When they came to the creek, they stopped. Pete suggested she turn back home so she didn’t get her feet dirty. She refused.
“It’s too dark to see back home,” she said.
“Home’s just that way,” he said. “I can see the light on the porch from here.”
“I’m not going back.”
So Pete leaned his shotgun against a tree, removed his hat, and lifted Ruth in his arms. He carried her across the creek. She felt her heart start to do strange things inside her, like it was backfiring.
When Pete placed her feet on the ground, she did not release her arm from his neck. His eyes met hers. The whites of his eyes were blue in the moon’s light. She could see something come over him. He pulled her toward himself. She leaned her head forward. It was only a light kiss, but it erased pain. It thrilled her. It felt like the world was opening up for her.
All her life she’d been a girl whose mother didn’t want her. A child who’d grown up in a pair of coveralls, without a true place she could call home. A child among a bunch of coarse men who spit tobacco and struck matches on the soles of their shoes. But right here, right now, she was a woman. And someone loved her.
Pete pulled his head back.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Quit your sorryin’,” she said.
She kissed him again.
Pete retrieved his hat and gun from the other side of the creek, then rejoined Ruth. They held hands and walked until they reached the highway. There, Pete pointed his gun into the air and fired twice.
“You think Vern heard that?” said Pete. “Two miles is an awful long way.”
“I think he heard it.”
“Yeah, but Vern can’t hear squat. I never thought of that until just now.”
She kissed him again. This time it was not a light kiss. She held him so tight she could feel his pulse. And she felt Pete give in to it. His hands held her waist, and she was against him. It made her start to weep. She hadn’t meant to ruin the moment by crying, but she had felt so alone for so long, she couldn’t help herself.
“Why’re you crying?” he said.
She embraced him. She rested her head on his shoulder and soaked his shirt with salt water. She knew she didn’t have to tell him why. She knew Pete was among the only people in the world who understood her. So she said nothing, and he only patted her back.
Finally she released him and wiped her eyes, sniffing her nose. She felt embarrassed, sobbing like she had.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Quit your sorryin’.”
Sixty-Two
Little Miracles
Abe walked beside Marigold through the maze of straight pines. The sunlight filtered through the thick branches overhead. He was whistling, but unsuccessfully. She’d been trying to teach Abe how to whistle all day. She regretted this because the shrill sound of wind passing through his fat lips was about to drive her to an early death.
Whenever he landed on what sounded like actual whistling, he’d get so excited he’d say, “Did you hear that, Aunt Marigold? I’m whistling, ain’t I?”
“Yep, I was listening,” she’d say. “You’re getting better.”
“I am?”
“You are.”
“Really? Wanna hear me whistle some more?”
“Maybe we should take a break from wh—”
More ear-piercing whistling.
She considered strapping the child to a tree using his suspenders and coming back for him after three days.
“Am I getting good?” Abe asked.
“You’re getting so good I can hardly stand it.”
And this was all Abe needed in the way of encouragement. He just needed to know his aunt was listening. That’s what Marigold was to him. An aunt. A second mother.
Abe carried the basket of wild blackberries, his face stained with purple smears. Between bites of berries, he whistled tunes that were not melodies at all but sounded more like a bird getting eaten alive by a house cat.
She stopped walking. She saw an old man waiting on the porch of Cowikee’s.
She remained still and looked at the man who was sweating through his white shirt. She knew he was waiting for her. She could tell it by the serious look on his face.
Abe whistled. “That’s enough whistling for today,” said Marigold.
As Marigold neared the railcar, she saw Rachel sitting on the edge of the porch with a shirtless young man. They held cigarettes between their fingers.
“Got someone here to see you,” said Rachel.
The old man on the porch stood when he saw Marigold.
He seemed uneasy. He approached her with his hand outward. He was dressed nicely. His weathered skin gave away his age.
“Afternoon, miss,” he said. “Name’s Marion. I come from Montgomery, originally I’s from Raleigh, but I come to Alabama when I was . . .”
She nodded and listened to his every word. People seemed to want to tell her about themselves before she touched them. And she always listened. Some people recited an entire dictionary to her before they told her why they were there.
Still, something in her felt that listening to people was more important than touching them. People, she thought, wandered through life feeling alone, lost, and terrified. Sometimes they just wanted to be heard.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, pumping the man’s hand. “What can I help you with, Mr. . . .”
“Marion,” he said. “Call me Marion.”
“Okay, Marion. What can I do for you?”
Abe whistled. “I can do it, Aunt Marigold!” said Abe. “Did you hear that? I can do it.”
“I hear you, Abe,” said Marigold.
“I hear you too, Abe,” said Rachel, taking the boy inside. “Let’s go inside to see Mama. Aunt Marigold’s got company.”
The shirtless young man leapt off the porch and stomped out his cigarette. He wandered toward the woods to give Marigold and the man privacy. He lingered by the fence, perhaps in hopes of seeing Marigold the Magnificent at work.
The old man looked at his feet. “Well, ma’am, see, it’s my wife. She’s been gone a few years . . .”
“I’m sorry,” said Marigold.
“Was TB that took her. She fought hard.”
“I’ll bet she did.”
“Anyhow, I heard in town that you . . . Well, I just wondered if you could . . . I was hoping maybe you could tell her something for me.”
“Mister Marion, I’m very sorry. I don’t do that.”
“Oh, I know, miss. I know you don’t, but you see, I reckon you got a better chance of getting a message through than I got. Just thought maybe you’d try for me. I can pay you whatever you want.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to, but it doesn’t work that way.”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand.”
“But why don’t you tell me about her? She sounds lovely.”
“Oh, she was, ma’am. She was exceptional.”
She sat beside him and listened. He told her about his wife. She listened to his stories about young love, early marriage, and family living. About when the doctors told his wife she couldn’t have children, but she did anyway. About the years they went for long walks together after supper. About everything. Marigold listened and felt a yearning inside her. She’d never known simple love from another. Not like this.
When the man came to a stopping point, Marigold said, “Marion, she hears you.”
His eyes became wet. “How do you know?”
“It doesn’t matter. Now I want you to do something for me. Can you do something for me?”
He wiped his eyes, then nodded.
She said, “I want you to close your eyes and think about her. Think about her real hard. Can you do that?”
He closed his eyes.
She watched his old, dry cheeks become shiny with his own tears.
She took a few breaths. She had no idea what she was doing, but she was trying nonetheless. Sh
e touched his chest with both hands. She placed them on his breastbone until she could feel him sturdy himself against her.
Marigold felt the young man watching her. She saw him light another cigarette and move closer. She saw Rachel and Abe watching from behind the screen door. She saw Helen’s face through the window.
Marigold closed her eyes and concentrated.
She could feel the old man breathing. She worked past his breathing and into feeling the rhythm of his heart. She felt the pulse of the man. She felt his eyes flutter. She heard a light sobbing sound he made, but she knew this sound was not coming from his mouth, only inside him.
“I miss her,” he said. But it was not his voice that said it.
“Sshhh,” she said aloud.
She felt a gentle warmth radiate from her palms. It was different from the heat she normally felt. His sadness seemed to scab over, and the feelings of loneliness began to die down inside him. She felt color and elasticity come back into his face.
It made her smile. When she opened her eyes, she saw him smiling too.
“She got your message,” said Marigold.
“She did?”
She removed her hands from his chest. They sat in silence for a few minutes.
“How do you know?” he said.
“Because I can see it on your face.”
The old man was still smiling. “I feel better knowing she sees me.”
“Me too.”
Then the sound of whistling came from behind the screen door. It was not a steady melody, but a sound that could crack glass.
“Hey, that’s pretty good, boy,” said the old man, replacing his hat. “You keep that up and you’ll be a professional whistler one day.” He stood, bid them good evening, climbed into his car, and drove away.
The shirtless young man asked, “What’d you do to that fella?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I just listened.”
“Looked like you did a lot more than that,” he said.
“I think we all just want someone to listen to us.”
“Yeah?” the man said. “So who listens to you?”
Sixty-Three
Takers
Coot listened to E. P. preach. Once he got past the eerie feeling it gave him, it felt like being at home again. After all these years. Home. A very disturbing and blood-chilling home. But you can’t choose home. It chooses you.
Tents like this had been home for an entire childhood. White tents filled with sinners who wanted to get rid of their money in exchange for a miracle.
Excitement, that’s what revival preachers sold. Temporary excitement. And even though it was a big farce, Coot had never realized how much he’d missed this excitement.
When E. P. preached it made him feel like he was right back in the warm place he’d always been. Only his own warm memories were a lie, and he knew that. Time had a way of softening harsh things.
E. P. shouted his guts out to a full tent of sinners. There must’ve been three hundred people seated in wooden folding chairs. They watched the big man pace the stage with wide eyes. E. P. was hollering like a fool, waving his hands in the air, shouting scripture. People hollered back. This was an animated crowd, bordering on rowdy. They whooped. They shouted.
He had never noticed how good E. P. was until that moment. The man was a master at reading his audience—that’s all good revival preaching was, discovering what made an audience tick. Coot had been good at it during his teenage years. But not like E. P. This man was beautiful.
The big preacher walked across the stage like he was pacing his own living room.
Coot stood in the rear of the tent, mesmerized. He had wanted to see E. P. make a fool of himself on this stage. He had wanted to see his greatest adversary strike out. Instead, E. P. was batting one hundred.
Coot was an usher. He wore his seersucker suit with a red ribbon pinned to his lapel. Joseph stood beside him wearing the same red ribbon on his lapel. Joseph whispered, “That fella’s a preacher and a half.”
“Yeah,” said Coot. “He’s good.”
“Look at these people. Looks like they’s about to start throwin’ money at the stage.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?” said Joseph. “You ain’t said two words all night.”
“I’m fine.”
“You ain’t having second thoughts, are you?”
“No.”
“You want a drink to steady your nerves?”
“No.”
The head usher was a man named William. He was tall and balding with a small mustache. He spoke with a nasal Midwestern accent, and he obviously liked the sound of his own voice because he used it a lot. He passed empty tin buckets to the volunteer ushers.
The troop had been collecting money the same way since before Coot was born. Coot had seen it happen enough times to know how it would work. The ushers would collect money in tin buckets, flash smiles at the parishioners, then place the full buckets into E. P.’s automobile trunk. Some things never change, Coot thought to himself.
“Remember to smile, gentlemen,” said William in a forced whisper. “Let them see Jesus in your countenance.”
“Yeah,” said Joseph, elbowing Coot. “Smile, Coot. Let ’em see the love of Jesus all over you.”
There was enough liquor on Joseph’s breath to knock a hog off a stink wagon.
“You remember what to do, right?” whispered Joseph.
“Yep.”
“You got everything ready?”
“Yeah, it’s all ready.”
“Good,” said Joseph with a satisfied look. “Now relax or you’re gonna get us shot.”
“Huh?”
“I said relax. You look like you’re gonna catch fire any second.”
“I am relaxed.”
“If you’re relaxed, I’m sober.” Joseph slapped Coot’s shoulder. “C’mon, loosen up, boy. People can spot a stiff a mile away.”
E. P. finished preaching, and a young woman guitarist took the stage. She was blonde and wearing a white dress with a ribbon for a guitar strap. Coot already knew which hymn the young woman would sing before she even opened her mouth. The same hymn his mother had played so many times her fingers could play it without the help of her brain. “Softly and Tenderly.”
Coot thought about his mother. His jaw tightened and his eyes tensed. Wearing a phony smile, he passed a bucket along the first row of people. They placed handfuls of cash into it.
The usher on the end of Coot’s row received the bucket, then passed it to the next row. The bucket returned to Coot even heavier than he’d thought it would be.
Row after row, people in overalls, plaid shirts, and cotton dresses dug into their pocketbooks and gave.
When the collection was over, there were eight buckets altogether. Coot, William, and two other ushers carried the buckets outside, behind the tent.
William unlocked the trunk of E. P.’s car and flung it open. The man lit a cigarette and checked his pocket watch. The ushers lined up, then set their buckets inside the trunk of the vehicle. Coot placed his bucket with the others.
“Where’s Brother Carl?” asked William.
“Who?” said Coot.
“Your father. Where is he?”
“Oh, him. I don’t know, he was right behind me.”
On cue, Joseph hobbled from the tent carrying two heavy buckets in his arms. The old man was wobbling like he was about to lose his balance.
William pointed his cigarette at the old man and said, “Quick, someone go help him. He looks like he’s about to drop dead.”
Joseph tripped. He fell face-forward. Never before had Coot seen a more beautiful, more dramatic fall. The buckets flew into the air. Coins and dollars spilled like confetti into the night.
William gasped. “You stupid man!” he shouted, tossing a cigarette on the ground. “You stupid, stupid man!”
William and the other ushers congregated around Joseph and began gathering the money.
Joseph writhed on
the ground, moaning in pain. “I think I broke my wrist,” Joseph hollered. “I think it’s broken.”
Coot moved fast.
He went to the trunk of the vehicle and removed the six buckets two at a time. He shoved the buckets of cash beneath the car, just behind the rear passenger tire. Then he placed six heavy buckets full of washers, bolts, screws, and paper money into the trunk.
“Robert?” He heard William’s voice call to him.
Coot had almost forgotten his own false name.
“I’m over here,” Coot called from the other side of the vehicle.
“Your father’s hurt. Get over here.”
“Be right there,” said Coot. “Nature called, I had to answer.”
When Coot marched from around the car, he was pretending to button his trousers.
“I think I broke my wrist,” said Joseph. “I can feel it.”
“Daddy,” said Coot as he rushed to Joseph. “I told you not to carry more than one bucket.”
“You know me, son. I always try to do too much for the glory of the Lord.”
Joseph was laying it on a little too thick.
When the ushers finished collecting the scattered money from the ground, refilling the buckets, they placed the two buckets into the trunk of the big car. William slammed the trunk closed and locked it. He said to Coot, “Take your father home, Robert. We can all smell the liquor on his breath.”
Then William looked at Joseph with an aggravated look on his face. “You stupid old man.”
“At least I’m drunk,” said Joseph. “What’s your excuse?”
William straightened his collar and walked toward the tent with the other ushers. When they were out of sight, Coot let out a sigh and almost fainted.
“Better hurry,” said Joseph. “That jack mule might get a hankering to come back out here and pray for us.”
Coot stooped beneath the car and emptied the full buckets into a large burlap sack as quietly as he could. One by one, until the sack weighed more than a ten-gallon bucket of mud. When he lifted the heavy sack, he paused. The gravity of what he was doing was finally sinking in. This was not just a huckster game with a decoy wallet. This was theft. Heartless, merciless thievery. He leaned against the car and took a few breaths to think it over.
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