Dry County

by Jake Hinkson

  “No. It’s just, now that we’re in this thing, I’m nervous.”

  “I understand that,” he says, “but this thing is illegal now. It’s a little late to start getting nervous. You realize that? This isn’t just some shit between him and me anymore, or even him and his church. It’s not just about a scandal. I mean, people go to jail for what I did this morning. You need to be realistic about what we’re doing here.”

  I have to stop and think about that for a second. I guess it’s true. I never really considered how much shit we’d be in if people knew we were trying to blackmail the preacher. I feel kind of guilty now that I never even thought of that. This whole thing was my idea. I should have considered that.

  “You said he was scared shitless this morning?”

  “Yes. He knows the fix he’s in.”

  “That’s right,” I say. “He got what he wanted from you, and now he just wants you to go away, right? He’s got a wife and twenty-seven thousand kids. He’s got too much to lose, man. The church, everyone thinking he’s the shit. He’ll give you the money. He’ll raid the donation plate, the savings account, whatever, and then he’ll just be happy to get rid of you.”

  Gary closes his eyes and nods. “Yes.” He smiles. “Twenty-seven thousand kids . . . You’re funny.”

  “How many Weatherford kids are there actually? I forget.”

  “Five.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I know.”

  “I always thought Matthew was a dick.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Gary says. “Sometimes I used to see him around campus when we were both at U of A. He basically acted like he didn’t know me. He went super preppy once he got there.”

  “Gross.”

  “Yeah. And Mark was always . . . Mark. You know. I didn’t really know Mary in school. She was about your grade, right?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know her very well. She was popular, played basketball and all that. I mean, I guess she was okay, but I never had much to do with her.”

  He just nods.

  “Jesus,” I say, “and then they had two more kids?”

  “Yeah. After the first three, Richard and Penny stopped having sex. I mean, for like ten years or something, he told me. Then they had Johnny and Ruth.”

  I shake my head. “You think they have sex now?”

  “I think they had just enough sex to have the kids. When you have five kids, it makes you look like you’re always fucking, but that’s just for show.”

  “Because he’s gay?”

  “Honestly, I don’t even know. I mean, he’s definitely a closet case, but really I think he hates sex. I think he hates bodies. They gross him out. For him, it’s all about masturbation. He wants to watch me jack off, and he wants me to watch him. Fucking weirdo.”

  I turn over and lay on my side and look at him. His face is narrow, with a little nose and thin lips. I never thought he was cute when I was a kid. I never gave it any thought at all. He was just an older guy at my school.

  But when he moved back to town after his breakdown, he used to come into the store a lot. He never bought much. I think he just wanted to get out of the house, get away from his parents.

  I’ve met them a couple of times. Gary gets nervous around them, though, so me and him only get together when they’re gone. His dad’s a trip. One of those guys who’s too nice for his own good—that’s where Gary gets it, I guess. His mom’s kind of a bitch. Both times I talked to her she kept looking at my clothes. I wasn’t wearing anything slutty or anything like that. Just a shirt and some jeans, but she kept looking me up and down like she couldn’t believe what a no-class piece of shit her son had brought home.

  Gary says that’s just her look, but I can tell she doesn’t like me. She thinks Gary’s just this dropout who moved home and now he’s hanging out with the girl who works the register at Pickett’s. Of course, once she finds out I got fired, she’ll really love me.

  “Anyway,” Gary says, “we’ll be done with him soon. He’ll give us the money, and then everything will be fine.”

  I nod. “And we can leave.”

  “Yep, and then we can do what we want.”

  “Where do you want to go first?”

  “I thought we’d go down to Austin and see that guy I knew from college, Wally.”

  “Wally, right. He lives down there now, right?”

  “Yeah, he’s from there originally.”

  “Why do you want to see him?” I ask.

  Gary shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. No particular reason. Just somebody I know.”

  “You and him . . . You guys were just friends or . . . ?”

  He stares at me a second. “You know, it’s not like I’ve slept with everyone I’ve ever met.”

  “I know that.”

  “He’s a friend. That’s it. A guy I know.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  He asks, “Where do you want to go?”

  “We can go to Austin, it’s fine.”

  “But if you had your druthers, where would you want to go?”

  “Well, I always wanted to see New Orleans. My mom went there once when she was in her twenties, and she loved it. She always said we’d go together, but of course that never happened. So, fuck it. I’ll just go on my own. Which is the whole point, right? We can go anywhere we want. Be anybody we want to be.”

  He smiles. “That’s right.”

  “Hell yeah. That’s why I want to leave. People around here decide who they think you are, and then if you try to do something different, they act like you’re the one being the asshole. That’s how you know the preacher will come up with the money. Because the bigger they are, the harder they fall. I mean, his secrets would ruin his life.”

  Something occurs to Gary, and he frowns. “You know, if the truth did come out, I guess the only thing I’d worry about is my parents. It’d embarrass them in front of everyone they know.”

  “Hey, fuck ’em.”

  He’s staring at me. “Don’t say that, Sarabeth. You should care more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, this whole thing was your idea. You need to care more about the consequences.”

  “It wasn’t all my idea. We talked about it. You’re the one who said you thought the preacher was throwing you vibe every time you saw him.”

  “And you’re the one who said if I messed around with him, he’d feel guilty and give me money to go away.”

  “And you’re the one who did.”

  Gary sits up with his back to the wall. “You look down on me for doing that?”

  “No, of course not. You know I don’t give a shit.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. You don’t give a shit.”

  “Gary . . .”

  “Why don’t you care? You’re supposed to want me all to yourself. You’re not supposed to want to share me with anybody.”

  I sit up, too. I feel weird just sitting here with my tits hanging out, though, so I grab my bra off the floor. “This is bullshit,” I tell him. “I didn’t make you do anything with the preacher.”

  “We’re not talking about anyone making me do anything. We’re talking about how you could care less if I have to jack off with some old pervert so we can get a little money.”

  I grab my panties off the end of the bed. “You don’t get to do this, Gary. You don’t get to do something and then blame me because you did it.”

  He crosses his arms and stares up at the ceiling. “I just . . .”

  “You just what?”

  “You really don’t care, do you? Is this just about the money for you?”

  I’m so fucking tired of people giving me shit. I stand up and start getting dressed.

  “What are you doing?” he says.

  “What’s it look like? I’m leaving.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re being an asshole.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  I pull on my jeans.

  “Sarabeth . . .”
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  “No. You know what? Do what you want.” I start pulling on my shoes. “When he pays you, then good for you. You take the money and go away and live happily ever after by yourself.”

  “Stop it. Sit down. C’mon . . .”

  I stomp out of his room and out to my car. As I’m backing out of the driveway, I can see him at the door, sheet around his waist, with a look on his face like a lost kid at the mall.

  I think about stopping, but I just keep going.

  Fuck him. Fuck everybody.

  TEN RICHARD WEATHERFORD

  I’m in my driveway. I’ve driven home, like a drunkard after a party, and I’m not sure how I’ve made it here. The last few minutes of my life are a blur.

  It’s a feeling I’ve felt before—with Gary. The first time we were together, in this minivan, we were parked in the dark down some skinny trail two counties away. I gave in to my temptation, let him lead me to sin or did i lead him and when we had finished, I drove home in a daze. I could not remember the drive at all, the stops and turns I had to make to get back into town, back into my neighborhood, back to my home. But there I was, a man sitting behind the steering wheel, staring at his own hands.

  And here I am, once again, unsure of just who I am.

  I’m Richard Howard Weatherford. I’m the husband of Penelope. The father of Matthew, Mark, Mary, Johnny, and Ruth. I’m the pastor of the First Baptist Church of Stock, Arkansas. I am a Christian. I am a man of God.

  What I’m not is a homosexual. There’s really no such thing as a homosexual. The concept of gay identity is one of the devil’s lies, predicated on the fallacy that homosexuality is a state of being. If homosexuals exist, then God must have created homosexuals; so, no, there can be no homosexuals. There are only homosexual acts, and one can choose whether or not to perform those acts. I can turn away from my sin.

  But first I must do this. I must protect my family, my friends, my church.

  I look out the windshield of my minivan at my sunny two-story home. I think of all the people who drive by this house and say, “That’s where the preacher lives.” Something in the weight of all these possessions makes me feel tethered. A car, a home, a small piece of land. A family. A life.

  And yet, it all feels so terribly fragile today.

  I don’t know what Harten will do, how he’ll get the money. He carries himself like a desperate man, like he could break a window at any moment to steal food. Being around him makes me nervous; it sent me home as dizzy as if I’d just stepped up to the edge of a cliff.

  Please God, I pray, help him get the money.

  It’s an absurdity and a heresy to ask the Lord for assistance in something so low and tawdry as this, of course, but I can’t help myself. It’s a profane prayer from a profane soul.

  I walk inside and the house is curiously quiet. Only now do I realize that I didn’t see Matthew’s car in the driveway.

  “Hello,” I call.

  My voice seems leaden in the empty house.

  “Anyone home?”

  “Hey,” Penny says from upstairs.

  I walk to the bottom of the stairs. “Where is everyone?”

  “Come upstairs if you want to talk.”

  “I said, ‘Where is everyone?’”

  “And I said to come upstairs if you want to talk.”

  I climb the stairs and find her sitting on our bed, her back against the wall, feet crossed at the ankles, hands folded on a pillow. I notice that she’s taken out her contacts and put on her glasses.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Sitting. What are you doing?”

  I open my palms as if to show her nothingness itself. “Just got home. Where is everyone?”

  “I suggested they go to Sonic for ice cream.”

  “Oh.”

  “I thought it would be nice for them all to go together. They never do anything as a group, all of them together.”

  “Ruth isn’t with them.”

  She nods and stares at me. “I know.”

  I tell her, “If you wanted Ruth to go with them, you could have told her to stay home.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “Oh. Are you okay?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You’re acting weird.”

  “Am I?” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “You’re asking me a series of stupid questions, for one thing. You only do that when you want me to guess what’s bothering you.”

  She lowers her chin a bit and stares at me over her glasses, which is something she does when she wants to take me to task. “And what would your guess be?”

  “I haven’t the faintest clue.”

  “You haven’t the faintest clue.”

  “No. I do not. So why don’t you stop prevaricating and tell me what’s wrong.”

  She unfolds her hands and looks out the window. She’s not really looking out the window, though. Not really. She’s making me stare at her and wait. Such dramatics.

  Finally, she says, “Why don’t you sit down?”

  I make a show of walking to the bed and sitting down a few inches from her feet. “Yes?” I say.

  “Where have you been all day?”

  “What?”

  “Where have you been all day?”

  “I haven’t . . . I’ve been here. I went out to see Terry Baltimore this morning. I came home, had breakfast with the family, had a nap, talked to Randy, then I took Ruth over to Scarlett’s house. Then I came home. All of which you already know, so what are you doing? Why would you ask me where I’ve been?”

  She pulls her arms tighter to her torso and stares at the bedspread.

  “That’s right,” she says. “I know all that.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “You’ve been somewhere else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t been here with us.”

  “You mean . . . Oh, you mean I’ve been distracted?”

  She tries to smooth a wrinkle in the bedspread as she says, “Sure.”

  “Well, I have a lot on my mind. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things, you know. This dry vote coming up. I’ve been giving that a lot of thought. Been thinking really hard about that. And then the Passion Play tomorrow. I still need to go up to the church today.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  I reach over and pat her leg. “I’m sorry if I’ve been distant. I don’t mean to be.”

  She looks up at me, and there are tears in her eyes. I begin to move toward her, but she holds out a hand. “You just stay . . . just stay right over there.”

  “Penny, what on earth is wrong with you? Is this some kind of woman thing?”

  Her skin changes color. She swings her legs to the floor, the pillow tumbles off her lap, and she slaps my face.

  I grab her arms and shove her back onto the bed.

  “What are you doing?” I demand, standing over her. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Maybe I just found it.”

  “What does that mean?” I step across the room and shut our bedroom door. “What does that mean? Answer me.”

  Her face is flushed, her eyes full of furious tears. I haven’t seen her this angry in years. Perhaps I’ve never seen her this angry. We’ve never come to blows before, not even in our worst times.

  She shakes her head, puts her hands over her ears.

  She says, “I don’t think . . . I don’t think I love you.”

  My own ears are ringing. It’s not from the slap, though. All I can find to say is, “What?”

  Staring at me, her eyes grow wide as if they’re hungry to take in more light. She drops her hands to her lap. “I don’t. I don’t love you. Maybe I never did.”

  “That’s ridiculous. If—”

  “Just shut up, Richard, and listen to me. When we met, you were looking for a Christian wife, and I was looking for a Christian husband. That’s why we got married. That’s what our att
raction was based on from the very beginning. Do you know I never fantasized about you?” She reads something on my face and responds to it. “Romantic nonsense, right? The kind of thing that you mock from the pulpit. You don’t believe in that kind of thing. You only believe in God’s will. You say. You say you only believe in God’s will, but have you ever noticed how God’s will and your will always seem to be aligned?”

  “We’re supposed to align ourselves to God’s will, Penny.”

  “And God tells you what his will is, and then you tell the rest of us.”

  “That’s a little simplistic, Penny, but yes, roughly speaking, the Lord instructs me, and I instruct others. It’s the way it’s always been. I thought it was the way you liked it. You’re acting like I’m some self-serving jerk, but forgive me for pointing out that you’ve always relished the role of queen bee of the church. With your Ladies’ Auxiliary and your little meetings.”

  “My little meetings,” she says.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Oh,” she says, “I know what you mean better than you do.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “By all means, explain it to me. That’s what you do. The feminists accuse men of ‘mansplaining,’ but what about womansplaining? That’s when a woman tells a man what he really meant.”

  “That’s cute, Richard. I bet you’ve been working on that for a while now.”

  The truth is, I have. I was going to use it as a joke in a sermon. Comparing her to feminists is a cheap shot. I do it to hurt her, to enrage her. I’m not sure why, though. I should be trying to dial down this fight rather than exacerbate it. Maybe it’s because she hit me and my face still stings. If I can’t hit her back, at least I can infuriate her.

  She says, “You know I’m not a feminist, you idiot.”

  “Name calling. Excellent. First you hit me. Then you say you don’t love me. Then you start calling me names.”

  She crosses her arms and shakes her head, too disgusted to look at me.

  I ask, “So what is the problem exactly? What am I lacking? Explain it to me.”

  “You have no compassion, Richard. You don’t really believe in it. You think it would weaken you somehow.”