They followed the marching men down the streets toward the justice of the peace. The fields and oak trees passed them in the darkness. Ruth was beginning to feel a smile work its way onto her face. She was used to being serious. But tonight was different.
The parade ended in front of a small white house, lit purple by the moon. One of the men knocked on the door and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Benton! We gotta hitching for you!”
A light flickered in the upstairs window.
The men cheered.
A slender older man wearing a cotton nightgown appeared at the door. He came onto his porch, seeming unsurprised by all the commotion. He calmed them down and said in a formal tone, “Unless you have a license, this is a waste of my time.”
“Got one right here, Reverend,” said Pete.
“I ain’t a reverend, son. I’m an elected official. There’s a big difference.”
In only minutes, the justice of the peace was standing on the porch, surrounded by sweaty older men with hats in their hands, bowing their heads. The justice of the peace held a small book and recited a passage from Psalms. And one of the men in attendance sang a stirring rendition of “Shall We Gather at the River?” One man cried.
No sooner had the justice of the peace pronounced Pete and Ruth husband and wife than one of the witnesses fired a handgun into the air and screamed, “Yippeeeeee!”
The man who’d fallen off the truck roof marched onto the porch and said, “Can I be the first to kiss the bride? After all, I think you dadgum broke my leg.”
Ruth let him kiss her cheek. The men began to holler and argue among themselves. They formed a single-file line to kiss her cheek. And with each kiss, each man handed her wads of sweaty cash from his pocket.
“What’s this?” Ruth asked.
“A blessing for the happy couple,” the men said.
* * *
Ruth and Pete spent the night in the bed of their truck, covered with a quilt. Stringbean slept between them. They slept with clothes on, holding each other close until they fell asleep. She kept Stringbean against her so tight that she couldn’t feel her arms anymore. And when she fell asleep, she had strange dreams. She heard music, and she saw the woman from her dreams, the red-haired woman who seemed to haunt her sometimes.
When they awoke, it seemed that Ruth had never seen a sky as clear and bright and blue as the one above them. Pete lay still, sleeping with his head on her shoulder. She removed a slip of paper from her pocket and unfolded it.
The words “Lost baby . . .” The photo of an old man holding an infant.
She didn’t care what the clipping said. She wasn’t lost anymore.
Seventy-Nine
Songbird
Coot felt strange. To see the big man in the cell beside his was like reliving his childhood all over again. Only this time it was being lived through the eyes of an adult. When he looked at E. P., boyhood feelings came back to him, but this time the feelings were different. He remembered the man’s good moments from long ago. When he used to give Coot candy, then wink at him. He remembered the great pains the man had gone to to teach Coot to wink when he was four years old. It took Coot a week to learn how to do it right.
It’s funny what a mind remembers.
Now he had a man’s mind. And things weren’t as clear-cut as they once had been. During childhood, he’d known who the heroes and villains were. As an adult, he wasn’t sure who they were and who they weren’t. And he wasn’t sure which side he was on himself.
Joseph was sleeping, curled in a tight ball. Coot hadn’t heard him cough or wheeze since Marigold had touched him. He didn’t know how this could be.
Coot had gone most of his life feeling that the whole universe cared little for him.
A low voice from the cell beside him said,
“Cherokee, just outside Pittsburgh, Kansas.”
The words shocked Coot. He didn’t know what to say.
“We did a week of revival there,” E. P. said. “When you were little.” The big man didn’t look at Coot. He only stared forward in his cell. He dabbed his forehead. The man had always been a professional when it came to sweating. “You came down with a fever. We thought you were dead.”
“I don’t remember that.”
Nothing was said for a while. The old man seemed to be caught in his own private recollections. He only leaned back into his bed and let out a mighty sigh now and then.
“How old was I?” Coot finally asked.
“Six or seven. You were so sick, vomiting, crying, sick as a dog, and you got up on that stage, right there in front of God and Kansas, and you preached anyway. Forty-five minutes, white as a sheet, high fever and all. I’ll never forget it. Long as I live.”
The man laughed, then rolled over on his bed.
Coot wanted to let the man have it. He wanted to give the man every ugly word he had stored up from his years of living. But he also didn’t want to. And he didn’t want to more than he wanted to. “You ruined my life,” he finally settled on saying. “You ruined me.”
“Kid like you?” he said. “Nothing could ruin you.”
Later that day, the state police arrived. Men in uniforms opened the big man’s cell, and E. P. became a different man altogether. He became E. P. the joyful preacher. He was charming. He was clever. He was nice to the officers, and funny. And he even made a few of them smile.
Before he left the jailhouse, he turned to face Coot and he winked.
Eighty
Yawning Partners
It was late. The jailhouse was faintly alive with the sound of a young man’s tenor voice making a gentle melody. Coot hummed something. It was familiar to Marigold’s ears, but she couldn’t place the tune.
She listened, lying on the cot with her eyes closed.
The humming stopped. “You awake, Marigold?” Coot asked her.
“I’m awake,” she said.
“But your eyes are closed.”
“I’m pretend sleeping.”
“Pretend sleeping? Why?”
“Because I don’t know what else to do.”
She opened her eyes and saw the outline of Coot’s tall frame standing near the window of their cell. He was looking out at the world. He was a serious young man, but his eyes were kind.
“You okay?” he said.
She sighed. “Oh, I don’t know.”
More silence.
“What about you?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
“Who, me? I’m great. What a marvelous day, what a delightful jailhouse.”
She laughed. It felt good to laugh. “Now you’re the one who’s pretending. I just wanna go home.”
“Home,” he said.
She couldn’t think of anything else to say. She wanted this man to like her. He seemed like a genuine person. But words were hard for her to find, and she was too busy wondering what would become of her.
She was ridden with irrational fears that would not leave her. She wondered what people thought of her. She wondered if they were right. And she wondered what this young man thought of her. He probably thought she was a freak after what he’d seen her do. She wasn’t so sure she wasn’t some kind of freak.
“You ever been to the Gulf of Mexico?” he said.
She rolled over on the cot to face him. “You mean the beach?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Sure. It’s not far from here.”
“Is it everything they say it is? You know how people exaggerate about stuff.”
“It really is. It’s breathtaking. You’d like it.”
“It seems like every time I get close to it, it gets farther away from me.”
“I know what you mean.”
And in fact, she did know what he meant. Sometimes it felt like everything she had ever loved drifted from her before she got close to it. Sometimes she wondered if the universe was against her.
“I heard the water’s bluish green,” said Coot. “Like emeralds and such. Heard it looks like a fa
iry-tale drawing.”
“Yeah, I guess so. But it’s the sand that’s really impressive. It’s so white, it looks like snow.”
“Really?”
“Yep. First time I went to the beach, I thought the dunes were made of sugar. The girls all told me it was made of sugar, and I believed them.”
“I’d like to see that one day.”
“You really should.”
Coot wandered to her cot and sat beside her. She heard him breathe. They were shoulder to shoulder.
“Will you take me?” he said.
Marigold had no idea what was to become of her life. The whole world seemed uncertain and unsteady to her. She wasn’t sure if she could commit to such fantasies, and she wasn’t sure it would do anyone any good to pretend that she could. But something about kindness from another made her feel hopeful.
“Of course I will,” she said.
“Promise?”
“Sure, why not.”
More silence.
“Marigold, are you scared?”
She liked the way he said her name. There was a familiarity to his voice. It was as though he were already family. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”
“Yeah, I was too.”
“Was?”
“Oh, I was scared when Joseph got shot, more scared than I ever been, and believe me, I’ve been pretty scared before. Once I was so scared, I didn’t sleep for three days. But this was worse.”
“What made you unscared?”
He turned toward her. She heard the cot springs squeak when he did. “You,” he said. “You made me feel that way.”
“Me?” she said. “I didn’t do anything.”
“I know. You didn’t have to.”
Eighty-One
Newspapermen
When Coot awoke, Marigold’s hand was resting on his own. He could feel warmth coming from it. He didn’t want to move it. He wanted to hold it, wanted to place his hand atop hers and touch her soft skin.
He looked at her hand. And he remembered how red it had gotten when she’d touched Joseph earlier. It had looked red and raw. But here it was pale white and a little clammy. He had kept his left arm so still the circulation had been cut off and his limb had fallen asleep up to his elbow.
He let his eyes fall shut, but he was not asleep. He was lost in the rapture of hand holding. It was something teenagers experienced but he had never known.
The moment was short-lived. The sound of shoes startled him. When he opened his eyes, he saw shoes with hard heels making clicks on the jailhouse floor.
Coot sat up straight and saw four men in suits holding paper pastry boxes, paper bags, and tin thermoses.
“Thank God,” said Joseph, who was already awake. He pinched out his cigarette and wedged the butt behind his ear. “The food committee finally arrives. I’m starving myself half to death.”
But the men paid no attention to Joseph; they only whispered to each other. They set the pastry boxes down and scanned the cells with quick eyes.
“Over here,” said Joseph. “Let’s have that breakfast. I could eat an elephant, one leg at a time.”
“That must be her,” said one suit, pointing toward a sleeping Marigold.
“That must be the old man,” said another suit.
“Better move quick,” the suit said. “That sheriff’s a real jerk when he gets mad.”
“Hey,” said Joseph. “Pass that food this’a way, son.”
One suit walked toward Joseph and removed a notepad from his jacket pocket. “Are you the one?”
“The one?” said Joseph. “I’m the one who wants whatever’s in that box.”
“I’m with the Herald Tribune, sir. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Huh?”
“Was it true that you were dead for nearly an hour, sir? How did that feel?”
“Hey, what is this?” Joseph said. “I’ve already answered these questions with the sheriff. Now I’m hungry enough to eat your foot, son, and I ain’t talking without food.”
But there was no food. The men were opening the pastry boxes and removing cameras with flashbulbs attached to the fronts.
“Hey!” said Joseph. “Where’s my breakfast? I got rights, you know. I’m a paying customer.”
But the suit kept asking Joseph questions. “I’m with the Post, sir. Was it a religious experience? Are you a religious man? Where are you from? What was the nature of your relationship with the woman who touched you? Who did you vote for in the last election?”
“I ain’t telling you a thing,” said Joseph. “Ain’t talking to no newspaperman.”
The other suits had zeroed in on Marigold. They cranked their cameras and lit up the cell with their flashbulbs. The bright light didn’t stir her.
“Someone wake her up,” said one suit. “Picture’s no good if she’s sleeping, dumbbell.”
One of the suits flicked a smoldering cigarette butt at Marigold and spoke in a strange accent. “Hey, sweetie. Give us a smile, would ya? One little smile?”
But Marigold was sleeping too hard to be stirred.
“Hey!” Coot shouted. “Get outta here! Leave her alone!”
The men ignored him.
“Sir,” the suit said to Joseph, licking the tip of his pencil. “Did you see any beings, or any bright lights, or hear any strange sounds?”
Coot reached his hands through the bars at the men. He made an attempt to choke any of the suits who came near him. But the suits leapt backward. One man laughed and said, “Whoa, this one’s grumpy.”
“Sheriff! Sheriff!” yelled Coot. “Get these men outta here!”
But the sheriff didn’t appear.
Joseph followed Coot’s lead. He turned from the men in suits and leapt onto his bed, grabbed the bars of his cell window, and hoisted himself up using his arm strength.
Coot marveled at this. Joseph’s upper arms flexed, and his sinewy muscles showed through his old skin. Joseph looked like a man who’d lost five decades from his age. He pressed open the window and hollered, “Sheriff! Get in here, Sheriff!”
“Hurry,” said one of the men. “That old man’s gonna blow our cover.”
“Charlie, I need a picture of her awake.”
“She’s sleeping too hard.”
“Throw something at her, for crying out loud.”
The man in the gray suit tossed wadded paper from the trash basket at her. But Marigold didn’t move.
“Sheriff!” Joseph screamed out the window.
One man finally tossed a book through the bars. The book came crashing down onto Marigold’s chest. Marigold rose from the bed.
“Shoot her!” said one man. “Take the shot!”
A chorus of flashbulbs lit up the cell. She shielded her eyes in the momentary lapse of blue light.
“Move your hand, honey,” said one man, replacing a flashbulb. “Let New York see them pretty eyes.”
“C’mon, doll,” said another. “Smile for old Charlie?”
More flashbulbs.
Then came the onslaught of questions.
“Miss,” said one suit. “Do you consider yourself a messenger from another realm? Are you here to deliver a message to people of this planet?”
“Are you a prostitute, ma’am?” another added. “And if so, how long have you been involved in such illegal activities?”
“Can you talk to the dead, miss?”
“Have you ever, or would you ever, or have you ever considered bringing small creatures back to life?”
“Do you consider yourself a humanitarian?”
“Are you in any way affiliated with the Communist Party?”
“Did you like the last Cary Grant picture?”
Coot removed his boot and flung it through the bars at the men. The heel of the boot hit one man square in the face. Coot couldn’t remember ever feeling such satisfaction with himself.
But before Coot could work his other boot off, the door to the jailhouse opened and the sheriff walked in.
The sheriff’s face was inflamed and his eyes were big. He stepped toward one man, removed the camera from his hands, opened the back compartment, and strung the guts out. Then he grabbed the man by the shoulders and shoved him out the open door. The other men scurried behind him, holding cameras high above their heads.
“Gimme those cameras!” shouted the sheriff, who darted after them.
Coot could hear everyone’s footsteps reverberating in the hall, clomping down the staircase. Coot leapt onto his bed and looked out the window again. He saw the men in suits outrun the sheriff, leap into a car, and speed off, leaving the sheriff standing in the street holding his hat.
“Are you okay?” Coot said to Marigold. “Did they hurt you?”
“No,” said Marigold.
“They’re like wolves.”
“They stink too,” said Joseph. “Like cologne.”
“I don’t know how you could sleep through all that,” said Coot.
“I wasn’t,” said Marigold. “I was only pretend sleeping.”
Eighty-Two
Clippings
When they entered Mobile, Ruth was too busy staring at the mansions that lined the streets to pay attention to the folded paper map in her hands. The iron railings and ornate houses were overwhelming. They drove across the cobblestones, and the vibration nearly rattled the old truck apart. Stringbean was about to have a nervous breakdown in the back seat from all the rattling.
Ruth pointed out the window. “Look at that house, that one’s so pretty!”
Pete couldn’t answer her; there were too many cars driving beside him, around him, and before him. There hadn’t been this many cars the last time he visited. It was as though he were stuck in a deadly river of automobiles from which there was no escape. One vehicle honked its horn. He almost lost control of the wheel and his bladder at the same time.
“Look at that house!” Ruth yelled. “It’s huge!”
They rolled across railroad tracks. The bumps taxed the axle of his truck. Stringbean was panting. Drool fell from her jowls. Pete knew Stringbean was just as nervous as he was.
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