Reverend America: A Journey of Redemption (23 page)

Emily Dickinson shouted to her son over the copter, “Myron! You keep an eye on things.” To Casper she just glanced, as she stepped into the helicopter with Angelike. He wondered if he’d ever see the girl again. Didn’t she have doubts why the baby had been left behind? Didn’t she know? Of course she did. She’d all but said so. You can’t fool people really. She was allowing herself to be taken and hoped for. As young and alone as she might feel, she was being looked after as best as could be arranged—and she knew it. She knew they were counting on her to fight for her life. They were all in her care, in truth.

It was several minutes after the helicopter had taken off before the bayou recovered—as if a miniature hurricane had come and gone. When the air grew still again he smelled the stormy ozone once more—and stared down at the bundle he’d hidden in what was a kind of bulrushes. He knew the job had to be done fast or he wouldn’t be able to do it. Another body.

Angelike had mentioned a belt—a snakeskin belt, which he found among the things Ananda had brought. He wanted to bury the child with something of hers and there wasn’t much to choose from. He took a pack of Black Jack gum and the little Troll Doll off the key ring. He hadn’t seen the belt before. Little did he know what was inside. He didn’t even think to look for the amount of money that she thought it contained—let alone the total. It was a Medicine thing to him—something important to her.

And so it often is, too—that just like the horrors that skirt our path without our knowing . . . there are many blessings that never find us . . . good news we don’t hear because of more pressing things on our minds. Perhaps the real blessing is that we aren’t aware of how much life, for both great advantage and dark consequence, passes within a hot breath without us suspecting.

He took the belt, the gum and the doll, borrowed one of Emily Dickinson’s boats and a shovel, and made for Woodpecker Island once again. The sky looked as thin as paper, sunless and without time. He beached the boat among the mangroves where the crawfish burrow, tiny bubbles rising in the brown water, and made his way with his tragic cargo to where they’d laid Hermione. The cypress cross and the cement frog stood as if they’d been there for a while. Only the different shadings of the sandy soil gave a clue as to the freshness of the grave. He began to dig.

He’d never had the chance to say goodbye to Poppy and Rose—only to Berina and Joe. At least he’d buried Joe himself.

There’s something therapeutic about digging a grave. He could feel his hands begin to blister a little. Hard work—right down in the mud and the sand with the bugs and the roots. Down to earth. That expression takes on a new meaning when you’re digging a grave for a child who never saw the light of day.

Made him think of his villains—and all his nights of healing. Hapless Rick James, and the boy and the driver back in Indianapolis—how easily he’d killed them. Yes, it had been self-defense. Just as it had been mercy to put Joe Meadow out of his misery, with no doctor within miles. But it had still been killing. It’s never easy to dig a grave. Poor Summer—like a dog in the street.

He put his back into it and when the damp hole was deep enough, he laid the little body in, wrapped in what passed for swaddling clothes—the Black Jack, the doll and the snakeskin belt, which to him was filled with a magical power, because she’d asked for it. Then he did weep . . . for all the people he’d met—all the travelers, the hopers and the nohopers. For Poppy and Rose, Berina and Summer, for Hogerty and Joe, Dev Neon and Hercules, Rip and Daphne, Sharee and Utensil, Walt, Hoss . . . Betsy, Linda—Suzanne. For all those he’d hurt and those he’d tried to help—for those who’d helped him. And most especially for the too-young mother who’d . . . .

He started shoveling the earth back into the hole, remembering back to what Angelike had seemed like when he first met her. So proud, even though destitute. The calamities and inconveniences he’d been afraid she was going to cause. Like a barrel bomb in a toilet bowl. Now he missed that pocket rocket bit of jailbait more than he could say. She’d turned out to be a Rinder true.

He finished filling in the grave and went back to the motel covered in vines. Emily Dickinson had yet to return. Myron offered to make him a shrimp sandwich, which he gratefully accepted. Then the boy showed him to one of the motel rooms. Merrit pulled up to the dock later with his knapsack that had been left at Roy’s—along with Hoptree. Casper went out to talk to his silver-haired comrade at the edge of the water.

“She’ll do fine,” the old man gruffly insisted. “That little girl’s as rough as bags and twice as tough. She’ll pull through.”

“The baby didn’t,” Casper said.

“I heard,” Hoptree answered. “She’d had a bit of a bleed before. Didn’t want anyone to know, I guess. Child lived hard.”

“She named it—him—after me.”

“Onto a better life!” the oldster sighed.

“You getting churchy now?”

“Odessa heppin’ me to see the light,” Hoptree smiled. “She makes the best banana marshmallow pudding I’ve ever et!”

“She’s sweet on you,” Casper said.

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” Hoptree grinned—and Casper realized that if he’d had his eyes closed, he would’ve thought the silver fox was black. Whether it was something he’d learned through his music or a life of beginnings, suffering and being saved—Hoptree had a knack for mingling with whatever environment he found himself in. Even a tornado.

The old man stared out over the breeze-wrinkled water. “So, what do you think ‘bout this Dickinson gal—the nurse?”

“She’s good,” Casper affirmed. “Just was more wrong than she could handle. I should’ve made Angie go see a doctor the moment I met her.”

“Son, you couldn’t get that little lass to do a damn thing she didn’t wanna do! And you can’t blame yourself for the life she led. You’re just high hattin’ yourself if you do. I think you’re the kind who’s helped more people than you remember and been helped by many. Now, it’s time to help yourself.”

“What do you mean by that?” Casper asked, put out.

“Look atchyou!”

“You can barely see through those cataracts.”

“I can feel,” the old man answered and held out his worn right hand and pressed it to Casper’s face. The hand was neither smooth nor rough—but experienced, alive unto itself. And scented with vanilla.

Hoptree laughed loud and clear. “You think she’s too young for me!”

“Or you’re too white for her!” Casper replied. But the notion of racial difference didn’t seem to carry any weight on the bayou.

“There,” said Hoptree, clapping his hands, as if about to begin a song. “That’s what you don’t do enough of. Using those smiling muscles God gave you. You walkin’ around like a haint—never thinkin’ about a home. Hell, you look like you got more past than old Mrs. Nedd. We’ll be asking you about Appomattox soon. Gotta make your way to the moment. Leave the Oldsmobile and the trailer out in the desert behind—whatever happened.”

These last words hung in the air like anxious birds.

“You were talking to yourself while you were driving,” the old man said. “You thought I was off with the woolly mammoths—but you were off with the ghosts and the shadows I suspect.”

Casper gave a light shiver. “Did Angelike hear?”

“She was out. And you didn’t make enough sense to give away any secrets. No need to turn any whiter than you already are.”

“I’ve done bad things,” Casper said.

“No doubt,” Hoptree agreed. “But running from them doesn’t do anyone any good, least of all you. Everyone’s guilty of something. If you want to make good, then let the past go and start looking ahead. That’s the gift the little girl’s given us. Given us both. You just did the driving.”

“You’re right there,” Casper said.

“This here is a good moment,” the old man declared.

Hoptree’s inflection had turned crisp and worldly, but his words were dust of the road honest. They reminded Casper of a Mexican field hand he’d seen once in a row of sugar beets, going down to an irrigation canal and using a stray hubcap to take a drink.

“I don’t think she’s coming back.”

“I know,” the old man answered. “I’m just saying that you need a home. From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs. You might have one here, if you let yourself see it.”

“How do you mean?”

“That’s why I asked you what you think of Miss Dickinson. Odessa reckons she can help me work out a way to get these cataracts removed—and she thinks she’d let you stay on. She needs an extra hand. Even got some funding to help pay for it, so I hear. You could earn your keep. Odessa says she’s a widow too.”

“What do you mean 
too
?”

“Like Odessa. But I do hear she’s a fine lookin’ woman. Then again, I don’t see so good, as you say. Although that may change.”

Casper knew what the old man meant, and that it came from his heart—but it still annoyed him. “I’ll think about it,” he replied.

“And you could join the church. No prejudice with these folks—they’re all too much in each other’s barbeque for that.”

“Yeah,” Casper agreed, thinking back to the night before when he was welcomed like no black stranger would’ve been greeted by whites in the South—sitting around a campfire with people offering him crawfish heads.

“You might even think about the preacher’s job. I’ve already told them you’ve got the way, although they picked up on that themselves. And with the funeral, well, word gets around quick. No money of course—but folks would respect you. Ole Luther Box ain’t gonna be ‘round forever.”

“I don’t know if I feel religious just now,” Casper gruffed, peeved by Hoptree’s slide in and out of his folksy dialect.

As if savoring this discomfort, the old man poured on the molasses. “I’ll tune up my fiddle, I’ll rosin my bow, and I’ll make myself welcome wherever I go. Preachin’ ain’t zackly ‘bout religion with these folks. Iss ‘bout singin’ an’ playin’—heppin’ eachotha in hurricanes—and havin’ children.”

“Did you say children?” Casper prickled. The remark seemed either terribly insensitive just at that point—or so alarmingly optimistic as to be deranged. “You don’t mean to say—you think you can father a child?”

“I hadn’t thought about that yet—but I got me a woman. That’s a damn good start.”

“Not Odessa?” Casper gasped, with his mouth open as wide as it could go and still allow him to talk.

“I don’t mean Mrs. Nedd,” the old man laughed—and then whispered . . . “Odessa’s asked me to move in.”

“You’re joking!” Casper squawked.

“I am not!” Hoptree insisted, feigning being miffed.

“You mean to say . . . you already . . . ”

“Son, you may think it crass of me while Missy was facing such trials—but I tell you, you don’t have to be 151 to know time gets away if you don’t grab it.”

“That sounds like just what you did!”

“Like I said before, you get to a certain point and you think about making hay whether the damn sun’s shining or not. Wise Ben would agree.”

“So—you’re—shacking up with her?”

“We’re gonna play house and see how it goes. Maybe a baby. Haha.”

“But she’s way too old! You’re beyond too old. Don’t you know that?” The old weasel’s exuberance was getting on Casper’s nerves.

His words got up Hoptree’s nose now.

“Why are you 
always
 talking about Old—and Can’t? You’re young enough to be my son. You should still be thinking about Can. You’ve got too much blood in you to be a ghost. Can’t find a red bird, a jay bird’ll do—skip to my lou.”

God, thought Casper. That’s what Angelike would’ve said. It was the way she behaved anyway. She’d been taken off in a helicopter, bleeding, in agony, separated from her newborn dead child, thrown in amongst strangers every bit as much as he was, not knowing what the future held—or if there would be any future to hold—having just lost the one possibility of family and help she’d counted on—and still she showed no sign of giving in.

“I’ll think about what you’re saying,” Casper promised, feeling warmth and affection for the old henhouse raider again.

The old man touched his steady right hand to Casper’s shoulder. “I gotta get back. Wouldn’t want Odessa to think I’m out on the prowl! You don’t need to worry about me anymore. She keeps that bait shovel handy.”

Casper tried to smile.

“The only thing I did was wrong was to stay in the wilderness too long,” Hoptree recited. “The thing we did was right was the day we started to fight. Keep your eyes on the prize. We’re going to need all the help we can get in the great struggle against the corporate forces of Big Money around here. The dignity of the common man is at stake against the interests of capitalist greed. Organizing and preparation is the key.”

“I had an old friend who used to say something like that,” Casper replied.

“You’ve got an old friend right here,” Hoptree said. “And don’t you go kite flying and forget it. You stick around and I’ll learn y’all some gitar. I can play everything from Doc Watson to John Lee Hooker.”

“Do you happen to know ‘The Red Headed Stranger’?” Casper asked.

“From Blue Rock, Montana. Know it by heart,” the old man answered. “I may even teach you some Hoptree Bark. The real Hoptree Bark, I mean.”

“You’re pretty real yourself,” Casper said. “You’d be a good teacher. Stay out of trouble now.”

“You mean, stay in the moment,” Hoptree replied.

“That’s what I said.”

Merrit boated the old man back to Roy’s where Odessa was waiting for him with a plate of hush puppies, polk salad and some blackberry pudding. Casper went back inside his room, lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

He had a dream . . . about Summer. He saw her walking out of her house—the family home she’d remained in, even as an adult. She stepped in front of the speeding ambulance.

In all the years since, it hadn’t occurred to him that her death wasn’t an accident . . . or perhaps it had—he just hadn’t been able to see it. Cloudy, then clear. He’d never known the secret of her family life. She’d always kept that well hidden, just as Little Red had guarded the snakeskin belt. Maybe she hadn’t been run down. Maybe that was her way out of the small room Hogerty had talked about.