The Revelators

by Ace Atkins

  “And the children?”

  “Feed them,” he said. “Protect them. They are safe here. And the schools will offer help and support. I will get you assistance when I can.”

  “The children want to speak to their parents.”

  “I’m working on that.”

  “Doesn’t seem right,” Caddy said. “Doesn’t seem human.”

  “There is nothing human about this,” Hector Herrera said. “Or decent. This is about money and power and doing all they can to flush these people down the toilet.”

  “And then what?”

  “Find more to take their place,” Hector said. “Who will know better than to ever raise their voice again.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Quinn had just finished running a round of hay over to the cows when Maggie pulled up and hefted herself out of her Subaru. She looked huge and beautiful, dressed in blue scrubs, pregnant enough now to be on half-days at the hospital. Quinn crawled off the tractor, removed his leather gloves and stuck them in his back jeans pocket. He was careful on the dismount, mindful of his doctor warning him a dozen times to avoid sudden movements or jostling. His old International Harvester tractor was nothing but sudden movements, jostling, and thick black smoke. It had belonged to his Uncle Hamp, his grandfather before that, and had sat for twenty years in an old barn before he and Boom got it running again. Both Brandon and Jason really loved the tractor and named it Otis after a favorite children’s book.

  “You’re home early,” Quinn said.

  “Nope,” Maggie said. “Right on time.”

  “And Brandon?”

  “Your mom got him today,” she said. “Don’t you remember?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “He got into another fight today,” she said. “Fourth one in two weeks.”

  Quinn nodded again, following her up to the house, knowing that look on Maggie’s face and not being thrilled with what was coming next. They’d had a few arguments about dealing with Brandon’s anger, finding some kind of common ground to help him control it. Maggie wanted him to meditate. Quinn wanted him to ignore the bullies or take them on. And Jean just wanted everyone to pray on it, although Maggie made it clear she didn’t have a vote.

  Quinn walked into the kitchen and filled an old Mason jar with cold water. Maggie took a seat, looking worn out and exhausted, carrying around fifty more pounds than normal. Quinn figured it was worse than carrying a rucksack everywhere you went. The rucksack didn’t kick your ribs and keep you running to the bathroom.

  “Remember the advice you gave Brandon?” Maggie asked. “You told him to imagine those boys are living, breathing piles of shit.”

  “I actually said sacks of crap,” Quinn said. “I figured it’d give him a visual to laugh at.”

  Maggie clenched her jaw and began to absently sort through the mail, separating the bills from the junk. Judging from the pile, it looked to be mainly junk. “Well, today he went one further and called them a couple of dumbass shitbags,” she said. “One of the boys jumped him and the other punched him in the stomach.”

  “How is he?” Quinn said.

  “Brandon is fine,” Maggie said. “But he gave that Byrd kid a bloody nose.”

  Quinn drank some water and grinned down at the jar.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “I didn’t laugh.”

  “But you’re smiling,” she said. “Don’t think I can’t see that little grin on your face? You think he did the right thing. That he did good trying to take both those boys on. But he can’t talk like that. He’s only eight years old, Quinn. He’s just a little boy. He shouldn’t be calling kids shitbags and pussies.”

  “Who’d he call a pussy?”

  “Different kid,” she said. “Same idea. Kid was making fun of what Brandon was having for lunch. Said the curry smelled funny like old farts.”

  Quinn took a seat at the table and took another long drink from the glass. Everything in the old kitchen was damn near perfect. Before Maggie, Quinn had gotten by with four plates and four place settings, a few coffee mugs and Mason jars. After Maggie, the kitchen walls were filled with her photographs and art she and Brandon had made. It was all color and light, the curtains pulled back with views out onto the back field and down into the apple and pecan orchards.

  “Brandon is different,” he said. “Kids know he’s not from around here and resent it. None of them have ever left Tibbehah County and many never will. They see Brandon has nice clothes, brings a nice lunch, has a father and mother who love him. That’s something that’s in short supply.”

  “Can’t be that simple,” Maggie said.

  “I know these people. I grew up with them. Most of them are fine, hardworking people. But some folks, like the damn Byrds, are just mean-spirited. They hate what Brandon has because they know that whatever they do, they’ll never find it.”

  Maggie had her arms crossed over her stomach, feet stretched out in front of her. Her wonderful freckled face flushed with a ruddy glow, green eyes wide and suspicious. She looked mad at Quinn but he hoped she was just mad about the situation. It had been tough to ease Brandon into Tibbehah County, at first because he was new and then—even worse—because his real father had been an infamous bank robber.

  “I don’t like the advice you’re giving.”

  “Sorry,” Quinn said. “This is all new to me.”

  “You’re treating him the way your Uncle Hamp treated you.”

  “Probably.”

  “And you know better than anyone how much it means to have someone to look up to when you don’t have a father.”

  Quinn nodded. He stood up and walked to refill the glass. He’d been out in the field working for a few hours. His back hurt and his forearms and face were sunburned. At the sink, he turned and leaned against the counter, waiting for whatever else Maggie wanted to say.

  “This isn’t you, Quinn.”

  “You just said it was.”

  “I said you’re acting like your Uncle Hamp,” she said. “Not you.”

  Quinn felt his face flush. He never liked to hear Maggie running down a man that she’d never known. Everyone knew that it had been a long, hard fall for his Uncle Hamp, but he was still the man who helped raise Quinn and Caddy.

  The back field was freshly cut and looked clean and neat, big rounds of hay neatly aligned every twenty meters or so. It felt orderly and straight.

  “I’ll do better.”

  “Not just on Brandon,” she said. “I mean everything.”

  Quinn set down the glass and turned back to Maggie. She reached up and let down her reddish-brown hair from the bun and let it spill across her face and down her neck. Maggie didn’t look mad anymore. She looked hurt and confused. Quinn watched her face.

  “I see you got a new supply of pills,” she said. “You want to tell me where?”

  “I’ve had some more pain,” Quinn said. “Didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Didn’t come from your doctor here,” she said. “Where’d you go?”

  “Memphis.”

  “When?”

  “A few weeks back,” Quinn said. “Like I said, I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Part of your recovery is detox,” she said. “You don’t need that crap anymore. If you’re having problems with your injuries, we need to get you back in for more X-rays. Everything should be healed by now.”

  Quinn nodded.

  “You know that,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Donnie had stopped off for a plate lunch at the Piggly Wiggly when he spotted Caddy Colson across the blazing hot parking lot. He’d gotten the meat and three—hamburger steak, turnip greens, fried okra, and mac and cheese—and was well onto washing it all down with a cold Mountain Dew as Caddy started to have what loo
ked like a goddamn breakdown. She was yelling out some choice words and kicking at the tires of a busted-ass truck.

  He had the plate set up on the trunk of his dad’s GTO, parked closer to the old Hollywood Video store than the Pig. Caddy was way across the lot, up close to the front of the grocery store, stooping down to pick up cans that had torn loose from a brown sack and began to roll all over the place. Being a true and good man, Donnie put down his spork and jogged across the lot to find a rolling can of SpaghettiOs, picking it up and setting it in the back of the old truck.

  “Thanks,” Caddy said, standing up and wiping the sweat off her brow and nose with her hand. Her long blonde hair had been chopped off as short as a boy’s, cheap white sunglasses covering those beautiful blue eyes.

  “Woman hadn’t seen me in eight years and all she says is thanks for picking up a can of SpaghettiOs. I think she just might come over here and hug a man’s neck.”

  “Damn, Donnie,” she said, taking off her sunglasses. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even recognize you.”

  “Prison just made me even more handsome,” he said. “Just the other day, two elderly women at the El Dorado buffet mistook me for Matthew McConaughey.”

  “You’re a hell of a lot smarter than Matthew McConaughey.”

  “Damn, girl,” Donnie said, opening up his arms. “Come on over here. What the hell’s got you down in the mouth?”

  Caddy reached out and hugged him back, pressing her face into his shoulder. Donnie tried to recall a time that he didn’t know Caddy Colson but couldn’t come up with a minute he didn’t know that blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Damn if she didn’t still smell like strawberries and sunshine, but he knew he’d only get a sock in the jaw if he said it.

  “When did you get back?” she said.

  “Couple months ago.”

  “And you didn’t come see me?”

  “Didn’t you hear?” Donnie said. “My daddy threw me a welcome home party at the VFW. Hell of a night. Should have been there. I got to line dance with Aunt Hollis.”

  “I thought she was down with diabetes.”

  “Hell,” Donnie said. “Can’t keep that woman from cutting a rug. You know that.”

  Donnie noticed a dozen or so more cans spread across the hot parking lot. He started picking them up and holding them in his arms, and Caddy began to pile boxes of cereal, crackers, and loaves of Wonder Bread into the back of the truck.

  “Sorry I didn’t make the party,” she said. “I hope it was fun.”

  “So damn crowded, you couldn’t even breathe.”

  Caddy squinted an eye at Donnie, always knowing when he was full of shit. She looked at him and smiled. “Matthew McConaughey?”

  “Maybe it was Robert Redford,” he said. “I can never be too sure. What’s all this shit for? You having a party of your own?”

  “I forget how long you’ve been gone.”

  “Looks like you’re feeding a damn army.”

  Caddy told him a little bit about a place she was running out on some logged-out property called The River. His daddy had already told him most of it, but he liked to hear Caddy talk. She’d been in a rough spot last time they’d crossed paths. He heard she’d been working the fucking pole in Memphis, drinking and drugging like there was no tomorrow. It broke his damn heart to hear it. They’d spent a night together, maybe fifteen, sixteen years ago, long before her kid, and from his point of view had a hell of a time. Only thing, Caddy had been the one who’d scooped up her panties off his trailer floor and hauled ass in tears. They hadn’t seen much of each other since.

  “Given that I am a recently released convict with few job opportunities besides selling hot biscuits and shit coffee at the Quick Mart, what if I stopped by sometime to help?”

  “I’m good,” she said. “But thank you.”

  “Oh, hell no, you’re not,” Donnie said, readjusting the cans and boxes in the back of the bed so they didn’t blow out. He placed all the boxes up toward the cab and moved the heavier stuff toward the tailgate. Caddy watched him from the other side of the truck, her white sunglasses back down in her eyes. A hot wind blew across the lot and ruffled her short hair.

  “You afraid I’ll ruin your reputation?”

  “It’s a lot of work,” Caddy said. “I don’t wish it on anybody.”

  “And you think I’m still too selfish?” Donnie said. “One thing I can promise you is that prison does indeed change a man.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “Every damn day is a Happy Meal delight of surprises and little gifts.”

  “Like picking up cans in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I have about fifty kids and a few adults needing some assistance,” she said. “I need to make supper for them in a couple hours.”

  “I am the goddamn master chef of microwaving SpaghettiOs.”

  “A little bit more involved than that.”

  Donnie leaned on the back of the old truck, finding a solid dent in the metal to rest his forearms. He looked across at Caddy Colson and couldn’t keep from smiling. He felt like his damn face might break, so he turned his head to pop an American Spirit into the side of his mouth. The Bic clicked in his hand and he cocked his head the way he’d once seen Robert Mitchum do it on Thunder Road.

  “I ain’t got shit to do, Caddy Colson,” Donnie said. “How about you give me a little something?”

  7

  The buffet breakfast at the Hampton Inn in downtown Jackson had been a sumptuous feast. Skinner enjoyed a rare four biscuits and gravy with his wife of fifty-two years, Merva Joy, before his ten o’clock meeting with the governor. The meeting hadn’t been easy to wrangle; the testy woman working for Vardaman had been slow about returning his calls or assigning a date or time. Skinner wasn’t used to such nonsense. When Vardaman had been serving on the state senate or running for governor, he’d always been quick to pick up Skinner’s speed dial. Now the man acted as if he couldn’t even find Tibbehah County on a gosh-durn map.

  He tried not to take it personally, but the latest debacle, the mess out at the chicken plant, had been the final insult. The county needed that plant up and running. It had been the cornerstone of bringing back the economy that had been on a slow decline since that polyester slacks factory from up in New York City had shuttered its doors.

  Skinner had dressed that morning in a brand-new pinstripe suit, a clean white dress shirt, and a baby blue tie with little white dots. Merva Joy had gotten him the tie for Christmas, saying it brought out the color of his beautiful eyes. His wife seemed excited to be on the adventure out of Jericho. The last trip they’d taken had been to Gatlinburg for the Spring Christian Jubilee, featuring three noted Southern pastors, the uplifting music of Exalt!, and a comedian who specialized in telling clean, wholesome jokes guaranteed to tickle the ole funny bone. He and Merva Joy had laughed and laughed at the one bit he’d done about not being able to get even an inch of a pew on Easter Sunday. Another howler was about that fella drinking too much espresso and not shutting up for a dang hour!

  The thought of it tickled Skinner as he rode up the elevator with a real nice colored man to the third floor of the Gartin building. The old gent commented on the dry spell they’d been having and wondered out loud when they’d ever see a drop of rain. Skinner said he wasn’t sure as he removed his Stetson and dabbed at his bald head with a show hankie that matched his special tie.

  Not five minutes later, after perusing a two-year-old copy of Field & Stream, a young woman with blonde hair and more makeup than a circus clown brought him before Vardaman’s desk. The governor was on the phone, the woman smiling and asking if Skinner would maybe like a cup of coffee or some water. Skinner curtly dismissed her, as he was pretty durn sure she’d been the holdup for the meeting all along.

  “Sorry about that,” Vardaman said, reaching his hand across
the desk without standing. Skinner got up and greeted him, knocking his Stetson down onto the big Oriental rug and sending it rolling like a lost quarter. As he picked it up, Skinner was pleased to see facsimiles of the Ten Commandments had been set up before the Mississippi and American flags.

  “You’re not an easy man to get holt of,” Skinner said.

  “Been a busy time, sir,” Vardaman said. “How are all my friends in Tibbehah County? Y’all making it through this drought?”

  “Creek bed’s dry as a bone,” he said. “Hitting our farmers hard. How y’all been doing? How’s that wonderful family of yours?”

  “Youngest son off to Ole Miss, plans on pledging KA like his daddy and older brother.” The governor was dressed in a flat black suit with his white dress shirt starched and open at the collar. “Little ole Madison’s heading into tenth grade. I just can’t believe it.”

  Vardaman had swept back his long silver hair from a face that looked like it should be stamped on an old coin, soft around the jaw but regal, tanned to the color of a leather belt. Vardaman had a bemused look in his eye as he let a little silence hang in the air. Skinner just nodded and mopped his face some more. He didn’t know why he was so dang nervous.

  “Something on your mind, Clarence?”

  “Well,” Skinner said, not being used to anyone addressing him by his first name. “I came to talk to you about what happened at the chicken plant. That sure cut hard and deep in my county. If that plant shuts down, I can see Jericho looking like it did ten years back. Shuttered doors and For Sale signs.”

  Vardaman stared down at some papers on his desk as if not paying attention, finding interest elsewhere. But he finally looked up and shook his head as if Skinner had gone simple. “Can’t have a bunch of goddamn illegals running amok in my state. You know how many good hardworking rednecks would cut their damn throats to work in that plant?”

  “Sir, I’d appreciate if you didn’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” he said.

  “Let me tell you something, Skinner,” Vardaman said. “I don’t have a problem telling the federal government to stay the hell out of our business. But if they want to do some housecleaning in Mississippi, that’s fine by me. Those Mexicans remind me of goddamn armadillos infesting the state. You see one, got to be twenty of ’em right behind.”