“What happened to Jennifer and Sarah? I thought they were friends.” After eating a light lunch at Pete’s Diner, Francis and Martha sipped their espressos. Both women were friends from the local Southern Baptist church, lifelong followers of Jesus, and very stuck in what they would say is their views of Christianity, regardless of how prestigious and stuffy it was to any visitor. Pastor Dan insisted on greeting every new person passing through the doors with a stiff handshake and a plastic smile that faded at the end of each service. Pastor Dan wasn’t fat. At least not in comparison to, say, Boss Hogg from the Dukes of Hazard 80s show. Jennifer and Sarah weren’t speaking because of Pastor Dan’s rhetoric from the pulpit two Sundays ago. At least, that was the reason Francis and Martha heard through the grapevine. Gossip traveled quickly through the small country church.

“Well, you know what Pastor Dan said; we need to hate the sin, not the sinner.” Francis ripped open a small sugar packet and poured it into the small cup. The spoon clinked on the sides of the cup as she stirred.

“So, did Jennifer talk to Sarah? About the way she was hitting on Scott?” Martha asked.

Scott was a real estate mogul in the small town of Birchhaven. In a few years, Scott managed to amass a small fortune, his net worth nearing two million dollars. His commission was lower than other agents in the area, making it possible for him to close more deals and pull in more money. He and Jennifer married right after graduating from college, something both their families protested. Scott’s family farmed the area for more than a hundred years. Several of his distant relatives fought on both sides of the Civil War. Walking around the farm and finding rusted musket rifles, old rusted swords, and pistols wasn’t unusual. But the family wasn’t concerned with which side of war you sided with as much as with which Jesus you put your faith in. Did he look like the white Anglo-Saxon depiction in every catholic art piece? Or was he dark-skinned, like most people who lived in the Middle East? Scott’s family said he was white, and the depiction was correct. Jennifer’s family disagreed. But that was only the start of their problems.

“I don’t know. I know those two ran into each other at the Walmarts and according to Hazel, she tore into Sarah. Something about that,” Francis lowered her voice, “cheating so-and-so better keep her,” she looked around before she continued in a whisper, “blanking hands off her husband.” Francis didn’t swear, not even if the rest of us would call it justified. She needed to keep her holier-than-thou appearance together. Swearing would lose her credibility, something she needed to stay intact. “Jennifer, from what I understand, was ready to square off with Sarah. It might have been worse if they weren’t in Walmarts than yelling and screaming.”

Pastor Dan walked into Pete’s, turning sideways to fit through the door. “They never made these doors wide enough in the ’40s, did they, ladies?” He wasn’t talking to anyone until he noticed the ladies sitting at a table near the door. Then Pastor Dan smiled the plastic smile he gave new folks. “Good morning, Ms. Francis, Ms. Martha? How’re the hotcakes this morning?”

Both women nodded at Pastor Dan, Francis winking with a full smile. She was sweet on the balding pastor. Martha couldn’t be bothered, as she had a problem with his girth. Like it or not, her own husband died of a heart attack because he wouldn’t exercise, change his eating habits, or cut back on fatty, salty foods. Between the fried catfish and his mornings of biscuits and white gravy, she wondered how he made it to his 67^th year. Big John was a great guy. He only drank on special occasions and was the best storyteller in the small town. Better than Pastor Dan, a fact Dan never quite got over.

“Why? You’re just gonna order that white sausage gravy with Ms. Polly’s biscuits anyway. You never order hotcakes.” Francis’s mouth fell open. “You’ll catch flies with that piehole open like that, Franny,” she quipped. “Are you gonna just stand there, Pastor Dan? Or are you gonna plop your fat butt down?” Martha’s face started turning a pinkish color. She crossed her arms, threw her left leg over her right, and started swinging her leg.

The smile faded from the fat man’s face. He pulled the fedora from his head, bowing to Francis and Martha, waving the hat to cool the sweat dripping from his face. “Ms. Martha, I’m sorry about Big John. He was . . .” Dan searched for the right words, but what could he say after her tirade? That he was going to have a salad and fruit plate? Was he passing on the fried food, white sausage gravy, and Polly’s biscuits? Not on your life. But he wouldn’t give the old bitty the satisfaction of knowing any of that. “. . . well. I’m sorry, Martha. Truly, I am.” He pushed past the back of Francis’s chair, brushing her hair enough to make her shiver. Francis was very fond of him.

Polly came out of the kitchen with a tray stacked with four thick buttermilk pancakes, six pieces of bacon, four eggs cooked over-easy, and a plate piled high with her homemade biscuits smothered in the sausage white gravy her Pappy was famous for. Many townsfolks attempted to replicate the recipe, some even going so far as to chemically break it down to discover the secret. No one managed to come up with it, but they tried.

Her greying hair was pulled back in a bun wrapped tightly in a hairnet. Overtop the hairnet was a stark white headdress. Her skirt came down to her knees, the top closed tightly to not expose any cleavage. Not that she had much to expose. She worked hard, but the diner was owned by her, not the bank. Everything inside she worked for, including the five barstools she replaced four months earlier. Big John had a heart attack in her diner, falling off one of the stools, breaking it clean off the post holding it in place. It snapped in two when he fell. Martha often ate for free because Polly felt terrible about her husband. After all, it was Polly feeding Big John. Martha tipped Polly more than enough to cover the check amount, whether she was charged her or not.

“Here ya go, Pastor Dan.” Holding the tray, Polly unloaded each plate one at a time, keeping everything equally balanced. She had years of practice with Big John. But after John’s heart attack, Polly kept a closer eye on her ‘bigger’ customers, like Pastor Dan. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Coffee, please, Ms. Polly. Thank you, kindly.”

“Comin’ right up.” She flipped up one of the upside-down mugs on the table. “Cream, right?”

Dan nodded, his face already full of sausage gravy. Dan sat with his back to the women.

“Disgusting pig of a man,” Martha whispered. “I can hear him chewing!” She kicked her leg faster.

“Do you want to go?” Francis asked.

“No. I want Pastor Dan to leave. I was enjoying our conversation.”

“As was I.”

Polly came back with their check. If there was one thing Polly could read, it was when a guest at her establishment wanted to leave. “Hey, girl,” she touched Martha’s shoulder. “You good?”

Martha’s head swung away from Polly. “No. I’m not good.”

“I figured as much.”

“And yet, you continue to serve,” she spun around, “that?” Martha knew it wasn’t polite to point, but she was too angry to care. “You are going to kill him, you do know that?”

Polly pulled out a chair and sat close to Martha. “No, I won’t. He’s a grown-ass man and knows what he should and shouldn’t do. I’m not his Mama. And I ain’t gonna be.” She eyed Francis. “And you, little miss thing. Best make those intentions of yours known, ‘cause he ain’t gonna last much longer, eatin’ like that. And if you really love him, like I think you do, you’ll get him to change his habits. Ain’t no else got the patience to!” Polly laughed long and loud before standing up. “Now ya’ll get on outta here. I gots to get lunch goin’, and ya’ll ain’t takin’ no more real estate in my place. It’s for payin’ customers only,” she winked at Martha, who cooled down. At least her foot was moving as fast now. Polly straightened her skirt and apron, adjusted her bonnet, and started humming Respect by Aretha Franklin. “Just leave the cash on the counter by the register, Franny. Love ya’ll! Come on back.”

Martha stood up, snatching her purse from the chair between her and Francis. Francis bent over to pick up her purse but hesitated for a minute. “What are you waitin’ for, girl?” Martha spat.

Her friend’s face turned pale before she collapsed to the floor.

“Francis!”