Coot climbed the steps onto the railcar and took a few breaths before he rapped on the glass panel of the door. He cupped his hand over his mouth and smelled his own breath.
He took a few steps back and waited.
A bald man opened the door and gave Coot a serious look. He stood in the doorway like a human tank. The neck on this man was nearly as big as Coot’s upper thigh.
“Can I help you, son?” the man said.
Coot cleared his throat. “Um, yes . . . I am with the, um . . .”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, son. He don’t receive visitors.” The man placed a meaty hand on the knob and shut the door.
Coot pressed his boot between the door and the jamb. The door closed on his foot and he thought he might have felt a few bones break.
“I know,” said Coot. “I know he doesn’t want visitors, but . . . but this is an emergency.”
“Emergency?” said the bald man.
“Life and death.”
“Life and death? Write him a letter. You know how many people got life-and-death emergencies for J. Wilbur?” He pressed the door closed.
This time Coot wedged his torso through the door and said, “There’s no time for letters. I need five minutes! Just five minutes! Please!”
The man placed his Virginia-ham-size hand on Coot’s throat and shoved him from the doorway. He followed Coot outside and shut the door behind him. He gave Coot a smirk. “You’re crazy, kid. Now get outta here before I teach you how to turn the other cheek.”
He went back inside, then closed the door.
“Please,” Coot shouted at the door. “Five minutes!” Coot slammed his fists against the door and beat out a steady rhythm. “Please!” Coot pretended to sob. “I’m begging you!”
The man opened the door again. He pressed Coot backward using his fist. He stared at Coot with a face that seemed more sympathetic than Coot had expected. The man drew in a long, annoyed breath.
“Wait right here,” he said.
Fake crying, Coot thought. Works every time.
Ninety-One
J. Wilbur
The interior of J. Wilbur Chaplain’s railcar was plain. There were no decorations, no intricate woodwork, and no chandeliers. There were only two beds, a kitchenette, and a fan in the corner, blowing.
Coot had only heard stories about him as a child. And he’d expected the man to be the poster boy for gracious living. But this man was traveling in a railcar that needed a fresh coat of paint and a few throw pillows. It was only a few notches above Coot’s jail cell.
He stood before the man, remembering all the things he’d heard about him. He’d heard all the stories there were. This man, many claimed, had changed tent preaching forever. Until J. Wilbur’s time, men had been preachers who begged sinners to come down the aisle using big words and high English. But J. Wilbur came into town and spoke common words, the people’s language. Sometimes he even used words that made sailors gasp.
Or so the stories went.
Long ago, Blake told Coot that J. Wilbur once waved his hand over an auditorium and the whole place broke into spontaneous weeping for ninety-one minutes. People went crazy and started tearing their shirts and hiding beneath pews, praying for the wrath of God to spare them. And legend had it that J. Wilbur stood on a piano wearing only his underpants and preached for two hours.
But here, standing before the man, Coot couldn’t help but doubt the facts within these stories. This man seemed quiet and reserved. He was nothing at all like the voice on the tinny radio speakers, and he didn’t seem like a legend.
And all at once, Coot felt ashamed to be here.
“I read about this woman in the paper,” said J. Wilbur. “The papers were not kind to her. They were using some coarse descriptions.”
“So you’ve heard of her?” said Coot.
“Oh, you’d have to be hiding under a rock not to know about this woman they call the harlot.”
J. Wilbur invited Coot to sit on the chair across from him while he ate a late supper. Coot told the man about what had happened. He told him everything, starting from the beginning, about how she brought Joseph back with just a touch.
Coot was surprised to see how kind J. Wilbur was. He did not seem like a man who would stand on a piano wearing only his underpants. He looked like anyone else. At times he was humorous, lighthearted. And he was calm. He was, in fact, one of the nicest men Coot had ever met. And this disappointed Coot. He wanted to hate this man for all he represented, for the world he came from. But there was nothing to hate.
Finally, when Coot had run out of words, J. Wilbur went to his cabinet and removed a can. He held it toward Coot. “Would you like some Ovaltine?”
J. Wilbur shook the can for effect.
“Ovaltine?” said Coot.
“Yessir,” he said. “Ovaltine contains malt, milk, and eggs, fortified with necessary vitamins and minerals, and is America’s food beverage assisting in maintaining and building up health and strength and energy and encouraging health-restorative sleep to keep your body and mind feeling strong and vigorous.”
“Why not.”
J. Wilbur opened the can, stabbed a spoon into it, then mixed the brownish powder with milk. “I never go anywhere without my Ovaltine. There’s nothing like it.” He fixed Coot a glass too.
Maybe he was the kind of man who preached for two hours in his underpants.
Finally J. Wilbur said, “You saw all this yourself, son? You saw her bring this man back to life?” When he said it, he gave Coot the first hint of a look that resembled a preacher’s stare. Then he took a sip of Ovaltine and left a chocolate-colored milk mustache on his upper lip.
“I was holding him when it happened,” said Coot.
“And what was it like?”
“Well, his body went from being stiff and hard and cold to being warm and moving. And now he’s alive again, and he’s a different man.”
“Different? How?”
“Well, he used to have a problem with the bottle, and he hasn’t taken a drink since it happened.”
“Astounding,” said J. Wilbur, killing his glass. “Absolutely astounding. Would you like some more Ovaltine?”
“No, I’m still working on it.”
J. Wilbur fixed another glass. He approached Coot and started to say something, but removed his eyeglasses and placed the stem in his mouth, holding a far-off but dignified look on his face.
Coot wished he wore eyeglasses so he could do this.
“Son,” said J. Wilbur. “You know, I’ve seen a lotta things in the heat of the moment. A lotta things. I once saw a man bark like a Labrador in Pittsburgh.”
“I’ve seen people act crazy before,” said Coot. “And I’ve seen bogus healings, more than I’d like to remember. This isn’t that. This is the real thing.”
J. Wilbur turned his glass of Ovaltine upside down and drained the whole thing in a few gulps. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and said, “These are exciting times, ain’t they, son?”
A spark filled the man’s eye, and the roundness of his face faded, and his age momentarily disappeared.
“These are exciting times.” He clapped once. “What’d you say your name was?”
Coot felt his thighs draw up into his bowels. He had gone the entire conversation without referring to E. P. And he didn’t want to start now.
“My name?” said Coot. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. A young man comes to me speaking of the dead breathing anew, inheriting revitalized bodies. This young man has to have a name.”
“My name is Coot.”
J. Wilbur frowned. “Coot. What an interesting name. Is it a nickname?”
“Yessir. Short for Thurston Reginald McMillian the Third.”
“Really?”
“No. It’s just plain old Coot. I believe you knew my father.” Coot paused. The words felt heavy coming out of his mouth. He’d never said those words before. Not like that. Not in his entire life h
ad he ever used the word father in relation to E. P. In fact, he’d never called anyone Father, not even the Almighty.
“Who was your daddy?” said J. Wilbur, smiling.
Coot swallowed a sip of Ovaltine. It was too late to turn back now. “E. P. Willard, sir.”
J. Wilbur let out a single laugh. He slapped his knee and leaned forward to look into Coot’s face. He seemed to be studying Coot. “Why, I’ll be dog!” the man said. “I thought you looked familiar. Why, you look just like him, boy. Eddie Willard, your father? The Eddie Willard?”
“The one and only.”
“Well, how is your pa? Why, I haven’t seen him in a coon’s age, son.”
“He’s good. He’s just been tied up lately.”
“Oh, that’s marvelous. I’m glad to hear it.”
They were interrupted by a crash of glass. The door to the railcar was shattered by a rock that landed in the center of the railcar floor. Then a loud crash. Then the door flung open and slammed against the wall. In the doorway stood Joseph, bearing a pistol and flinty eyes that suggested he was not here to play patty-cake.
“Alright, Preacherman,” Joseph said. “Come with Daddy, sucker.”
Ninety-Two
Joy to the World
Pete was lying in bed, watching the ceiling fan spin in lazy circles. He’d never actually seen a ceiling fan before staying in this motel. They were strange devices, but they worked so well. The gentle breeze fell upon him and did little to keep him cool, but it felt good nonetheless. This only led him to wonder what air-conditioning was like. He’d only ever seen one air conditioner in his life.
He’d heard if you breathed the air from an air conditioner too long, you would develop asthma or, in some extreme cases, go blind. He wasn’t sure if it was true, but he was very careful when he went into places that had air-conditioning, and did his best to hold his breath.
Ruth was asleep beside him. Stringbean was lying on Ruth’s feet, curled into a ball. He wanted more than anything to leave this town and go back home. He wanted to find a small house and start a small farm, maybe raise cotton or tobacco and, God willing, hunting dogs. But he knew that Ruth was feeling different things in this city, and he did not want to disappoint her. She was everything to him.
Ruth rolled onto her side. Pete could see her violet eyes boring into him. She was no longer asleep.
“What’re you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking that I love this ceiling fan.”
“Maybe we can get one someday.”
“Maybe.”
She touched his face. She brought herself closer to him and spoke in a hushed voice. “I feel something here,” she said. “I feel . . . I feel . . . I don’t know.”
“What?” he said.
“I feel like I should be here. Like there’s something here.”
He didn’t want to tell her that he felt the exact opposite. He didn’t want to ruin her excitement. She was a girl who had adventure in her, he knew this. He was a man who could stay in one place so long he developed moss on his backside.
“You like it here?” he said.
“No.”
This confused him. He sat straight up in bed. “You don’t?” he said, and Stringbean moaned. She did not like to be disturbed while in the throes of sleep.
“No,” she said. “It’s too big for me.”
He felt elation. “You don’t like it here?”
“No, but I feel something here.”
“You feel what?”
“Something.”
Ruth was hard to understand.
“I mean,” she went on, “it’s like I’m supposed to be here for something. Something big. It’s a feeling in my stomach.”
Pete nodded. “Well, it’s hard to find work here.” By “hard,” he meant he had a better chance of becoming president of the United States than finding a job bagging groceries.
“I know. I know it is.” She wrapped her arms around him. “I don’t know what it is about this place, though. I don’t know why I feel this way.”
“Well, it’s part of your history, I guess. I mean, you were born not far from here.”
“Yeah, but it’s deeper than that. You know how it is after Thanksgiving?”
“Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah, you know how everything feels when Christmas is on its way?”
“I don’t follow you.” Rarely did he ever.
“C’mon,” she said. “You know how even though nothing is different about the world—the weather is sorta the same—it feels like a totally different place to live? Like there’s something magic in the air?”
“Are we really having a conversation about the magic of Christmas right now?”
“No.” She swatted his shoulder. “Listen to me, will you? I feel that same sorta happy feeling I get in December, but not in the same sorta way.”
“Well,” he said. “I’ll be sure to pick up some garland on the way home tomorrow.”
She laughed. “I mean it. I feel it, I really do. Don’t you feel anything?”
“Do I feel anything?”
“Yeah, don’t you feel something?”
He kissed her forehead. He wanted to tell her that he felt homesick. He wanted to admit that he missed home so bad he could taste it. He wanted to tell her that he felt alone in this godforsaken city, without a friend in the world except a spoiled bloodhound. He wanted her to know how bad he missed his bunk on Miss Warner’s farm and waking up to train his dogs to follow trails.
He wanted to, but he couldn’t. His life half belonged to her now. And her happiness half belonged to him. And even though he was dreaming of home, he would not tarnish her newfound happiness.
“I miss Vern,” he said.
“Me too.”
“And I miss Paul.”
“Oh, so do I.”
“I do not miss Miss Warner.”
She started laughing. “Not even just a little bit?”
“Maybe a little.”
“I know you miss home,” she said in a serious voice. “I miss it too. But I’m glad to be here with you.”
“I don’t miss it that much,” he lied.
She closed her eyes and fell asleep on his chest. She seemed to be wearing a gentle smile. He twirled a strand of her hair in his hand while watching the hypnotic ceiling fan above him.
“G’night,” she whispered.
“Merry Christmas,” he said.
Ninety-Three
Ride with the Lord
Coot, Joseph, and J. Wilbur Chaplain sat in the back seat together. They rode through the early light with the sunrise ahead of them. J. Wilbur wore a white linen suit with a high collar and brass cuff links. J. Wilbur was a man who had an endearing commonness to him. He seemed perpetually relaxed. Even after Joseph had threatened to gut him like a “godless trout”—Joseph’s exact words—the man was easygoing.
Somehow Coot had managed to get the gun away from Joseph and convince the most famous man in America that they were not lunatics. Not entirely. And in only a few minutes, Chaplain had agreed to help them. They piled into the man’s car and shot through the dark until the sun began to rise.
The morning scenery passed them at slow speeds. J. Wilbur Chaplain looked out the window. “You know, Coot, I used to be a professional ballplayer.”
Coot was jolted from his thoughts. “A ballplayer?” he said. “You?”
J. Wilbur seemed almost surprised by Coot’s response. “Didn’t your father ever talk about me?”
Coot cringed at the usage of the word father.
“They called me Lulu the Lefty. I was a sidearm man.” J. Wilbur showed his left hand to Coot. “I was one doozy of a left-handed pitcher. They offered me two thousand a year to play in Saint Louis, and I almost took it too.”
J. Wilbur looked out the window. He was lighthearted and easy. Coot respected him for this alone. Coot himself was a passionate man who had a habit of worrying about everything.
“I went to this reviva
l outside Atlanta,” J. Wilbur went on. “In a big tent. I was only there because of a girl I liked. She wanted to go.” J. Wilbur raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I thought she was as hot as an oven mitten. So I went.”
Joseph had already fallen asleep beside Coot. He could feel Joseph’s heavy breathing on his neck and smell his deadly mule breath. He adjusted Joseph’s position so the old man’s mouth would be aimed in the opposite direction.
“A girl?” said Coot.
“I’d never even set foot in a church before, if you can believe it.”
“Really?”
“As I live and breathe,” J. Wilbur said. “A girl will make you do strange things, son. Make you forget all about what you hold to be common sense.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I’ll never forget it. I saw this young man preaching on the stage, wearing all white. He was wild, theatrical. Before I knew it, I found myself walking down the aisle for salvation when the music played, almost against my will. That’s how good he was.”
Joseph adjusted himself against Coot. The old man released an aroma that filled the car and caused Coot to roll down the window.
“Anyway,” said J. Wilbur. “When I got to the altar that night, long ago, I saw that this young preacher was about my age.” He laughed. “I could hardly believe it. A man my age, making such a difference in the world, commanding an audience for the cause of goodness and charity and Christian kindness.
“The man prayed for me, and it did something to me. It changed me. He told me his name was E. P. Willard. Beautiful man. Beautiful man, your father.”
The words stung Coot’s ears.
“Are you sure it was him?” said Coot.
“We were friends for a few years after that. He taught me how to be who I was always meant to be.”
J. Wilbur Chaplain closed his eyes. “I turned Saint Louis down. I was afraid I was doing the wrong thing. I’d never been so scared in all my life.”
“And what happened?”
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