Guts And Glory Short Story

Guts and Glory

Ruth and I meet on the veranda of the local Whistle stop every Sunday. I arrive before all the bird talk and the Sun is busy saying Good mornin’ to me! I watch the women gather their children for congregation while the men sit back in their fine khaki collared attire and shiny brown shoes and drink coffee with locals who binge beignets and croissants before the morning service. Meanwhile Ruth sleeps through the traditional hymns and guitar strings and arrives on the steps of the porch shortly after the first choir ends. Cafe De Jour provides the locals with coffee cakes, devilish eggs, grits, and gourmet cake-balls along with everything Po-boy and gumbo Monday through Saturday.

On Sundays, the patio brings shade and shelter to those who otherwise wouldn’t have a seat at the table. The rain from last week is soaking up Today’s newspaper and by the way the birds are acting there is more on the way too. Yesterday we crossed through swampy waters of an old bird sanctuary heavy with gator bones and snake

Underneath a single silver spotlight and above a gated front entrance, in big rustic letters: Soul Food Cafe. “Right here use to own by my uncle and daddy” Mr. Jay Lewis mumbled, “and this right here is my barber shop and my house right behind that. My whole neighborhood family, even if they ain’t, I know them like they is.” Ruth wanders onto his land like long lost kin. I follow Ruth to the end of the man’s driveway and pray that the sun doesn’t burn through me. She leans in to tell Mr. Jay her full birth-given name and they share a private moment. Then he guides Ruth behind the vacated houses and fetches her something from inside the shed. He presents her with a walking stick of a hand-carven Canebrake rattlesnake coiled around the barrel of a gun. Ruth leans back her head and gazes her eyes over the vault of heaven. Glory be (to