Stars of Alabama

by Sean Dietrich

  “That car ain’t just a car, boy. It’s also a house on wheels, and it prevents us from having to ride trains with a bunch of cutthroats and godless thieves. That car is gonna save our life.”

  They walked to the edge of town. Coot held Joseph’s arm for balance, but more for effect. They kept a slow pace, pausing every so often for Joseph to cough.

  They arrived at a small clapboard church. The front door was open, the orange light spilling into the darkness from the open door and windows. The place was packed. Men were huddled in the rear of the room and gathered on the church steps. Children were seated on the floors and ladies in the pews.

  Coot and Joseph walked into the building and stood behind the last row of seats. Coot whispered to Joseph, “I don’t like it here. I’ve changed my mind. I wanna go.”

  Joseph patted Coot’s shoulder. “You got money for food I don’t know about?”

  “No.”

  “Then you stay right here and trust your old buddy.”

  The man at the pulpit tapped a mallet on the wood. It was a business meeting of sorts. The man held a clipboard and a pencil in his hand. People were murmuring among themselves, and the sound of their voices overpowered the man with the mallet.

  “Folks! Folks!” the man behind the pulpit yelled, beating his hammer. “Folks, can I have your attention, please? We’ve got a lot to discuss. We need to hurry this meeting along!”

  People quieted themselves.

  “Thank you,” the man said to the audience. “Now, I need volunteers to help disk John Malcolm’s peanut field for the tent. The field’s far too rough and covered with weeds, and John Malcolm’s too sick to run his tractor. Who’ll volunteer to drive?”

  A man in the front shot up his hand; so did a few in back.

  The man with the clipboard smiled and said, “Thank you, Tyler,” then wrote something down. “Thank you, Charlie.”

  People started to murmur among themselves again.

  “Folks!” the man shouted, swatting the mallet. “Folks! We’re not even close to being finished. Now, if I could just have everybody’s attention so we can all go home.”

  The people grew quiet again. One little boy in the very back used this golden opportunity to press his palms against his mouth and make a farting noise.

  Trickling laughs turned into one giant roar among God’s chosen people.

  “Folks!” said the man on the stage. “Folks, please! Please!” The man was almost pleading now. “There are fourteen area revivals and thirty-two prayer meetings all happening in preparation for Reverend Chaplain’s revival in Saraland. Now, please. Let us carry on with the work of the Lord in all fervency. We want our town revival to be every bit as good as Mount Vernon’s or Perdue Hill’s, don’t we?”

  “Let’s make it better!” shouted one man.

  A hushed murmur swept across the crowd at the mention of Chaplain’s name. Even Coot felt a sense of awe when he heard it.

  Coot saw the little boy press his palms to his face again, but before the child could provide an encore performance, a frail old woman grabbed him by the earlobe and smacked the child’s thigh with her pocketbook. Screaming ensued.

  The man with the mallet announced, “And that brings us to the tent itself! We need ten volunteers to erect it tomorrow morning at six! We need men with strong backs, please.”

  Joseph elbowed Coot, who raised his hand.

  The man with the clipboard pointed his pencil at people in the audience.

  “Your name, sir?” Clipboard said to a man in front.

  “Rusty Miller,” the man answered.

  Clipboard scribbled, then pointed to a man in back. “And you, sir?”

  “Philip Whittle,” said another.

  While the man with the clipboard was still scribbling, Joseph stepped forward and said in a loud voice, “Carl and Robert Allen, sir.” He coughed a few times. “We hereby volunteer to help the reverend erect his good tent.”

  The man looked up from his clipboard. He glanced at Joseph and grinned. Joseph pulled Coot forward for the man to see. “I’m Carl, and this is my boy, Robert. We’re volunteering for the committee.”

  “Thank you, Mister Allen, your help is a blessing to us all,” Clipboard said, then wrote on his board again.

  Finally the meeting was adjourned and the man ended with, “Tomorrow at six sharp, men, the truck will be here. Don’t forget that lunch will be provided by the lunch committee . . .”

  Joseph whispered, “I suwannee, they got committees for everything here. Probably got a committee to help a fella take a squat in the woods.”

  “Men! Men! Please, everyone’s attention, please!” The man on the stage went on, “Men, please wear clothes you don’t mind getting dirty this time. The church will not be held responsible for ripped trousers or torn britches like last year.”

  People laughed. And the boy in the back row made another loud fart noise.

  The man tapped his wood hammer again. The meeting was adjourned, and people stood to their feet and faced the pulpit. A woman walked onto the stage. She wore a yellow skirt and had black hair that was down to her hips.

  The woman sang “To God Be the Glory,” and people sang along with her. Joseph, too, sang in a loud, off-key voice until it made him hack.

  While they sang, Coot loosened his tie and walked out of the church. Joseph hobbled after Coot, leaning on his cane.

  “Hey,” Joseph said to Coot. “Slow down. Old man like me can’t move very fast.”

  Coot didn’t bother slowing. He’d had enough church for one night. He didn’t even look back at Joseph.

  “Robert,” Joseph called out. “Where’re you heading to, son? Robert, hold on!”

  “Don’t call me that,” said Coot.

  Joseph moved as fast as he could with his bad legs. “Wait! Wait up for your old man, Robert!”

  Coot stopped and turned to him. “Don’t call me that, Joseph.”

  “Just hold on a hot minute, son.”

  Coot flung his hand away. “Quit calling me ‘son.’ I’m not your son, you old cheat.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Me? Nothing’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with you? Those people are innocent people just looking to hold a revival. They don’t deserve to be stolen from.”

  Coot turned and started walking away. Joseph followed, wheezing and making swallowing sounds. “Please, Coot! Wait!”

  Coot stopped walking. He looked at the night sky and suddenly felt ridiculous in his seersucker. He removed his necktie and tossed it into a public mailbox. “I don’t want to swindle those people, Joseph. They can have their stupid revival and shout at each other and wiggle like worms on the floor, for all I care. But I’m not taking their money.”

  Joseph touched Coot’s arm. He was gagging on his own wind. “Easy, boy. Easy.” He started coughing. He coughed until he doubled over. “You win, we ain’t gotta swindle nobody. We’ll play it your way.”

  The old man removed a bottle from his coat pocket and took a sip.

  Fifty-Nine

  Loud Noises

  Pete fired a scattergun into the air. He was training the dogs not to react to gunfire. Watching this gave Paul pride. A lot of pride.

  The bloodhounds sat in a cluster, watching the trees, when Pete fired the gun. They rested only on their haunches, except one dog, Judith, who bolted for parts unknown after the first shot. Paul grabbed her before she got away. He held the frightened dog close to his chest and said, “There, there, sweetie, ain’t nothing to be afraid of.”

  But it did no good. Some dogs were like Judith. In Paul’s experience, no amount of training could purge fear from some animals. Judith bolted from him, running so hard she kicked grass behind her.

  Pete turned to see the dog running.

  “Let ’er go,” Paul said. “Maybe she’ll make a good squirrel dog, or at least a coon tracker.”

  Paul had turned the training duties over to Pete little by little, until Pete was doing all the
training. And Paul marveled to see the boy instruct a pack of bloods the way he used to do, long ago when he was a young man. Pete had sensitivity with animals that Paul himself did not have. It was a kind of talent that was almost holy.

  The swells of parental pride grew bigger within Paul. They grew beyond simple emotions, until he felt an actual pain in his chest. The pain became sharper. It was a physical agony that made his breathing labored. And his arm hurt. His neck got tight. His vision dimmed. Now he was getting worried.

  He rose and wandered from Pete, loosening his arm, pumping his fist. The pain was getting worse. And worse.

  The sound of a scattergun filled the world.

  Dogs baying.

  Whimpering.

  More gun noise.

  More howling.

  Paul stumbled toward the barn. He collapsed in the dirt behind the barn, where nobody could see him. He panted. He moaned. The pain became so great he almost lost consciousness. His stomach felt weak, and his mouth salivated. He leaned against the barn, staring at the sky. He expected to see the clouds open. But he did not.

  Another shot.

  Dogs wailing.

  The pain was worsening. He gritted his teeth. He had all sorts of things he wanted to say to the Old Man Upstairs, but the only words he could get out were, “Take care of my babies, Lord.”

  He said it over and over. He said it so many times it became less about the words and more about keeping his mouth moving, to prove to himself he was still alive.

  “TakecareofthemLordtakecareofthemLordtakecareofthemLord . . .”

  Then he saw Ruth standing before him. She appeared so quickly, he almost missed her altogether. He stared at her tall shape against the sky. He could see the sun’s brightness poking through strands of her red hair.

  She was his angel. She’d always been his angel.

  “What’s wrong, Paul?” she said. “What’s happening?”

  The sight of her did something to him. It gave him strength. His breathing slowed, and the pain started to disappear. He blinked his eyes and felt his heart begin a normal rhythm again.

  He didn’t mean to, but he started crying. And it was the only time he could remember crying in front of her. He’d gone so many years keeping his own emotions from the rest of his dependents. She held him. And it was as though they had traded roles. No longer did she belong to him, but he belonged to her.

  Another gunshot.

  Dogs yelping.

  A hound ran toward Paul. It was Judith. The old girl buried her head into his chest. Her whole body was shaking from the sounds of the gunshots.

  “There, there,” Paul said. “Ain’t nothing to be afraid of, sweetie. Don’t be afraid. Don’t ever be afraid.”

  He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Judith or himself.

  Sixty

  Family Reunions

  It was hot. Very hot. Coot swung a large hammer that weighed as much as a Chevy. He glanced back at Joseph, who was sitting on the flatbed truck, shading himself from the powerful sun with a tarp over his neck and shoulders. He was watching the men work from a distance, stealing sips from his bottle now and then.

  Coot worked alongside these men in the bone-melting heat of the day. All the men could talk about was J. Wilbur Chaplain. The men were more impressed with the man than they were with what he said, it seemed. They knew little about his uncanny gift with the spoken word, like Coot did. They only knew of his popularity.

  But Coot was glad to be doing honest work for a change instead of cheating people with phony wallets and checks. The sounds of hammers driving the giant wooden stakes into the ground made Coot feel good. He didn’t want to be here, but the free lunch was motivation enough for any man. He’d only eaten three meals in the last four days.

  The church ladies had prepared a grand lunch for the men, putting out a spread like Coot had never seen before. One young man who was wearing sweat-laden overalls said, “I can’t wait to shake J. Wilbur’s hand tomorrow night. I’ll probably faint. Been listening to him on the radio near ’bout every week. Even when we’s over in Europe, they played his sermons on base.”

  “You big dumb-dumb,” said another man. “J. Wilbur ain’t coming here tomorrow. This tent’s for a small-potatoes revival that raises money for J. Wilbur.”

  “Small potatoes?” said Overalls.

  “This revival’s only a warm-up. All the towns are having little revivals to get the saints and sinners fired up for when Chaplain comes. And he ain’t coming here, anyhow. He’s gonna be in Saraland.”

  “Then who’s coming here?” asked Overalls.

  “How should I know? Some preacher who’s supposed to get us whipped up and used to shouting.”

  “Revival’s fixing to hit Alabama,” said Army.

  “Glory,” said another man.

  Coot had remained silent all day. This was familiar work. Coot had seen more tents erected than any man in the field. He tugged ropes, drove stakes into the ground, cinched canvases tight, and wrapped lines around large wood poles. By the time the sun was beginning to settle above the trees, the monstrous tent stood like a religious monument. And something about this sight warmed Coot from the inside. The familiarity of it—no matter how much he might have hated it—was still familiar. And familiar things carried warmth.

  The men passed water jugs among themselves in the sweltering sun. Their torsos were sunburned, and their faces were soiled.

  Then cars arrived in the peanut field. Large Fords came rolling through the dirt field like a wagon train. The lead car was bright red with white text painted on the driver’s door. The familiarity of it was almost too much for Coot to bear.

  Coot inspected the door of one car, which read Reverend E. P. Willard.

  Coot almost lost his balance. He felt his stomach churn.

  The cars rolled to a stop. The men who stepped out of the vehicles wore suits and boater hats. One of them was a big man wearing a white fedora. He had a red complexion, silver hair, and a familiar face. Coot felt his blood freeze solid.

  The big man introduced himself and pumped hands with the workmen. He offered a “God bless you, son” to each one of them. His sincerity was overwhelming.

  The men all thanked the big man and removed their hats when he came to them. When he got to Coot, the man shot his hand out and glanced at Coot with hard eyes. Coot ducked his head. The years had been unkind to the old man. And this made Coot feel glad somehow.

  “Name’s Reverend Willard,” said the man. “But you can call me E. P.”

  Coot almost lost himself in the moment. He couldn’t find his voice. He could only look at the man’s shoes. They were brown leather with white spats and black buttons. Coot remembered polishing E. P.’s shoes for hours on end, sometimes staying up until the wee hours because E. P. wanted them done right.

  He could remember the way the big man used to hit his mother when he’d had too much to drink. He could remember the long nights when Coot would lie beside his battered mother in bed and she would insist to Coot that E. P. wasn’t a bad man but that he’d saved them. Bitterness rose in him.

  “Robert,” said Coot. “Name’s Robert Allen, sir.”

  The big man held his eyes on Coot for a few moments.

  Coot let his eyes meet the big man’s. The anger behind his face started to make his teeth hurt.

  “Bless you, Robert,” said E. P.

  “You too,” Coot lied.

  The men guided E. P. into the tent. Coot did not follow. He stood in the sunlight and felt sick. He wandered toward the flatbed where Joseph sat. The old man was lying on his back, his legs dangling off the back of the truck. His torso and face were covered with the tarp, draped over himself to shield him from the sun, and he was singing quietly.

  Coot lifted the tarp and whispered, “Joseph,”

  Joseph kept singing, “Believe me, if all those endearing young charms . . .” He was waving his hands like a bandstand leader.

  “Joseph, get up.”

  “And
around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still . . .”

  “Joseph, you drunk goat, get up.”

  He laughed at Coot and coughed a few times. He kept singing. “As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, the same look which she turn’d when he rose . . .”

  “Joseph.” Coot pinched the man’s side as hard as he could.

  “Ouch!” said Joseph. “Don’t be violent with your elders.”

  “Joseph, would you listen to me? I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You did? Well, it’s too late, I already drank it all.”

  “No, not about that. I’ve changed my mind about the other thing.”

  “What other thing? What do you mean? You mean you’re finally gonna let me teach you to play the accordion?”

  “Will you straighten up?” said Coot. “I mean I’ll do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “I’ll run whatever game you wanna run on these people.”

  Joseph leaned forward to get a better look at Coot. “I thought you were a man of convictions.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “It’s personal.”

  Joseph showed a big smile, shielded himself with his hat, and turned his empty bottle upside down. He tossed the bottle to Coot. “J. Wilbur Chaplain’s gonna be awful disappointed in you, son.”

  Sixty-One

  Carry Me

  The field stretched toward the end of the world. It was dark and looked soft against the moonlit, violet sky. Pin-pricked stars shined above the dark shapes of the trees and lent their light to those below. Pete and Ruth high-stepped through the tall grass, making a scent for the dogs to follow.

  Pete carried a scattergun beneath his arm. Ruth followed closely. Pete paused now and then to consider where it was they were heading. Pete had left many scent trails before, but never one this long. This trail was two miles long, and Ruth could tell he was nervous that the dogs wouldn’t be able to follow it. His pride hinged on their success.

  When Pete had asked Ruth to come with him, she agreed immediately, but she hadn’t worn the right shoes for a hike through the mud.