The Rough English Equivalent (The Jack Mason Saga Book 1)

by Stan Hayes

  “It's my hope, of course, that all you've done for Jack'll help to make his life sump'm that we'll look back on with way more pride than we have in how much beer we sold,” Pap said. “I love my kids, but I think this grandson of mine'll live a life that'll make any of theirs pale by comparison, and I have you to thank for that.” The old man extended his hand; Moses shook it, and was happy that the state of his health, if his grip was any indication, was pretty damn good.

  As Serena and the Reverend Osborne Abercrombie sat drinking coffee in the Bisque Café, Oz, as she’d come to call him, glanced up and over her shoulder into the lobby, then back at Serena with a look so disconcerted it struck her as hilarious. It reminded her of the first time she’d unzipped his pants. She sensed someone approaching them as the look metamorphosed into one of forced good will. His chair scraped bumpily across the tile floor as he stood up, the good will congealing into a Sunday smile. His “Good morning, Reverend,” squawked out an octave higher than normal.

  “Good morning to you, Reverend,” a rich baritone over her shoulder responded, its source moving into view on her left side. She turned, looking above the men’s clasped hands to the underside of the prominent, freshly-shaved jawline of a very tall man.

  “Serena Mason, the Reverend Sheppard Peters,” said Oz, still higher than usual. “Mrs. Mason’s the hotel manager.”

  “Really,” said the Reverend, turning the notable shit-eatin’ grin her way as he took her proffered hand. The eyes confirmed the striking shade of blue of the giant pair on the poster. “It’s certainly a pleasure to meet our host… ah, hostess. Your people have made us feel very much at home here in the hotel.”

  “I’m certainly glad to know that,” said Serena, returning his smile. “Won’t you sit down, Reverend?”

  “Yes,” Oz said, his voice moving back toward its normal pitch, “please do.”

  “Well, just for a moment.” The voice’s timbre, polished from long use, retained no more than a trace of southern accent. “Brother Pulaski’ll be picking me up soon, but that coffee looks mighty good.”

  “And here’s yours, right on cue,” said Serena as Reba approached the table with a coffee pot and fresh cup.

  “Oh, thank you so much,” with no warning, the baritone lasso had looped out and snagged a beaming Reba.

  “You’re so welcome,” she said, retiring demurely to the kitchen to savor her blessing and adjust her undergarments.

  “Is everything on schedule for tomorrow, Reverend?” asked Abercrombie.

  “Seems to be; I’m blessed with not only a good staff, but with cooperation from the good people of Bisque such as we’ve rarely seen before. I have you and your fellow clergy to thank for that.”

  “Well, the Council’s determined to give you everything you need to help you bring our people before the Lord. You’ve set yourself an ambitious goal; saving ten thousand souls will take everything we’ve got.”

  “It won’t be easy,” said Sheppard, the set of his jaw tightening the skin over his high cheekbones to a pink sheen. “It never is.” As he raised his cup to drink, Serena noticed the way his hand dwarfed it, making it look like one from a child’s play set. That hand’s no stranger to hard work, she thought. His left hand rested momentarily on the edge of the table within inches of Oz’s right hand, and she was struck by the involuntary response that this juxtaposition of physical strength and weakness raised in her. Good thing there’ll be no soul-savin’ shootout between these two, she thought.

  Moses, Jack and Serena sat at the Bisque Café table nearest the door to the hotel. So what’s the story on this revival?” Jack asked, stirring sugar into his coffee. “That’s some big-ass sign out there on the highway.”

  “It’s not the only one, either,” said Moses. There’s six of ’em- one on every road into and outta here.”

  “Damn. Pretty fancy for a few days worth of preachin’. Why all the noise?”

  “Oz’d probably say that it’s a joyful noise,” said Serena, “if you caught him at the right moment.”

  “When’s it start?”

  “This time next week. Friday night. For ten days, through Easter.”

  “Where’re they doing it- the auditorium?”

  “Yes. For an agnostic, honey, you’re awfully curious about this. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going.”

  “No, I’m just curious about how it works. And what somebody that looks as goofy as that guy on the sign could possibly have to say that’s any different from what the Bisque parsons put out, seein’ as how they all work off the same script.”

  “Well, that’s a question I can’t answer for you. This whole revival thing’s always seemed a little strange to me, even when it’s just one church doing it. According to Oz, the idea of a citywide revival going on over two weekends, instead of one, was sold to Bisque church leaders by that “goofy” guy on the billboard. His name’s Sheppard Peters.”

  “ ‘Oz’ bein’ the Reverend Abercrombie?”

  Serena’s color rose a little. “Oh. Yes. I guess you’ve never heard me refer to him that way. I just can’t call him ‘Osborne’ with a straight face.”

  “Well, there’s never enough laughter in the world,” Moses deadpanned.

  “Anyway,” she said with a steely glance at him, “He says that Peters is a really powerful speaker. His presentation back in December just bowled the council members over. He said they’d save 10,000 souls in a ten-day revival.”

  “That’s a bunch of souls,” opined Moses, “There aren’t 30,000 people in the county, most of whom will tell you right quick that their souls’re already saved, and have been for years. Maybe he’s throwin’ in livestock.”

  “They’re saying that people from the other counties around here will come.” she said. “They have success stories all up and down the eastern seaboard, and from cities a lot bigger than Bisque, like Charlotte and Jacksonville.”

  “Well, since fear and fat spread better in a liquid state, maybe all those sweaty bodies jammed up together’ll produce the desired effect.”

  “What’s this council you’re talking about?” asked Jack.

  “The Bisque Council of Churches,” said Ríni. “All the pastors of the Bisque churches belong to it. They started it a couple of years ago.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Beyond congratulating each other and setting up these revivals, I’m not sure.”

  “It’s beyond me,” said Jack, “why people buy into this shell game. As one of the ultimate minority, i.e. one of the few who’ll say flat-out that the God thing’s nothing but a human-conceived, worn-out shuck, I wanta know what the hell sense it makes to try to live rationally in a society that’s governed by a fairy tale? A circle-jerk whose dialogue is ‘I bleeve it, don’t you? Uh-huh, uh-huh.’ I haven’t heard much about the ‘afterlife’ that makes it sound as good as a nice long nap when you’re done living.”

  “Jack! That’s awful!” Serena objected. You can’t believe that this life’s all there is.”

  “Don’t see why not. Whose word do we have to the contrary?”

  “Well, I’m not the person to tell you what you need to hear about that. Why don’t you…”

  “Miz Mason,” Jerry McClain called from the door to the hotel.

  “Yes, Jerry-”

  “Telephone for you. It’s your dad.”

  “Y’all excuse me a minute. He’s probably just checking to see if you’re here, Jack.”

  “Well, say hey for me, and tell him I’ll be by to see ’im tomorrow.”

  As she disappeared around the corner, Jack turned his gaze to Moses, saying in a low voice, “How’s he doing, anyway? Mom seems to think he’s faded a lot in the last year.”

  “Well, he’s 78; you can’t expect him to go ten rounds before breakfast. But he seems pretty much himself to me; we just went through the process of me buyin’ him out of the beer business, and from what I could see he hasn’t lost his eye for business details.”

  “Pretty
old, though. I guess I’d better be checkin’ in with him a little more often. I’d hate for him to be dying and say to himself, ‘That fuckin’ kid was never around.’ “

  “Being the only grandchild has its disadvantages,” said Moses. “Maybe one of these days Cordelia’ll slip up and present Buster with an heir and you’ll be off the hook.”

  “But then there’d be the question of who it was that she’d collaborated with. Anyway, there’s about as much chance of that as there is of you and me bein’ in the front row of this goddam revival on opening night. Can you believe that they still do this crap every year? And now with some bunch of people from out of town? Is life that friggin’ dull around here?”

  “Sure it is. For most everbody in Bisque, anyway. It’s a little matter of imagination.”

  “Well, that’s sump’m you’ve never been short on,” said Jack. “But you’re still here. I know why you stayed in the first place, but you and Mom haven’t seen much of each other for a long time now. Seriously; you havin’ any fun these days?”

  “Not as much as I’d like, ol’ buddy. There’s always flyin’, of course, but you can’t stay airborne forever, and Bisque’s still Bisque when you land. And runnin’ whores in Augusta ain’t that excitin’ anymore. Once you left for school, a lot of air just bled outta this little burg. For me, anyway. Guess I’d be better off if things like this revival did rev me up.”

  Jack laughed. “I’ve got a life-size picture of that. Well, at least you bought Pap out in time to cash in on the new business from the Savannah River plant. Has that started to amount to anything yet?”

  “We’ve done pretty well, with all the construction people that live on th’ Georgia side of the state line; the crews stay thirsty, and that’s been very good for business. But it’s really hypo’d the housing market. I’ve had a couple of good offers on my place. Now that they’ve had the official opening and construction’s easin’ off, I wouldn’t be surprised if business dropped off a little.”

  “So what’s next? Ever think about stock car racing? Buster’s had good luck with his Hornet, but I’m sure he’d be a lot better off if he had the advantage of your brains- and your money. You know Pap won’t touch it.”

  “Yeah, I could get interested in that, but I’ll pass on bein’ in business with Buster. I’m in good health, and I want to stay that way.”

  Jack laughed. “Yeah, I guess that would be courtin’ cardiac arrest. Remember when those goddam little Hudson Jets came out and he strapped up the axle on a demonstrator so he could drive it around with a back wheel off?”

  “That’s Buster in a nutshell. No trouble gettin’ noticed, but handlin’ bein’ noticed ain’t what he does best.”

  “Yeah. Makes you wonder if he didn’t marry Cordelia just to get noticed.”

  “Dammit, son! When’d you get so smart? I better be watchin’ what I say to you, or you’ll be analyzin’ me.”

  “Hey, boss,” said Jack with a grin. “I been doin’ that for years.”

  Serena reappeared as Moses digested that remark. “Jack,” she said, sitting down. “Pap thought you were going to come see him today. He sounded kind of disappointed. You know how he is. He’d never say so, but he has a way of letting you know how he feels.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. Do you guess that he figures I’ll be over there before sundown?”

  “Well, I…”

  “Just kiddin’; I’ll drop in on the ole boy. Soon as I check in with Terry.”

  “Yes, you’d better do that,” Serena said. “She doesn’t particularly care for being second in line with you.”

  “Yeah. Trouble is, neither does Terrell. I’m just too much in demand,” Jack sighed, sliding his chair back. “Catch you two later.”

  “Want to have dinner here, or go out somewhere?”

  “Can we just leave it open? I might just catch a sandwich with Terrell, if that’s OK with you.”

  “I guess so. It’s not like you’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “Awright, den. See y’all in a l’il bit.”

  Standing on the Terrell’s stoop, he glanced over at the McNeil’s, but saw no one. A smiling Melinda Terrell opened the door. “Hi, Jack. Come in.”

  “Hi, Miz Terrell. How’re you doin’?”

  “Just fine, thank you, Jackie” she said. “Go this way; Ricky’s in the back.” She waved him through the living room, toward the kitchen door.

  “Thank you ma’am. Whattd’ya do, put ’im to work?”

  “Just burnin’ hamburgers. You’re gonna stay and help us eat ’em, I hope.”

  “Suits me. Lemme get on out there ’fo he gets ’em all well done.”

  Ricky was in the back yard, shuffling blackened meat around the grill as Jack walked out on the porch to yell at him. “Easy on that meat, son!”

  “You jus’ let me worry about th’ meat, bwy,” Ricky said over his shoulder, “an’ tell me whachu brung to th’ party.”

  “It’s out in th’ car, iiced down. Seriously, leave me a couple with some blood in’em.”

  “Heathen bastard. God don’t wawnchoo eatin’ no blood.”

  “That’s not what she told me. She said it’d make my steeter pick out.”

  “Well, if ya want any ’at raw damn onion on ’at raw damn meat, and I know ya do, better get in there an’ sliice some; I ain’t gettin’ near it.”

  They sat in the den, working off TV tray tables full of burgers, chips, pickles, potato salad and see-through long-neck bottles of Miller High Life. Richard Terrell, arriving late, greeted his fellow diners as he sat a tray down beside his Barcalounger. “Sorry to make it at the eleventh hour. Had an agent to let go, and he was one of the few in recent memory that didn’t agree that he’d had enough of the insurance business.”

  “I suppose you mean Lon Bradley,” said Melinda.

  “None other. Now I’ve got a nice big open debit to deal with until I get somebody, but even that’ll be a relief. He shook his head violently from side to side while intoning “Bluh-bluh-bluh-bluh-bluh-bluh-bluh.” That done, he said “How’s it going, Jackie boy?”

  “Great, Mr. T. Sounds like things’re fine with you, too.”

  Terrell laughed, hard, the whoops subsiding in a wheeze. “You could always crack me up, Jackie. How’s school?”

  “Not bad; just strokin’ along, UGA-style; booze, broads and uhh… oh yeah, books.”

  “That’s not what I hear down at the café. Reba says you’ve been dean’s list for three quarters runnin’.”

  “Just a rumor I planted to reassure th’ home front. I’m hangin’ on for dear life, just like most everybody else.”

  “Donchoo bullshit a bullshitter, son.”

  “Richard!!”

  “What? Oh, sorry, honey. My brain’s still in the office. Well, congratulations anyway, ol’ sport. You’ll be back here runnin’ th’ place before we know it.”

  “Thanks, but I doubt a B.A. in history’s gonna qualify me for runnin’ a whole lot.”

  “Speaking of runnin’, Ricky’s got some news, too. Seems the coaches thought he had a pretty good spring practice.”

  “Yeah, we were talkin’ about it while he was burnin’ these burgers. Good thing I taught ’im everything I knew fo’ I hung it up.”

  “Yeah, you guys woulda made Coach Dodd a great pair of receivers. Guess it’s up to Ricky to make Bisque famous on the gridiron, and for you to do it the way that suits you. I know you will, too.”

  “Maybe I’ll come work for you and get rich,” Ricky said with a grin.

  Terrell gulped theatrically and said in a loud whisper, “Bite your tongue; I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” He turned to look at the boys. “This business has been good to me, but I’da never come near it if I’da gotten my degree, and I sure as hell don’t ever want to see either one of your asses collectin’ a debit.”

  “Richard!!”

  The evening was cool for late March, but clear; they sat under a rising new moon on folding chairs, jackets zipped, a few
feet from the edge of Moses’ pond. They’d brought out Moses’ Transoceanic, hoping its battery would hold out for the entire two hours of Gene Nobles’ Randy's Record Corner on WLAC. It sat on the ground between them next to a now-half-full cooler of Carling Black Label. “Whachall doin’ tomorrow?” Ricky asked as he punched a hole in a fresh can.

  “Nothin’ special, far as I know; watch TV somewhere, I guess. Gotta run my car by Bo’s to get my tailpipe fixed.”

  “Reeazoyal-Creeazown-Heeazair-Dreeazessin!” declaimed Gene, rolling easily from his pomade pitch into one more spin of Heartbreak Hotel.

  Ricky stood up to pull his jeans out of his crack. “What th’ hell’s he sayin?”

  “He’s talkin’ that zz-talk. Puts ’at ‘eazz’ between th’ syllables. He’s sellin’ fuckin’ Royal Crown to th’ boogies.”

  “Royal Crown Cola?”

  “No, man. Hair shit. Royal Crown Hair Dressin’.”

  “Oh. Like Silky Straight.”

  “You means ‘Silky Skrate,’ bwy. Buchoo knows what th’ boss nigga use.”

  “What dat, bwy?”

  “White Rose, White Rose, White Rooose… Petroleum Jelleee,” Jack crooned, mimicking the radio commercial. “If you’ll jus’ try White Rose, den you will buy White Rose…”

  “Goddam! Pass th’ goosegrease an’ call me Slick. They got some damn hair, don’t they?”

  “Sho do. If it was me, I’d shave my damn head, like Otha used to, an’ be done wid it.”

  Ricky flopped back down in his chair. “So Terry didn’t line up a buncha shit to keep you busy?”

  “She’s only gonna keep me busy’s I wanta be kept,” Jack said as he looked out over the moonlit water. “Said she’d see if anybody was partyin’ anywhere tomorrow niit. We could get some lunch and come on back here and fish awhile after I drop my car off; Bo can’t start on it ’til after noon.”

  “Fishin’ sounds damn good. Just sittin’ out here’s great, after bein’ in Atlanta for so long. I’d do it without bait.”

  “And without women,” grunted Jack.

  “You miit not say that s’quick if you wadn’t gettin’ steady pussy,” observed Ricky.