Tithe

“Ten percent, for the church,” Ellis Whitbough whispered, then licked his lips. The lip licking was a nervous gesture, he’d had it all his life.

Right now his nerves were shot and his lips were chapped, but his hands were steady as he poured the fluid he had collected in the small black bucket into a funnel resting in the mouth of a gallon jug. It was imperative that he not spill a single drop. There wasn’t enough of the stuff left to do it again.

The liquid was thick, and glugged as it made its slow way down the funnel. The gallon jug had held milk just the day before, but he thought that would be alright. He had washed the jug first, and the stuff wasn’t like gasoline. It wasn't going to melt the container or anything.

The bucket was probably ruined though. Molly used it for mopping, but by the time he got the stuff to the church and got back home what was left would be dry in the bucket. He’d have to buy her a new one when he could. One of those spin mop thingies she’d been asking for. Until then she’d have to make do with walking back and forth to the sink.

She wasn’t feeling so good at the moment, so he wouldn't make her clean up the mess Willie had made in the garage until after she had fixed their lunch.

He thought he ought to make her get up and go, but she’d want to get dressed up and put her face on and as it was he was going to miss the service.

When the last of the fluid dripped from the funnel, the gallon jug was only half full. It was the second jug though. A gallon and a half had to be close enough to ten percent.

If Willie hadn’t kicked over the first bucket in the back of the truck he would have had a full two gallons. Maybe even two and a quarter. Ellis ought to have whooped him for that one, but had only dragged him by one arm to his room and locked him in. He’d deal with that problem after lunch too, while Molly was cleaning the mess.

She was going to be steamed about the drag marks from the garage to the boys room, but she’d clean up all the same. She didn’t question his fathering. Not anymore.

Capping the second jug, he hoisted the pair of them over the tailgate, being careful not to set them down in the puddle congealing in the bed of the truck. He thought he’d make Willie clean that one up himself. It would save Molly a little work and teach the boy a lesson about actions and consequences.

The rusty hinges on the pickup door squealed when he pulled it open, and he could hear the baby squealing from inside the house too. Well, Molly was just gonna have to pull herself out of the bed and do something about that. He had somewhere to be.

The truck turned over on the first try, and Ellis whistled one of his favorite hymns as he headed towards the church.

###

Pastor Franklin sat on the front pew, hands clasped on his lap, eyes locked on the bouquet of flowers Sister May had placed on the altar in front of the pulpit. They were fresh flowers, and a bee buzzed from blossom to blossom. A single sting from a bee closed his airways up tighter than a spinster’s purse strings and he was pondering what the congregation's reactions might have been had he been stung when he heard the sanctuary doors open behind him.

He turned around slowly, cutting his eyes back towards the bee buzzing around his pulpit for a moment, before giving his full attention to the man who had come in.

Ellis Whitbough was a man who never missed church. He was usually the first one in, shepherding his family ahead of him. His wife, Molly, was a homely woman who always kept her head bowed and would never make eye contact. His son, Willie, was never allowed to go to children’s church with the other youth, but made to sit and listen to the adult sermon. They had a little baby now, too. A girl, if he remembered correctly, but he couldn't place her name. Fact was, he couldn't remember ever getting her name. Ellis just called her, the baby.

That small family had missed church that morning though, the pew remaining empty.

Molly was a stay at home mom–he got the impression she wasn’t allowed to work–and Ellis had a small collection of bee hives that he sold the honey from at a roadside stand near their house. Sometimes, when sales were slow and money was tight, he would bring in a couple jugs of honey in place of a cash tithe on Sundays.

Pastor Franklin knew the Whitboughs were having a harder time than usual just now. Someone had snuck in and set his hives on fire the month before, ruining the man's livelihood.

Ellis, never one to ask for handouts, took handyman jobs to make ends meet now. Lucky for him, he was a real jack of all trades and could do a little bit of everything. Right now, based on the dark stains on his shirt and jeans, he’d been tinkering on someone's car and managed to splash oil on himself.

That would explain why he had missed church. When cash was tight a man couldn’t turn down a job offer, even on a Sunday morning.

Ellis didn’t enter the sanctuary completely, so Pastor Franklin stood andwent to him at the back. He clasped the man's offered hand between both of his and tried not to grimace at their sticky feel. They were stained red with the same stuff staining the man's clothes. So he’d been painting then, not working on cars.

“We missed you at service today, Ellis,” he said. “I hope everything is okay at home. How’s Molly and the baby?”

Ellis licked his lips. Pastor Franklin noticed ribbons of dry skin peeling up from them. In some places they were cracked and raw.

“We’re all good. Molly’s feeling a little weak. I think the baby is keeping her up some. The boy’s on restriction. They all had to chip in for the tithe today, and Willie didn’t want to. He kicked up a little fuss when I made him.”

Pastor Franklin’s forehead wrinkled in concern. He wasn’t a greedy man, and the church did well enough on what was given. He didn’t like the idea of anyone taking money from their children, and said as much.

Ellis licked his lips again, a quick lizard-like flick out and back in.

“Naw. I don’t mean I’m robbing his piggy bank. I’m not mean like that. If you come out to the truck I’ll give you the jugs. We’ll all be back next week.”

Ellis turned around, tucked his thumbs in his back pockets and whistled his way back out of the sanctuary. Pastor Franklin followed.

“You got some more hives in?” Pastor Franklin thought he would have heard it already if so, but what else might he be bringing in jugs?

Ellis didn’t answer, and the men kept walking across the dirt parking lot to the rusty blue pickup sitting there.

Something dark was dripping from under the body. It wasn’t bad enough to leave a puddle, and didn’t look exactly like oil. The pastor was still trying to figure out what it could be when Ellis dropped the tailgate.

“The bottoms of the jugs might be a little sticky,” Ellis said, leaning over the tailgate, the chest of his shirt pressing into the muck on the truck's bed. “Like I said, Willie pitched a fit. I was trying to get it all in a bucket, but he kicked the bucket over, and I didn’t have time to clean it before coming out.”

When he was a younger man, he had worked a few very long months in a slaughterhouse. He’d watched a whole army of pigs and cows meet their maker, and the back of Ellis Whitbough’s truck reminded him of the killing floor. There was nothing that could be back there but blood.

When Ellis stood up again, he had gallon milk jugs in each hand. One was full to the top, the other only half full, but neither of them held honey. Both were full of the same gore coating the inside of the truck, and the man’s clothes.

Grinning, he held them up proudly. “Pretty sure it's still ten percent,” he said. “Ten percent of all I own. For the church.”