Little Red Lies (16 page)

From inside I hear voices getting louder and louder. Before I can knock on the door, it bursts open, and one of the singing girls storms out, almost stumbling on the three
steps to the ground. She calls back into the trailer, “I’m a singer, not an actress!” Behind her, the door slams. She notices me then and says, “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. He’s liable to bite your head off.”

I take her advice and wait for the show to start. It’s much the same as the last one—not as crowded, but just as smelly. This time I find a seat closer to the front. Both girls are in place, ready to warble their song accompanied by Mrs. Lasco at the piano. When the line forms, they take their places behind the sufferer. I don’t recognize anyone in the line. There’s one gray-haired woman with glasses who is terribly hunched over, her chin almost on her chest. After her shake-up, she stands nearly straight and returns to her seat, glowing with surprise and relief and looking years younger.

I’m determined to talk to Reverend Lasco. I make my way with difficulty against the throng pushing their way out of the tent. By the time I reach the front, Reverend Lasco is nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Lasco is at the piano, gathering up her sheet music and putting it into a carryall. I quickly squeeze past the last of the audience and manage to catch her. I know how hot and sweaty and red-faced I look, but she’s mopping her face, too. She’s a fleshy woman with a cinched-in waist that makes her look as if she’s wearing a corset a couple of sizes too small. Coils and waves of blonde hair are intricately pinned up on top of her head, but a few wisps have escaped.

“I need to talk to Reverend Lasco,” I blurt.

“He’s resting,” she says. “He’s always done in after these sessions. It’s hard work, you know.” She edges away slightly.

“But I just need to ask him something.”

“And what do you want to ask? Perhaps I can help.”

“Well, um …” I need to get right to the point. “Can a person, a sick person, my brother, actually, be cured by long distance?”

“Why? Is he too sick to come here?” She screws up her face as if it this is the stupidest question she’s ever heard.

“Not—not so far, but—”

“He has to attend. It’s the laying on of hands. It’s the faith. Tell him.”

“But, I’m afraid he won’t come.”

She has everything packed away and edges toward the back door of the tent. “God helps those who help themselves. Tell him. We’ll only be here for two more weeks, and then we set up in Durhampton. Tell him.”

All right, I will tell him
. But, I need to be convincing.

Mulling over arguments he’ll likely give me, I head toward the other end of the park, not ready to go home until I’ve thought this through. I can’t get the red-haired young man who let his crutches drop out of my mind. I’d like to describe the whole scene for Jamie. On the other hand, he’ll stop listening if he thinks I’m exaggerating. And the thing is, I probably will exaggerate. It’s hard to know the best approach.

This end of the park straggles into a wooded area that I don’t like to go into. The train tracks go through it, and hoboes often camp in a gully there. You can sometimes see and smell smoke from their campfires. My father says it’s a dangerous place and girls should steer clear of it. Some don’t. Ruthie says if you go down there on your own, you’ll end up pregnant or dead. Take your pick. Some choice.

There’s a footpath on the other side of the tracks that goes deep into the woods, behind a factory that makes farm equipment, and then back into town. It comes out near the swale, not far from Coop’s house. It would be a shortcut for me, and I’m tempted to take it on this boiling hot afternoon, but, actually, I don’t have the courage. Ruthie could be right.

Just as I turn to go back up through the park, I hear kids giggling and look behind me to see two girls come running up from the tracks out into the clearing. They throw themselves down on the grass, out of breath, laughing fit to bust.

“But, he was so cute!” one of them gasps. She couldn’t be any more than eleven years old.

The other one looks a little older, but not much. She gets up and pulls the younger one to her feet. “Let’s get out of here before he finds us.”

“But he was so dreamy!”

“Come on. I’m going.” She starts to run, and finally the younger one catches up to her.

I’m about to carry on toward home when I catch a glimpse of a man coming out of the woods. Something about the way he walks looks familiar. I keep going but glance back over my shoulder.
Wait. How ridiculous!
He waves at me.

“Rachel!” Mr. Tompkins calls. “Hang on a sec.”

I haven’t seen him since the last day of school. He looks younger than ever, with his shirt slung over one shoulder, his undershirt showing off his muscles. He stops for a moment to put his shirt on. “What are you doing down here on a hot day like this?” he asks.

“Nothing much. Just walking.” I feel as if I’m not in my real life, as if this is someone’s made-up version of it. I can’t think of anything to say to him.

“It’s way too hot,” he says, buttoning his shirt now and tucking it in.

“Were you with those, um, girls?” I ask him.

“What girls?”

“Two girls came out of here. I just wondered.”

“I didn’t see any girls. I was just taking a shortcut. You’re not going into those woods, now, are you?
Woo!
It’s a pretty dangerous place for a girl like you. I would have to go along to protect you.” He smiles down into my eyes, and I feel as if my legs are made of melting chocolate. He looks away just as I hear the girls laughing, again. They’re coming back.

Mr. Tompkins takes a peek at his watch. “Good heavens,” he says. “I’d better get going, or I’ll be late. Sorry.”

Before the girls get very close, he hightails it out of the park, crosses a busy road, dodging cars, and I don’t even see which way he goes. He’s gone. The girls sit on the grass.

I move on, but I can still hear them.

“He said he wanted to take me to the movies,” one of them says.

“As if,” the other one says.

“He did. Honestly.”

They must be talking about someone else. Mr. Tompkins would never have said that.

“Just listen to me! Don’t say no before you even hear what I want you to do.”

“I’m not going to some quasi-religious sideshow to parade in front of a lot of quacks and Bible Belters! I’d probably just lie right down in front of them and croak, anyway. Spoil their show.”

“Oh, shut up, Jamie. I’m only asking you to go and observe. We can go late, stand at the back, leave early. This guy really can cure people.”

I’m in the doorway of his room, but he edges out past me. “See you later,” he says. “I have more important things to do than waste time on pipe dreams.” He clatters down the stairs, leaving me standing there, defeated. It isn’t a pipe dream. If he would just observe what goes on, see something like what happened to that red-haired guy, he’d be convinced. I was, and I certainly had my doubts before I saw it happen.

Jamie has decided to help Dad in the drugstore for a few weeks, until it’s time for him to leave for university. That’s where he’s off to in such a rush. I’m in the workforce, too. Two days a week, I go in to tidy shelves, dust off containers and boxes in the back room, and sweep the floor. I even get paid a pittance for doing it.

That’s where I am a few days after our conversation, when Mrs. Popkey, the lady who lives over the drugstore, comes in with Danny. She leaves his wheelchair outside and carries him in. His head flops against her neck, and his arms hang uselessly at his sides. He looks about three, but he’s actually six.

“Well, how’s little Danny today?” asks Margaret, the cashier.

Danny’s head bobs around in Margaret’s direction, and he manages a lopsided smile.

“He’s doing not too badly,” his mother says. “We’ve been going to see Reverend Lasco, down at the tent, every week, and I really think I notice a difference. He’s stronger, I think—a little bit, anyway. He’s over his cold, and he’s eating better, so I think the preacher is doing him a world of good.”

“You need a lot of faith for that, don’t you?” Margaret says.

“Yes, you do. But, I have enough for both of us. I don’t go to church every Sunday, but I go to the tent three times a week.”

I peek at Jamie behind the counter and I know he’s listening, even though he’s not part of the conversation. He’s counting out pills and putting them into a small pink prescription box. He has to stop and start over again.

“I didn’t know you had to go so often,” I say.

“You probably don’t,” the mother says. “But it can’t hurt. I feel wonderful just watching the people who are healed. It keeps your hopes up. Why, even Mrs. Russell, that poor woman with only one arm, says she feels a hundred percent better. The cancer is completely gone. She says it’s something she just senses. But, they’ll be packing up their tent and moving on soon. I believe this is the last week. They’ll be back next summer, I expect. For Danny and me, it’s a question of trust.”

I glance at Jamie again, but he’s busy writing something in a ledger. When he raises his head, he looks as if he’s off in a world of his own.

After supper, a few nights later, Jamie says he’s going for a walk. I have to help with the dishes, of course, but all the time I’m drying knives and forks and shoving them into the drawer, I’m thinking about where Jamie might be heading. When the last plate, glass, and pot are put away, I say, “Ruthie’s home. I think I’ll go see her.”

“Don’t be late,” Mother says.

I change direction once I’m far enough away from the house. It’s a muggy evening, the air sultry with unshed
raindrops. I run most of the way and get to the tent in Kavanagh Park in a lather of sweat. The tent flaps are still open, but Reverend Lasco has already started to speak. I slip inside, keeping well back, and start looking for Jamie. Sure enough, there he is in the second to last row, almost directly ahead of me.

People are standing, now that the healing ritual has started. I watch Jamie crane his neck for a better look. Luckily, I find a wooden box to stand on, next to the wall of the tent. There is the usual line of people—some who look healthy; some leaning on canes. Two soldiers come along on crutches and, behind them, another one in a wheelchair.

I see Mrs. Popkey at the front of the line with little Danny. Reverend Lasco doesn’t put as much pressure on Danny’s shoulders and doesn’t even look very deeply into his eyes. I wonder if he resents having repeat customers, who never seem to get healed.

A soldier, still in uniform, with a bandage around his head that covers his eyes, shuffles along near the end of the line. He’s being led by a pretty young woman, her black hair tied up with a big floppy bow. The soldier, tall and heavyset, moves forward with his hands stretched out in front of him. As he gets close to the preacher, he stumbles and nearly falls into the candelabra, but he’s kept upright by the two singing girls and the woman with him.

Reverend Lasco unwinds the man’s bandages and hands them to the black-haired girl. The soldier gropes blindly
until the preacher grasps his shoulders, staring hard into his eyes. He whispers to him, then gives him a violent shake. Immediately, the man staggers, catches his balance, and puts his hands up to his eyes, looking stunned. When he takes them away, he turns to the audience. “I can see!” he shouts, “I can see!” He throws his arms around the woman he’s with and kisses her passionately on the lips. She must be really self-conscious, because she pushes at him to get free.

The audience goes wild. They’re clapping and yelling, “Praise the Lord!” The soldier himself is yelling something, but no one can hear him. The ushers try to get him to move away, but he keeps embracing the girl. Finally, Reverend Lasco puts his hands on the man’s shoulders and turns him toward an usher, who takes him firmly by the arm and leads him back to his seat. The audience is still clapping and praising the Lord. Before the soldier sits down, he faces the audience and raises his fists like a successful prizefighter.

I’d give anything to be able to see Jamie’s reaction. I see him look toward the door of the tent, as if he might be thinking about leaving, and decide to make my own getaway first. I don’t want him to know I’ve been spying on him. It’s nearly over, anyway.

Two days later, I barge into Jamie’s room, where he’s lying on his bed reading. I feel he needs another push. “Why don’t you go to the tent in the park tomorrow? Just
this once.” I have to pretend I don’t know where he was the other night. “What have you got to lose?”

“I don’t want to discuss this.”

“Reverend Lasco is moving on to Durhampton next week. This is your last chance.”

He puts his book down on his stomach with a long pained sigh. “It’s not my last chance. I’ll go to Durhampton. That way, I won’t run into anyone I know. And I won’t care about making a fool of myself.”

“You mean you’ll go? How are you going to get there? It’s fifty miles away.”

“Borrow Dad’s car. I’ll think of some excuse.”

“I want to go, too.”

He has his nose in his book again.

“I really want to go.”

“I’ll think about it.”

A week later, we’re on our way to Durhampton in Dad’s car. As far as our parents know, we’re off to buy some of Jamie’s textbooks from an ex-student who’s selling them at half price. I’m just going along for the ride.

“So what made you decide to do this?” I ask in the car.

“I went to have a look at this Reverend Lasco for myself, last week, and saw a soldier get cured of his blindness. On the way out, I got talking to the guy, and it turns out he was in the same bombing raid I was when we were fired on by the Allies. He said that’s where he lost his sight. He
was pretty excited about being able to see. He might even have been a little drunk. He invited me to join him for a drink, but I didn’t really feel like it. I gave him some sort of excuse. He made a big impression on me, though. I saw a few other guys after that bombing raid who were blinded and deafened, among their other injuries. If I get my nerve up, I’ll give it a whirl.”

In Durhampton, we have to ask for directions but soon find the tent. The same two girls are collecting money at the doorway. I think one recognizes me, the one who yelled through the door of Reverend Lasco’s trailer that she was a singer, not an actress. Inside, the setup is much the same as it was in Middleborough—lit candles; no electric lights; Mrs. Lasco at the piano. Soon the proceedings are under way.