by Reed Arvin
A lone windmill stood a half mile distant, dark against the last light, and a string of black dots stretched out toward it as cattle marched in for the night. Henry recognized the windmill; it was on the Triple Z, Rory Zachariah’s land. Council Grove was fifteen miles past that.
Zachariah’s ranch passed, and then the south side of the Crandall ranch itself opened up before him, the road skirting around nearly two thousand acres of prime cattle land. A great cattle pen loomed on the left, harshly lit from above by tall floodlights on poles, like a prison yard. Beneath the lights was a crisscross of sagging, fenced runways that led to a raised platform where the animals could be weighed and loaded onto trucks for slaughter. A Crandall truck was the last thing the beasts would see before the inside of a packing plant and darkness.
By the time Henry approached the outskirts of Council Grove, it was well past nine. As he passed the city limits the highway transformed itself into Pawnee Street, the main drag. He slowed to twenty miles an hour, picking up little changes in the town, subtle but discernible. He had become accustomed in Chicago to a certain noisy impermanence in things, but Council Grove had changed quietly, in small ways. Here a streetlight was burned out, there a house was abandoned and boarded up. He rolled through the scattering of old houses on the edge of town and slowed at his old high school, unglamorously named USD 492. It wasn’t the kind of building that generated schoolboy nostalgia, but was merely a graceless collection of stacked bricks and impenetrable windows, rusting air conditioners hanging in an obedient row. The ball field was to the left, with rickety wooden stands and a tall wire backstop for foul balls.
A few blocks later he impulsively turned down Hazelwood, his old street. He came to a gentle stop in front of his old house. It was still empty, Council Grove struggling for existence like most other small Plains towns. The people could only sell their real estate back and forth to each other for so long, and eventually things became more or less frozen. White paint was separating from the wooden planks of the sides of the house, splintering off the porch. The balcony above it gently sagged, as if an accumulation of memories were breaking it slowly down. He scanned the street; most of the houses were in the same condition, vainly holding back the inevitable decline. But a lingering immigrant pride still faintly flickered, and a few of the places remained well kept, covered with clean white paint, with decent lawns and small gardens.
An open expanse lay behind the house. While Henry was still a boy his father had cleared a flat spot there for a play area and erected a steel basketball goal. They would play for hours, Henry beating him like a drum but his father never tiring of the game. Henry had developed a theory about those games, one which explained his father’s mostly failed practice: his father didn’t need to win. He didn’t go for the kill, searching instead for consensus. That made him a good father but a mediocre lawyer. Parker, for example, would have had him joyfully for lunch. The basketball court wasn’t discernible now, all their pounding and running long ago grown over into an unbroken green.
Henry looked across to the Martin place next door; the families had known each other well, something inevitable in small towns. Martin’s two sons had married and left Council Grove soon after high school. A sign in the front yard silently proclaimed, ASK ME ABOUT AVON.
Henry stared for only a minute or two before starting the engine and heading back through town. Two miles later he had arrived at the Flinthills Motel, a single-story, twenty-room clapboard affair. Three of the neon letters were burnt out on the sign, resulting in a meaningless collection of characters. He checked in and hung up his clothes, setting a small travel alarm for early the next day. The room was musty, as though it hadn’t been opened in some time. He crawled into the worn-out bed and thought of Chicago and of Elaine, willing a dream to his mind. In fifteen minutes, he was asleep.
Henry awoke unwillingly with the dawn, an oppressive sense of solitude violating his sleep. He stayed in bed, half awake and dozing until his alarm went off. Then he quietly rose, splashed some water on his face, and walked to the window in his underwear.
Henry pulled back the curtain slightly and peered out past the gravel parking lot. There wasn’t a tree to the horizon. The sun was crawling out through cirrus clouds lying low in the sky, settled in a pale, thin blue. He had forgotten that blue, living in the more industrial air of Chicago. On the plains, each day yielded up its own unique colors: this was light and luminescent, as if it had come straight from a paint tube.
After his shower he laid out his clothes on the bed and dressed carefully, pulling dark trousers up over his legs, pushing arms into an expensive linen shirt, meticulously buttoning and tucking it. He had picked out a blue tie with a subdued stripe of blood red, a pair of slender black shoes, and last, a perfectly tailored dark suit coat. He had always been a careful dresser, and it was exactly as it had been six years earlier, dressing for the funeral of his parents. The crease of his pants had been just so, cutting through the oppressive air of death when he walked, his clothes a suit of armor against the chaos and indifference of the universe. His tie had been perfect on that day as well, set against the randomness of the car crash, an act of control in opposition to the mindless nothing of life. Shoes shined, hair in place, collar pressed, all futile, desperate, unconscious. And now the film rolled out again for Tyler Crandall, rolled out in a polished button, a straightened tie. Henry checked his watch again: it was nine-thirty, and the funeral was set for ten. It was only a short drive, but there would certainly be a crowd and he didn’t want to risk entering late.
Henry drove down Pawnee to the town square, which was dominated by the county courthouse, a dusty corner of which served as the town museum. As a boy, Henry had often gone there, drawn by the old monochrome photos and artifacts of the last farmers with a personal link to the pioneer days. They posed leaning on plows and fences, the men in loose-fitting handmade overalls and the women in black dresses that were surely insufferable in the summer heat. Henry had been struck by the sober expressions of each face, even of the children, with their formal poses, chests out and heads up, like soldiers. In one of the pictures the people prayed, some with heads bowed but others with faces turned up to the sky. God had fashioned an earth for them so full of promise and yet so essentially inhospitable and untrustworthy that they fell on their knees like repentant gamblers, eagerly making deals with a capricious weather master. That pioneer world still faintly echoed through Council Grove, but it was merely a whisper now, drowned out when the highway and satellite dishes brought the modern world to it and lured many of the residents away. Now Council Grove clung uneasily to its rural personality as a Pizza Hut and a video store crowded it from the highway.
Henry turned down Chautauqua toward the Evangel Baptist Church. The church building rose in pure white clapboards, with a tall white box steeple in front. Concrete steps led to the wide front double doors, and a scattering of flowers lined the walk from the gravel parking lot. A line of dark suits and dresses moved through the doors of the church like a centipede, vanishing into the building.
Henry parked and walked across the parking lot. There was little talking among the people there, the somber stillness of a funeral having already settled on the crowd, but several spoke quietly to him as he approached. He was remembered, certainly. His father, for all his faults, had been loved, and Henry nodded soberly to those near him as he entered, seating himself near the back of the sanctuary. He looked around; Frances Yancey was there, matronly and soft, all breasts and hips in a flowered dress. Old man Carr, coerced into a Wal-Mart suit but still looking like hell, the night’s drink not yet drained away. The whole Breedon family, huddling together as they entered the church door like ducks in a rainstorm. Gradually he was surrounded by faces from his past, people filling every seat and pressing in on him, children on laps, the adults shoulder to shoulder. At the front of the hall lay the casket, a great oak shape covered with flowers and bows. The American and Kansas flags stood to the left, the Christian flag t
o the right.
A side door opened, and the first Crandall face Henry saw was Margaret’s. Henry grimaced when he saw her: she appeared ill, as if some of her own life had been drained from her when her husband’s slipped away. He hadn’t seen her in some time, but she looked considerably aged, with new lines in her face. Her hands were pushed down as fists into her black dress as she walked unsteadily into the church.
Roger followed close behind, wearing a dark, Western-cut suit and spit-shined, black leather dress boots. Henry had forgotten how imposing he was: barrel-chested, broad-framed, and full of self-aware, ill-contained masculinity. But his galling flaw was there as well; there roamed through the Crandall men a genetic fault, and Roger had been unlucky. One leg was a good two inches shorter than the other, and his gait loped, his head moving slightly from side to side when he walked. Roger had hated the defect, torn between wearing corrective boots and the stubborn practice of smoothing out the motion. In the end, he refused the boots, which anyone could detect at a glance.
Sarah, Roger’s sister, followed, her shoulder-length brunette hair pulled back with an unadorned barrette. Physically, she had stolen the best of each of her parents, with Tyler’s dark, almost Gypsy good looks and her mother’s remarkably clear, smooth complexion. But she had obviously been crying, and her eyes were red, the mascara smudged.
The last notes of the organ sank down into echo, and a stillness settled on the church. Three large ceiling fans whirred overhead, a slow, humming pulse. Henry glanced around; the sanctuary was packed with at least five hundred people, a good seventy-five more than it was designed to hold. A fitting tribute to Ty Crandall, King of Council Grove, he thought. Then, from the shadowed side of the church, a door opened on to the podium. William Chambers, pastor of the Evangel Baptist Church, entered the sanctuary.
“This sacred place isn’t filled to overflowing to honor some man way down in the book of life, beloved. Nobody’s here to honor some low private in the army of God. We’re here to celebrate a man what’s gonna walk into God’s heaven by the front door, beloved, with his head held up high.”
Thus began the memorial service for Tyler William Crandall. Pastor Chambers was a short, stocky man, with the rough dimensions of a brick and a shock of thick black hair on top. His body was crammed into a dark blue suit, his substantial bulk sticking out from his spine like a well-dressed barrel on a post. A white handkerchief stuck out of his left chest pocket like it was struggling for air. “We come to this house with the joys of life and the sorrows of death,” he said. “There’s room enough for our laughter and our tears. So that’s why we’re here. To laugh and to cry. But over whom, beloved? Over Tyler William Crandall. And in that name is everything needs be said.” Chambers moved from behind the podium, perching on the edge of the platform. He softened his tone to sweet tree sap. “Every child of God has a destiny, beloved. Ain’t no soul on this earth without a purpose, and there’s comfort in that fact. It means God’s got His plans for livin’ and dyin’, and ain’t no use to struggle against it. But what was Tyler Crandall’s purpose? Ain’t that the eternal question we got to answer on this day? What did the Lord God put that one man on this earth to do, and was he able to do it? Ain’t that what makes a man’s life worth livin’?” Chambers’ face was intense, pleading. “Yes, beloved. The Lord brought Tyler to this town to be His instrument. God needed somebody to be His hand. And brother Tyler answered that call. He was our protector and our provider.”
Chambers’ mouth stretched into a melancholy smile. “Beloved, I’m gonna tell tales. I’m gonna break a little confidence. But we’re family here, ain’t we?” He paused, listening, his eyes cast out across the congregation. “Ain’t we?”
The crowd murmured its assent, and Henry could feel the energy in the room beginning to rise. This was the ritual of his boyhood church, the slow beginning, the crescendo of the call-and-response, the climax when Chambers drove heaven and hell home and white soul would rise off the preacher like steam off ham hocks. The first beads of sweat were already forming on Chambers’ face.
“I don’t think I’m doing anything wrong,” the pastor said, “to tell you that the brother Crandall wasn’t ashamed to support the work of God in this town. He gave, beloved. There was times he gave when there wasn’t nobody else to give. But that ain’t what made it beautiful. What made it beautiful was that he didn’t want no kind of credit for it. He didn’t walk around town expecting congratulations like one of God’s chosen people. Tyler Crandall didn’t do nothin’ to impress men.” He paused again, thoughtfully. “So then why did he do it, beloved? Tell me why.”
Chambers dropped his voice to a whisper. “He did it because he knew that God don’t forget, beloved. The Great Heavenly Accountant got to balance the books. Tyler put his trust in heavenly treasure that moths don’t eat and thieves don’t steal.
“Now, brothers and sisters, ain’t many in this world would count me wise. Ain’t many accused me of bein’ a sophisticated thinker.” Chambers smiled, secure in his self-deprecation. “But I learned a thing or two ain’t in books. I’ve seen a terrible thing with my own eyes. What is that thing, beloved? What is that demon?” Chambers pointed to the casket. “Death. Death, beloved. I have found that thing in hospital beds, in nursing homes. I’ve battled him for my flock right on through the night.” Chambers’ speech became dark and slow, hot asphalt slowly spreading over the still crowd. “Death comes in the night, and it breaks down every door, splinters flyin’ from the mace of the devil himself.” He pulled his handkerchief out of its tight cage and dabbed his eyes briefly before stuffing it, rumpled and moist, back into his pocket.
“They say every man is different. But that’s a lie, because we all got the grave. That’s the curse we share in this evil world. That’s the day them college boys stand shoulder to shoulder with us farmers and welders and cattlemen. That’s when the philosophers of this world got to shut on up and the Lord God Almighty gets His say.” Chambers thrust his finger out toward the congregation. “God’s gonna have the last word, beloved. Count on that. And when the Almighty clears His throat you either gonna be sleepin’ the innocent sleep of blissful rest in the arms of the Redeemer, or you gonna get hauled down by the Deceiver into a hell of iniquity.” He paused, terrifying and passionate. “Take stock of your lives, brothers and sisters. Check your account with the Lord God Almighty!”
Henry sat in the midst of the congregation, and he had no doubt Chambers believed every word of what he said. But he was dead to the power of his performance. The part of him that had listened as a boy to descriptions of the fires of hell was gone, murdered with his parents. Years earlier it had been alive, vividly receptive in its innocence. It had been in the heat of just such a terrifying moment that Henry, then fourteen years old, had found himself hurtling down the church aisle toward the pastor in embarrassment and release. He had sinned, and he would repent. He would not be dragged down into hell. He would answer the call of the god who shouts.
Chambers pointed down at the casket with a sigh, bringing Henry back to the present. “But that fiery holocaust will never fall upon this dear brother.” The pastor looked up, and his face was beaming. “I see a vision, a vision of God, beloved. I see Tyler Crandall entering the gates of heaven and God is smiling right at him. I hear the Lord God speak. Well done, my good and faithful servant, He says. You come on in to the great feast. Come in and dine with my special friends, my faithful friends.”
Chambers was spellbound in his own epiphany. He clutched the sides of the podium, transported, taken up into the heaven he saw. Then he looked out into the congregation; his voice was permeated with anguish. “What we get is a flicker of time, beloved. We got a moment until death snuffs us out like candles in a rainstorm. God waits at the end of our road, ready to judge the quick and the dead! Our dear departed brother Crandall chose right. Let us all choose so right!”
With that proclamation Chambers slumped over the podium, spent. After some time he turned and made his
way back to a large red velvet chair on the dais. He fell into it, pink-faced, sweat beading up on his forehead.
There was silence in the sanctuary, and Henry could feel the fear creeping up from the floorboards into the congregation. Into that vapor the music minister stood and sang, his voice a melancholy, solemn baritone. Several in the congregation softly took up the tune, humming and murmuring. Henry watched as Margaret collapsed and began sobbing against Sarah.
The singing ended and Chambers nodded gravely to Roger, signaling the eulogy. Roger stood, and when he rose every eye in the sanctuary was fixed upon him. Soon he would be the lifeblood upon which the entire town would depend. He would be their supply of materials and equipment and, with the bank hurting under so many failed farms, their credit. He could dictate the laws and the policies that ruled the few businesses he didn’t control. He would be the most important man in their lives.
Roger walked up the stairs, each step a careful measurement to level his hated gait. He took the pulpit and looked down at the casket; for a moment, he appeared to be in some indecision. When he began, his voice was quiet and hard, and he seemed to speak more to the gleaming wooden box than to the congregation. “I’m supposed to say somethin’ about my daddy now,” he said. “Pastor says I might recollect some good memories of him.” He breathed deeply, never taking his eyes off the casket. “But the fact is, I don’t think about things that way, and it don’t do no good to look back. My daddy is dead. Here shortly he’ll be in the ground. Then it’ll all be over, every bit of it.”
Roger stared blankly downward for a few brittle seconds, then continued. “Like the pastor says, ain’t nobody knows when their time is up. But I had twenty-nine years of him, and I figure it all boils down to those lessons I got when he was alive. Daddy was a teacher. That’s what I’ll always remember. He never stopped teachin’ me, not one second of the day. He’d take the broom right out of your hand, just to show you the right way to sweep. He’d make you tear down a fence just to build it up what he called straight.” He paused a moment, and Henry thought he could hear his voice catch, although from what emotion it wasn’t clear. “I don’t reckon Daddy stopped teachin’ me one second of my life. So I learned. One time I checked in a load of wheat and read the water content wrong, read it clean wrong, by two percent. Daddy taught me that day, taught me good. He never stopped teachin’.” Roger ground to a halt, his voice unsteady. Then he looked up into the congregation, looking surprised to be surrounded by people. His voice cleared. “Some say this town is dyin’,” he said. “But I say it ain’t gonna die if I have anything to do with it. It’s like Daddy used to tell me: The difference between doin’ and dreamin’ ain’t nothin’ but the will to act. You got to have the will. I figure that’s right. What matters now is movin’ this town forward and that’s what I aim to do. Ain’t nothin’ gonna change.” He paused again, looking at the pastor. Finally he muttered, “Amen,” and bowed his head briefly before descending from the platform.