This Tender Land (24 page)

Out of the blue, Emmy whispered to me, “Do you have your harmonica?”

“Right here.” I lifted it from my shirt pocket.

“Do you know how to play ‘Beautiful Dreamer’?”

“Sure,” I said. “Why?”

Before she could answer, the musicians filed in and took their places on the raised platform. The trumpet player stood up and cried, “Praise the Lord, brothers and sisters! Praise the Lord!”

Sister Eve swept into the tent from the opening where the soup had been served, wearing her white robe, her hair falling around her
shoulders in auburn rivulets. She came to the center of the platform and spread her arms so that once again she seemed to have wings.

“Jesus said, ‘If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink.’ My brothers and sisters, let us gather at the river and drink from the living water of the Holy Spirit and be refreshed.”

Immediately, the musicians behind her began to play and Sister Eve broke into song, her beautiful voice lifting up the words, “Shall we gather at the river, where bright angel feet have trod . . .”

I knew the old gospel tune. It had been one the Brickmans used a lot, and I found myself belting out the words along with Sister Eve, pouring my heart into them as if I believed they were absolutely true.

She danced across the stage that night, speaking hope to all the people with their rumps settled on those hard benches, her hair tumbling across her face, where, from the heat inside the tent and the intensity of her evangelistic fervor, her own living water poured down in streams of sweat. She sang and exhorted and, in the end, opened her arms wide and invited anyone who needed the healing touch of God to come forward.

A man on crutches hobbled up, followed by a woman without any obvious affliction. At the touch of Sister Eve’s hands, the man on crutches threw them away. He practically danced off that platform. The woman without anything visibly wrong tried to tell Sister Eve about her stutter. It was excruciating listening to her as she battled to get her words out. Sister Eve took the woman’s head and squeezed it with the viselike grip of her two palms. She begged in the name of the Holy Spirit for this woman to speak clearly, as God intended. When Sister Eve lifted her hands, the woman tried for a moment to form words and finally said, as clear as you like, “Thank you, Sister.” Then she looked stunned, like a cow hit with a sledgehammer. “God be praised,” she cried. “God bless you, Sister Eve. God bless you.” When she left the platform, she was pouring out tears as if her eyes were rain clouds.

The man who sat next to me, huge and hulking and foul-smelling, stood. In one hand, he held a shotgun. With his other, he pulled up
the woman who’d been leaning against him, fast asleep. He hooked his arm around her, stepped into the aisle that ran between the benches, and hauled her forward, her feet dragging along the ground.

I realized then that the woman hadn’t been asleep. And the foul smell had not been from mucking out a barn.

At the platform steps, the man stopped and gawked up at Sister Eve. If she was surprised by the scene in front of her, she showed no sign of it.

“What is it you’re seeking, brother?” she asked.

“My wife. She don’t talk to me no more. I heard you fix people.”

“What’s your name?”

“Willis.”

“And what’s your wife’s name?”

“Sarah.”

“The name of a godly woman in the Bible. Sit with me, Brother Willis. Both of you.”

She settled herself on the top step, the folds of her robe tumbling down below her in a cascade of white. The shaggy bear named Willis sat down, holding the body of his wife upright between him and Sister Eve. He propped the shotgun against the steps within easy reach. Sister Eve took the dead woman’s hand, held it between her own, and closed her eyes for a long while. When she finally opened them, she said, “Life is hard, isn’t it, Brother Willis?”

“You can say that again. It ain’t easy on the farm these days. Price of corn ain’t been good for a long time.”

“You don’t sleep,” she said.

“I lie awake nights worrying. Bank’s sent us letters. Why I keep my shotgun with me, in case they try to jump me. They ain’t taking my farm.”

“And Sarah, she’s been sitting up with you night after night, trying to give you comfort.”

“She’s the only thing keeps me going. But she don’t talk to me no more. She lost her voice. Why we come here. I heard you heal folks.”

“I don’t heal them, Willis. It’s God who heals. I’m just the lightning rod.”

“You pray over her. You make her talk to me again.”

“Do you believe in God, Willis?”

“As much as the next man.”

“And what about Sarah?”

“Always reading her Bible. Says it gives her comfort.”

“And in turn she gives you comfort.”

He gave his wife a look that seemed full of longing. “Just the sound of her voice is enough.”

“But she doesn’t speak to you anymore.”

He bent his head and stared at the ground. “Struck dumb, I figured. Maybe because of some awful sin.”

“Her sin, or yours?”

He didn’t reply. She leaned toward him, her voice barely above whisper. But it was so quiet in that tent we could’ve heard a fly buzzing up there around Sister Eve.

“Tell me about the sin, Willis.”

He breathed heavily through his nostrils, a sound like a wild animal might make. He cleared his throat, a deep, unsettling rumble. “She . . .” he began. He shook his head, as if trying to make his thoughts fall into place. “She said she was leaving me. Going back to her people. I got mad, real mad. We said harsh words.”

“You hit her,” Sister Eve said softly. “And that’s when she stopped talking to you.”

“I told her I was sorry. I got down on my knees and begged her to forgive me, to say something to me, anything.”

“She can’t speak to you anymore, Brother Willis. You know that. Not in this life. But she’s waiting for you in a wonderful place where there is no worry. Where there’s no pain. Where what you’re given can never be taken from you. A place where there’s only love.” She reached across the dead woman. “Take my hand, Brother Willis.”

He stared at it as if sorely tempted. I was sure that in the same way
she’d tamed the beast in the young man the night before, she’d gentled this man’s deeply troubled spirit. But he surprised me. Surprised us all. Surprised even Sister Eve.

“No,” he bellowed and leapt to his feet. He grabbed his shotgun, rammed the butt against his shoulder, and aimed the barrel at Sister Eve’s nose. “You fix her, goddamn it. You make her talk to me again, or so help me, I’ll blow your head right off.”

I’ve seen fear a thousand times in my life. Although it has many faces, it often has no voice. Sister Eve stared into the barrel of that shotgun, and I could see that her fear was so great she couldn’t speak. Without her words, I figured there was no way she would be able to work the miracle that homicidal bear of a man wanted, or any other miracle.

“Play, Odie,” Emmy whispered to me. “Play ‘Beautiful Dreamer.’ ”

It made no sense, but then nothing made sense as I waited for the blast of that shotgun to obliterate Sister Eve’s face. Like everyone else in the tent, I was certain we were about to witness carnage. And once begun, there was no guarantee the killing would stop with Sister Eve. My lips were dry, my throat made of sandpaper. I could barely breathe. I had no idea if I could blow a tune at all. But I drew the mouth organ from my shirt pocket and put my lips to it. Emmy placed her small hand on my leg. She looked up at me and smiled, as if she believed in me absolutely.

I began to play. Although the music I blew was soft, in the silence of that tent and to my own ears, it seemed deafening. Faces turned toward me, the face of Willis right along with them. I was sure his shotgun barrel would swing my way. I played a full measure, my heart kicking wildly in my chest. I was about to stop, thinking it was time to end this craziness, when a voice from heaven joined me in the song. Sister Eve.

Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me.

Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee.

Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,

Lulled by the moonlight have all passed away
.

The look of rage that had twisted the huge man’s face began to soften. The shotgun barrel drooped in his hands. I played on and Sister Eve lifted her ethereal voice and sang like a comforting angel.

Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,

List while I woo thee with soft melody.

Gone are the cares of life’s busy throng.

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me.

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me.

With tears in his eyes, the great beast fell to his knees, laid his head in his dead wife’s lap, and wept his heart out. The shotgun lay fallen on the ground, and the young man whose beast had been tamed the night before jumped from the bench where he sat and snatched it up.

Sweat dripped from my face and I felt a little faint. I lowered my harmonica and glanced down at Emmy.

“You never played better, Odie,” she said.

“HIS WIFE’S FAVORITE
song,” Sister Eve said. “ ‘Beautiful Dreamer.’ It may have been the only thing that could reach all the way down to his heart. How did you know that, Buck?”

We sat in the private dining room of the best hotel in New Bremen, a place called the Morrow House, a whole roasted chicken on the table, along with mashed potatoes and gravy and asparagus. Despite the swank surroundings, I’d insisted that Emmy keep her seed cap on. She and I were stuffing the food down like there was no tomorrow. Sister Eve and the trumpet player sat with us. They ate more slowly and sipped “grape juice,” which I knew was really red wine, with their meal. Sister Eve had changed out of her white robe and wore a blue dress. The trumpet player wore a gray suit with wide lapels and a diamond stickpin through his red tie.

“I didn’t,” I told Sister Eve. “Emmy said I should play it.”

“Did he now?” She studied Emmy curiously. “Where do you two orphans stay?”

“We’ve got a little camp down on the river.”

“Do you live in the camp? I mean permanently?”

“Not exactly. We’re on our way to Saint Louis.”

“What’s in Saint Louis?”

“I have family there. We have family there,” I corrected.

“It’s a long way to Saint Louis.”

“I guess so,” I said. “But Emmy and me, we’ll make it.”

Sister Eve lifted her glass and considered her wine. “We’re going to Saint Louis. Not directly. We hit Des Moines and Lawrence, Kansas, first.” She took a sip of her wine and said casually, “You could come with us.”

The trumpet player looked like he was going to choke on his chicken. “Would cause us a boatload of trouble, Evie.”

“How’s that?” Sister Eve asked.

“Might be construed as kidnapping.” He dabbed his napkin delicately at his thin mustache.

“Kidnapping? The whole country is full of children who’ve been abandoned, Sid. Believe me, I know a thing or two about that.” She turned back to me. “We could deliver you to your family’s doorstep.”

“Now, wait a minute,” the trumpet player said.

“Sid.” She gave him a look that shut him up good.

I glanced at Emmy, whose face beneath her seed cap gave me no clue about her own inclination, one way or the other. I liked the idea of the soft life, but the decision wasn’t mine alone.

“We need to think it over,” I said.

“That’s fine.”

I wasn’t drinking anything alcoholic, but the smile Sister Eve offered me was absolutely intoxicating.

When we got to the river that night, Albert and Mose were sitting by the fire.

“Did you eat?” Albert asked.

“Like kings,” Emmy said with delight.

“How was the soup?” I asked.

We hadn’t talked to them since we split up before entering the big tent. Willis and his shotgun had pretty much brought the meeting to a close. A deputy who’d been in attendance had tapped a couple of other men from the benches, and they’d hauled the man-bear away, still sobbing. Others had carted the body of his wife to the bed of a pickup truck and set off for the morgue. Sister Eve had invited everyone to the table for soup and bread, then she’d found me and Emmy.

Mose patted his belly and signed,
Best I ever ate.

Emmy sat down beside the fire and blurted, “Sister Eve wants us to stay with her.”

Albert said, “We’re going to Saint Louis.”

“She’s going to Saint Louis, too,” I said. “Des Moines, then Kansas, then Saint Louis.”

“She draws a crowd. The last thing we need is a crowd. Sooner or later, somebody’s going to spot Emmy.”

“We could be careful.”

“Careful is what we’re doing. There’s no way we’re going to hook up with a revival tent show.”

“It’s a healing crusade,” I insisted.

“Call it what you will, we’re steering clear.”

If I hadn’t known in my heart he was right, I might have insisted we put it to a vote. Emmy seemed not to care one way or the other and looked ready to nod off.

“It was a nice dream,” I said, mostly to myself.

After we all lay down, I stayed awake, staring up at a night sky dusted with stars. I listened to the song of frogs in the bulrushes and thought about the musicians who backed up Sister Eve, and I imagined what it might be like to play my harmonica in their company. The few times I’d had the opportunity—with Miss Stratton and with Jack—it had been magic in a way, like one heart calling out and another answering.

“Let it go, Odie,” Albert said quietly.

“She was nice. Maybe we would have been happy.”

“She’s working a con.”

“How do you figure?”

“Those people who get healed, they’re shills.”

“Not that grizzly bear tonight.”

“Did you see any healing with him? If you hadn’t saved her, she wouldn’t have a head.”

I turned, trying to see my brother’s face. I wondered what dreams he had. My dream was to be a musician maybe, or a storyteller, because people got paid for doing this, and these were things I loved. What did Albert love? What called to him from his own heart? I was surprised that I had no idea.