Stars of Alabama

by Sean Dietrich

  While they put the fire out, Paul was leaning against the side of his truck, watching them. He was lighting another smoke, staring at the flame coming from his lighter like it had hypnotized him. Paul said, “How about you pay us what we agreed on and let us get outta your hair?”

  “You’re a lunatic,” said Dreyfus.

  “Well,” said Paul, holding the lighter just in front of his nose. “God made me crazy to make up for how handsome I am.”

  Dreyfus paid cash.

  Paul shoved the money into his chest pocket. He and Vern leapt into the truck. Vern tucked the baby’s head just beneath his chin. She was beginning to fall asleep, and he didn’t want to wake her.

  Paul yanked his gearshift, then nodded toward the barn.

  “I ain’t no expert,” said Paul. “But it looks to me like your barn could use a new coat of paint. It looks like it’s about to be rendered inexplicably null.”

  The truck bounced down the driveway. Vern waved goodbye to Mister Dreyfus. Mister Dreyfus did not wave back.

  Paul patted Vern’s shoulder and said, “Don’t worry about that old goat, he’s just having a bad day.”

  “But,” said Vern, “do you think he likes the barn?”

  “Likes it? Why, he loves it. Prettiest barn he ever saw.”

  This pleased Vern. Then he fell asleep smelling the baby’s beautiful hair.

  Nine

  Brave Girls

  The land around the bay looked like heaven itself. It was different from the mountain town she’d come from, a town plopped on the big ridge of Trinity Mountain, not far from the Tennessee River. But here, everything was different. Even the soil was different. It was not black and brown like it was in Trinity, but red and sandy in some places. There were no peaks and valleys, no hills. There were only shallow swells of land that fell right into the enormous bay. Gold grass flats shot out for miles into the water. Birds were everywhere. It was warm and salty-aired. It was a kind of heaven, no matter how you looked at it.

  “Maggie,” said Marigold. “I’m coming, Maggie!”

  Marigold wandered the shoreline, staggering toward the place she remembered. Now and then, she became light-headed and had to sit. Her legs were shaky. Her stomach was empty. She was running on pure willpower.

  She was reduced to a slow walk. When she reached a fence post with a green ribbon tied around it, she veered left. She climbed over deep canals, looking for her next ribbon. When she reached the red puddle of standing water, she clomped right through it instead of going around.

  She walked deeper into the woods. She spotted poison ivy and steered clear. Marigold was allergic to poison ivy—her mother said it was one of the curses of being a redhead. But she had never let it scare her. It was part of growing up in the forests of Trinity.

  She gasped for air. Her heart was beating slow but hard. The air was so hot she could taste it. The sun had turned the humidity surrounding the bay into steam and made her dress damp. Her hunger had become confusion. She was so thirsty, her body burned all over. Her breasts were swollen and throbbing. They’d begun leaking, and the top of her dress was soaked.

  When she reached the gnarled oak with a ribbon on its branch, she was near camp. She spotted her canvas tent in the distance. And she almost started crying when she saw it.

  “Maggie! Hold on, Maggie! I’m coming!”

  She trotted toward the tent, moving as fast as she was able. She fell once. Her knee hit an exposed root. Her white knee started to bleed. It was thick, slow-moving, dark blood. When she got closer, she saw the firepit of ash. She entered the white canvas tent and saw the empty pine-straw bed.

  Her body felt empty. She became cold all over. She was not brave like the old man in her vision had said. She was a coward. She was scared. She was terrified. She screamed Maggie’s name and frightened the birds away for miles.

  This place was anything but heaven.

  Ten

  Wild Blake Hickok

  The E. P. Willard Gospel Troop tumbled into Hickok on gasoline fumes and parked in a field behind a gas station. They’d spent the afternoon setting up the large circus tent in an open field. The red crucifix hanging atop the tallest post was so high it looked no bigger than a crimson dot against the dusk clouds.

  At sunset, E. P. had taken the choir into a local diner to eat supper. It was the same old song and dance E. P. did in every new town they visited. E. P. would buy things on credit, sweet-talk shop owners, and tell outrageous stories. He’d start tabs at restaurants, drugstores, grocers, and department stores. Then he would leave town without paying his bills. He’d done this all over the South, back East, and now in the Midwest. He left a trail of debts behind him a hundred thousand miles long. And often he left the broken hearts of naive young women in his wake.

  Once he got caught skipping town outside Pretty Prairie. He had to spend two nights in jail. But E. P. was a charmer. Before his sentence was up, E. P. had led two deputies to salvation and baptized the sheriff’s sister.

  That night Blake and Coot didn’t join the others for supper. Instead, they sat in their wagon. For supper, Coot ate canned beans. Blake chewed half a cigar and drank a Coca-Cola.

  Blake was too busy to eat. His hands were occupied with something more important.

  Blake poured cough syrup from a small bottle into a peanut butter jar. He stirred it with a fork until the peanut butter became soupy. Then he crushed white pills with the blade of his pocketknife and added the powder to the mixture.

  “You’re not gonna kill him, are you?” asked Coot with a mouthful of pintos.

  “Lord, no,” said Blake. “Ain’t feeling that generous.”

  “What is that stuff?”

  “Laudanum,” he said. “Granny’s cough syrup. Used to give it to horses to calm ’em down in the horse shows.”

  “Back when you were a cowboy?”

  “Back when I was whatever I was.”

  “Do we hafta give that stuff to him? Can’t we just run away once he falls asleep?”

  “Sure we can—if you don’t mind getting whupped like a rented mule.”

  “He can’t whup us if he can’t catch us.”

  “He can catch us.”

  “Not if we’re fast.”

  “I once saw that ape beat your mama to a pulp when she tried to leave him—God rest her soul. She was laid up for weeks because of it, back when she was pregnant with you. And don’t forget about your busted neck, Old Hoss.”

  Coot remembered the beatings his mother endured from the hands of E. P. She would try to hide her bruises from Coot, but he saw them. He remembered the way her face looked when she would run from E. P.’s tent. He remembered the fear.

  “You’re lucky he didn’t really hurt you this time, Coot. Next time you might not be so lucky.”

  “Why doesn’t he like me, Blake?”

  Blake dropped his eyes. He stopped mixing and seemed to be thinking. It was as if he had something to say but couldn’t.

  “Don’t I always do what he says?” Coot went on. “Don’t I always do it?”

  “He don’t like himself, Coot.”

  “I dunno why. Everyone else sure does.”

  “He don’t like himself ’cause he considers himself a failure. Man like E. P. expected to be somebody one day, someone famous, but didn’t never happen. He’s just stuck in this godforsaken dust like everyone else.”

  “He hates me.”

  “He hates everybody. Most of all he hates folks who won’t throw more than a few pennies into the offering bucket.”

  Blake mixed the peanut butter hard and fast. The sound of the fork against the tin made a clipping noise in rhythm. Then he stopped and touched the fork to his tongue. He tasted it with closed eyes, then spit it out. “Did you know that E. P. used to be friends with J. Wilbur Chaplain?” he said.

  Coot made a face.

  “I’m serious,” said Blake. “Back before Chaplain was famous, they traveled together, did revivals together.”

  “E.
P. knew J. Wilbur Chaplain?”

  “You better believe it.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Oh, long before the world fell apart and turned into dust.”

  “Was E. P. famous?”

  “No, but neither was J. Wilbur. They were just two farm boys, screaming hellfire and brimstone for Jesus.”

  Blake crushed more pills with his jackknife. Then he pointed the knife at Coot. “Why, when J. Wilbur rolls into Kansas City, Little Rock, Saint Louie, or wherever he is, he don’t even use tents like we do. He makes people build wood buildings, big tall ones, so they don’t get blowed down by the wind or rain.”

  “Wood buildings?”

  “More like wood tents, and he has his own train car, servants, and fancy food, people who iron his britches and everything. Probably uses a golden toilet and has a hired fella who sings to him while he does his business.”

  “Wood tents?”

  “They build them things bigger than a baseball diamond.”

  “You seen ’em?”

  “Shoot, several times. And when J. Wilbur leaves town, they just tear ’em down and reuse the wood.”

  Coot could hardly wrap his mind around this, but he tried. He closed his eyes and imagined a big building made of wood, with millions of people inside.

  “Peons like us gotta set up our own dadgum cotton tents like everyone else,” said Blake. “And instead of thousands, we get handfuls of dirt farmers.”

  “Do you think E. P. would really fight you?”

  “I know he would.” Blake thought about this for a moment. “We come to blows a few times before.”

  “Who won?”

  “Sometimes he wins, on account of his size.” Blake tapped his temple with his finger. “But sometimes I win, on account of experience.”

  “Can’t we just leave?”

  Blake chuckled. “Nope. I’m too old to fight, and you’re too scrawny.” He held the peanut butter to the light. “This is the best way.”

  Blake jerked his head up at the sound of a car.

  Coot almost choked on his beans when he heard E. P.’s footsteps in the dirt.

  Blake and Coot peeked through the canvas flaps of the wagon. They could see E. P. lighting a cigarette, walking inside his tent, and reading a newspaper all at the same time. They heard a radio next. The radio was blaring hothouse music. Tinny trumpets filled the night air.

  Blake spoke in a quiet voice, outlining their plan one more time. When he was sure Coot understood what to do, he reached beneath the cot and handed something to Coot. It was a long box wrapped in newspaper and twine.

  “I got something for you,” said Blake.

  “What’s this?” asked Coot.

  The box was as long as a man’s leg and heavy. Coot could only stare at it, for he’d never received a gift that was any bigger than a pack of baseball cards.

  “Go on,” said Blake. “It’ll rot in your lap if you just look at it.”

  Coot tore the paper. Inside was a long cylinder of white hickory—fat on one end, skinny on the other. The words Louisville Slugger were burned onto the fat part.

  Hot tears were building in his eyes. He’d never touched a bat before. He’d only used pine branches to hit balls during community games in strange towns with kids who didn’t even know how to play. Coot was overcome.

  Blake put his arm around Coot. “Don’t get too choked up, Old Hoss. That bat ain’t for pleasure. It’s for when E. P. catches me and tries to rip my face off. I expect you to rescue me.”

  “I love you, Blake,” said Coot.

  “Well, you got terrible taste in friends.”

  Eleven

  Cotton Men

  Paul had never seen harder times than these. Every full-grown man in America was on the verge of begging. They were all wandering. Without aim. Roofers, masons, carpenters, sharecroppers, fieldmen, and cotton men. Anyone who had at least one mouth to feed. But nobody had just one mouth. There was always a chain of mouths in the back seat of every rusted car.

  Always searching. Never finding. An honest day’s work had become a myth.

  For Paul and Vern, gravel highways were how they spent the waking hours. Sometimes, if they’d earned enough, Vern would go into town and buy a hog. Then they’d spend a day cleaning the carcass, building a rock pit, and gathering wood. Vern would cook the hog over the pit and sell food to migrants passing by. They earned decent money doing this—as long as local lawmen didn’t run them out of town.

  But lawmen usually did run them out of town.

  Because the world had become less trusting than it used to be. People behaved uglier toward each other than they used to. When Paul and Vern rode into the rural car camps outside bigger towns, they felt the distrust floating in the air. Nobody knew what to think of the little Model A truck with a white man and a black man sitting shoulder to shoulder.

  Paul handed Vern a wad of cash. “There, that’s your cut.”

  Vern pretended to count the handful of money, then slid it into his chest pocket. He couldn’t count and Paul knew this, but Vern pretended just the same.

  “We all square?” Paul said.

  “Oh, sure.”

  “You sure? I coulda cheated you outta a few bucks, you know.”

  Vern took the wad of cash back out of his pocket and weighed the money in his hand. “No, it’s all here. I feel it.”

  “There ain’t no way you can feel the difference between the right amount and the wrong one.”

  “Yes huh, I’m good at feelin’ things.”

  Paul licked his thumb and unfurled a few more bills. “Well, here then,” he said, handing them to Vern. “Here’s a few extra to feel.”

  “You ain’t gotta do that, Paul.”

  “’Course I do. You’re a mother now.”

  Vern smiled at Paul. Then he kissed the red shock of hair atop the baby’s head. “I is, ain’t I?”

  When they reached town, Paul paid a dime to run an ad in the newspaper. The clerk at the office became so fascinated with Paul’s story, he even took the baby’s photo to go along with the advertisement. The man led Paul into a dark room with a single window. He slicked Paul’s hair backward, buttoned up his shirt to the top button, and positioned Paul on a stool with the baby.

  “I can’t breathe,” said Paul. “My collar’s too tight.”

  “You don’t have to breathe. It’s a photograph, sir.”

  The man walked behind a camera and draped a cloth over his head. Paul gave a grin to the camera, but the man instructed him not to smile because it made him appear moderately deranged.

  Thus, when the newspaper came out the next morning, on the second page of the Mobile Register was a small column with a black-and-white photo of a frowning man holding a baby on his lap.

  “Dadgum,” said Paul, holding a copy of the paper. “I look like someone just kilt my dog.”

  The newspaper ad read:

  Lost baby rescued near Rabbit Creek, Mobile, Ala. Red hair, violet eyes. In care of Paul Foldger until appropriate person or persons step forward.

  Paul was upset about the ad. He walked into the Register’s office and pointed out to the newspaperman that the baby wasn’t a lost child but a found one.

  “What’s the difference?” the newsman asked Paul.

  “The difference is that this little girl didn’t get lost. She ain’t some puppy who wandered off. Somebody abandoned her, and that needs to be said.”

  The clerk didn’t see much of a difference.

  For two mornings thereafter, Paul checked to see if anyone had answered the ad, but no one did. The paper ran the advertisement for two more days, and not a single Christian soul came forward to offer help.

  So Paul and Vern piled into their rusted truck and drove north, through miles of dry farmland—land ravaged by the boll weevil.

  Vern held the news clipping with Paul’s photograph in his hand and studied it. “You look funny in this picture,” he said.

  “You’d look funny too if they
choked you with your own shirt collar. Lemme see that.”

  That frown made him look constipated.

  “I wish he woulda let me smile,” said Paul.

  “You look like a crazy man when you smile,” said Vern.

  But Paul wasn’t listening to Vern anymore, he was too busy staring at the photo. He felt something warm in his chest, right beneath his breastbone. The baby looked good in his arms, and it made him feel every bit as good as the picture looked.

  “Have mercy,” said Paul. “Ain’t I one devastatingly handsome man.”

  Twelve

  Dizzy Redhead

  “Please,” Marigold said aloud to the sky. She was alone in the woods next to a winding gray creek. There wasn’t a soul for miles.

  “Please,” she said again.

  Her chest felt bruised, a painful reminder that her child desperately needed her. Marigold cried so hard it made her vomit. But she had nothing in her belly to throw up since she hadn’t eaten for days. Her bile was pink-colored. She was dizzy. Her mouth was acidic. Each time she retched and let go of her stomach, she felt more light-headed. The world was spinning.

  Maggie was gone. Taken. Dead, maybe. Maybe an animal had gotten her. Maybe people had kidnapped her.

  Stupid! she thought to herself. She felt embarrassed. “How could I?” she moaned. Her voice sounded pathetic, even to her own ears. All she could manage to say was her baby’s name. She said it a hundred times. Then a hundred more.

  She retched again.

  The sun fell low. The night was closing in, making her feel more terrified. The woods began to frighten her. Tall trees towered overhead and blocked the moonlight. The bay had grown still; the birds had quit moving.

  Her vomiting gave way to crying, which gave way to groaning. It was an instinct. She felt like a body part had been stolen from her. Like someone had cut off her hands. Or her feet. Or her heart. She touched her belly where she’d carried Maggie for so long. The skin was still loose. She pressed her face into the pine straw where Maggie had been. She sniffed. She could still smell her child. Or could she? The smell was already fading.