But churches are the center of the social life in rural communities. And if Tonya had attended here, someone would know why she slipped away and, just possibly, what became of her. It was also quite likely Brother Rainwater could provide some insight that was lacking in others. In the country churches the pastor often fulfills the function of private counselor and special confidant, much like the priest of a Catholic parish. He was the one person who, no matter what, would not hurt you, or turn you away.

The churchyard was empty now. No one else was here; just me, the dripping pine trees, and the silent residents of the graveyard. But I made a mental note to return and have a confidential talk with the pastor. If anyone was likely to be helpful, he was probably the one.

I turned the truck slowly, splashing as softly as possible across the growing pond of the rain filled parking area, and pointed my bows eastward again. Another twenty minutes sailing over the sand and mud roads brought me once again to the asphalt pavement of the state highway. And sitting at the intersection was the convenience store where I hoped to find Tonya’s friend, Sandy Willis.

I pulled in and sidled up to one of the gas pumps that, thankfully, was under the protection of a high metal roof. Looking around as I filled my tank, I took in what there was of the local scenery. This was another one of those chain places that was identical to the thousands of other convenience stops all across the nation. But just off the property, at the far end of the lot, sat the original version of the rural gasoline station and store.

The building was a faded white, two-story clapboard structure sitting in a sea of knee-high weeds and ankle-deep rainwater. Extending from the front of the second floor was a portico covering the place where the gas pumps once stood. The upstairs would have served as the home of the owner and his family while the first floor was the business section of the building.

Though the pumps were long gone, it was a good bet that the originals were the old gravity-fed models. The ones where the customer ordered so many gallons and the attendant then cranked a hand pump, filling the large glass jar that sat on top to the appropriate level. When the right amount of fuel was visible in the see-through container, the attendant stuck the nozzle in the neck of the tank, pulled the lever on the handle, and gravity did the rest.

When I was a boy, an old abandoned gas station near our home had one of those pumps, and it was a continual source of fascination to me. Years later I found them liberally scattered around the world, in remote locations that were not yet blessed by connection to the electric grid. I still think it’s a clever idea.