Stars of Alabama

by Sean Dietrich

  “A long time. I was starting to worry.”

  She glanced at the sleeping old man beneath her cot. The man was in a fetal position wearing a half grin. “Your friend doesn’t look too worried.”

  “Joseph,” said the young man. “His name is Joseph. And no, ma’am, Joseph don’t worry about much except food.”

  “But you worry?”

  “You could say I do all the worrying for the outfit.”

  They listened to the radio again. It was preaching. A voice screaming so loud, the speaker sounded like it was going to crack. The deputy turned it up. And listened. He nodded from time to time and said, “Amen,” in earnest.

  “My name’s Marigold,” she said.

  “I know,” said the young man. “You told me last night.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m Coot.”

  “Coot? That’s your real name?”

  “Short for Cooter.”

  “Is that a nickname for something?”

  “Cooter-tastic.”

  She laughed.

  The deputy turned the volume of the radio louder to drown out their conversation.

  “You don’t have to blow our eardrums,” said Coot. “We got rights, you know.”

  Marigold and Coot listened to the radio show. The preaching filled the room, and they endured the guard’s amens, hallelujahs, and moderate bouts of clapping. When the broadcast ended, an announcer’s voice blared loud enough to blow the roof off the courthouse.

  “This week in Saraland, folks, come see America’s preacher, J. Wilbur Chaplain, bringing God’s Holy Word, Friday, Saturday, and all day Sunday. See the healings and the miracles and the salvations . . .”

  Marigold listened with great curiosity.

  “And may God’s people pray that revival hits our land, folks, in our desperate hour of need . . .”

  Then the announcer began to pray. The deputy bowed his head, removed his hat, and folded his hands.

  The deputy’s prayer was interrupted by the sheriff walking through the front door of the courthouse. The officer was carrying a large basket draped with a red-and-white-checkered cloth. “Good grief, Dip,” said the sheriff. “You’re about to bust the glass in here with that radio. Turn that thing down.”

  The deputy rose to his feet, saluted, then clicked the radio off.

  “You don’t have to salute me, Dip,” said the sheriff. “This ain’t the military, and I’m your first cousin.”

  “Yessir,” said the deputy.

  As soon as the sheriff set down the basket, the deputy poked his hands into it and removed a biscuit. He nearly swallowed the thing whole. Then he ate two more.

  “Dip,” said the sheriff, “there ain’t but five biscuits in the basket, you hog.”

  The deputy wiped his mouth and held out the mutilated remains of his biscuit.

  He swallowed. “You want the rest, Sheriff?”

  “No,” said the sheriff. “Your spit’s all over it now, and I don’t wanna catch your stupid.” He pressed the brim of his hat upward, then walked to the big man’s cell. He kicked the bars with his boot. A clanging noise filled the jailhouse.

  The big man didn’t move. The sheriff kicked the cell door so hard it sounded like gunfire. “Get up, Mister Willard,” said the sheriff. “Right now.”

  The big man stirred but wouldn’t acknowledge the sheriff.

  The sheriff jammed his boot against the iron bars again. This time he used his heel to make the noise. “Up and at ’em, Preacherman. Rise and shine and give God the glory.”

  The big man finally sat straight and rubbed his eyes. Marigold caught a glimpse of the man’s battered cheeks. He was black and purple, and his nose was swollen. His face looked even worse than the young man’s.

  The sheriff leaned into the bars and said, “Welcome to our humble home, Preacher.”

  The big man rubbed his temples and moaned.

  “If you woulda gone peacefully, you wouldn’t be feeling so ugly this morning.”

  The big man only blinked his eyes.

  “Looks like you’re a very important fella, Mister Willard,” the sheriff said. “Very, very important. More important than anyone in this room.”

  The sheriff waited for a response, but none came.

  The sheriff went on. “So important, in fact, that the state police insisted they come down here and take you off our hands this afternoon. Said they got you on charges of fraud, theft, extortion, liquor running, blackmail, and . . .” The officer removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Looks like you got a trail of debts following you all the way back to Rogers, Arkansas.”

  The big man let out a laugh. It was deep.

  Coot leapt to his feet. He walked toward the bars dividing the two cells. He gripped the bars and said, “He’s a wife-beater too, Sheriff. Make sure you tell the state police that.”

  “Domestic charges?” said the sheriff. “That true, Mister Willard? You beat up your women too?”

  The big man stood and stepped toward Coot. “She was never my woman.”

  “That’s right,” said Coot. “Keep telling yourself that.”

  “She was a loose girl,” the big man went on. “Got pregnant on purpose. Hussy wanted to be with a big-time preacher, that’s all.”

  Coot made a serious attempt at breaking through the dividing bars. Coot hollered until his voice broke.

  “That’s enough, Mister Willard,” said the sheriff. “I won’t have you picking a fight in my jailhouse.”

  The big man leaned backward on his cot and folded his hands across his belly. He seemed unaffected by his circumstances.

  Coot pressed his face against the bars and said, “You’re the devil, you know that? The devil!”

  Marigold touched the young man’s shoulder. She felt his fury, and she felt where the hurt came from.

  The sheriff passed three large catheads into the cell. Coot took them and gave one to Marigold. They tore into their food. The ham was thick, the biscuits were soft, and the butter was even softer.

  After Marigold had enough food in her, she began to think more clearly. She touched her ripped sleeve and remembered the way the crowd had tried to tear her apart the night before. They had swarmed her. It was as though the mass of people had lost their minds. They all wanted something from her, and they didn’t care how they got it.

  “Why am I in here?” she asked the sheriff.

  The sheriff was staring at his desk, writing. “You were out cold. Couldn’t leave you there. Those people woulda killed you.”

  “Those people were going crazy,” Coot added.

  “I didn’t do nothing wrong. You can’t keep me in here.”

  The sheriff didn’t look up from his desk. “No, I can’t, but it ain’t safe out there, I can tell you that much.”

  “You can’t hold me in this cell like a crook,” she said.

  “I’m doing it for your own good.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Marigold.

  “It means you’re safer in here,” said the sheriff. “A lot safer than you’d be out there with the nutjobs.”

  “I wanna go home right now,” she said.

  “Can’t do that, ma’am,” said the sheriff, still writing. “Too dangerous.”

  “What do you mean you can’t do it? I got rights, just like anyone else.”

  The officer set down his pencil. “Okay, you wanna go home? Fine. Go home. But half the folks in the county think you’re the Virgin Mary, and the other half think you oughta be burned at the stake. If you like those odds, be my guest.”

  “What’re you talking about?” she said.

  “I’m talking about earlier this morning, when Roger Farland and his sons showed up at Cowikee’s with shotguns, looking for you.”

  “Roger Farland?” she said. “Who’s that?”

  “He’s a nut who thinks you’re a witch. Wants to do his Christian duty and get rid of evil on the planet.”

  “A witch?” said Coot. “How cou
ld anyone think that?”

  “These are hard times,” said the sheriff. “People think they saw a man get raised from the dead. They don’t know what to think.”

  “Sheriff,” said Marigold, “I demand that you let me outta here this second.”

  “Fine,” the sheriff said, opening a desk drawer and removing a ring of keys. “Suit yourself. Go back to your house of ill repute and see if I care.” He opened her cell door. “But I can’t do nothing for you when you leave here, just remember that. I can’t keep you safe.”

  “Safe?” she said. “Roger Farland and his sons sound like they’re crazy, but surely they don’t think I’m really a witch. How could anyone think that?”

  “I don’t know, but they do, and they aren’t the only ones.”

  “People know me around here,” she said. “People know about me. They know I’m only tryin’ to help.”

  “You scared a lotta people last night, sweetie,” said the sheriff. “Nobody’s ever seen anything like what you did. That man was dead.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Well, you scared me,” said the sheriff. “And you scared my deputies, and you scared a bunch of fellas with the newspaper. I’ve had to beat away three different reporters this morning. The phone downstairs is ringing off the hook with nuts who wanna either murder you or worship you. And one man in Grove Hill wants you to pray for his laying hens that have bronchitis.”

  He led her to the window. He pulled the shade up and tapped on the glass. She looked down at a crowd of people standing on the lawn of the courthouse. The onlookers were backed up into the main street. A few carried signs. One poster-board sign read The End Is Near.

  “Where’d they come from?” asked Marigold.

  The sheriff dropped the shade. “Most of ’em are in town for the revival over in Saraland next weekend. They got nearly eight hundred cars over in Chickasaw, people camping in tents, all here to see J. Wilbur Chaplain. We got nuts, vagrants, and migrant workers from all over the state. Supposed to be the biggest gathering of holy rollers in history.”

  The younger deputy said in a solemn voice, “Revival’s coming to Alabama. Glory.” He had wide eyes when he said it, and a serious face.

  “Yeah, well, I hope you’re wrong, Dip,” said the sheriff. “I had enough revival to last a lifetime last night.”

  “It’s coming, Sheriff,” the deputy said again. “Whether you want it or not. These is end times, wrath poured out without mixture.”

  “Is that right?” said the sheriff.

  “Yessir,” said the deputy. “I’m praying for glory.”

  “You know what I’m praying for?” the sheriff said. “I’m praying that you go take inventory of the storage room like I told you to do and quit eating all my flippin’ biscuits, dang it.”

  The scene behind the window made Marigold’s breath catch in her throat. She couldn’t find words. There were people everywhere, spilling over the sidewalks and onto the side streets. The crowd was made up of more people than she’d ever seen in her life.

  “What am I gonna do?” she said.

  “You’re asking me?” said the sheriff. “Every flap in the county has come to see the woman who raised a man from the dead. I was hoping you knew.”

  “I don’t,” she said.

  “Well then, I can tell you one thing. In the next few days, every tent chaser within five counties is gonna be trying to get a peek at you. And some of these people ain’t working with a full deck. If you ask me, you’re safe right here.”

  She believed him, even though she didn’t want to. She wandered into her cell, sat on the cot, and buried her head in her hands. The pure emotion hit her without warning. It swelled within her, and it made her feel so alone.

  The young man sat beside her. He held her tight. It was as though he sensed no boundary between them.

  “You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I’m the Great Cooter-tastic.”

  Seventy-Eight

  Bearer of News

  Miss Warner’s small kitchen was lit by the single bulb hanging over the breakfast table. The wood planks in the room looked aged and splintery. A lot like Miss Warner could be if you caught her in the wrong mood. Once, long ago, she had thrown a dictionary at Paul’s head during an argument. Not a metaphorical one, a real, unabridged dictionary.

  Ruth watched Pete tell her and Vern the news. She watched him without really paying attention to his words. Pete’s face was lit by the yellow light with deep shadows on it. He was handsome, yes. But he was more than that. He was the rest of her life.

  She could tell Pete was using as much internal strength as he had in him. Ruth could tell it was hard for him by the way he kept swallowing.

  He told Miss Warner that he loved Ruth. And beneath the hard glare of Miss Warner, his explanation seemed juvenile. She had that effect on people. He tried to use bigger words. But even so, no matter how he said it, it came out sounding juvenile.

  Miss Warner’s first words were, “You’re practically brother and sister. What will people say? This is an abomination, a humiliating tragedy, and I won’t have it, not in my house. I never expected this of you, Pete.”

  So far, so good.

  Vern only looked into his lap when Pete delivered the news. And Ruth kept her mouth closed, just the way Pete had begged her to. It was difficult. Ruth had more spirit than anyone at the table. She would’ve let the old woman have it. But the last thing Pete said he wanted was for a brawl to erupt between two women whom Paul had cared for.

  Finally Miss Warner stood and left the room. She left without giving her blessing. Then she shut the door to her bedroom. She didn’t slam it, but she shut it hard enough to make the lightbulb above the table swing back and forth. Ruth knew Pete must feel like a fool. She knew he was embarrassed.

  Vern rested his paw on Pete’s shoulder. “She be alright, Pete. She be just fine. You leave her to me.”

  “She hates me,” said Pete.

  “Just needs time,” said Vern. “She just missing Paul like we all is. She don’t wanna miss you too.” Vern looked down at the floor. He sniffed a few times. “Well, I’s missing you two already. I miss you both a lot.”

  Ruth threw herself at the large man and held him. She smelled his sweat and tried to remember everything about him so she could always take his memory with her when they went to Mobile to start a new life.

  Vern looked at her with shiny cheeks. His eyes were wet, but the tears that rolled down his cheeks were hard to see in the dim light.

  “I’ll miss you, Ruth.”

  “I love you, Vern,” said Ruth.

  Vern wrapped both large arms around them and held them so hard Ruth could hear her own ribs creak.

  And it occurred to Ruth for the first time that Vern would be alone. A man who’d always lived his life with Paul and a litter of kids would be alone, living next to a woman who threw dictionaries at people sometimes.

  “You could come with us,” said Pete. “There’s good work in Mobile.”

  “No, sir,” said Vern. “She need me here. Besides, I’s too old. I don’t even know who’s in the mirror no more.” He laughed, and his brilliant white teeth showed. “I’m an old man, boy.”

  His smile turned into wet eyes. She’d known Vern to endure anything. He was the strongest human she’d ever known. She’d seen him get bit by a copperhead on the ankle. He was sick for two weeks, but never once did he moan or complain. And he recovered.

  He walked out of the kitchen. The screen door slapped shut.

  “I told you she wouldn’t understand,” said Ruth.

  * * *

  Ruth sat beside Pete in the truck. He drove, keeping his eyes aimed at the windshield. Neither of them said much on the ride. She knew what they were doing was impulsive and youthful and irrational and unsmart. But it felt right.

  The duffel bags of clothes were the only things she’d br
ought with her. She didn’t even bring her jewelry boxes. She felt it would be wrong somehow, since Miss Warner was the one who gave her all the jewelry. Stringbean rode in the back seat.

  They crossed the county line, and Pete stopped at a local watering hole. It was a swinging-door saloon, right at the edge of the neighboring town. Ruth waited on the porch while Pete asked the men inside where the justice of the peace could be found. The liquored-up patrons were in good spirits. They met Pete with whoops and hollers and laughter.

  “Justice of the peace?” one man shouted. “What fer?”

  “Can’t you figure it out, Byron?” said another. “This man’s getting himself hitched.”

  “You mean he’s enveloping?” said another.

  “Ee-loooo-ping, you big dumb drunk.”

  “Is that true, son? Is you errloping?”

  “Yessir,” she heard Pete say. Men began singing, shouting. One man tried to rouse the barroom into a chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” but it didn’t take.

  The men emerged on the porch where Ruth stood. They made a fuss over her. They removed their hats and introduced themselves one by one. They were old men. Wiry men with happy hearts and red faces.

  “She’s lovely, boy,” said one man.

  “She is just a sweetheart, ain’t she?” said another.

  Before the men let Ruth and Pete go, they sang a few more songs and dedicated several raised glasses to the couple’s honor. Pete and Ruth swallowed a glass to their own honor. The men cheered when they did.

  Then one man whooped, “We gonna have ourselves a wedding, boys!”

  The man stumbled from the tavern into the main street and started parading down the road like he was leading a marching band. A few others followed him, singing, crooning.

  Pete and Ruth climbed into the truck and followed the parade. Before they knew it, eight men had piled into the bed of their vehicle. A ninth rode on the roof of Pete’s truck, singing “There’s a Hole in my Bucket, Dear Liza.” And when the truck hit a bump in the road, the man fell from the truck roof and hit the ground and nearly broke his leg.

  Pete slammed the brakes and said, “These men have lost their minds, Ruth.”

  Ruth and Pete helped the old man into the bed of the truck. He kissed Ruth on the cheek, then kissed Pete on the forehead and said, “Happy birthday to you both. Happy birthday from the bottom of my heart.”