Reverend America: A Journey of Redemption (10 page)

And delusions were what young Mathias True was starting to have a lot more of. He was starting to believe he wasn’t just a minister of God—he was the Voice of God. 
And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, neither crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

The lure had always been there from the start. In some ways, if he hadn’t fallen pray to it, the power of his performances wouldn’t have grown. But now, coming into sexual maturity, the conviction sharpened, and with it came the first sustained audio and visual hallucinations.

Sometimes he’d see auras . . . soft blue haloes or swollen red masses of gelatin. Other times he saw chancre sores and glutinous diseased shapes, like bleeding cheeses. He heard choirs of angels . . . the hideous cries of people burning to death forever. Always these visions provoked more fervor in him. He’d moved well beyond needing prompts from Poppy and Rose. Speaking in tongues came naturally now. He shook as if possessed. It gave Poppy and Rose the willies.

They were on a swing through southern Texas when Reverend America’s behavior crossed the line. He preached an enflamed sermon to the death row inmates at Huntsville Prison—and then two nights later in front of a full gospel choir in Crystal City, the no longer little Mathias True openly took on the mantle of a Messiah. He went into a kind of spell and appeared unrecognizable. Poppy saw the signs of impending doom. This was so far beyond their novelty act beginnings, the old carny didn’t know what to make of it. He saw the possibilities all right. Here was a chance at the big time for real. But when it came down to it, he didn’t think they had what it takes to start a new religious sect.

He also, wisely or not, believed this bizarre new phase had been brought on by puberty. For that, he felt he had a solution, and to be fair to him, it was one that he’d been treated to when he’d been that age. Many would not approve of his thinking, certainly not the audiences they’d been working—but Poppy came from old sideshow ways and he believed in certain rites of passage.

He took the volatile Reverend America across the border to Nuevo Laredo, into Boy’s Town, a Zone de Tolerencia—a walled compound southwest of International Bridge 1. Dusty streets, white adobe alleys lit up with broken neon and cheap Chinese lanterns, always at least one lane choked with goats, pigs and burro carts, old American cars, drunken soldiers and factory workers . . . Mexican men openly carrying revolvers on their belts. This was where you’d hear chattering cab drivers hustling the fabled Donkey Shows, a few of which did take place, although mostly it was just a way to lure soused marks to a place where they could be robbed. (Perhaps in an Oldsmobile.)

If Poppy hadn’t been so besotted with Boone Burgers dreams, he might’ve considered that taking a young boy in a vulnerable mental state out of the charged religious world he was used to and plunging him into the promiscuity of border town Mexico, with its colored lights, frying tortillas, and girls with dark eyes—might not have been the best plan. But he thought it was a treat and a ritual journey that would stir the boy out of the cloud of unknowing that had enshrouded him . . . and so over the border they went.

Neither Casper nor Poppy would ever be sure what happened that night. It was in a cinderblock bunker with rows of cement-floored rooms that stank of stale perfume, with a plumpish girl of maybe 15, who was called Dolores, but who looked like a full blooded Indian—in a cubicle with a lurid velvet painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the wall.

Poppy was out on a patio drinking a lemon Coke and swatting flies, listening to a fistfight between some gringos on the other side of a chinked mud brick wall.

In losing his virginity, some black vision took hold of Reverend America. 
For she hath cast down many wounded: yea, many strong men have been slain by her. Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death.

It would be a very long time before he’d perform again with a woman. The girl wasn’t outright strangled that hot cantina night—but it was close enough to cause a commotion that wasn’t easy for them to get out of. Even in the shadowland of whorehouse Mexico, some things aren’t tolerated. Only an old carnival man who was quick on his feet could’ve pulled off their exit. It left them both shaken, with Poppy ever more certain that the young faith healer was losing his grip, just when the game was getting serious.

And therein lay the real problem, for Poppy still thought of Reverend America as a game, but for Mathias True it had become the truth.

They headed back to Louisville en route to Joplin and Casper’s fall from grace would soon be complete. Cab Hooly, wanting to reassure his patrons about the launch of the restaurant had scheduled a press conference on site. He was hopeful of playing both sets of tricks—building local interest in case he could deliver the restaurant opening—and grifting his patrons out of one more substantial injection of funds, in case he needed to bolt.

The blonde was pregnant, he was behind on his leases—the cost of processing even a small batch of squirrel patties (and then paying off the health inspectors to allow what he’d just discovered wasn’t legal meat to sell) had left him with the first acidic gnawings of a peptic ulcer and a yearning for a quiet beach in Brazil.

Nevertheless, he went ahead with what he thought was a good angle. Get Reverend America in to do a blessing of the site and serve up some advance promotion. It was a way to get a regional celebrity in front of the brand for free, and it would reassure the family the whole deal was legit. It could even spur the enterprise forward into reality, and wouldn’t that have been a nice surprise? A successful event and he could ease the short-term debt pressure and maybe get to the next level with all his investors. Just keep everyone from meeting each other, but make them all feel special. Grease a few palms down at the newspaper and the local TV stations. It was the albino kid who’d provide the entertainment—and like Poppy, that’s what he thought the kid was doing. Show business.

He had no idea of what had happened down in Nuevo Laredo, and Poppy wasn’t saying anything—not even to Rose. With so much already invested—and still the hopes of a big pay-off—Poppy had no choice but to go ahead. Distraught though he’d been that night in the brothel, Casper seemed to recover once back in Louisville. Reverend America appeared in control when the people started to gather on site at the barely begun Boone Burgers restaurant, a couple of pert young things strutting about in coonskin caps, and even one of the town’s TV stations on hand. It wasn’t a bad turnout for such a half-assed affair. Cab Hooly was a good promoter at least.

Imagine his surprise when the young evangelist announced to camera that the fires of Hell awaited them all, but that he could save them, because he could bring back the dead. He was a faith healer no more. He could cure death itself. He then ate a squirrel patty and retched. It wasn’t the media scenario Hooly had envisaged.

Before anything could be done, the albino minister insisted they all march down to the nearest cemetery, where he could demonstrate his powers by commanding the graves to open and the corpses to revive. 
“I will bring forth a congregation of the Dead Come Back to Life—who will live forever in me!”

In one sense, it was a fine moment in local broadcasting, but the association of squirrel patties and cadavers was regrettable.

THREAT OF ZOMBIES IN LOUISVILLE

This wasn’t the headline Hooly had hoped for. The more wound up the crowd grew, the more emphatic Reverend America became, until squirrel patties started being thrown and the whole charade devolved into an old-fashioned food fight, which then collapsed into the anarchy of a parking lot brawl. Cab Hooly saw what was happening and slipped away while the debacle was still in progress. The next morning, there wasn’t a sign of him left on the continent of North America.

Somewhere Casper thought he heard the strains of “I’m a Hoochie Koochie Man,” and in the distance he picked out the shutterbug lights of a cab. There were some drunken voices down the street. He had to think. The little redhead kept blabbering. He felt that same rush of adrenalin he’d known before a Reverend America meeting, the fear of something unforeseen—then that Only Men moment of winning them over—of taking them into the trance.

“Quick,” he said. “We’re going to load him in the trunk. We’re going to wipe down the curb with his coat. And we’re going to drive somewhere where there’s no one around where we can work this through. Now shut up and help me . . . move! People are coming.”

Remarkably, the girl did as he said without fuss. The keys were pulled from the dead pimp’s pocket, the trunk opened, the body loaded, the curb wiped down as best he could—and they got in. Then paralysis. He remembered Poppy and Rose had owned a Studebaker Commander Starliner. What happened to all those great American cars? The girl started crying again and he snapped out of it. They had to go.

It had been a while since he’d driven a car, let alone owned one. Joe’s truck was the last wheel he’d been behind. But if Jesus could descend from the Mount of Olives on an ass, he could drive a Buick LeSabre. He regained composure and got them on the move. The question was where—and when would the girl stop crying? He hadn’t expected her to come with him.

“Look,” he said, trying to keep his mind on the streets, eyes peeled for police. “I’m sorry. I just meant to keep him from hurting me—and you.”

“I ain’t cryin’ ‘bout him. He’s an asshole. Hurt me plenty.”

“Is it about the orthodontist?” Casper asked, trying to remember his way around.

“He was a fuckin’ prick!” the girl shrieked. “Always made me sing to it.”

Sing to it? Casper wondered. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know more about that—and he had to stay focused. They had to get rid of the body and then decide what to do. It occurred to him he couldn’t drop the girl off on her own. She’d just witnessed him commit some kind of homicide. She was in fact the only witness, as far as he knew. But more than that, he was concerned about her, which is why he’d stepped in to protect her. His first thought was that she could’ve been his daughter. His second thought triggered lost questions about his mother. It was amazing how everything could change. Here he’d come back to his power point to find some kind of sign—then bam—he’d gotten more of a sign than he bargained for. He’d gotten an accomplice, and he hadn’t had one of those in a long time. “So, what are you crying about?” he tried, cruising past what he thought might be an unmarked cop car.

“Don’t you be an ugly pitbull too!” she wailed. “I’m—I’m cryin’ ‘bout everything. All right? Can’t a girl just cry?”

The way she said that almost made Casper run a red light.

He started thinking about driving into the countryside where he knew there were several hog farms. At this time of late night/early morning, they might be able to get close enough to drop the body in one of the pens. But there could still be some evidence left over . . . and even a pimp deserved better than that. Plus, he didn’t think the girl would have the stomach for it. He wasn’t sure he did either.

Then he had a dim notion about one of the old lead or zinc pits. There were some pretty deep shafts around. The problem was most of the good ones were protected now for safety reasons. The other ones he remembered posed access problems. He’d have to lug the body a fair distance, risking being seen. There might well be homeless people camped in those areas. Besides, the police were on to this sort of thing. Once the body started to smell, there’d be an investigation. No doubt someone like Rick James would be easily identified unless the body were defaced, which was too sickening a thought to consider. That could link back to the girl. With the Oldsmobile incident, he’d been all right to just walk away. The police weren’t going to care or wonder about victims like those two—and Indianapolis was a much bigger city. If he’d just been on his own now, he might’ve found a dumpster and driven the car to the next town and bought another bus ticket.

But he wasn’t on his own. Something had clicked. It was like the first time he’d met Berina. Like Summer come back. Rick James deserved what he got if he’d been hurting her. He was glad he’d protected her. Who knows what the pimp would’ve done if he hadn’t been there?

He found he knew his way around all right and had been shaken out of his weariness. There had to be a solution to the body problem, and when they crossed the train lines as the red signal lights began to blink, he realized what it was.

A slow freight was inching into town—Joplin’s a train town if there ever was one. This was a much bigger one than the KCS coal run before, and he knew from the past that it would have to come to a stop in passing through the train yard, but the length of cars meant that much of the rolling stock would lie, for a few moments, unprotected on a siding. The area was famous with hoboes since old Rum Jungle days. All they needed to find was a boxcar they could open. Bulls and the guard dogs could only keep an eye on so much train.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he explained. He wasn’t sure he was going to get through the girl’s bawling, but his clear flat voice seemed to steady her. He thought it best that she stay in the car. He could drive in close enough for him to handle the body, once he’d found an open car. He was surprised when she asked. “You gonna strip him? Rickie was a shithole, but I’d feel better doin’ it.”

Casper didn’t know what to say to this, but no wasn’t the answer. The girl had some decency as well as pragmatism. He pulled over in the shadows of some willow trees that seemed to think summer had already arrived, even though it was only Easter. The branches gave them cover while he popped the trunk and let the girl do as she’d asked.

She was a while though and he was beginning to worry, when she appeared back at her door with a tied up bundle (which made him wonder if she’d done this kind of thing before). “I got all his bling and shit—wallet . . . everything. What do you want me to do with it?”

“Leave it in the trunk,” Casper said. “We’ll get rid of it later somewhere else.”

“Mister, just so you know, he had $200 on him and I’m keeping it. He owed me way times that, and I’m damn near broke.”

“Keep it,” Casper told her. It struck him as an honorable thing for her to tell him, but he bet it was more like $400. He was wise to harlot wiles. “Put the stuff in and close the trunk.”

The pulling twin diesel was grinding down, the piggies bucking to a halt behind. He figured he had about fifteen minutes at the outside.

He needed all of that. Dogs yelped in the distance. Guard dogs? A police siren sounded and then went silent. All the refrigerator cars were locked. A flatcar wouldn’t do. He finally found a rail-worn Burlington Northern he could get into. It was filled with plastic wrapped pallets of sheetrock—no doubt made in a foreign country. The last one he’d ridden in had been a Great Northern. Made him wonder how far this car had traveled, where it would end up.

Once he had his target picked out he shambled back to the car for the body. He was getting too old for this kind of caper. Opening the trunk, he noticed the girl had left the pimp’s underwear on, which seemed respectful. He didn’t think it right to get her to help him carry the body. The weight was blubbery and reminded him of all the farm work he wasn’t fit enough to do anymore. But there was no choice. If he had a heart attack, it was just meant to be.

That didn’t happen though. He couldn’t falter or stumble. He still had the girl to look out for, and neither one of them was out of the woods by a long shot. It was the most exhausting physical thing he’d done since digging Joe’s grave, and sweat broke out all over him. Scene upon scene poured through his mind as he picked his way down the dark line amongst the vertebrae of the train. Boxcar doors aren’t low to the ground. It was all he could do to get Rickie up inside—the head clunking—the legs seeming to kick back. Rigor hadn’t set in yet of course, so the whole mass was just spongy yet anvil leaden weight. But he got the body in—and in some attempt at respect, he nestled the white Y-front underwear clad corpse in amongst the packed shipment, as if for warmth. He felt bad for the ones who’d discover this extra freight in whatever city finally. Still, it was better than the hogs or an old mineshaft. And there was something right about going on a journey—he thought it would suit his own end, whenever that came. 
This train is bound for glory
.

Perhaps just not for Rick James. But as the girl had said, he was an asshole. Casper straggled down and closed the door, and tiptoed back to the car. She was still there and had stopped crying.

He eased the Buick around the corner and onto the highway, heading west, thinking of how he’d sent General Douglas MacArthur on such a happier adventure. He pulled off at an exit five miles down and parked in the darkness away from a floodlit lot of farm machinery. The events of the last hour had almost cured him of all his homesickness and memories. He had new problems to face, and maybe that’s the best remedy for confusion. He stripped out the carpet from the trunk, with the pimp’s clothes and jewelry wrapped up in it, and stuffed it in a concrete drainage conduit. Then they drove in silence two more exits down. He made it past a strip of closed fast food places and pulled over in a light industrial zone. Beyond them lay the farm fields, the rising smell of summer on the way. Inside the car, it was just them.

“So,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“They call me Little Red. But my name’s Angelike. Angel-Leek-ay.”

“Is that your real name?” Casper asked—and then wondered what right he had to ask about real names.

“Listen, Mister. You may think I’m trash—but I’m from a good family once.”

This was no Sharee. He wanted to hear more. But he knew enough to let her tell her story in her own time.

“You wanna know why I’m workin’ the streets—and hooked up with Rickie?”

“I’m more interested in why I hear a bit of Texas mixed in with Missouri in your accent.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m from Texas, genius. Dallas. My father was a dendrologist. I bet you don’t know what that is.”

“How about $200?” Casper asked. “It’s a scientist who studies trees.”

The girl laughed. “Sheet. Maybe you are a genius. I wuddn’t a-thought.”

“Why? Because of how I look?”

“No, Mister. Not many people know is all. Guess you’re not many people.”

“So, what happened?”

“You want my full life story?” she jibed, smacking her Black Jack gum.

“How much of a life story can you have at your age?” Casper retorted, although he was instantly sorry. “How old are you really?”

“I’ll be sixteen next birthday . . . comin’ up soon.”

He was pleased that she answered that question. He waited.

“Daddy got a job at the university in Maine. Plain Maine. Nothin’ but pine trees and fuckheads with guns. My mother was already a drunk and that pushed her over. Two bottles of vodka a day. She liked younger guys. One day he caught her ridin’ one—shot’em both and then himself with the new rifle he’d bought. Out on my ass.”

“How old were you then?”

“Ten . . . goin’ on twenny. I was already into mama’s booze and pills. There wuddn’t nothin’ else to do up in the woods. Shit borin’ for real.”

“What happened then?” Casper asked, and wished he could wipe the smudges from her face. She was quite pretty when she didn’t pout or frown.

“I went to live with my auntie down in Austin. That was all-ight—a lot better than those fuckin’ woods. She was good to me—but she’s a crazy pot smokin’ gal and had troubles of her own. I got wilder and started sniffin’ Tulio with this guy called Swivel. You know Tulio?”

“It’s an industrial corrosive solvent,” Casper answered.

“Goddamn genius,” Little Red smirked. “Swivel was my first. Bad boy, but good to me. Then we got into trouble stealin’—got put in this dee-tention center for juveniles. That was a major bummer, but I met Bobby P, one of the overseers. I thought he was a good dude. He got me outta there—brought me here to Joplin to live with his mother in foster care—he was from here. Said he was gonna adopt me—but that’s not what he had in mind when he came back to visit. I was on the streets soon as he got heavy—and that’s when I met Rickie. He took me in and looked after me nice at first. And then the real shit started for real.”

It was as Casper suspected, a variation on the theme of his own life, but as always, the question is . . . What Now?

She had a particular slant on that. “You wanna fuck me?”

“No, I don’t,” Casper said, just shy of being appalled. “You’re young enough to be my daughter—you could be my granddaughter.”

“Can’tchya do it? I could help.”

There was a hint of plea in her voice that unsettled him.

“That’s not the point, don’t you see? That would make me no better than Rickie and the orthodontist.”

“Well, what about for free . . . ’cause . . . ’cause I need some . . . lovin’ . . . ”

Then she broke down.

When she reached across the seat to hug him, it was all he could do not to cry himself. He could’ve been a serial killer—and in fact he sort of was. But she wasn’t afraid. She was just in need of a Rinder, as he so often had been.

He let her sob it out all over his work shirt, the eye makeup, the labored breathing—the bump. He felt her young, big boobs smushed up against his chest—and for a moment there was nothing more he wanted—even with the bump. Then it hit him. He saw again the monster that had emerged that night down in Mexico. It at last peeked out and showed itself—in his own eyes in the rearview mirror.

It wasn’t a monster at all. No bejeweled woman drunken with the blood of saints sitting upon a scarlet beast with seven heads and ten horns. It was the sorrow of his own lost mother—a girl he’d never known. Just a girl. Never having seen her . . . having only been inside her . . . all she’d been was blame and abandonment . . . filtered through stained glass. Then Rose’s disaffection and distance. He’d been overwhelmed by a river of emotion . . . hate, hope, loneliness, longing, guilt, revenge, love. 
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
. It was so simple—but he’d never seen it before clear and sharp. It had been too simple and huge to see. All those Mary Magdalene nights . . . he’d been searching for a phantom mother. This girl Angelike brought it all out into the open . . . on a late Missouri night . . . after an accidental murder.