Stars of Alabama

by Sean Dietrich

  “Look at this city,” said Ruth, pointing out the back window. “It’s lovely. It just goes on and on.”

  “I’m ready for it to quit,” said Pete. “Why are there so many cars here? There weren’t this many last time I was here.”

  “Beats me.”

  A delivery truck passed Pete at a high speed, the gust of wind blowing his hair backward and rattling the windshield. Pete almost made a mess in his pants.

  “Do you think people actually live in those big houses?” asked Ruth.

  Another truck passed. Pete gritted his teeth. “I don’t know.”

  “Pete!” yelled Ruth. She pointed. “Stop!”

  They were at the toll booth again. For the second time. This meant they’d been traveling in circles. Which was Ruth’s fault. She was supposed to be reading a map, giving him directions, but she was too busy marveling at French architecture.

  The man in the toll booth was eating his lunch. He held out his hand. “You again?” he said with a mouthful. “Two bits, kid.”

  Pete swallowed and looked at him. “Can’t you just let us through? We’re sorta lost.”

  “You wanna use the tunnel, it’s two dimes. Now make it snappy, you’re holding up traffic.”

  Pete reached into his pocket and removed some change. He handed it to the man and said, “This is highway robbery, you know that?”

  “Yeah, I know,” the man said, giving him change. Then he removed a piece of ham from his sandwich and gave it to Coot.

  Coot looked at the pink chunk of ham. “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “It’s for your dog, stupid,” he said.

  Eighty-Three

  Mug Shots

  The front page of the Press-Register showed Marigold’s face, harshly lit with a bright flash. Her eyes were big and baggy, her hair a mess. The photo made her look like a drowning victim who might or might not have lice.

  The headline read, “Man Raised from Dead.”

  The sheriff threw the newspaper on the desk and swore beneath his breath.

  Marigold held her own copy. She was seated on the opposite side of the desk, sipping coffee.

  Coot peeked through the blinds. “The crowd’s been growing all day,” he said. “Don’t these people have lives?”

  “We tried to break ’em up this morning,” said the sheriff. “There were too many of them. It was like trying to catch a greased house cat.”

  This morning two bricks had been thrown through the jailhouse windows with notes attached. One of the bricks had a note that read, “Kill the witch.” The people were getting dangerous. The sheriff had been getting so many calls that he had to keep his office phone off the hook.

  The sheriff said, “The longer I keep her in this courthouse, the more things get outta control. And I simply don’t have the manpower or the jail space to do anything about these people.”

  “There must be four hundred quacks out there,” said Coot.

  “What is it they want?” asked Marigold.

  “They wanna see you do something,” said Coot. “They wanna see a miracle.”

  “Who knows what they want,” the sheriff said.

  “They want to see a magic trick,” said Coot. “Whether they think she’s the devil or not, they wanna see something.”

  “How do you know?” said Marigold.

  “Just a hunch,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t care what they want to see,” the sheriff said. “They ain’t gonna see it here.”

  “Can you believe this?” said Joseph, who was lying on his cot, reading a paper. “Those hick reporters called me an old man.” He lowered the paper. “Coot, do I look old to you?”

  “I’m worried they’re gonna try something tonight,” said Coot. “If they don’t get what they want.”

  “Try something?” said Marigold.

  “I’ve got three of my men standing guard,” said the sheriff. “But three men is all I got.”

  “The nerve of those journalist hicks,” said Joseph. “Why, I ain’t even in my eighties yet.”

  “You all have to get outta my jailhouse before someone gets hurt,” said the sheriff.

  “Leave?” said Joseph, lowering his paper. “But I like the food here.”

  “Where will we go?” said Marigold.

  “Don’t matter to me,” the sheriff said. “But you can’t stay here or these people are liable to go get pitchforks and torches.”

  A window shattered. A brick slid on the floor amid shards of broken glass. A paper note was tied around it.

  The sheriff retrieved the brick. Without reading the note, he walked to the window and hurled it out. He shouted at the small clot of people, “Get off my lawn!” But his voice was lost in the sound of the crowd.

  The sheriff turned to Coot. “Now, there ain’t no charges pressed against you two. As far as I’m concerned, you were never here. I’m expelling you from the jailhouse.”

  “What?” said Coot. “You can’t just throw us out. They’ll kill us.”

  “We’ll try to escort you somewhere safe,” the sheriff said.

  “Try?” said Coot. “Who, you and the three little bears? Those people down there are crazy. Crazy folks do crazy things. We can’t leave this building—they might hurt her.”

  “I think I look pretty good for my age,” said Joseph, who was facing the shaving mirror in his cell. “Pretty dang good.”

  The sheriff stepped toward Coot and pressed a finger into his chest. “You don’t get the luxury of calling the shots. You know, I could have your neck stretched for trying to make off with that money, you and the old man. Two thieves like you.”

  The sheriff gripped Coot by the shoulders and held him. “You are trying my patience, son. Now, you’re either with me or you’re against me.”

  Another rock crashed through the window.

  The sheriff hurled it back through the window toward the crowd and hollered, “Quit breaking my windows, you hicks!”

  Eighty-Four

  Mobile Bay

  The motor inn was positioned on the wide Mobile Bay, which sprawled in each direction toward the horizon. The white clapboards were covered in a thin film of green, and the roof was rusted. The inn was filled with guests, but nobody stayed in their rooms. They all sat in the breezeway, smoking cigarettes, watching the bay water.

  Something about the bay was otherworldly. It did something to Ruth. It made her think bigger thoughts than she normally thought. And that was saying something; her thoughts were already very big. She felt something here. Something familiar.

  Stringbean sat on a leash beside Pete looking pitiful. Bean had never seen a leash in her life—and she didn’t like it. Ruth didn’t blame her. If she had been a dog, she would’ve hated leashes too. In some ways Ruth and Stringbean were alike. They were raised without mothers, in packs. They loved food, and they were born to be runners.

  Stringbean loved to run more than any creature she’d ever seen. Even so, the animal sat beside Pete like a faithful companion, behaving, ready to do whatever Pete asked.

  Ruth and Stringbean stared at the gray water. They were both still and quiet. The people in Ruth’s life were almost doglike. And the dogs in her life were almost people-like.

  This motor inn was the nicest place she’d ever been. Hands down. The room had green carpet, a small kitchenette with one burner, and a shower. A real shower.

  Until the motor inn, Ruth had never taken a shower in her life, only baths in Miss Warner’s claw-foot washtub. Since they’d arrived a few days ago, she had taken nine showers. She could not get over how exhilarating it was. It was a marvelous experience, maybe one of the best experiences she’d ever had in her life—except for the time she beat Daniel McGhee in a footrace at the county fair.

  The room was small but nice. There were two single beds, a radio, and wallpaper that had little mermaids on it. Mermaids. It was heaven.

  Ruth found a chair beside Pete and looked at the bay. “Beautiful, ain’t it?” she said.

/>   He looked at her like he was being recalled from a faraway place. “Yeah.”

  “Can you believe we’re actually in Mobile?”

  “Can you believe we’re actually married?” he said.

  She took his hand. “I can. I can believe it.”

  A smile made its way onto his face. “Married.”

  He looked at his lap. His face could go from being alive with joy to sullen in only a moment.

  “What?” she asked.

  “My mother,” he said. “She always wanted to see the ocean. She woulda loved it here.”

  Ruth leaned against him. She smelled the salty bay water in the air and listened to the sound of it rush onto the shore. Water gathering onto itself, then dispersing. She felt hypnotized by this. It took her to a place in her mind that felt familiar.

  For some reason it made her think of her own mother.

  “I used to wonder what my mama was like.”

  “Your mama?” said Pete.

  “Yeah, I wonder if she done things like I do them or looked like me.”

  “I’ll bet she looked like you.”

  “I wonder if she ever thought about me.”

  “’Course she did. You know she loved you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because who couldn’t love you?”

  “Then why’d she leave me? Who leaves their own baby?”

  Pete gave no response.

  Ruth closed her eyes. She smelled the languid air and took in the humid world. She thought of the dreams that were lodged in the back of her mind, untouched. Things she hadn’t thought about in a long time. This water. It was as though she had seen it before. The thought started small, then grew like a weed inside her head.

  Then an idea came to her.

  She went inside and opened the cigar box full of her things. She emptied the contents, the sentimental knickknacks. The sticks of gum, the mood ring, the hard rock candy Vern gave her on her thirteenth birthday. She found the newspaper clipping. She traced her finger along the text.

  Lost baby rescued near Rabbit Creek, Mobile, Ala.

  She wandered back outside to Pete and sat beside him. “I wanna go to Rabbit Creek,” she said.

  He read it and furrowed his brow. “What’s this?”

  “It was Paul’s.”

  Pete read it a few times, then flipped it over. “How do we find Rabbit Creek?” he said. “We ain’t never been here before.”

  She folded the clipping and placed it in her pocket. “You haven’t, but I have.”

  Eighty-Five

  Madness

  There was a full moon that night. Marigold saw it and felt the beauty of it. It lit the night with an electric blue light. The crowd outside the courthouse had transformed the lawn into a camp. There were small campfires on the grass with people seated around them. There were tents with children asleep inside. There were vehicles parked in uneven rows on the grass, doors splayed open, with quilts hanging from the doors like awnings.

  “This is madness,” said the sheriff. “Who are these people?”

  Marigold was dressed in a deputy’s uniform. Her hair was tucked beneath an officer’s cap, and she wore uncomfortable men’s shoes that made her feet hurt.

  The sheriff and Coot escorted Marigold to the squad car across the parking lot. Joseph followed them. Two deputies with rifles followed him. They weaved through the murmuring crowd, who all stood when the deputies passed.

  Soon the whole crowd was on their feet, and it looked like they were going to swallow Marigold. She kept her head down, and Coot held her close.

  “I’m scared,” she whispered to Coot.

  “Don’t be,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It just sounded like the right thing to say.”

  One deputy said, “I don’t recognize any of these people. They ain’t from our town.”

  “Reckon they’re here for J. Wilbur,” said the sheriff. “The whole world must follow him wherever he goes.”

  Marigold glanced at a license plate on one of the nearby vehicles. It was from Ohio. She saw another vehicle from Maryland. She didn’t even know where Maryland was on a map.

  Coot hooked his arm tightly around her. She leaned into him. They passed men who held shotguns, families with children who wore big eyes, and old men holding Bibles.

  When they got close to the police car, they saw a man with a long black beard standing beside it, a rifle slung over his shoulder. The man’s long hair was oiled against his head, and his clothes were tattered.

  He spit when he saw the sheriff, then made a clicking noise with his mouth that sounded like he was calling a horse. Marigold saw five others emerge from behind the squad car so quietly, she almost missed them. Each man bearing a rifle.

  The sheriff stepped forward and shouted, “I’m Sheriff Locklin, and you better let us through.”

  The man with the beard took two steps forward. He was joined by his allies, who all aimed their rifles at them.

  The sheriff did not budge. “You’re about to be very sorry if you don’t step away from that vehicle, son.”

  The bearded man didn’t move a facial muscle. He only stared at the deputies with slow eyes. Marigold noticed his eyes were so dark brown they looked black. She ducked her head.

  The man said, “We want the harlot, Sheriff.”

  The sheriff withdrew his pistol. Black Beard and Company thumb-cocked their weapons almost in unison. The deputies behind Marigold also took aim with their guns and stood wide-legged and ready to kill something.

  The man with the long beard shouted, “That woman is an abomination!”

  “That’s close enough!” the sheriff hollered. “If you move an inch closer, you’re gonna have a big problem on your hands.”

  The bearded man wrinkled his nose. He peered over his rifle barrel and landed his eyes on Marigold. He gave a smirk when he locked eyes with her and swung his barrel toward her.

  “That sure is a pretty deputy you got,” said the man.

  A loud blast.

  Coot threw Marigold to the ground and draped himself on top of her. Joseph jumped atop Coot. And beneath the three-person dog pile, Marigold could feel her heart beating inside her throat. She was too scared to breathe.

  The sheriff yelled at Coot, “Take her back inside!”

  But Coot did not move, partly because Joseph had his knee dug into Coot’s lower back.

  “I said get her inside,” yelled the sheriff. “Now!”

  Coot and Joseph rushed her toward the courthouse, moving quickly through the people with wide eyes. She could hear the people mumble when they passed them.

  When they reached the building, Coot beat on the door and said, “Let us in!”

  The latch clicked. The door opened. Marigold, Joseph, and Coot rushed inside. Marigold collapsed in Coot’s arms and began to cry so hard she almost vomited.

  “This is turning out to be a great night,” said Joseph.

  Eighty-Six

  How High the Moon

  The moon kept her awake. The light was too bright for sleeping. Ruth opened her eyes. She was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The motel room was filled with enough moonlight that she could make out the mermaid wallpaper. Pete was sound asleep beside her. She kissed his neck. He rolled onto his side.

  She stood in the breezeway, watching the whitecaps on the bay. She could see them clearly in the glow of the moon. The long, dark flats of grass jutted outward into the water, disrupting the shallow waves, giving them something to crash against. The pelicans were all asleep. The wind from the bay tossed her hair in all directions. The taste of the salt air was in her mouth.

  She missed Paul more than ever. Each day her loneliness seemed to get a little worse. It was as though her feelings were stored in different compartments within the same big box. She felt pure elation with Pete, to be here, to be married, and to have the modern miracle of a shower.

  But standing here, alone, right now, in the cold ni
ght, against the wind, she could feel how alone she really was.

  The older she got, the smaller she felt in this world. But Paul had always made her feel big. He made her feel as though the sun couldn’t rise or set without her. And she’d somehow believed this for most of her life—for better or worse. But now that he was gone, now that she was in a world without him, she felt like she hardly mattered. The feelings of rejection came back. She was the child of a mother who didn’t want her. A baby who had been left to die by the woman who was supposed to nurse her into life.

  She started crying. She wondered about that woman and where she was. She wondered if the woman was having a marvelous life without her or if she was suffering. She cried, but not for too long. She had cried so much lately; she was weary of crying.

  She watched the moon on the breast of the water. She sat on the bench beside her door and felt something beneath her.

  She stood. It was a newspaper wrapped in twine. There was a picture of a woman on the front. And a headline: “Harlot Raises Man from the Dead.”

  She looked at it for a few moments. Then she tossed the newspaper aside.

  She stared at the full moon until she fell asleep.

  Eighty-Seven

  First Times

  Coot sat beside Marigold on the jail cell cot. They held hot tin mugs of coffee that burned their hands. The steam rising from the coffee gave Coot a fresh surge of energy.

  The announcer on the radio read the news in a voice that sounded too urgent. He spoke about the price of corn, and the president sending troops to Korea. When the news announcer said that J. Wilbur Chaplain had arrived in Alabama, the deputy turned up the volume. The deputy’s face lit up when he heard this. It was as though Santa Claus had just come into the room.

  “J. Wilbur Chaplain,” the static voice said, “is officially in Mobile, Alabama. His train arrived last night and was welcomed into the depot by the mayor and a loyal crowd of . . .”