Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  McCrae lowered his hands to grip the podium and stared into the congregation. He seemed to be looking directly at Rosen. “What does that have t’do with Brother Lemuel stretched out in front a’ us? Why, everything in the world. Lem called hisself a miserable sinner, just like us all. But he also believed, with all his heart, in the sweet mercy a’ Jesus. That makes every bit a’ difference, because he shall inherit everlastin’ life. That’s why this here service ain’t no time for cryin’. Brother Lemuel’s soul’s bein’ rocked by the lovin’ arms a’ Jesus. We should be happy for him. Ain’t that right?”

  “Yessir, Reverend! Amen!”

  “As for the man who killed him—whoever that man may be—don’t let your heart be filled with hatred. Pity him as you would a traveler who’s lost the right good road and stumbles blindly in the storm, only gettin’ stuck deeper ’n’ deeper in the black mud a’ sin. Pray for his soul to find the right path, just as Lord Jesus forgave sinners such as ourselves. Amen.”

  “Amen!”

  “Let’s have some singin’, then, just like Brother Lemuel woulda’ wanted. Brother Clay, take up that guitar a’ his, and play somethin’ joyous. We’re celebratin’ the Lord raisin’ up the spirit of a good neighbor and friend. ‘You shall sit in the throne ’n’ have everlastin’ life.’ Oh, glory of our Lord Jesus! In His name only shall ye live!”

  Hands began clapping even before Brother Clay began to play. He sang something about the Lord’s abiding light, but soon his voice was lost among dozens of other singers whose hands beat time to a guitar they could no longer hear. From his front row seat, old Tucker stood and walked down the aisle shouting “Praise Jesus!” like a train conductor announcing the next stop.

  Other people also stood. They blocked Rosen’s view but, walking along the side wall, he saw McCrae’s daughter, Bathsheba, stand, her lithe body swaying. She held out her hands. Claire took one and stood beside her.

  A moment later, Jesse took Bathsheba’s other hand. He sang louder, his body moving awkwardly to the music. Suddenly he began trembling in fits and jerks, his face flushed and sweating, while his mouth struggled to form words. Unable to speak, he sank to his knees, both hands grabbing Bathsheba’s. Rosen wanted to run to his friend but found his own hands gripping the back of a chair, as if that alone kept him afloat in an endless sea.

  The service continued for another fifteen minutes—singing and clapping and praying to the Lord. Gradually the music diminished, until only a few voices sang the hymn. Then only the gentle strumming of Lemuel’s guitar played by Brother Clay, until that, too, ceased.

  From the pulpit, Reverend McCrae glanced at the coffin. “That was right nice. I believe Brother Lemuel was joinin’ us from up there in heaven. Remember, everybody, the burial’s at Deer Creek Cemetery at noon. That’s in about an hour. Afterward, you folks are all invited back here for eatin’. The sisters have cooked up a mess a’ good food. We expect t’see you all. Lord bless you. Amen.”

  “Amen,” echoed the congregants, who turned to shake one another’s hand or to embrace. A few left; most, however, remained to chat. They spoke of the weather, broken automobiles, a new family that had joined the church—everything except Lemuel Banks’s funeral.

  Standing near the pulpit, Whitcomb ordered two of his deputies to the burial, “Just in case.”

  When the police chief finished, Rosen said, “Guess the show’s over.”

  “Wasn’t much of a show, except for your friend there. Who’d a’ thought Jesse Compton . . .?”

  “Chief, can we keep this about Jesse between the two of us, at least for a while? He’s been under a lot of stress lately.”

  Whitcomb rubbed his jaw. “Hell, why not. I’ll speak to my men.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You best get Jesse to a proper service, like the one Reverend Taylor gives downtown at the Baptist Church.” He stretched. “Guess I’ll be able to go home to a right good lunch and watch me some football. You like the Bengals?”

  “I don’t follow football too much. I’m a Chicago Cubs fan.”

  “Cubs? Hell, if you like Chicago, at least go for the Bears. They’re winners.”

  “Thanks, but I always seem to drift toward the losers.”

  “Like McCrae here and his bunch. Well, I’m dropping by the burial later to make sure everything stays quiet. Probably see you there.”

  “I expect so. Enjoy your lunch, Chief.”

  After the police left the church, Rosen turned to Jesse, who still sat on the floor, his hands clutching Bathsheba’s.

  Kneeling beside his friend, Rosen said softly, “Come on, let’s sit in a chair. I’ll help you.”

  Flushed and glassy-eyed, Jesse stared straight ahead, his breathing shallow. Gripping one of his arms, Rosen struggled to lift him. Bathsheba helped, and together they dragged him to a chair in the front row.

  “Jesse?”

  For a minute there was no response; then he blinked, suddenly aware of his surroundings, and sagged forward, elbows on his knees.

  “Jesse, you know where you are?”

  He nodded, inhaling deeply and wiping his forehead with a trembling hand. He shook his head hard, then managed a weak smile. “If my dear mother could only see me now. What do you think she’d say about my carrying the Compton name?”

  Rosen said nothing. There was nothing to say, only to sit quietly with a hand upon his friend’s arm and wait until he became himself again. After another few minutes, Jesse leaned back and ran a hand through his hair.

  “It was . . .” He swallowed hard and looked away.

  “Yes?”

  “It was like being hit by lightning. I saw this flash . . . not with my eyes, but behind them . . . inside my head. It grabbed me here”—he cupped the back of his neck—“and jerked me around like I was a kite in the wind. Hot, so hot, yet I was shivering. What was it? Nate, do you really think it could’ve been . . . God?”

  This time it was Rosen who looked away. Was the question so difficult? In law school the answer was always in some book—easy enough to find. So it was when seeking God. As a boy, Rosen remembered his father warning him against those who only danced and shouted their love for the Almighty.

  “God will not be found like a drunken man at a wedding,” he would say, tapping the parchment of the Torah. “He is to be found here, only here.” Always the Book, his father had insisted with that same certitude through which he viewed all things. The same certitude that had driven Rosen away.

  For a moment he was afraid to look at the man opposite him, expecting to see his father’s eyes, hard as flint. Instead, Jesse gazed back at him expectantly.

  Rosen grew angry. “What do you want me to say? I don’t know what happened to you. You want me to tell you God’s hard of hearing and nearsighted, that you have to scream and jump around to get his attention? That’s not—”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “That’s not the way it is. A man doesn’t scream to get God’s attention.”

  Rosen felt a hand on his shoulder. “That’s right.” Gideon McCrae stood over him. “A man don’t need t’shout for the Lord. Don’t even need t’whisper. All you got t’do is say with your heart, ‘Jesus, I accept You.’”

  “You’d be amazed what’s been done to my people in the name of Jesus,” Rosen said.

  “I know well enough the evil that’s in man. But that ain’t the Lord’s fault. After all, He was one a’ the chosen people, just like you.”

  Rosen bit his lip but said nothing.

  McCrae continued, his strong hand surprisingly soft on Rosen’s shoulder. “I come from minin’ folk. Ain’t a much harder life than that. Didn’t have time for learnin’ as a child. Went to school as a man t’learn to read the Bible. Read it through many a time, and all of it’s the pure truth. But sometimes I think the words can get in the way a’ the spirit. Know what I mean?”

  Rosen saw himself with the other yeshiva boys, bending over the Talmud to learn the meaning of each and every holy word
.

  “Why do folks make it so hard on themselves? Don’t take even a whisper ‘Lord Jesus, I accept You with all my heart.’”

  How easy it seemed—how logical. As if he were back in yeshiva with McCrae his older chavrusa, breaking down a complex passage into its obvious meaning. Hadn’t Rosen done the same thing for Jesse so many times in law school? Yet he wouldn’t accept the Reverend’s logic, even if it was against his old enemy, the God of his father. He was a defense attorney and did his fighting with the truth, not counting on mercy. McCrae’s gentle words were appealing, so easy to accept, yet he would not betray his people. And so he sat there, like the man his rabbi once spoke of, who neither swallowed his mother-in-law’s cooking nor spit it out.

  “That’s all right,” McCrae said, as if reading Rosen’s mind. “Whether you accept Him now or not, I believe you’re doin’ the Lord’s work. I’ll pray for you.”

  Jesse said, “I believe, Reverend McCrae. I believe the Lord’s accepted me.”

  “Then He has, Brother Jesse.”

  Music had begun again, and clapping. Not bothering to return to their chairs, people carried on where they stood. This time there was something different in the singing—more than just the volume, which had grown quickly to a din, but the participants’ fervor. Heads tilted back and eyes shut tightly, with God’s love radiating upon them like a summer sun. Mouths raced to sing the words and, moving too quickly to pour out their love, slurred into indistinguishable speech. Claire was one of them, falling to her knees and chanting something almost Hebrew.

  And the bodies, even the primmest matrons, swayed to the rhythm of their song. In front of the pulpit, Bathsheba lifted her arms and, nostrils flaring, called out the name of the Lord. Her heavy breasts and long thighs strained against her cotton dress, growing damp with perspiration. As she undulated, Rosen thought he’d never seen any woman so sensual and, growing ashamed, tore his gaze from her.

  Instead, he watched a skinny man hold a bottle with a burning rag as a wick. The man passed the bottle under his open hand then let the licking flame rest under his chin. He was laughing, shouting, “Praise the Lord! Praise Jesus!”

  Trembling, Rosen wanted to escape, to grab his friend and run from the church. Yet, Jesse stood singing with the others, a certitude in his manner Rosen had never seen before; had his friend finally found a place of his own choosing where he belonged with all his heart?

  Again Rosen stood alone as an outsider, unable to join the celebration, unable to leave. Edging from Bathsheba and Jesse, he jostled the casket. He grabbed its side with both hands, looked into the coffin, then jumped back, his scream lost among the shouts of the congregation.

  Two rattlesnakes lay upon the corpse, one crawling down a leg while the other curled itself around the open Bible. They seemed interested neither in him nor in those shouting the name of the Lord.

  Suddenly two pairs of hands reached in to lift the snakes. Turning, Rosen saw Reverend McCrae and Tucker, the rattlers over their heads, parading in front of the pulpit. The old man treated the serpent like a plaything, curling it around his arm, then unwinding it to tuck it under his shirt, so that its head appeared between the buttons.

  The Reverend was more solemn, holding the snake a few inches from his face. McCrae and the creature stared at each other, until the rattler leaned back and looked away. McCrae passed it to his daughter, who let it slink across her breast.

  Once again ashamed to watch Bathsheba, Rosen turned back to the old man. Instead, it was Jesse holding the serpent, making it crawl along his arms and around his neck. He was not afraid, as if he’d become someone else. As if he’d been . . . born again.

  Watching them all—the shouting, the writhing, holding death between their hands—Rosen wondered if this was what Moses had seen coming down from Mount Sinai. Was dancing before the golden calf any more dangerous, any more seductive than this?

  Moses had cast his staff to the ground and created a serpent strong enough to swallow those of his enemies. But Rosen could only find the courage to watch and try to understand. After all, had his father not said the day he sent him away, “You will never be another Moses”?

  Chapter Sixteen

  monday morning

  “Thanks for coming right over, Nate. I’m so excited, I just had to tell somebody. And I knew we’d have to get in touch with that lawyer, Mr. Garnet.”

  Claire sat beside him on her living room couch. Dressed in a white blouse, gray skirt, and white stockings, she seemed more girlish than she’d been Saturday night. More girlish and far too innocent to be involved in murder.

  “Congratulations,” Rosen said. “You must be very happy.”

  “Oh, I am! They say a pregnant woman glows. Am I glowing?”

  “Like a hundred-watt bulb. Do you have any cravings for pickles and ice cream, or fried pie with red-eye gravy?”

  “Not yet, but that may come in time. I’ve never been through this before. I only wish Ben was alive. It was all he really wanted, somebody to carry on his name and the family business.”

  “This is going to have a great impact on the company. Does your brother-in-law, Simon, know about your pregnancy?”

  “No. I was hoping you’d come with me to tell him. Then maybe you could take care of the legal work with Ben’s lawyer.” She handed him an envelope from the coffee table. “I had the doctor write out everything. He says the baby’s due at the end of April, right about when spring begins. I like that. Please give it to Mr. Garnet. I don’t want to worry about all those legal things. Just want to be left alone to have my baby. You understand—don’t you, Nate?” She looked down at her lap, while her fingers pulled at a loose thread on the couch.

  “Sure. When do you want to take care of all this?”

  “Well . . . I was hoping you’d go over to the factory with me now. Simon’s sure to be there.” Her voice brightened. “And Ruth. She’s been awful good to me. I know this’ll make her happy. I ain’t got no folks, and she’s been almost like my mama. I made a decision this morning. If I have a boy, course his name’ll be Ben. If it’s a girl, I’m gonna name her Ruth.”

  “She’ll be very proud. What about Danny?”

  Claire tore the thread from the couch. “What do you mean?”

  “How do you think he’ll feel about having a new cousin?”

  “Oh, that? I don’t know.”

  “You two are family and about the same age. I thought you’d be pretty close.”

  “Danny’s always been off on his own. He never did get along too good with his daddy.”

  “I’ve noticed that. He’s supposed to be quite a lady’s man. Is that right?”

  She shrugged. “That’s what some folks say.”

  “You think the stories are true?”

  “Guess maybe so.”

  “Earlyville’s a small town. Wouldn’t you know if . . .?”

  “Why’re you asking me all these questions about Danny?”

  Rosen shifted toward her and paused. Did he hesitate feeling guilty about interrogating a pregnant woman, or was it merely another one of his psychological ploys—to let her stew a little? Whatever the reason, he needed to find out certain information. The case came first. It always came first.

  “On Thursday, after Danny called the police to report Lemuel Banks’s murder, he disappeared for the evening. Do you know where he went?”

  Claire’s turn to hesitate. Biting her lip, she shook her head.

  “He’s never mentioned any hangouts, or women?”

  “Told you I don’t know, and I’m beginning to resent—”

  The telephone rang. Claire walked to the rolltop desk, just inside the living room entrance, and lifted the receiver. “Hello.” As soon as she heard who it was, she glanced at Rosen, then lowered her voice.

  “Yes, all right. When? . . . I can’t. . . . No, wait. . . . All right. . . . Yes, I’ll be there. Yes, I’ll bring . . .” Again she glanced at Rosen. “All right. Good-bye.”

  She returned
almost timidly to the couch. “I’m afraid well need to postpone going to the factory. Maybe later this afternoon, if you’re free.”

  “Sure. Can I drive you to wherever . . .?”

  “No, I’m fine. I’ll call you later.”

  “Was that by any chance—”

  “No, it wasn’t Danny!”

  “I was going to ask if that was Gideon McCrae.”

  “Oh.” She rubbed her arms as if cold. “No, not the Reverend. Somebody else.”

  “I wanted to talk to him about yesterday’s service. The second one—after the police left. The one with the rattlesnakes.”

  “Reverend didn’t want any trouble, so he waited for the police to leave. The service was something we all felt had to go on for Lem’s sake, to see if anybody felt the Lord’s power that day. Some folks did.”

  “Like Jesse Compton?” How was Rosen going to put it; how could he explain the look on his friend’s face? “Since the service Jesse’s been acting very strange.”

  “He’s been quiet, sort of to himself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kind of like his eyes were looking at something inside his head. Like that?”

  He nodded.

  “I know the feeling, Nate. Been through it myself, like most folks in the church.”

  “You’ve handled snakes?”

  “No. We each do what the Lord tells us to. I speak what the Spirit moves me to say. The words . . . what I say . . . most folks can’t understand.”

  “Then how do you know the words come from God?”

  “Others can tell the meaning—that’s an even greater gift. Like Bathsheba. She knows what I’m saying.”

  Most people would have laughed at what Claire was saying, or become angry over what happened to Jesse. He could’ve accused McCrae’s church of brainwashing his friend, causing him to suffer a nervous breakdown—but Rosen knew what Claire was talking about. The ineffable power had shone over Jesse as a blinding light, warm and golden and radiating love, while not one glimmer reached the dark corner where Rosen had sat alone.

  Smiling, Claire touched his arm. “I do thank you for coming over and for all your help. You’re the first person I called to tell the news.”