McCLELLAN

McCLELLAN

His name was McClellan. Bowling Green still only had about five police officers then—in addition to the chief. When my uncle Bob Murphy had been chief he had only one officer at first. And on weekends—from Friday afternoon till Sunday night—Uncle Bob was “unavailable.” But by 1950, when I was fifteen, there were more policemen. And McClellan had a three-wheel motorcycle that he rode around on, enforcing the law.

We kids used to tease him all the time. A couple of my friends were already sixteen, and when a white boy turned sixteen in Bowling Green he was likely to have saved up fifty or sixty dollars to buy himself an old beat-up car. I knew two such boys, with such cars. And if the rest of us chipped in a dime apiece for gas, we could ride around the square with one of them for several hours, being “seen” by girls and other important people. And if we saw McClellan, on his three-wheeler, we would pull up beside him and order popsicles as loudly as we could. If we saw his bike parked somewhere, we would let the air out a tire, or maybe tie it to a tree or a telephone pole, or squeeze out a tube of glue on the handgrips or the seat.

Various itinerant preachers—tent-preachers, they were called—came through Bowling Green in those days. They would put up posters on the telephone poles leading into and out of town, announcing a revival meeting for a Thursday night on some good Christian's farm just outside of town. None of us had ever been to one of those meetings, but we had heard about them. And one night that summer—I think it was a sort of famous preacher named Jessup who was in town—we decided to go, and see what it was all about. I think it was him: Walter Jessup. He was sort of famous in Southern Kentucky. Or maybe it was his son. There were a lot of preaching Jessups, and one of them had even been born in Bowling Green, I think.

It cost a dime, or maybe it was a quarter, to get in to hear this Jessup preach, but we didn't pay. We just stood around watching the country folks going in, and then, once the meeting got started good with singing and praying, we snuck off and crawled under the canvas around on one side. And stood there, sort of singing or maybe saying “Amen” with everybody else, but mostly watching.

There were three men standing up in front, just below the little wooden stage, who held big baskets in their arms. The baskets were for people to put their money in. When you put your money in, you could ask Jessup to pray for whatever it was you wanted. You didn't have to tell him what it was; you just told god, quietly, what you wanted. And when Jessup finished his praying he would say, in a big voice,

“Prrrrraise God, your prayer is being answered!”

We would all sing another hymn, then, and Jessup would go back to preaching till the next sucker came up and put his or her money in one of the baskets.

Eventually, when the tide of suckers with wishes had ebbed away, Jessup held up both of his hands to hush us good. And two men carried a table out onto that little stage, with something on it, under a sheet.

We all got quiet, dutifully, and waited. Jessup walked over to the table, looked down, then turned and looked at all of us.

“This girl,” he said, “was as pretty as could be, and as happy as could be—till yesterday afternoon. And then she took sick. The doctors was called, but they couldn't do anything. She got sicker and sicker, then. And this morning she was sicker still. And this afternoon, she died. God have mercy.”

He liften up the sheet, then, and we could see her, dressed all in white, but looking pretty pale, and not moving.

He covered her back up, put his ear over and listened for her heart. When he straightened up he shook his head. We were all staring at that sheet. And it didn't move a bit over her chest and stomach.

“She died,” Jessup said, “But with your help and mine, God is going to raise her up and give her back to us.”

“I will pray over her, and in your name I will ask God to give her back to us. All you have to do is come forward, and put your donations to this holy cause in those baskets, and God will give her back to us!”

He stopped, and stood there.

“God is waiting, good people. And so is she.”

People started to rustle about a bit in their seats. A couple of men in the back started walking forward, one down each aisle.

And then we saw McClellan, in his uniform, coming out through the back curtain onto the stage. He was in uniform, of course, though he wasn't on duty. And anyway, Jessup was set up safely outside the city limits.

McClellan stopped a couple of yards from Jessup, and a couple of yards from the table. And just stood there.

And then he said,

“I'm Constable McClellan, Mr. Jessup.”

Jessup sort of nodded at McClellan.

“You say she's dead, Mr. Jessup?”

Jessup nodded again.

“Well then,” said McClellan, folding his arms across his stomach. “You won't mind if I just shoot her once or twice. . .”

There was a sudden commotion of sheet, and that girl was off and running.

It took several seconds more before Jessup turned and ran, too. And then the men with the baskets—without the baskets, just running. And all hell broke loose.

After that, McClellan was our hero. We never teased him again. We went out of our way to say hello. George Henry, bolder than the rest of us, even asked for—and got—McClellan's autograph. We were so impressed we probably would have called him something other than McClellan, but we didn't know his first name. And it would have been too silly, too embarrassingly stupid, to call him “Mr. McClellan.” So when we saw him, mostly we just smiled respectfully, and nodded at him. I'm sure he understood.