The Bastard Hand (7 page)

Wiping tears from his eyes, he nodded. “I know, I know. Couldn’t resist that one, since you walked right into it. You shoulda seen the look on your face.”

The waitress chose that moment to approach our table. “Can I get you boys anything else?”

The Reverend said, “Yes, darling, I think you can. Would you be kind enough to tell me about the soup du jour of the day?”

“Split pea today.”

He grimaced. “If there’s one thing I can’t abide by, it’s split pea soup. What about you, Charlie?”

I shrugged. He turned his attention back to the waitress. “I reckon I’ll just have a slice of that apple pie with a scoop of ice cream on top of it. No, make that two scoops. Charlie?”

“No thanks.”

The waitress smiled at him and then went off to fetch his dessert. He said to me, “It ain’t no wonder you have a depleted sex drive, ol’ son. You don’t eat yourself enough of the finer things.” He said it loud enough for the people at the next table to hear him.

“Just because I don’t screw like a rabbit every chance I get doesn’t mean I have a depleted sex drive.”

“It does in my book. Look at it this way—is there anything in this material life more divine than screwing? I mean, I know good chow comes close, and I always enjoy a fine whiskey, but when it comes right down to it . . . no matter what you’re doing, wouldn’t you rather be screwing?”

“Jesus.”

“Don’t blaspheme. Really, Charlie. Can you think of one thing better?”

I shrugged again. The people at the table behind me had grown quiet, obviously listening to our conversation.

“Well, can you?”

“No, I guess not.”

The waitress came back with his pie. He said, “Thankee, ma’am,” and dug in.

I finished my sandwich while Marty Robbins sang “Don’t Worry ’Bout Me” on the jukebox. The group at the next table snickered.

In a low voice, I said, “Still . . . that doesn’t mean I have a depleted sex drive. It just means you’re hyper-horny.”

The Reverend chuckled, stabbed up a forkful of pie. “That’s a good one. Hyper-horny. Where’d you come up with that one? My point is, Charlie, all of us should be hyper-horny. Sex brings us closer to God. There should be fucking in the streets! Could you imagine that world? Say you’re working your job, presenting the ol’ boss with a proposal, and you get a good stiffie going out of nowhere. You could just say, ‘Pardon me, boss, but I’d like to go and put it to your secretary, if she don’t have no objections.’ And the boss would say, ‘Well, all right, but be quick about it, we got work to get to today. And while you’re doing that, I‘ll just sit in here and grease the axle.’ ”

He laughed out loud, and the silence from the table behind me had taken on a sort of nervous edge. I decided to let that particular line of conversation alone.

“Okay,” I said. “Right. I’m a sexual loser. A dickless wonder. That’s me.”

He finished up his pie, wiped his mouth. “Don’t let it worry ya, Charlie. Stick with me, I’ll make sure you’re cured of that particular ailment. Now what say we get on down to Cuba Landing?”

“Right,” I said.

I left the money on the table, and we started out. At the door I stopped, said, “Whoops. Forgot the tip. Go on, I‘ll meet you in the car.”

He went outside and I went back to our table, digging in my pockets for change. The folks at the next table—two young men and a pretty teenage girl—watched me with open curiosity. The girl said, “Excuse me. Sir?”

“Yeah?”

“That man you’re with . . . is he a priest? We saw the collar and just kinda wondered.”

I said, “He’s a preacher. A reverend, like.”

“Wow,” the girl said. “What do I have to do to join his church?” They all laughed.

“Just stay put,” I said. “If he needs you, he’ll find you.”

The sign read “Welcome to Cuba Landing! Stay a Spell!” in big cheerful orange letters. Beyond the sign, the endless cotton fields gave way once again to woods—sparse, but lush and green. The Reverend said, “I’d say we’re in Cuba Landing. ’Bout time, huh?”

I nodded. The trip shouldn’t have taken more than two hours, but about twice that time had gone by since we’d left Memphis. Late afternoon now, and the sun hung dark orange in the west. To the east I could see the vague outline of the moon over the trees. The bottle of whiskey had run out only minutes after we left the diner, and my head was fuzzy. What I wanted more than anything was an icy shower and a cool bed.

As we drove through the woods, I caught a whiff of something soft and flowery and wet. Trees cast dappled shadows on the road, permitting only the occasional shaft of light. We kept driving, though, and within a minute small houses, half-hidden by trees, began appearing. We passed a bait shop, took a smooth curve to the right, and were cruising down the towns Main Street.

At first glance, Cuba Landing seemed like something out of a Faulkner story. A row of small businesses lined one side of the street, facing a small park on the other side. In the middle of the park stood a statue of a man decked out in Civil War attire. Beyond the park, and down each side street we passed, were row after row of colorful wooden houses with big front porches and huge trees in every yard. I spotted a young couple walking hand-in-hand toward the park, and an old man in a summer suit perched in front of the post office, but other than that, not a soul. With the exception of two or three cars passing in the other direction, Main Street was also empty.

The Reverend read my mind. “It’s Sunday, Charlie, ’member? All the shops are closed today, with the possible exception of the bar t’ other end of town. Cuba Landing is closed for business on Sundays, and every weekday after six.”

A police siren wailed behind us. I nearly jumped up from my seat and bolted out of the moving car—training I’d had as a wandering bum—but the Reverend only glanced casually in the rear-view mirror and said, “Now what the hell?”

The siren wailed again, a short sharp burst. I craned my neck to see the police car right behind us, flashing a white light from the dashboard. My heart started pounding. I said, “Gun it, man. Just go.”

He looked at me as if my head had fallen off and rolled onto the floorboard. “Go? What the hell you on about, Charlie? You wanna get us arrested?”

Shoving the empty whiskey bottle under his seat, the Reverend steered the Malibu over, stopped in front of a bike shop.

“Reach in the glove compartment there, Charlie. My license is in there somewheres.”

My hands shook as I fumbled through the compartment, and I felt the Reverend’s eyes on me. The license was under a pile of ragged maps and religious pamphlets. I handed it to him, not meeting his gaze.

“Try to relax, Charlie. It’s just a cop.”

Behind us, the cruiser door slammed and a pair of heavy boots clomped toward the Reverend’s side of the car. I watched the cop approach in the rear-view.

A wide face, youngish but rugged, peered through the open window. “Evening, gentlemen.”

Reverend Childe grinned at him. “Howdy, officer. What can I do for you?”

“You can start,” the cop said, “by showing me your driver’s license.” His face friendly enough, but the voice stern, leaving no room for argument. Still grinning, the Reverend passed his license over, and the cop glanced at it quickly, comparing the picture to the Reverend’s face.

Satisfied, the cop gave the license back, said, “Did you know, Mr. Childe, that your left taillight is out?”

“Is it now?” the Reverend sounded genuinely troubled. “Well, I sure didn’t know that.” He looked at me. “Did you notice that, Charlie?”

I shook my head.

Turning back to the cop, he said, “It’s mighty good of you to tell me that, officer. We been driving just about all day long to make it here and we never even noticed the taillight.”

“You need to get that fixed soon as possible. I’m going to ticket you for this, but—”

“I wonder if you might tell me where I can get that taillight taken care of, officer. I can’t see driving any farther without it, ’specially considering how close to dark it’s getting.”

“Well . . . everything’s already closed up here today, but—”

“Well, shoot,” the Reverend cut him off. “Don’t that just beat all?” He laughed easily, nudged me in the arm. “Good thing we ain’t going any further, eh, Charlie?” Then, to the cop, “I guess I’ll just have to take care of it first thing the mornin’. Is that all right with you, officer?”

The cop stammered, “Well, yeah, sure—”

“Thankee. I appreciate your understanding.”

“Don’t think nothin’—”

“I wonder if you might tell me where the Freewill Baptist Church is? Like I say, we been driving for a spell and we’re anxious to get settled.”

The cop frowned. “The Freewill . . .” Then understanding dawned on him and he laughed out loud. “Childe! Of course! You’re Reverend Childe, come about the church!”

It was the Reverend’s turn to look surprised. “Well, yeah.”

“Well, I’ll be,” the cop said. “This whole town’s been waiting on you, did you know that? Welcome to Cuba Landing, Reverend!”

He stuck his hand into the car. The Reverend shook it, said, “It’s good to be here, Officer . . . ?”

“Oldfield. Ernie Oldfield. Pleasure to meet you.” He squinted into the car, trying to get a better look at me.

The Reverend said, “This here’s my good friend-in-the-Lord, Charlie Wesley.”

I nodded at the cop, who said, “Good to meet you, Mr. Wesley. Boy, folks are sure gonna be happy to see you, Reverend. We weren’t really expecting you ’til tomorrow, but we got a whole big shindig planned.”

“Do you now?” the Reverend said, obviously pleased to be the focus of so much hubbub.

“Yes sir, the Ladies Church Club are gonna do you up proud, Reverend. We’ve been without a regular minister for almost a year now.”

“Now that’s just a shame. A fine town like this is entitled to hear the Word of God every chance it gets, and I just can’t abide otherwise.”

Officer Oldfield laughed. “Well, that’s a thing of the past, now that you’re here, ain’t it?”

“God willing, brother. God willing.”

We followed Officer Oldfield’s cruiser up Main, around the far end of the park, onto a side street called High Park Lane. The Cuba Landing Freewill Baptist Church—the only church in the whole town I’d seen so far—stood on the corner, across from the park and within sight of a bookshop, a bakery and a small bar with a crowded parking lot. The bar was where all the people were.

We parked on the street, right behind Oldfield’s cruiser, and looked the place over. The church wasn’t very different from the one up in Memphis. Cleaner, maybe, but the red brick and the small yard with the inauspicious bulletin board were the same. The steps leading up to the front doors were broad and low, shaded by several large shrubs and a low-hung awning. The Reverend and I saw the notice on the bulletin board at the same time: Mon. eve . . . plEase Come Out to meet our New Pastor Rev. P. Childe supper in the basement after please meet New pastor.

I said, “You didn’t tell me they were expecting you. I thought you were just coming down to check out a possible position.”

The Reverend shook his head, laughing. “Well, that’s what I thought. I talked to someone on the phone ’bout a week ago and she told me that their old pastor had sort of skipped out and they needed someone to fill in.”

“He skipped out?”

“Yeah. It happens sometimes, y’know. He prob’ly got some young girl in trouble and didn’t have the balls to own up to it or something. Anyhow, it sounded promising on the phone, but I had no idea they’d made up their minds ’bout me.”

“What if you don’t like it here? What are you gonna do?”

He looked at me. “Charlie, it don’t matter if I don’t like it. Doing the Lord’s work ain’t always a picnic, you know. Besides, I think I’m gonna like it just fine. It’s a pretty little town, ain’t it? Full of possibilities.”

Oldfield had been sitting in his car until then, probably on the radio to announce our arrival to his boss. He stepped out, and the Reverend and I did the same.

“Well, here it is,” Oldfield said. “Whatta ya think?”

The Reverend put his hands on his hips, nodded his head grandly at the church. “Beautiful. Mighty beautiful, indeed. I just know some souls are gonna be saved in this place.”

“Would you like to see the inside?” Oldfield said, grinning. “I just called in to Captain Forry and he told me the rear entrance is unlocked.”

I said, “Do they always leave the place unlocked?”

Oldfield explained that the Ladies Club had been holding the key until a new pastor could be found—they held their meetings in the basement and cleaned up twice a week. The door was left open just in case any members had to get in for whatever reason. “But now that you’re here, Reverend, that won’t be necessary anymore. The Ladies Club will turn the key over to you tomorrow night. Knowing them, they’ll prob’ly make some dramatic deal out of it.”

Oldfield held the back door open for the Reverend, then followed. I caught the door from swinging shut on my face and went in after them.

It wasn’t bad. The short back hall led past the stairs to the second floor and the basement, and right into the church itself. Reverend Childe lingered there, gazing over the rows of empty pews with a strange look on his face. Behind the podium was a mammoth piece of artwork, depicting a serene valley, rich with green and blue and brown, and above the painting Jesus looked down on us casually from a red crucifix.

Oldfield said, with some pride, “That crucifix was carved by hand, believe it or not, by our very own Aarons brothers.”

The Reverend looked at it appreciatively, said, “Aarons brothers? Well, that is something, ain’t it? They good church-going folk?”

Oldfield grimaced. “Not as such, I’m afraid. I don’t think anyone in this town can say the Aarons ain’t Christians, but we haven’t seen ’em around here for a few years.”

“Well that’s just a shame.”

Shrugging, Oldfield said, “They sorta keep their own company, you know? They got a place out by Moker’s Hill and they spend all their time hunting and raising dogs and making illegal moonshine.”

The Reverend glanced at him. “Making moonshine?”

Oldfield nodded. “Yessir, I’m sorry to say.”