine, and bland brick banks and courthouses built by blue-jacketed Yankees intent on doing away with the local bent for log buildings and packed earth floors. That and they freed all the slaves – which was a good thing as my grandmum was one of them.

The late summer day in 1962 that the Cromby’s came to Somerville is one I will always remember, along with lots of folks who were then members of the First Southern Baptist Evangelical Association. They were holding a prayer meet that afternoon in the big silver Quonset hut belonging to the Daughters of the Confederacy’s Local Chapter No. 1199. It was one of those hot sweaty hand-clapping affairs with plenty of fried chicken and mashed potatoes, fainting ladies and love for Jesus.

The new pastor was scheduled to speak and as a great many of those present that evening had not met the fellow they were anxious to get a good look at him. That included the Deacon Brogdon so it was natural that he made the mistake he did.

The pastor was overdue and old man Brogdon had parked himself along with his big round black Studebaker in the lot outside. He was checking his pocket watch when Abe drove up with his wife Joan, who was eight months pregnant with what would be their first child, Andie. They had just come off the highway from Charlotte and had pulled over in order that they might get directions to their new home on Moody Street. Rolling down the window, Abe stuck out his head and addressed the deacon.

“Good afternoon and pardon me, but…”

" You the new fella.” the deacon said this rather than asked it.

“I reckon I am,” Abe answered and right truthfully. Only two weeks ago, it had been settled that he would take up the position of administrator at the old hospital.

“Well, you’re a little overdue, but welcome all the same,” the deacon said. He stuck a bony hand through the window of the Cromby’s Fairlane station wagon and shook Abe’s hand vigorously. “Come on in.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but we just got in from Charlotte and we need to go by our house before…”

“By the house first?” The deacon pointed at the silver hut. “Sir, there’s people been waiting in there for hours to get a good look at you, and I don’t think they’re going to want to wait for you to go home first. You’d better park and come on inside.”

Abe looked over at Joan, who in spite of the heat, the long drive and her condition smiled wanly and nodded. “OK, Abe. Go on in for a minute or two. I’ll just sit here.” Abe parked the car and got out, and began to follow the deacon, who had already made for the hut. Through its open doors streamed a loud gospel tune. “And don’t forget the directions!” Joan hollered at him over the din.

Once inside, Abe was astounded to see that there were several hundred people in the building. It looked like half the town had turned out to greet the new hospital administrator. He had heard that things were in a bad way at the old building, but not that bad! Shaking hands left and right as he made for the stage, Abe resolved to let these fine folks know – and in no uncertain terms – what he planned to do to fix the problems.

“Thank you for having me,” he began, speaking loudly over the general buzz. Several hundred people settled back into wooden folding chairs to hear what the new pastor had to say about their lovely parish. Abe went on.

“First of all, I want to assure you that I am aware of the problems at the old building, and I plan an immediate and aggressive program to fix the worst of them.”

Several hundred people sat up in their wooden folding chairs, having not realized that there was any problem at all with the edifice. The sanctuary had just undergone extensive modifications, and two or three members of the committee in charge turned several shades of purple.

“I want to also assure you that the first thing I will address is the lice problem…”

This caused every eye in the place to cast itself on Ed Jenkins, the church custodian. The old man shot from his chair and waved his arms, but any protest that might have issued from his mouth was drowned in the general howl that followed Abe’s next pronouncement.

“And at the same time I will see to it that the practice of storing cadavers in the basement be immediately ceased.” Sheriff J. T. Purdell was present that evening, and sitting close-by to Ed Jenkins. He gave Ed a funny look and his hand moved towards his billy club as the veteran custodian back-pedaled; “Now, wait a minute, J.T.…”

Meanwhile, Abe went on, oblivious to the commotion. He shaded his eyes from the lights, a row of bare bulbs suspended from dusty wires. “I can assure you that the place will be shaken out and cleaned up, and if in spite of every effort the result falls short, we’ll just tear the horrible old place down, and build again elsewhere.”

A howling storm of Baptists took to their feet, forgetting for the moment the spectacle of Sheriff Purdell’s knee planted in the middle of Ed Jenkin’s back. But over that maelstrom of protest there came from the seat of the Widow Watkins a shriek to drown out all the others. All attention turned to her general vicinity.

Her arms flew to the heavens, her face a mask of mortification. Her great grandmother had been baptized in what had just been termed “that horrible old place,” and every Watkins since. With a further shriek, she fell full backwards and with a crash into the row of wooden chairs behind her.

Now, the Royal Crown Furniture Company did not intend its folding chair model No. 21 to take the abuse that the Widow Watkins delivered to several of them in the Daughters of the Confederacy’s Quonset hut that hot August evening. She pounded them to flinders in a dervish of kicking legs and flailing arms. Nor did the First Southern Baptist Evangelical Association’s manual cover under “Speaking in Tongues” some of the language that came out of her mouth.

Abe was stunned. He had not thought that the local townsfolk could be so fond of the decaying old mansion that served as their hospital. He wondered at that, and at the fact that Deacon Brogdon and a couple of Elders suddenly had hold of both his arms and were swiftly escorting him out to the parking lot. Propelled onto it through the doors of the commotion-filled hut, he found himself alone and walking in a state of bewilderment back to his car.

Inside the Quonset hut, several things transpired due to all the ruckus Abe had unwittingly raised. First, Brother Rhafe Murvis ran out the back door, jumped into his car, drove over to his brother Ralph’s place and beat the heck out of him. The ensuing investigation revealed that the two had a scheme going to buy out the holder of the church’s lease, force the Baptists out and build a carwash. Rhafe, upon hearing Abe talking about tearing the building down, thought his brother had taken on another partner. Their scheme was brought to light and quashed.

Another thing that happened was that Ed Jenkins had to admit to running some illegal card games in the basement on order to keep Sheriff Purdell from having the floor dug up, looking for bodies.

Ed died ten years later and the church finally replaced the old furnace. They found Ed’s missing wife in the concrete beneath it.

Abe walked back to the car and ruminated upon his strange experience. Charlotte, he decided, this isn’t. That and he would have to watch what he said. He climbed into the station wagon and started the engine. Joan looked over at him.

“Abe, did you get the directions?”

“Yes…” he replied, “in a way…”

“In a way?”

“Yes… well… they told me where to go, but it’s not anywhere near Moody Street.”