Dry County

by Jake Hinkson

  He stares at me, obviously disappointed but also a little insulted. “I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “Of course not, of course not, but intent isn’t really the issue. There are things we don’t intend to do, pain we don’t intend to cause, but if people take it that way, then our intentions don’t really matter, because the damage is already done. See what I mean?”

  He looks over my shoulder at Mabel Lardner, who is lingering in her pew trying to look casual. Tipping back his crown of thorns and scratching his head, he asks, “That old woman rat me out?”

  “She . . . expressed concern about the selfie.”

  He crosses his arms, smearing fake blood across his bare chest. “She don’t even know the word selfie,” he says.

  “C’mon now, brother, that’s no way to be. You can see that she’s got a bit of a point. So will you, for me, please take down the photo?”

  “Oh, Brother Weatherford,” Penny calls across the sanctuary. “We’re all done here. Everything is in place, so I’m headed home.” She says this for the benefit of everyone else in the sanctuary, imbuing Oh, Brother Weatherford with a touch of playful humor. This makes Mabel and the other ladies smile.

  I smile back. “Okay, honey,” I tell Penny. “I’ll be home soon.” I wave at the others. “Thank you, ladies.”

  Everyone is saying their good nights, and when I turn back to Cody, I say, “So, are we good here?”

  He shrugs and opens the pictures on his phone and deletes the image. “Okay,” he says. “Don’t want to offend nobody.”

  “I really do appreciate it,” I say.

  “Sure. No problem.”

  I watch as he wraps himself in a white sheet and heads to the baptismal dressing room to change. Mabel smiles at me and, satisfied, collects her purse and Bible to go home.

  I shake my head. What a ridiculous job this is.

  Penny and the ladies have left now, and the church is silent. I wander through the hallway downstairs, checking to see that the doors are locked and the lights have all been turned off. My shoes scratch against the carpet, my breathing is heavy, but the classrooms are empty, and the fellowship hall is quiet and dark. I walk upstairs to the sanctuary.

  I’ve always loved being here by myself. When other people are here, I’m always thinking about them, thinking about the sermon I’m preaching, but when I’m here alone I can relax in a way I can’t really relax anywhere else. We don’t have actual stained-glass windows, just plastic overlays on the glass, but the pale blue light of the sanctuary is just as soothing as if the windows were real.

  Two carpeted aisles divide the pews into three sections. Almost every Sunday, these pews are filled. Three hundred people, on average, come here every week to hear me deliver a message from God. They sit in these seats, facing me quietly, as I slowly pace the stage above them, Bible in hand, telling them what God wants them to do with their lives.

  Not all of them buy it, of course. Some look at me with veiled skepticism, more than a few look bored—look bored no matter what I say or how I say it. But most of them do believe me. I can see it on their faces. Almost all of them want me to reassure them, to tell them that the world’s insanity has a spiritual context, that no matter what is happening to them—cancer, abuse, depression, debt—that God has a plan, that everything will eventually make sense.

  Yes, the job is ridiculous sometimes, but I do some good work here.

  I sit down at the edge of the stage and stare at the vacant pews.

  I built this congregation. Of course, the church itself has been here for over seventy years, but before I got here, attendance had never risen above a hundred and fifty. I took a congregation the last pastor had merely been babysitting, and I built on it, person by person. I grew the attendance to almost four hundred with nowhere to go but up.

  Then, a few years ago, things stalled. I don’t know why. We’d had the usual political tussles and petty power struggles, the kind of family squabbles you find in any church, but there was no great scandal. The largest fight had occurred when I tried to step out on faith and build a bigger sanctuary for the expanding congregation, and a vocal minority in the church—led, of course, by Brother Amos—opposed the plan. Amos fought me tooth and nail. I never really understood why, except that perhaps this leaky old building meant more to him than my ministry and the will of God. He was able to get a majority of the deacons on his side, and together they voted down my plans.

  Maybe that defeat broke my momentum, or maybe I simply peaked. Maybe old Amos was right, after all. I was never going to have the megachurch I sometimes saw in my dreams at night.

  Now, with nearly three hundred souls in attendance every week, I still have the biggest congregation in the county, but it’s a soft number. If I’m honest, I have to admit that I’ve become the kind of preacher that I always detested. I’m just another spiritual babysitter.

  It wasn’t what I had planned, this life I’m living. I never wanted to mark time in a place like Stock. The name itself is so old and small, with the lingering stink of Ozark backwater to it. I wanted to be the next Rick Warren. I wanted to do great things for God, if only God had chosen me to do great things.

  But this place is too small, and the people are, too. They don’t come here to be inspired. They don’t come here to be motivated to go out and win the world for Christ. They come here to be coddled, to be told that the world outside the limits of our little town is a world gone mad, that they’re better off staying here. They huddle in this church as if in a besieged fort while I confirm their prejudices and give them a weekly dose of reassurance that everything’s going to work out for those of us who have God on our side. Then we all go home and watch television.

  A leader is only as good as his followers. This is what they want, so this is what they get.

  Such bitterness. Perhaps this is what Penny sees when she looks at me.

  I bow my head to pray.

  But what about you, Lord? I haven’t spoken to you at length in quite a while. Not really. I’ve gone through my daily and weekly rituals for the benefit of my family and my congregation. But when was the last time I talked to you?

  O Heavenly Father, what can I confess to you that you don’t already know? I know there are no secrets kept from you, only truths that men hide from each other. And so I know I should confess, not for your sake, but for mine.

  Should I confess my darkest secret to you, Lord? It’s not my sinful dalliance with Gary. Nor is it the solicitation of a bribe from Brian.

  No, my darkest secret, the one that I’ve kept hidden even from myself, is that I don’t know if you’re really there.

  Have I ever felt your presence? I’ve begun to doubt.

  Am I only living this life because I know how to be Richard Weatherford, the preacher of this church? Maybe. I certainly don’t know how to be anyone else. Could the truth be so terrifyingly simple? That I have nowhere else to go and no one else to be?

  I’ve always considered my vocation a calling. I suppose that all clergymen fancy themselves descended from the priests of old, those prophets with dust on their feet and blood on their hands, leading their people through the deserts with nothing but promises. I’ve enjoyed seeing myself that way for years now.

  People call me Brother or Reverend or Pastor or Preacher. The word I like is Preacher. A gruff word, an American word, a utilitarian word.

  What is a preacher, though? A preacher plays many different roles in many different lives, whatever the situation requires. A carnival barker, a marriage counselor, a businessman, a con man, a philosopher, a medium, a magician. Maybe a preacher is just an actor playing the part of a preacher. Maybe you didn’t choose me for anything. Maybe I chose myself because I wanted to be onstage.

  I’ve played my part well. But beyond my performance, what is real? I preach salvation, but the truth is that I see very little worth saving. I proclaim miracles, but I only see biology, physics, and coincidence misinterpreted through the lens of ignorance and
superstition. I preach your love, but sometimes the only thing that seems more outlandish than your existence is the idea that you love us.

  Could it all, in the end, mean nothing? Would that be better?

  After a time, I lift myself from the stage and stumble out of the sanctuary and down the hallway to my office. I pass the prayer room, the bathrooms, the youth minister’s office. I lock the door to my office and sit down at my desk.

  I am left, as we all are, with the world as it is.

  What can I do with this disaster I’ve created?

  I could go with him.

  The thought itself causes a change in my body. My hands and face dampen. I feel a drop of sweat fall through my chest hair.

  If Gary would have me, I could just leave town with him.

  Imagine leaving behind this . . . this pettiness, this smallness. The squabbles over nothing, the endless casserole dinners, the forced conversations I have with people who have never read a book, the same people who lie to my face about their sex lives and their alcohol consumption. To never have to preach another funeral, to never have to stand over another tiny casket while a young mother sobs in anguish. And, God, to never have to preach another wedding . . .

  The notion of leaving all this behind sends a shiver up my back, pimples the skin on my neck and arms.

  But just as quickly, my body readjusts itself. I lean back in my chair, in my office, in my church, just a few miles away from where my family waits for me in my home.

  I’m scared and I’m tired, so it only makes sense that I would entertain the notion of running away. Even Christ had his moment in the garden.

  Maybe I don’t love my life the way I once did. Maybe I’ve been lying to myself now for years. But where else could I go? Who else could I be?

  Not a gay man. Never that. This sin of mine is just that—a sin, a weakness. It’s not an identity. I would rather die at this desk and be remembered as a holy man than live a life defined by a sin.

  And I can’t imagine a life without my children. Penny may think I love them imperfectly—doesn’t every father?—but they are my world, and my dreams are largely dreams of them. I think of Matthew running for office. I think of giving Mary away on her wedding day. I think of Mark struggling to find his path through this world. I think of the grandchildren that, soon, my children will give to me. And to Penny. Penny, who knows me, in so many ways, better than anyone.

  The name of Richard Weatherford means something to the three hundred people of this congregation. It means something to my children. And if there is a God in heaven, then my name must mean something to him.

  If there is no God in heaven, if I’m truly alone, then my name is all I have.

  I will not give it up without a fight.

  THIRTEEN SARABETH SIMMONS

  I’m standing in the doorway of Tommy’s Bar, holding a beer and watching the smoke puffing off the wet glob of shit that used to be his stupid statue, when Frankie James walks up and says, “You better get out of here.”

  “Why?” I ask. “I want to see his face when he sees it.”

  Frankie’s got shaggy black hair and a stubbly gray beard, and all of it is sweaty. He wipes his face off with a faded old handkerchief and says, “Somebody called the cops. If they get here, and you’re in here drinking underage . . .”

  “Shit.”

  I put down my beer and head on out to my car. Before I leave, I tell the closest waitress, “Don’t call Tommy yet. Let me tell him.”

  I’m racing back to the house all excited because I get to tell Tommy that his goofy statue burnt down—I always thought it was so dumb for a guy to have a statue of himself—but I don’t get too far down the road before I start thinking about Gary again.

  Fuck. I can’t get away from him.

  The thing is, I know he’s right. I guess I did shove him toward the preacher. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that. At the time, it seemed smart. Gary said he thought Weatherford was a closet case. I thought, Well, hell, if he’s throwing Gary a vibe, then Gary should fuck him or jack him off or whatever, and then we can get some money out of him. I mean, it wasn’t about Gary. It was about Weatherford.

  My mind. I’m always thinking. I must be a real dumb-ass to have done all the thinking I’ve done and to wind up where I am.

  What a goddamn idiot.

  If I’m honest, I got to say that no guy ever treated me better than Gary. I mean, he’s been real sweet to me. He’s a sweet person.

  So, did I push this sweetheart of a guy into fucking around with the preacher?

  I guess I did. I mean, I didn’t make him do it. And I didn’t make him half a fag. I guess God did that, if you believe in that sort of thing. Hell, maybe we’re all half a fag. I never kissed a girl, but I guess if you stranded me on a desert island with a girl, I bet we’d end up fucking.

  Gary doesn’t like to talk about it, though. Not just about what he did with Weatherford, either. I can’t even really get him to tell me about what happened when he was in college. I’m not sure if there was another boy or what. In a way, I don’t really see what the big deal is. I mean, people on the internet and TV can be gay, and nobody cares. In New York and LA and places like that, nobody cares. Hell, I heard they have gay clubs in Little Rock and Eureka Springs. It’s 2016. Half the world totally doesn’t give a shit.

  I come up over a hill and pass a little Church of Christ with one of those signs with the replaceable plastic letters. The message this week reads: A NO TO JESUS IS A YES TO HELL.

  Right. This ain’t New York or LA or Little Rock. It ain’t even Eureka Springs. This is the other half of the world. Me and Gary grew up in Stock, and in Stock being gay is still a sin. And not one of those little sins, like cussing or whatever. Outside of molesting kids or killing somebody, it’s about the worst thing you can do. I heard that my whole life, and my heathen ass wasn’t even brought up in the church.

  Gary was, though. More than me, anyway.

  That’s exactly why I told Gary that if he thought the preacher was giving him the eye, we should turn it into money. If Gary is gay—if that’s the right word for it . . .

  So are you gay? I asked. I don’t know exactly, he said. You know I don’t care, I said. I’m just asking. He said, I guess I’m queer, or maybe just ‘questioning,’ as they say. I just really don’t know. I mean, I find a lot of men sexually attractive. But I also find most them kind of personally . . . repulsive? Hey— I laughed —if finding men sexually attractive and personally repulsive makes you queer, then maybe that’s what I am.

  Whatever name you want to put on it, it was the church that taught Gary to hate himself for being who he is. So, yeah, fuck that preacher.

  I never liked Brother Weatherford, not since I was in junior high. He’d only been here a couple of years when he went on this big crusade against secular music. I think he heard that Katy Perry song about kissing a girl. A bunch of the fucking Baptist kids at school threw away their old CDs and tapes, even some vinyl. I remember they burned it all in a barrel out behind the church. That pissed me off. And the funny thing was, I don’t know if anybody even had that Katy Perry CD. I mean, who the fuck buys CDs anymore? I’ve never bought music in my life. So most of what they threw away was shitty and old—I think a lot of Spice Girls and Backstreet Boys went down in flames that day—but still, it was like a flashback to the nineties. And then, the kicker was, after a while, he just forgot about it. It’s not like they’re still out there burning old albums and stuff. He just moved on. His new thing is to stop Brian Harten from opening a liquor store. It’s so stupid. Like half the people in Stock ain’t alcoholics. They just have to drive twenty minutes to Center Ridge to get their booze.

  So, Gary got involved with him. Is that my fault?

  Maybe a little.

  I look at my phone. He texted me after I ran out on him, but then he let it go quiet when I didn’t respond. He’s been waiting for me.

  I text him, Meet me at my house.

  After only a co
uple of seconds, he texts back, Okay.

  When I pull up to the house, I can see that Momma ain’t home, but Tommy is. When I come in, he’s sitting in his recliner wearing a pink polo shirt and cargo shorts. Trump is on TV calling somebody an asshole. Tommy mutes it as I’m closing the front door.

  Before I can say a word about the statue, he says, “Heard you got fired.”

  “What?”

  “That true?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business? You should be worried about your own business.”

  I walk down the hall to my room and shut the door. I can hear him clomping right behind me. He just opens my door like it’s his.

  “What the fuck, Tommy? This is my room; you can’t just barge in here.”

  He’s standing there, gut pressed against his shirt, and he’s got this dumb look on his face. “My house, my door, my room.”

  “Yeah, well, you can have it.”

  He crosses his arms over his flabby chest. He used to be an athlete in high school and college, but he stopped working out and got fat. His arms are still plenty big, though.

  “What’s that mean?” he asks. “I know you ain’t moving out, especially not without no job.”

  “Just wait and see.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that. What did you mean by I should be worried about my own business?”

  “Somebody torched your statue.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, I was over at the bar and somebody burned down your stupid statue.”

  “Funny no one called me.”

  “I told them I’d tell you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wait and see.”

  “Jesus, I’m gonna be doing a lot of waiting and seeing. What should we do while I’m waiting and seeing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one always flirting with me.”

  “I never flirted with you in my life.”

  “Yeah, right.”