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When the young soldier went to the Greyhound station so early in the morning to catch his bus to Texas, there was a crowd in the alley and he asked what the commotion was about. “Some beggar fellow was killed last night over there.” He hung around the edge of the crowd until the people dispersed a little and he saw that it was the preacher. He could hear the two cops talking, wondering why anyone would kill the guy, not like he had any money on him or anything, and the young man started to say that he did, that he’d given him $20 the night before, but he realized it would do no good, and maybe the cops would think he was involved, so he didn’t say anything and went inside to wait for the bus. He was glad he’d talked his ma into kissing him good-bye at the house instead of coming down to the station with him. She’d have thought it was a bad omen for sure. He must have looked bad, thinking about the dead preacher, because the man he’d talked to outside came up and sat down right next to him and said, “What’s the matter kid? You never saw a dead body before? Better get used to it, cuz where you’re going, you’ll see more than you can count.” And then he laughed like he’d made some kind of joke and the soldier didn’t know what to say, just excused himself and went to buy a newspaper and took it to another seat far away from the offensive laughing man.
When the cops searched JB’s briefcase for clues, they found nothing helpful at all. There was his plate with a picture of Jesus on it and a Bible, that was to be expected, and a pile of old tabloids. It appeared that John the Baptist, as he was known to them, collected pictures of freaks. There were stories of two-headed children and children joined at the hip and an armless boy. The cops would have been more comfortable had the preacher collected girlie pictures, but this still gave no leads about the who, the why and the wherefore of the murder. Then the younger one noticed the handwriting in the margin of the paper about the boy with no arms. It was not easy to read the faded writing, but they persevered in their investigation.
“Beloved are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when He shall appear, we shall be like Him; for we shall see Him as He is. 1 John 3:2”
And then: “So Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many; and unto them that look for Him shall He appear the second time without sin unto salvation. Hebrews 9:28”
“So? Did this guy think that kid was the Christ come again?”
“Don’t laugh. I remember this. He did, he gathered all kinds of people to follow him to some mountaintop where the mother, she was just a child herself, and this little girl gave birth to the kid with no arms. It was a terrible scandal because all these people had really believed him, that she was going to give birth to Christ all over again, that it was the second coming. He preached all over the state, dragging the poor girl around with him, and she was big as a whale.”
“What? You followed him too?”
“I was only 12 at the time and staying with my grandparents while my dad looked for a job. They dragged me to these tent revivals all the time, so I was used to it, but this was different. I mean they were angry, you know, more disappointed than I’d ever seen them, and my grandparents had seen some rough times. They didn’t take on so bad when they lost their farm. I don’t know exactly what they expected as proof that this guy was for real, but they sure as hell didn’t expect some deformed baby.
“They must have thought they’d lost their home in heaven too, I guess.” And the older cop looked sad and whimsical at the same time, pondering what lengths folks would go to get a little comfort.
“Well it all worked out alright in the end. My dad got lucky, a job, and sent for all of us. They wouldn’t let me tell him about us following that preacher around though, not ever, not ‘til the day they died, first my granddad and then my grandma a few weeks later. They were just so embarrassed and ashamed to be taken in like that, and of course my dad never did buy any of that religious stuff…he’d’ve laughed them right out of the house if he knew.”
“Did you ever tell him? I mean, after they died, did you?”
“No, never did, never told anyone until just now. Funny how things come ‘round. Who’da thought I’d ever see this guy again? Poor fellow, I think he believed it and was as disappointed as the rest of them.”
“What about the mother? She conscious during all this?”
“Hell, I think she still believed that kid was the Christ child, but then you know she was his mother, she loved him as if he were. Isn’t that what mothers are supposed to do?”
“I don’t think my ma was ever quite that fond of me. You?”
“She left us when I was little. That’s why I was staying with the grand-parents.”
“So much for what mothers are supposed to do, huh?”
“No sign of any kin? No one to notify, guess we should find a real preacher and see about burying him.”
So John Banks, so miraculously born into this world, was buried in a pauper’s grave at the wrong edge of town and forgotten by all but his Auntie Ada, who lived to be one hundred and one years old. The poor woman missed him and wondered about him all that long, long time, until a retired cop came to visit her after her picture was in a lot of newspapers with an interview to commemorate her 100th birthday, which coincided with the nation’s bicentennial. That cop was no spring chicken himself by then, and they agreed there was one advantage to such a long life of toil and disappointments, and that was this: if you live long enough, you occasionally get to see some justice done, and after a while it don’t seem like just an accident, because you get to glimpse a little piece of God’s grand design. Anger and frustration and confusion do subside with time, and you get to know what peace feels like…if you live long enough.
Stillbird Page 21