Stars of Alabama

by Sean Dietrich

  “Hey,” said Joseph. “What’re you doing?”

  “That man on the stage,” said Coot. “I know him.”

  Joseph hobbled toward Coot. “The man preaching?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “The old days, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  All of a sudden Coot’s entire life seemed pathetic. He felt ridiculous, stealing pennies and quarters from a bunch of people who were only hoping for miracles. He felt like a child trying to get revenge.

  “You gonna be okay?” said Joseph.

  “Yeah,” said Coot, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I just wanna go home.”

  “Don’t we all, son.”

  Sixty-Four

  The Mighty

  Paul carried a mop and a wooden bucket filled with tar. After putting it off for eight months, he was finally going to patch the barn roof. The roof of Miss Warner’s barn had taken on rain. The problem had gotten so bad that leaks had formed in the cow stalls, making puddles in every nook of the barn. Water had saturated the dry feed and turned the entire barn floor into a soupy brown sludge.

  “Would you look at this slop?” said Paul, standing in the barn doorway. He stomped his foot on the ground. His boot almost got stuck in the mud.

  “Look at Murgatroyd,” said Vern, pointing to a cow. “She ain’t happy.”

  The cow looked miserable beneath the falling water. Paul walked to the stall and stroked the old girl’s head. He spoke softly into her ear. “We’ll fix that roof, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”

  Paul climbed onto the tin roof carrying the bucket of tar. The metal roof was slick from last night’s rain. He walked toward the weak spot over the cattle stalls. He could see water pooled in a small crater on the tin. There were rusted holes around the puddle. He swore to himself. This was a bigger job than he thought it would be, and it would require twice the tar he had.

  He walked toward the soft spot, keeping his steps careful and light. All his adult life, Paul had been light on his feet. All his life he’d been a mighty man. And he was an expert on roofing crews. He’d laid nearly a thousand of them in his day.

  But age catches up with everyone.

  Without warning, he dropped his bucket. It rolled off the roof and sailed to the ground. And in this moment, he realized why he’d dropped it. He felt a stabbing in his right arm, like dull knives cutting through his muscle. He dropped to his knees on the slanted roof. He gripped his shoulder. He tried to lay himself flat on the roof so he wouldn’t fall, but he slid sideways. He could feel himself slipping from the edge of the roof. And he felt the exhilaration of falling from it. In a way, it almost felt like flying.

  He hit the ground so hard, he heard his own chest make a cracking sound. He landed on his bucket of tar.

  “Paul!” he heard Vern yell. “Paul!”

  Paul couldn’t speak. He only closed his eyes.

  Sixty-Five

  Bearing Witness

  The sun was setting. The world was lit orange and yellow from the colors of dusk. The forest was alive with frogs and insects. The gnats were making their cause known to all who lingered outside. The mosquitoes were inflicting God’s wrath upon mankind.

  And the railcar was alive with voices. Men’s voices. The tavern was overrun with men who drank whiskey, played cards, stomped their feet, and laughed a little too loud. There was even music. A blind boy named Josiah played guitar along with an old man on a fiddle from Saraland every weekend.

  Friday night was big business. A good Friday could earn a working girl enough money to last a few weeks.

  The girls of Cowikee’s were inside, making themselves ready. They applied makeup to their faces and sprayed perfume, primping themselves for a big night. Marigold watched them from the porch. She saw them through the windows. They were prettier than she was. They were more alive than she was. Sometimes she wished she were one of them. Their lives were so exciting, so free. But she was not like them. She was forever bound to her purpose in life. She was charged, somehow, with the task of being something altogether different.

  She knelt before a washtub, scrubbing dishes with Helen. Abe sat beside them, whistling. He’d gotten good at making music with his mouth. He could whistle “Oh My Darling Clementine” and “Oh! Susanna,” and Marigold could even make out his melody.

  “That’s good, Abe,” Helen said. “But how ’bout we try another song before we all go try to drown ourselves?”

  “Like what, Mama?”

  “Anything different will do,” said Marigold. “Try singing ‘The Crawdad Song.’”

  “I don’t know that one.”

  They sang it for him, and their weak voices made them laugh. They sounded like two Labradors with chest colds.

  They were interrupted by the sounds of footsteps. Two men came walking the dirt path in the darkness. She could hear them before she could see them. Their feet crunched on the ground. She expected them to wander toward the front of Cowikee’s like all men did on Friday nights, but instead they approached the porch.

  They were young men, with trim hair, wearing slacks, pressed shirts, and loosened neckties. These were not Cowikee’s customers.

  “All business is up front,” said Marigold. “We don’t take customers unless they go through the front.”

  The men exchanged uncomfortable glances. They walked toward her and placed a paper flyer on the porch. “We’re not here for that kind of business, ma’am.”

  The paper had a drawing of a large circus tent on it. The words Holy Ghost Revival were printed in large letters, surrounded by crucifixes and angels. There was an illustration of a man with a square jaw and steel-rimmed glasses.

  “Who’s this man?” she said.

  “Why, you’ve never heard of Reverend J. Wilbur Chaplain?” one man said, glancing at his friend with big eyes. “He’s God’s man for our time.”

  “Revival is coming to Alabama, miss,” said the short man. “It’s happening all around you. All the towns are getting ready for an outpouring that’s gonna set all paths straight and make the rocks cry out and the trees bow down, and stuff.”

  “Outpouring?” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. There’s a Holy Spirit revival just south of town tomorrow night.” The tall man handed her another flyer.

  “‘Holy Ghost Revival,’” she read aloud. “‘E. P. Willard and His Full Gospel Troop,’ tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the tall man said. “And after that, J. Wilbur Chaplain is gonna be in Saraland. Revival is hitting Alabama.”

  The short man said, “Glory.”

  “The Lord sayeth,” the tall man went on, “that the wicked shall perish, ma’am, and perish they shall if they reject the goodness of the Lord and all his power.”

  “Revival’s hitting Alabama,” said the short man.

  “Glory,” said the tall man.

  “What is a revival?” she said. “Ain’t never heard of one.”

  “Preaching of the full gospel,” said the tall man. “And singing and praying.”

  “And miracles,” added the shorter man.

  “Miracles?”

  “Yessum, from the Lord Almighty himself.”

  “Glory,” said the other man.

  “What kinda miracles?” Marigold asked.

  “Why, divine healings and salvation of the sinner. The restoration of God’s people on the earth. The union of the Holy Ghost with his people. Revival is coming to Alabama.”

  “Mmm-hmm, sure is. Glory.”

  The tall man said, “‘For the Lord saith unto thou—’”

  “No, not thou,” interrupted the other man. “It’s thee, not thou.”

  “Ah, yes. My brother appears to be correct. ‘Draweth nearer unto thee’ . . . Uh . . . I mean ‘thine’ . . . No, that’s not it.”

  “Aw, you muffed it, Danny,” said the shorter man. “Let me say it.” The man cleared his throat. “‘Draweth nearer
unto thine and he shall’—that is—‘thee, and ye shall’ . . . I mean, ‘he shall’ . . . Uh . . . ‘Thy will be done’ . . . No. Aw, hellfire, that’s not it either.”

  “See, Phillip?” said the tall man. “You don’t know it no better than I knows it, you big fathead.”

  “Don’t call me a fathead,” said the shorter man in a whisper. “We’re bearing witness.”

  The tall man pulled a small book from his pocket and began riffling through the pages. After a few minutes, he finally said, “Pardon the confusion. Here it is, ma’am: ‘Draw nigh unto God, and he shall draweth nigh unto thee. Cleanseth your hands, ye sinners . . .’” The man stopped reading and looked at Marigold’s pruny hands. “‘Ye wicket, wicket sinners, and purify your hearts.’”

  “What’s nigh mean?” asked Marigold.

  This clearly confused the men. “Well,” said the short man. “It means sorta like tither or hither.”

  “Really?” said the tall man. “I never knew that. What’s the difference?”

  The short man gave a sour look to his friend. “There’s lots of tithers in the Bible, ma’am, and a few hithers. You know, it’s just the way God wanted it.”

  “Glory,” said the tall man.

  “Anyway, ma’am,” said the short man. “We come to tell you that we have a van that’ll come pick you up tomorrow and take you to service if the Lord doth press it upon your heart. And if you have a mind to go see J. Wilbur Chaplain next weekend, we’re picking up saints and sinners from as far away as Coffeeville.”

  Marigold inspected the flyer again. The drawing of the tent showed a large crowd gathered inside. “That looks like a lot of people.”

  “Oh sure,” said the short man. “This state is just ripe and ready for Jesus.”

  “Jeeee-zuss,” said the tall man in a whisper.

  The short man said, “Folks is coming from all over to see the New Work.”

  “Will I get to see healings?” she asked. “Real healings?”

  The men looked at each other. “If the Lord wills. You’ll see everythin’ there ever was to see.”

  “Revival is fixin’ to hit Alabama.”

  “Glory,” said the short man.

  Sixty-Six

  Change of Heart

  Joseph and Coot slept in hammocks near the giant bay. The sound of water lapping against the sand was enough to make Coot remember an entire lifetime. It was a beautiful night. It was humid and chilly, even though it was summer. The air was so damp, it made Coot’s cold clothes stick to him, and he could see his breath in the night air. He could see why Blake had missed this place so much. It was a kind of heaven.

  Joseph was awake in the hammock beside him, smoking a cigar.

  “Can I try one of those fancy smokes?” Coot asked.

  Joseph lobbed a paper box of cigars at him. Coot removed one and smelled it. He didn’t care for the aroma. He lit one end and puffed on the other, but nothing happened.

  “I must be doing something wrong,” said Coot.

  Joseph laughed but did not rise from his hammock. “You dummy, you gotta bite off one end first.”

  Coot bit one end, then spit it on the ground. It made him remember Blake and the stubs he used to chew. Coot lit the cigar until the tip radiated orange in the darkness. He took one puff and almost gagged. “This thing tastes awful,” he said.

  Joseph nearly passed a kidney stone from laughter. “An acquired taste, son.”

  “I don’t wanna acquire it.”

  “Well, don’t waste it. Give it to me. I’ll smoke two.”

  Coot handed him the lit cigar. Joseph placed it in the other side of his mouth and grinned. “You are a different boy,” said Joseph, removing both cigars at once, blowing smoke. “First time I met you, I said to myself, ‘This fella’s special.’ I can read people, you know. But I’m not as good inside as you.”

  “I ain’t good.”

  “You’re too good for your own good.” Joseph coughed. “I wish I were half as pure as you.”

  “That cough doesn’t sound so good, Joe,” said Coot. “Don’t you think we oughta get it looked at?”

  “We sure gave them holy rollers what-for tonight, didn’t we, boy? Made me feel fifty years younger.”

  Coot looked at the burlap sack full of money. It was full of four hundred and ninety-eight dollars. Silver dollars, quarters, nickels, and pennies. He didn’t want it. None of it. He knew that now. Now that he had it, he wished he could throw it into the bay and forget all about it.

  Joseph said, “Ain’t you gonna tell me why you wanted to rip that preacher off so bad?”

  “I don’t wanna talk about it,” said Coot.

  “You ain’t even gonna give me a hint?”

  “I don’t wanna keep that money,” said Coot.

  Joseph sat forward. “How’s that?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Are you nuts? Don’t want it? You’re the joker who made me go through with it.”

  Coot was embarrassed. “I know, but I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You change your mind more times than a woman. Now, are you gonna tell me what’s goin’ on here, or do I have to beat it outta you?”

  “It’s a long story. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Well, it’s not your decision to make. I come close to breaking my wrist for those dollars and all I have to show for it are a few cigars I can’t smoke without choking.”

  “I’m sorry, I just can’t keep it.”

  Joseph leaned back onto the hammock. He flicked one cigar into the bay water. “Fine. Suit yourself. I’ll keep your cut for you. Problem solved.”

  “No, Joseph, I wanna give it back.”

  “Give it back? You outta your gourd? They’ll hang us, or send us to a road crew, busting up little rocks with hammers.”

  “I don’t feel right having it.”

  “Why, I’m sure they’ll applaud us when we waltz right inside that dadgum tent and lay five hundred bucks at the altar, saying, ‘Sorry, folks, we had a change of heart! God bless.’”

  Joseph swung his legs over the hammock. “Now you look here, young’un. I helped git that money, and that means I have a say in what happens to half of it. And unless you start telling me what’s going on, I got half a mind to whup you.”

  Coot stood and lifted the burlap sack. “My mind’s made up, Joe.” He tossed it into the front seat of the truck. “I know those people, and they steal for a living. They always have, because they ain’t nothing but liars and thieves. I can’t be like them. I just can’t. Not anymore.”

  “Hey!” said Joseph, leaping from his hammock. He limped after Coot. “This ain’t the way you ’n’ me work! Don’t my opinion count for something?”

  “Sorry, Joe. This was a mistake.”

  “You ungrateful little spit, get back here.”

  Coot hopped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. He fired the engine. He pressed his foot on the gas a few times for effect. He’d always wanted to do that. But he drove nowhere. He only waited.

  The old man stood in the headlights, staring at him, cigar hanging from his mouth.

  “Now let’s talk about this,” said Joseph.

  “Are you with me or not?”

  The swindler studied the eyes of his best friend. He hobbled toward the car. He threw open the door and said, “For the love of Christmas, son, at least have the decency to let me drive. You can’t drive worth a cuss.”

  * * *

  Coot snuck toward the row of tents that looked like illuminated paper lanterns in the night. In the distance, the large canvas structures looked like a miniature city situated in a peanut field. The five small tents sat behind the big tent.

  The sound of a radio came from one tent. A tinny radio voice, the sound of music, audience laughter.

  He stepped through the high grass toward the open flap, then peeked in. A young woman was reclining in her bed. It was the woman who played the guitar. She wore a white nightgown, her hair wrapped in r
ags. She was reading a magazine.

  Coot glanced behind him to get his bearings. He could see Joseph’s truck at the edge of the scalped field. It was idling, and he could hear it beneath the song the frogs were singing.

  The next tent was filled with several cots pressed together, with men lying on them. A few men were playing checkers by lantern light; another man was ironing clothes with a flat iron, humming to a song in his own head.

  But it was the tent at the end of the row that Coot was looking for. E. P. was in a heated discussion with a tall, skinny man. E.P was shirtless, suspenders slung over his bare, hairy shoulders. He was standing before a washbasin and mirror washing his face. He dipped his hands into the basin, then wiped the rag on his face. He swore at the skinny man.

  The unmistakable sound of the big man’s voice carried Coot to another time and place. A terrible place. It was a time when Coot was on the receiving end of such swearing. Long ago, E. P. would cuss and holler just before laying his hand aside Coot’s young face. The memory made Coot swell with anger.

  But he was not here for revenge, he reminded himself. The reason he was here was not totally clear to him, but he was not here to get even. He wondered what it might feel like to make eye contact with his tormentor. The idea worked on Coot until he’d entertained it. The more he watched E. P. swear at the skinny man, the more Coot wanted to confront the man who’d made a serious attempt to ruin his life.

  Coot decided he would make it quick. As soon as Skinny left, Coot would rush into the tent, say a few dramatic words—preferably with his chest poked out—fling the sack of money at the big man, then leave in righteous fury. It was perfect. Short and sweet. It was a little self-righteous, but not enough to feel bad about.

  He heard the skinny man say, “Don’t blame me, E. P. I didn’t do nothin’.” And he saw E. P. draw back and slap the skinny man with his heavy hand. The man stumbled backward and held his face.

  E. P. said, “Who on earth should I blame, then? Cary Grant?”

  The skinny man stormed out of the tent holding his face. Coot saw the man duck into another tent and heard him kick a few things. This was followed by the sound of clanging metal.