Dry County

by Jake Hinkson

  It was Vaughn who asked me to talk to Gary after he dropped out of school. I got the sense that reaching out to me was the last thing the Doanes thought to try, which tells me a lot about how they see me.

  I assume they like me, but I don’t know how much interest either of them has in church. I remember that they attended my eight-week Bible study series “God’s Plan for Financial Victory.” Because America’s contribution to Christian thought is the idea that a God that won’t promise to make you rich isn’t a God worth serving, the reality is that a portion of my congregation can only think of life—even the Christian life—in material terms. The Doanes seem like this type of Christian.

  What that tells me is that I have to approach them casually. These are the kind of people who want a preacher to be conventional, useful, and, above all, undemanding. I’m here to serve them, never to ask anything of them.

  They live in a cul-de-sac alongside five or six other homes. I once drove past their house to see if Gary was there. It was a stupid, reckless thing to do. People had to have seen my car and wondered why the preacher was on their street. To cover my tracks, I stopped at another house to visit an elderly shut-in, a lady who had not been to our church in many years. She was ecstatic to see me.

  This time, however, I cannot be subtle. I turn onto the road and drive right up to the Doane house. Vaughn’s car is in the driveway.

  I grab the copy of the Bible that I keep in the car and get out and don’t waste time getting to the door. I ring the doorbell.

  I rarely drop in on people unannounced. Dropping in on people unannounced is, after all, something of a throwback to the days before cell phones and social media. There’s a palpable sense of confusion from inside the house. Was that the doorbell? Yes. Who could that be? Luckily, while an unannounced visitation from the preacher is rarely welcomed, it is not unheard of. The Doanes have probably been dreading such a visit for years.

  Finally, the door opens, and Vaughn greets me with a smile. “Brother Richard,” he exclaims, as if he’s excited to see me. “Well, how are you, sir?”

  We shake hands. His handshake is vigorous. I say, “Vaughn, I’m excellent. Hope I’m not disturbing your Saturday night.”

  “Oh, no. We were just watching a little Netflix.” He steps back. “C’mon in.”

  He leads me down a long clean hallway. The end of the hallway opens into a large sunken den where Jill is sitting on the sofa in front of a flat-screen television. On the screen, a well-dressed man and woman are sharing drinks in what looks like a hotel bar.

  “Honey,” Vaughn says, “turn that off. We’ve got company.”

  The hurry to shut off the television upon my entrance into a home is something that never fails to amuse me. It seems as if everyone I visit is in the middle of watching something they don’t want me to see.

  “Brother Richard,” Jill says, turning off the television as she gets to her feet. She leaves it at that, at my name. She doesn’t take a step toward me and does not extend a hand.

  “Jill, how are you?”

  She nods. Then after a moment, she says, “I’m fine.” She looks at her husband.

  Vaughn smiles at me. “Can I get you a glass of water? Or a Coke?”

  “Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine. Just wanted to drop in and say howdy. Haven’t checked in on you all in a little while, and I was around, so I thought I’d see how you’re doing.”

  “We’re good,” Vaughn says. “Good. Things at the dealership have been doing pretty well.”

  “Selling a lot of cars?”

  “Trying to,” he says with a laugh.

  I laugh, too.

  Jill Doane smiles. Barely.

  “How about you, Jill?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Still fighting the good fight.”

  “Not easy teaching grammar in the Ozarks, I bet.”

  She genuinely smiles at that. “Teaching Grammar in the Ozarks sounds like the title of a memoir.”

  Vaughn nods. “You should write that book.”

  “That could get you on the Oprah book club,” I say.

  “It would be a harrowing tale,” she says.

  As we’re all politely laughing at that, I look around very naturally and ask, “Is Gary around? I’d like to say hi to him, too.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Vaughn says. “You missed him.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. How’s he doing these days?”

  Vaughn gestures me to the sofa, and we sit down. Jill takes the love seat, her hands in her lap.

  “He’s been doing okay,” Vaughn tells me. “But we still worry about him, of course.”

  Vaughn begins to tell me the reasons for their most recent concerns about Gary. Of course, most people in town know about Gary’s problems. Vaughn came up to my office not long after his son was kicked out of school, and we prayed for Gary. The following week the Doane family began regularly attending services for the first time. They only lasted a couple of months, but it was in that time that I began to notice Gary in a way I never had before. I would find him looking at me, and not the way that most of my congregants do. He seemed to be studying me, as if he couldn’t care less about the eternal truths I was imparting because he was too distracted by me. He seemed always to be looking past the face I presented to the world, effortlessly seeing something in me that was obscured even to my wife and children.

  As Vaughn Doane is telling me about his hopes for his son’s future, as Jill Doane listens intently, as I nod and respond with concern and compassion—I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror at the end of the hallway. It’s pure Crate & Barrel, but I remember Gary telling me about it, about how much his mother loves it.

  I can see my mouth move. I can see the compassion in my eyes as I offer to pray with them. For the first time, I can see the mask that Gary can see through so easily. I can’t see through it, though. What does Gary see that I don’t?

  When I pray with the Doanes for their son, I close my eyes and I hear the words Dearest Heavenly Father, we come to you now to ask, but I am divided between the me that is speaking and the me that is listening. I have prayed thousands of prayers, but I have never felt further from God.

  When I finish In Jesus’s name, Amen, we open our eyes, and I say, “Well, I should get going. I hope to see you folks at service tomorrow. The choir has a beautiful set of songs worked up. I know you’ll find it a blessing.”

  Vaughn says, “We’ll be there. We’ll be sure to bring Gary, too. Even if I have to drag him.”

  As an afterthought or a small bitter joke, Jill says, “Maybe if we ask that girlfriend of his to come with us, he’ll follow her.”

  “What?”

  “His girlfriend.” She searches my face. “Has he not mentioned her to you?”

  “You know, I’m not sure . . . What was her name, again?”

  “Sarabeth Simmons.”

  “I don’t believe I know her.”

  Jill says, “Her mama is Carmen Fuller. I’m not sure where the ‘Simmons’ comes from. I guess Carmen was married at some point.”

  “She was married to some guy over in Cave City,” Vaughn says. “That was just after high school.”

  “Anyway,” Jill says, her voice becoming conspiratorial, as if she’s about to share a nasty secret, “Carmen’s living with Tommy Weller now.”

  “And this Sarabeth and Gary are seeing each other?”

  “I suppose,” Vaughn says. “But Gary won’t say much about it. He made us promise not to tell our friends about it. Says he doesn’t want people to gossip about him. Says there’s enough gossip about him after he dropped out of school the way he did.” He scratches his head. “Of course, since you can’t keep a secret in this town, I assumed everyone already knew.”

  “I didn’t know,” I say.

  “Right. I guess that’s true.”

  “Maybe Gary’s not the topic of gossip he thinks he is,” Jill says.

  “I suppose not,” I say.

  I reach out and shake h
ands with Vaughn. I almost lean in to hug Jill, but she extends her hand, so I shake with her instead. I tell them I’ll see them tomorrow.

  As I pass the big mirror, my reflection flickers by, trying to catch my eye. I say so long to Vaughn as he closes the door behind me. I walk out to my car, get in, and back out of their driveway.

  I drive to the end of the road and stop at the intersection.

  And I sit there.

  Gary has a girlfriend?

  I don’t . . .

  I drive. I don’t really know where. I drive on instinct, on rote memory. Houses, businesses, signs—all fragments of my daily life that seem disconnected—pass by as quickly as my reflection in the hallway mirror. I know I know them all, but none of them seem to hold any meaning.

  Why would he have a girlfriend? He’s gay.

  Why would he not tell me he has a girlfriend?

  Elliptical moonlight through clusters of pines. A two-story house with a limp American flag in the yard and a car up on blocks in the driveway. A truck blasts me with high beams because my brights are on.

  There’s no reason for Gary to conceal a girlfriend from me. And concealing her is what he must be doing. I would know if he had a girlfriend. Nothing happens in the daylight here that is not known to one and all.

  But that cliché about how everyone knows everyone else’s business in a small town is simply not true. Secrets grow in the dark, and there is plenty of darkness in these trees.

  So why is Gary hiding a girlfriend from me?

  He’s afraid I would be jealous?

  You fool, he would have to care about you to be afraid of your jealousy.

  I swing off the road and skid to a stop in the mud and grass.

  I stare my knuckles, white and freckled, gripping the steering wheel. Another truck passes me, and as its lights fill my car, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. Turning on the overhead light, I flip down the vanity mirror to look at my face, trying to see what Gary must see. I don’t see a preacher, a child of God, a husband, a father. I just see skin and hair against meat and bone. My face is lined and the flesh is both too soft and too rough. Bumps and moles have started to appear, along with strange discolorations. I am a middle-aged man. Soon enough, I will be an old man. And then I will be dead. And none of it matters. Why should it? How could it?

  That boy never cared a thing for me. That is clear to me now, as clear as this aging face of mine. When Gary looks at me, he sees nothing but age and foolishness, a foolishness compounded by age. I see it now, too, but he saw it first. He always saw it.

  So why did he hide a girlfriend from me?

  Because they’re up to something. Jill Doane doesn’t like the girl, and Jill seems to be a wary judge of character.

  Gary has a secret girlfriend, and this morning he called me up and demanded that I give him money to leave town.

  Look at yourself, you old fool. You were sloppy, shortsighted, stupid. He played on that. They played on that. Gary and this girl have conspired to blackmail me. It’s as simple and as tawdry as that. They set me up, like Potiphar’s wife.

  He never wanted me.

  Did they laugh about it? Are they waiting for the money right now, laughing about it?

  I pick up the phone and call him.

  Before the voicemail beeps, I take a calm breath.

  “Hi, Gary. This is Brother Weatherford from First Baptist Church. I just had a nice visit with your parents, and I thought I would reach out to see if you would like to perhaps meet up sometime and visit. I’d love to have the opportunity to talk with you and pray with you. Call me back, okay? God bless you, son.”

  As I wait, I have to shake my head. How could I have chosen to ignore what was right in front of me all the time? When we first started talking, Gary complained about his parents, but I suspect all of that was a lie, or, at best, an exaggeration. Jill might be a bit chilly, but she loves her son as much as Vaughn does. Gary played me—he and his girlfriend.

  Sarabeth Simmons.

  I do recall her now, vaguely. She was one of the ill-parented pieces of white trash that occasionally blows into church and lands in the youth group until the next gust of wind sweeps them away. I remember nothing of any importance about her except some tawdry whispers of a late-night orgy. People don’t share the details of those kinds of rumors with me, but I know it was her. The girl who works the checkout at Pickett’s. And all this time the little whore’s been laughing at me.

  I glance at my phone. Gary hasn’t called me back, which is good because I know I’m not ready to confront him—them—yet. I don’t know what to do. I need to clear my mind. Maybe I’ll go back up to the church, just to have somewhere to sit and think. I wish I had more time. Hours, days, even. I haven’t had time to think about this, and Gary and Sarabeth have had . . . well, I don’t know, do I? They could have been planning this for a long time.

  She’s the daughter of Carmen Fuller. I know nothing about Carmen except that she cuts hair part-time at a salon in town.

  And she lives with Tommy Weller . . .

  Which means there’s a connection between Sarabeth and Tommy Weller. Tommy Weller, who Brian Harten robbed today.

  I catch my reflection again in the vanity mirror. As I look at myself this time, however, I think of my picture on our church website. Brother Richard Weatherford, wearing a suit, smiling and confident, a man of God ready to help. That’s what people see. It’s all that anyone in this town can see when they look at my face, this mask that’s been years in the making. I’ve married these people and baptized their children and chastised their wayward teenagers and buried their aged parents. That’s what they see. When they look at me, they just see the preacher, a man with no obvious connection to any of this tawdry unpleasantness.

  And what do they see when they look at the other people at the center of this mess? A tavern owner. His disgruntled ex-employee. A depressed college dropout. And the town slut.

  TWENTY SARABETH SIMMONS

  I turn onto Gary’s street.

  “Think they’re still awake?”

  “Maybe,” he says. “But maybe not. They’re both early-to-bed people, and they’re going to church tomorrow. So maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “If they see you all busted up, they’re gonna shit.”

  “I know. I’ll go in quiet. I know how to get in without waking them up. My dad could sleep through an earthquake, and my mom won’t get up even if she hears me.”

  I pull up to his house and keep the car going. He gets out and doesn’t close his door all the way. Then he walks up to the house, unlocks the front door, and goes inside.

  It’s quiet on Gary’s street. I like it. Tommy’s place is too far out in the boonies. I want to live in a city. I’d rather hear cars and sirens and people fighting than to have to listen to the bugs chirping and the branches creaking in the night. You never know what’s out in the woods.

  I look at the other houses. A couple of lights are on in the windows. One house has a yard light shining on a MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN sign that I guess stays lit up 24/7. The house next to it doesn’t have a yard light, but I can kind of make out a Hillary sign in the dark. I wonder if the people in them houses like each other.

  The front door of Gary’s house opens, and he walks out. He’s hurrying, but he’s not running or anything. Once he gets in, I back up and get us out of there, but I don’t peel out or anything. Nice and easy.

  “How’d it go?”

  “I think my mom was awake. I saw the light under her door.”

  “She say anything?”

  “No.”

  “She didn’t get up to check on you?”

  “She’s not exactly the ‘get up to check on you’ type.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He’s got a backpack full of stuff.

  I ask him, “You bring clothes to sleep in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring your toothbrush?”

  He smiles at me. He’s still got dried blood and
dirt on him, but he smiles like a damn kid. “You’re sweet, Sarabeth.”

  I get on the highway going back to Tommy’s, so I can pack my stuff and Gary can get cleaned up.

  “You gonna miss your parents?” I ask.

  “Sure, but I’m not disappearing forever. I’ll call them tomorrow and tell them that you and I struck out on our own. They’ll be worried, especially my dad. I feel bad about that. But they’ll both get over it. At least I won’t be sitting around their house mooching off them. I’ll tell them we have a little money and that you know some people we can stay with in Little Rock.”

  “Why tell them that? I don’t know nobody in Little Rock.”

  “They’ll be upset. It’ll make them feel better.” He hugs the backpack close. “Besides, we have to go somewhere. I think we should go to Little Rock, or at least to Conway. With the cash we can get a prepaid credit card at Walmart and get a hotel room. Then in the morning we head down to Texas.”

  “So we’re decided on Austin?”

  “You put the thought in my head about Wally. I think it’d be cool for you to meet him.”

  “What kind of guy is he?”

  “He’s nice. You’ll like him. I met him my second year at U of A, in a study group for this ridiculously hard lit class. The professor was this old lady who made us scan the meter of poems, and no one in the class could do it. So, a group of us got together to figure it out.”

  “Did y’all figure it out?”

  “Not really. At least, I didn’t. Wally and I became friends, though. He was the first openly gay guy I ever met, you know. He had a boyfriend named Harlan from back home in Texas. They’d been together since the tenth grade or something. I couldn’t believe it. He didn’t have any of the shit I had. I mean, he’d been through the usual stuff—rednecks calling him names, religious family members telling him that he was going to hell—but he just . . . didn’t care. He just had—and I assume he still has—this perfect idea of himself. I always admired that about him. Can you imagine how tough you have to be to be gay in a place like Texas or Arkansas? Wally looks in the mirror, and he sees Wally, and he knows what that means. I look in the mirror, I just see this face. Sometimes it doesn’t even seem like a person, just a face.”