But Ruth did not leave. She knelt beside the mound of dirt beside Paul’s grave. She held her face in her own hands until Pete came to her. She gripped his white shirt and squeezed. Ruth plunged her hands into the mound of dirt and threw the soil into the grave. Then she wiped her face with a filthy hand, leaving a streak of brown across her nose and cheek.
She bent low to scoop more dirt. She used two hands. Then she started kicking the dirt into the hole and making loud grunts. Vern quit digging. He only watched her. Some people needed to get mad. Some people needed to get their hands dirty.
She finally collapsed onto the grass and cried into the earth. Vern lifted her in his arms and carried her home. When they arrived on the porch of the house, he set her onto her feet.
“Ruth, honey,” said Vern. “Is there anything I can do? I’m worried about you.”
“Just take off that stupid tie,” she said. “You look ridiculous.”
Seventy
Dreams
Coot was having a dream. A wonderful dream. In the dream, he was a fourteen-year-old, standing on a platform positioned in a wide tent. He stood before hundreds—no, thousands—in Greensburg, Kansas, on a dry summer day. He could see his mother playing a pump organ. She was wearing a white dress, and she had flowers in her hair. Her face was as youthful as a teenager’s, younger than he’d ever seen it.
The child preacher was speaking in a wild voice, with hand gestures and dramatic movements. He was wearing a white linen suit and brown shoes. He felt good. He felt alive. He felt like he was doing something real. But it was only a dream.
He paced the stage and spoke to half of the congregation. Then he spoke to the other half. He shouted. They shouted. People hollered, screamed, threw their hands upward. Then he touched them. Folks fell backward under the power. People giggled, squirmed like worms. One man gobbled like a holy turkey. They cheered him. And he felt as though he was reborn.
Then the tent became bright. So bright it nearly blinded him. Through the back of the tent flaps, he saw her. It was just her shape, backlit by a white light. Her hair moved in a steady breeze, and the hem of her dress was flapping sideways.
Her violent red hair was like fire. She was wearing powder blue. And she stood in the center aisle, looking at him. She held one hand in the air. Her skin was milk-white, peppered with freckles. He wanted to speak to her. He wanted to know more about her. He tried to approach her, but a crowd of people stood between them. The more he tried to work his way through them, the more people appeared, until they were separated by a multitude of bodies. He saw her standing in the far-off distance. People surrounded her, closing in from every direction.
Coot clawed his way through them, one person at a time. He climbed over a sea of people. When he finally reached her, he was so taken by her beauty he could hardly speak. He opened his mouth to ask her something but was interrupted.
Tap, tap, tap.
He was startled awake. It was a high-pitched tapping noise. He opened his eyes and felt disoriented in a spinning world. He closed his eyes again. A sharp ache boomed behind his temples, and the back of his head throbbed something awful. He tried to make himself fall asleep.
There was the tapping again.
So he forced himself straight. He discovered he was inside a car with tan leather upholstery. He saw an embroidered cross dangling from the rearview mirror. It took a few moments to remember what had happened the night before.
He tried to move his hands but realized he couldn’t. Neither could he move his feet. He was hog-tied and gagged. His feet were bound with twine, and his hands were snug behind his back with bailing wire, a handkerchief in his mouth.
More tapping.
He let his lazy eyes focus on the shape in the window. A face. A familiar face. It was Joseph, smiling at him with big eyes. Joseph tapped on the window and pointed toward the lock on the inside of the door.
Coot could see Joseph’s mouth moving, but he couldn’t hear him from behind the glass.
Coot squeezed his eyelids together to bring the blood back into his head. He was dizzy. He felt a couple miles above his body, floating in a world of nausea. He couldn’t tell what time it was. It looked like the sun was starting to go down.
Tap, tap, tap.
Joseph pointed to the locking mechanism again. “Hurry,” Coot heard him say in a muffled voice. “Unlock the door.”
His body moved in an uncoordinated way, but he lumbered into action. The lock on the door was a chrome post, poking from the door panel. It had been pushed down, so that only the top of the post showed. Coot adjusted himself and tried to lift the post with his feet, but his boots were too big and bulky. He pinched both soles against the post and tried to lift it upward, but it didn’t work.
Joseph tapped again, then made a chomping gesture, pointing to his teeth.
“Use your teeth, Coot,” he said. “Your teeth.”
So Coot leaned forward and bit down on the handkerchief so his teeth were exposed. He worked his overbite around the small post, then pulled upward with a jerk from his head. It took several tries, but he finally heard the mechanism click.
Joseph tugged the door open. Coot spilled out of the car.
“Sshhh,” said Joseph, unlatching a jackknife. He started slicing through Coot’s ropes.
“I had to wait all dang day for you to wake up,” whispered Joseph. “It’s late afternoon. I thought you was dead.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Long enough for me to think you were playing a harp. Now, we’d better hurry before all those tongue talkers start showing up. That is, unless you want these nuts to show us what hell looks like personally.”
When Coot’s hands were free, he rubbed his wrists. The events from the previous night came back to him.
“Guess there ain’t any love lost between you and that preacherman,” said Joseph. “I don’t know what they was fixing to do with you or where they was fixing to take you, but I don’t think you would’ve liked it.”
“Joseph,” said Coot, but he couldn’t say anything else.
“What is it, son?”
Coot stood to his feet but felt off-balance. “Where’s the truck?” he said.
“We’re on foot,” said Joseph. “I parked a mile back that way.”
Coot looked at the old man who was catching his breath, doubled over. “Can you make it a mile?”
“I made it this far, didn’t I? I’m a big boy. I can do it.”
“This was one big mistake, Joseph. I never shoulda . . .”
“Guilt won’t do you no good now. Right now we walk or we get the ax.”
Joseph coughed. His cough turned into hacking. Coot pressed a hand over Joseph’s mouth. But there was no stopping the cough. It lasted for a few minutes until Joseph wore a red face and was out of breath.
“C’mon,” said Coot. “Now let’s hurry before anyone—”
Coot heard a clicking noise behind his ear.
He heard E. P.’s voice. “You going somewhere, son?”
Seventy-One
Puppies for Sale
The painted sunset was made of many colors that hung above the world, indifferent to it all. The colors never changed, and neither did anything else. Life kept going, even after death. And it seemed so cruel, somehow, that things should continue as if it were business as usual.
Ruth watched Pete load the bloodhounds into the chicken wire crate at the rear of the truck. They were quiet animals, easy to handle and tranquil. They didn’t fuss; they only looked at Pete with heavy eyes that seemed to sag clear to the ground. She sat on the truck bumper, watching him with a sadness hanging over her.
“I don’t know how you can sell them,” said Ruth, on the verge of more tears. “I just don’t think you should do it.”
Pete wiped his forehead with a hankie and sat against the bumper beside her. Stringbean sat beside his feet.
“Paul’s the one who arranged this buyer, Ruth, and for a lotta money too. It’s what he wo
ulda wanted.”
“But can’t you just wait a few days? I’m not ready to say goodbye.”
“Can’t. It’s been planned for weeks. Fella wants them now, and he’s gonna pay top dollar if I can get them to Mobile on time.”
“Can’t you just give it a few days?”
Pete hung his head. “I would if I could.”
Ruth started to lose composure. She’d hoped she was finished with all her crying. She’d put in enough hours of sobbing to last a lifetime. “Oh, what’re we gonna do without Paul?”
She had spent the entire morning staring at the newspaper clipping she’d found in Paul’s cigar box. The faded clipping had turned brown with age. In the photograph, he was not a young man, but he looked younger than she had ever known him. He looked happy.
“Paul woulda wanted me to hold up my end of the bargain,” said Pete.
It hurt to talk about Paul in the past tense. It didn’t feel real. It felt like a bad dream that was happening to someone else, and Ruth herself was only an observer.
“Oh, Pete,” she said. “Don’t leave me.”
Pete scooted closer to her. “I’ll be coming back in a few days.”
She threw her arms around him and moaned into his chest. She missed Paul. She missed everything about him.
She drew back.
“Your shirt,” she said. “Is that Paul’s old shirt?”
It was. It was the shirt he’d always worn. Green plaid with red in it. She breathed Paul in. It was Paul’s scent Pete wore. And it brought it all back to her. The way Paul used to hold her in the early mornings, overlooking the tobacco fields of her youth. The way he talked to her—like she was every bit as adult as he was. Paul had always talked to her differently than he talked to anyone else.
“Don’t go, Pete.”
“I’m just dropping the dogs off in Mobile and coming right back. Don’t worry.”
“But what if something happens and you never come back?”
“Ruth, don’t be silly. Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
He held her. She held him.
“Come with me,” he said. “Then we can do it together. And you can say goodbye to the dogs yourself.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her face. He kissed her. It was a light kiss on her cheek.
In that moment, she noticed how much older he looked. He was no boy beside her; he was a man. A whole lifetime showed on his face. He was a million years older than she was.
“Come with me,” he said.
“I can’t leave Vern. Not now.”
“Vern? He’ll be fine.”
“He hasn’t even left his room in three days. He doesn’t eat anything I leave outside his door. Someone’s gotta watch over him and make sure he takes care of himself.”
“Let Miss Warner do that.”
Ruth let out a scoffing laugh. “She’s not exactly Miss Warm and Fuzzy, you know.”
Pete held her. She could feel the strength in his arms. She worried if he left her that something bad would happen and she would never see him again. It was irrational and ridiculous, but she felt it just the same.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said.
She held him tight. “Call me when you get there, when you’ve sold the dogs. Just to let me know you’re safe.”
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear.”
Seventy-Two
Swinging and Hollering
Joseph was the first to throw a punch. He landed his fist alongside E. P.’s nose. The big man fell backward and dropped the gun. Then the old man tore into E. P. like a windmill in a thunderstorm. Hands flailing, legs kicking. He fought dirty.
“Joe!” shouted Coot. “What’re you doing?”
“Run, Coot!” shouted Joseph. “I got him right where I want him!”
Coot had never seen an old man fight before. It looked like the funny papers had come to life. He marveled to see a man his age fight without morals. Joseph kicked, scratched, bit, head-butted, spit, and tore, and no region of E. P.’s body was off-limits to the old man.
“Run, Coot! Run, boy!” Joseph yelled just before landing a swift kick to the big man’s vulnerable regions.
But Coot did not run. He knew E. P. would kill the old man if he did. Coot injected himself into the fight and shoved E. P. backward.
Joseph leapt atop the big man’s chest and polished his cheeks with both hands, saying, “Take that, you big, dumb, holy butthead!”
Coot tugged Joseph off E. P., and as soon as he had done it, he knew it was a mistake.
A gunshot rang out, scaring the birds from the treetops.
Joseph curled on the ground. He rolled in circles. The moans were unlike any sound Coot had ever heard the old man make. Joseph held his gut and lay on his side. Purple blood formed a puddle beneath the old man.
“I told you to run, Coot,” said Joseph. “You hardheaded boy.”
E. P. stumbled to his feet, holding a gun in his hand. The preacher’s suit was soiled, and his white spats were covered with mud. He fixed the gun barrel on Coot.
“I got no problem pulling triggers, boy,” said E. P. His face was bloodied. A trickle of red came from his lower lip. “Just try me.”
“He needs a doctor,” said Coot.
E. P. wiped his lip with his shirtsleeve. “He ain’t gonna get one.”
“Please.” Coot bent low to touch the old man. “He’s hurt.”
Another gunshot. Coot heard the slug hit the ground beside his foot. Dirt scattered where the bullet struck the earth. Coot leapt backward. “Are you crazy?”
The mammoth man trained the gun barrel on Coot. “Leave him alone.”
People were already running from the tent to see what was happening. A group of people hurried to the scene. The crowd formed around Coot and E. P. They made a ring around them, murmuring, gasping.
“Everyone stay back!” shouted E. P., firing a shot in the air. “This man was trying to rob the children of God blind. Nobody robs the chosen!”
“You’re done, E. P.,” said Coot. “You’re done.”
“Coot!” Joseph shouted. “I can’t see. Can’t see nothing.”
“You hear me, E. P.? You’re done!” said Coot.
A man from the crowd shouted, “Somebody call a doctor.”
E. P. fired a round at the man and missed. “Stand back, Kirkland. This don’t concern you, and it don’t concern no doctors neither.”
“You can’t do this,” said Coot. “E. P., this man is dying. Somebody call the sheriff! Anybody!”
“E. P.!” screamed one woman in the crowd. “You’ve lost your mind!”
E. P. kept the gun steady. Coot watched the big man rock from foot to foot like he did when he was preaching the Good Word. He knew E. P.’s stamina was wearing thin. He knew the man had taken too many hits to be fresh. E. P. was no prizefighter.
It was an impulse, and Coot knew it. He had one chance to get it right. Coot drew in a sharp breath, crouched low, closed his eyes, and ran forward. He did it so fast it took a moment for E. P. to realize what he was doing. He rammed his shoulder into the big man’s waist. Coot felt his shoulder pop on impact. His momentum lifted E. P. from his feet. The deep thump of E. P.’s massive rib cage when he hit the ground was loud.
People in the crowd circled around them.
Coot yanked the gun from E. P.’s hand. He felt a stabbing pain in his collarbone. He remembered being slapped with the big man’s belt when he was a boy. He remembered the bone in his neck that E. P. chipped long ago. For most of Coot’s adult life he had fantasized about this moment, when he would overpower E. P. But he didn’t feel like he’d imagined. It was not triumphant. It felt pathetic and sad.
Coot felt a hand on his shoulder. “Look, your friend is . . . ,” said a man behind him.
A woman in the crowd was leaning over Joseph, listening to his chest.
He ran to Joseph and
fell to his knees. He dropped the gun. “Oh, Joe, hold on for a little while longer.”
Joseph opened his mouth and said, “I told you to run, boy. Why don’t you never do what I tell you?”
He coughed a few times. Then he let out one large breath. And Joseph was gone.
Seventy-Three
On the Bus
The two holy rollers arrived at Cowikee’s in the late afternoon driving a white van with chrome bumpers and white tires. They were dressed in full suits, wearing crimson ties and linen shirts. They had sweated through their shirts so that their neckties were bleeding onto their shirts. They stood before the vehicle’s open doors waiting for the girls, who were busy fanning themselves.
When the girls stepped off the porch, the eyes of the young men became as big as washtubs. Rachel wore a low-cut blouse. Laughing Girl wore a lace and floral dress that might as well have been painted on her body. They walked with short steps, careful not to stumble in their tall heels.
The young men swallowed so many times they looked like choking victims.
“What’s the matter?” Helen asked. “Ain’t you never seen a girl before?”
The man nodded. “The Lord be with you, ma’am,” he said.
Marigold trailed behind them dressed in a powder-blue dress she’d bought for four dollars in town. It was the most expensive thing she’d ever worn, and it had a matching hat. The young men led the women to the van and helped them step up into the back seat.
When Rachel stepped into the back, one of the young men said, “How are you ladies on this fine evening?” in a tone reminiscent of the first stage of puberty.
“We’re hot,” said Rachel. “It’s hot outside.” Rachel dug a cigarette from her handbag and said, “Anyone got a light?”
The young men almost came to a fistfight over who could get to their lighter first. The short man held his lighter toward Rachel with a shaky hand. Rachel grabbed his wrist to steady him.
“Thanks, doll,” said Rachel. Then she winked.
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