Mrs. Burdine stood, frozen, clutching her purse and her Bible, eyes wide, huddled on the other side of the truck, weakly calling, “Stop it, Otis,” over and over, afraid to come nearer, else she get hit as well.
Marlow jumped and pulled at his lead, trying to reach Jason, who had sunk to the ground, his back against the truck, a small ball of misery.
Otis kicked him. “Get up, you baby.”
My nails dug into my palms. I leaned against the side of the building, my legs shaky and quivering. Dots of light floated in front of my eyes.
I had caused this. It was my fault, Mama.
A sound shook the porch as if a bolt of lightning had cracked the sky. The sanctuary door opened with such force, the bell next to it rang out a clear tone. Reverend Love’s long legs carried him down the porch steps, two at a time, and out to the Burdines’ truck in one swift motion.
Reverend Love grabbed Otis by the collar hard and pulled him away from Jason, his voice tight. “Leave. Him. Alone.”
Reverend Love stood, nose to nose with Otis, his breath coming out in windy gasps. “Don’t touch him again.”
For a mostly mild-mannered preacher who talked about love and peace on earth, Reverend Love sure looked like he could whup butt, if need be. His whole demeanor changed right before my eyes—into somebody who knew how to fight and use his fists, somebody who’d had his share of scrapes and brawls.
“Get into your truck and leave, or I will the call the police, do you hear?”
Otis backed up, unsteady on his feet, shamed like a dog with his tail between his legs.
Keeping his eye on Otis, Reverend Love extended his hand to Jason. “Jason, go on inside.” Reverend Love pulled him to his feet and whispered something into his ear. Jason nodded, his eyes on the ground.
Otis untied Marlow and pushed him into the truck cab. He backed up, slammed on his brakes, and lurched out onto the road, tires squealing.
Missy Spangler’s mother, Carol, was on the porch, holding a platter, having happened upon the whole thing, her mouth a round O. Reverend Love guided Jason to his mother.
“Jolene, take him inside. Get him cleaned up. Have Carol take you over to your mother’s place. Let Otis sleep it off. I’ll stop by tomorrow, see if we can’t get him sorted out, get him over to the county tank to dry out.”
Mrs. Spangler and Mrs. Burdine helped Jason inside. A small trickle of blood ran down his face from a split eyebrow.
I leaned against the church, hidden in the shadows, my knees weak, frozen in place.
After the others had gone inside, Reverend Love sat down on the front steps, jacket ripped, hair falling over his eyes. He leaned his head on his knees, motionless. I couldn’t move. I watched him, afraid to leave for fear I’d make a sound and draw attention to myself.
He sat, his head in his hands. He stood up after a bit and kicked the edge of the porch hard with his shoe. His voice reached me, a hoarse whisper. “Hell’s bells.”
I wanted to go over to him, tell him it was all my fault—all of it. He didn’t need to worry. He was doing his job just fine. If the big man upstairs was mad at anybody, it was me, not him. I was the one who hadn’t told the truth.
Just like I was the one who hadn’t told Ray about you, Mama. And how I was the one who told Mrs. Whitehouse, the morning we left for the spelling bee, that nothing was wrong when she asked, “Honey, is your mama okay? She didn’t look well.”
I lied, Mama, and said, “Oh no, she’s fine. She worked late last night. She’ll be okay as long as she rests.”
Not telling had caused nothing but trouble.
Maybe I could have changed things if I’d told Ray how scared I was, or if I hadn’t pretended to Mrs. Whitehouse that you were fine. If I had used my voice while I still had one, things might have turned out differently.
And now, not telling the truth had caused Otis Burdine, who always seemed to be looking for a reason to do harm, to beat on his son.
Mrs. Spangler came out of the church with Missy, and Mrs. Burdine and Jason followed, his eyebrow bandaged. Reverend Love took Jason’s elbow. “I am so sorry, Jason. If I can help it, Otis won’t lay a hand on you ever again. You are always welcome here. You understand me, son?”
Jason looked at him, squaring his shoulders. “I didn’t steal nothing, Reverend. I didn’t.”
Reverend Love put his arm across Jason’s shoulders. “Don’t you worry, Jason. We’ll get it sorted out.”
They all got into the Spanglers’ car, Missy and Jason in the back. Jason leaned his head against the window. I couldn’t be sure if he saw me by the side of the building. He turned away, his face shadowed by the reflection of the trees on the window.
Reverend Love watched them leave, standing in the parking lot, hands on his hips.
I unglued myself from my spot. I turned, accidentally ramming my elbow into the rainspout that dangled from the roof. It fell, crumbling into several pieces, clanging onto the ground.
My hiding place discovered, Reverend Love called to me, his voice stopping me right where I stood.
“Dulcie.”
He came closer, his eyes as gray as the sky, a question in them. He didn’t have to say a word. I already knew what he was going to ask.
Reverend Love continued, “I need to talk to you. And Faith. You go find her, hear? Right now.”
Aunt Bernie interrupted, scurrying down the church steps, apron on, dish towel in hand.
“Reverend, you best pull your car up. It’s Mary.”
She let out a breath, and smiled. “I think the baby’s coming.”
25
h-e-g-i-r-a
hegira (n.)
a journey made for the sake of safety or an escape; flight
That night sleep wouldn’t come, Mama. Faces floated in front of me, the expressions on them rising in my mind: betrayal on Jason’s, desperation on Faith’s, defeat on Reverend Love’s, anger on Otis Burdine’s.
I couldn’t think of an exact word for how I felt, Mama. I paged through my dictionary looking for one that would suit. “Confusion,” “agitation,” “upheaval.” I was torn between light things and dark things; a flood of emotions flowed through my veins.
Finally, I settled on a word that I found in Aunt Bernie’s paperback dictionary, an old Merriam-Webster she used sometimes to cheat on crossword puzzles. It’s what I felt.
“Remorse.” Webster’s definition: “a gnawing distress arising from a sense of guilt.”
As I tossed around my in bed, voices swirled in my head: “I didn’t steal nothing, Reverend. . . . Dulcie, come on. I’d have done the same for you. . . . He would not want you to lie to protect a friend. . . . You steal from a church, you no good, worthless . . .” I kept playing the same old records. Punching the same numbers on the jukebox.
I remembered standing on the stage in the auditorium at the state spelling bee—the day my words disappeared—the day you left. I felt the same then—full of remorse—for not having spoken the truth, for not changing things when I could.
But it didn’t matter anymore, Mama, because I still planned on leaving Shepherdsville the next day. It was best for everybody if I packed up all the unspoken words and took them with me. I’d have to carry them around with me no matter where I went, anyway.
I went over my plan. Worked it out in my head. I’d use one of Faith’s tricks. I’d ride Maybelle to the bus station in Shepherdsville, make up a story to the bus driver about how my mama was waiting on the other end with the money, then take off running when I got to Paint Creek. I’d make my way to Lilac Court, unearth the hidden key under the petunia pot, and let myself inside. I wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but at least I’d be home.
Satisfied with my plan, I’d almost drifted off when the front door downstairs shook, breaking into my thoughts. Someone was pounding, rattling the windows. I looked at the clock. It was well after midnight.
Aunt Bernie’s bedsprings squeaked in her room across the hall.
“What in
the good Lord’s name is going on?”
I turned on my light, dug my suitcase out from under the bed. I pulled out a pair of jeans, Mama, and quickly slipped them on under your Grateful Dead T-shirt. I opened the bedroom door to the hall, and found Aunt Bernie in curlers, pulling on her housecoat.
She must have been asleep for a while, because she appeared foggy, discombobulated. Taking ahold of my arm, she guided me to the top of the stairs. Together we crept down the steps, one by one, to the front door. The pounding continued, the window in the door jouncing in its frame.
“Good gravy, hold your horses,” Aunt Bernie said, switching on the porch light. She parted the curtains on the window and peered out, squinting.
“It’s Reverend Love,” she said, sounding relieved, like she’d been expecting him for tea. But I doubted he usually made house calls this late, as a general rule.
No mind. Aunt Bernie was always glad to see him.
Reverend Love blew in like a stiff wind fixing to upend the furniture. He searched the room. “Is she here?” He looked at Aunt Bernie, then me. I didn’t know what he was talking about.
Aunt Bernie said it for me. “Is who here?”
“Faith. Is she here?”
Reverend Love was still in his Sunday jacket, the seam ripped at the shoulder from his scuffle with Otis, his hair tousled, his glasses askew.
Aunt Bernie eyed me suspiciously.
I shook my head. Why would I know where Faith is? I hadn’t seen Faith since I’d stormed away from her on the church steps.
“She’s not with you?” Reverend Love ran his hands through his hair. “I’ve been at the hospital with Mary.”
Aunt Bernie led him to a kitchen chair. “Has the baby arrived?”
Reverend Love slumped back, his legs stretched out in front of him. “No. They sent me home to get some sleep. The doctor said it might be tomorrow afternoon sometime.”
“Well, goodness gracious, sakes alive.” Aunt Bernie put the coffeepot on the stove and bustled around Reverend Love like a honeybee. His face drooped, slack and tired. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I assumed she’d gotten a ride home.”
He looked down at the table, shaking his head in disbelief. “I forgot about her, don’t you see? In all the excitement with the baby coming, I forgot about her.”
Aunt Bernie stopped midpour. “Well, you were preoccupied, for heaven’s sake.”
“When I got home, she wasn’t there. Her bag was gone. Her guitar. Her bed wasn’t slept in. I thought she’d come home with Dulcie, maybe.”
Aunt Bernie remained puzzled. “Well, we haven’t seen hide nor hair of her.” Her eyes questioned me. “Where would she be?”
I shook my head, but I suspected I knew the answer, Mama. It was plain that Faith and me must’ve had the same idea. She’d just beat me to it. I figured she was long gone by now. That’s all she ever talked about—leaving Shepherdsville when the time came.
Aunt Bernie sat down suddenly. “Did you check the church?”
Reverend Love wrinkled his forehead. “I stopped by on my way here. No sign of her there.”
Aunt Bernie pushed a cup of coffee at him. “Where would she go? She wouldn’t have made it far in the dark—all alone on these roads by herself. Surely not.”
Reverend Love stared at the ceiling as if it could give him possibilities. “I searched the grounds. I walked over to Evangeline’s. She helped me search the building, the basement, and the vestry.”
“What about the police?”
Reverend Love ran his hand over his face. “No. I wanted to check places I thought Faith might go first. I don’t want her handed over to social services. They made it clear this was her last chance. If she runs again, they’ll put her in the county juvenile detention hall, then send her back to the state home.”
Aunt Bernie shook her head. “Why would she take off, for heaven’s sake? All of a sudden like that? She seemed settled in with you and Mary.”
Reverend Love picked up the coffee cup, his hand shaking. “I should have taken more care.”
“She couldn’t have gone far without any money.”
Reverend Love sat up, understanding everything. “I know where she got the money.”
He leaned in toward me, his voice quiet. “She took the money, didn’t she?”
My cheeks were on fire, my stomach turned the wrong side up.
“Dulcie, please, I’m begging you. Tell me the truth.”
I didn’t need to protect Faith anymore. She’d made her choice, and I couldn’t do a thing about it now.
Aunt Bernie asked, “What money?”
Reverend Love explained what had happened after church service. How Jason Burdine told him Faith had stolen money from the collection plate, but then Faith had accused Jason of doing it, and that I had been called upon to settle the dispute, and had backed up Faith’s story.
Aunt Bernie spoke slowly, her tongue sticking on her words. “I don’t understand. Why would Faith run away if Jason stole money? Everybody knows that boy is bound for trouble, just like his daddy. Why would she . . .”
She paused, looked at me, and understood the nitty-gritty of the story. “Faith took the money?”
I nodded. Yes, she took the money.
“Oh, Dulcie.” Reverend Love’s voice was so soft, I barely heard him. “Dulcie was trying to protect Faith.” His face was so tired. “You didn’t need to do that for her.”
Aunt Bernie started taking her curlers out. “Let’s go.” She stood up and went for her pocketbook and keys on the side table.
“Reverend, you take Old Tecumseh Road out past Clifton. Check the all-night gas station by the National Road and the KOA out past the forge. Dulcie and I will head down Rebert Pike. We’ll check the bus station and head out to the truck stop on Highway 70. There are only two ways out of Shepherdsville. She couldn’t have gone far, unless she hitchhiked.”
Reverend Love gulped a big slug of coffee and flew out the door. Aunt Bernie hustled me out to the driveway, still in her nightgown and housecoat. She called out to Reverend Love as he got into his car. “Let’s meet up back at the church in ninety minutes. If we haven’t found her by then, we’ll try something else.”
Aunt Bernie knew just want to do, like she’d done it hundreds of times before. She threw her pocketbook into the front seat, hopped in, and gunned the engine. This was a side of her I’d never seen before.
“Get in,” she barked at me, like we were on an episode of that cop show, Starsky and Hutch.
Aunt Bernie backed out, gravel flying. She rolled down her window and shouted, “Don’t worry, Reverend. We’ll find her!”
I do have to say, Mama, Aunt Bernie does take charge in a crisis.
26
p-i-l-g-r-i-m-a-g-e
pilgrimage (n.)
a journey made by a pilgrim; any long journey
But we didn’t find her, Mama.
Aunt Bernie and I drove to the truck stop on the highway. She leaned over the steering wheel, her face a map of consternation. We searched the country roads on the way, our headlights up bright. Aunt Bernie didn’t say much as we crawled along, craning our necks forward, searching for a glimpse of Faith.
We asked at the all-night diner on Highway 70, getting plenty of stares—Aunt Bernie in her housecoat and slippers, both of us sleepy-headed and addled, our hair unbrushed and faces unwashed. Nobody we asked had seen her.
We drove the long way back to Shepherdsville to the dinky bus station in town. It was empty, doors closed and locked. The schedule posted on the door showed that the last bus had left for Cincinnati at eight that night. If Faith had caught that bus, she surely was halfway to Nashville.
Whether it was the dark lonely roads, the bright glaring lights at the truck stop, or the night-owl people staring into their coffee at two in the morning, I realized I had been kidding myself. Mama, I wasn’t cut out to take off on my own like Faith had. The true hardship of it hit me, square and true. Faith had ma
de running seem like an adventure. I saw that night that it was plain dangerous, and nothing more. My skin crawled with fear for her.
Aunt Bernie drove us to the church. We waited for Reverend Love in the parking lot, the only light a yellow bulb left on over the church entrance, moths fluttering around it.
Leaning her head against the seat, Aunt Bernie stared out at the field ahead, her voice quiet. “I tried to find her. Tried to stop her from leaving, you know.”
At first I thought she meant Faith, but I came to see she meant you, Mama.
“I looked all over. I can’t remember where I was that afternoon. I came home, and our folks told me what they’d done. They’d told Emma that she couldn’t live with them anymore. I thought if I found her and brought her back, they’d reconsider.” She spread her fingers wide on the steering wheel.
“They never mentioned her after that. Not one word. It was as if she’d never existed. I didn’t hear from her until after you were born. She sent me a letter, no address—just a postmark from some small town I’d never heard of.”
Aunt Bernie rolled down her window. The night air was cool, dampening the inside of the car. I rolled my window down too, leaned my head far enough out to see stars above me.
“I worried about her, thought about her every day, but after a while I got used to her being gone. When she showed up here, after you were born, I shooed her away from the house like she was a pesky salesman. I was a coward—afraid to go against your grandfather. He was a man of faith but as hard as nails, not willing to bend an inch.”
She pushed hair out of her eyes, far away in a different time.
“I’ve learned over the years that you get to know more about a person in their absence than you do in their presence. Influenza took both of our folks, not long after. I didn’t know where to find Emma, where to look. I was so ashamed of how I’d treated her, I figured she wouldn’t have let me in the door, even if I did find her.”
Aunt Bernie turned to me, her eyes shiny in the dark. “In some kind of way, having you here is like having her back.” She patted the seat beside me, her voice too thick to say more.
Rising Above Shepherdsville Page 14