The Messenger of Magnolia Street

by River Jordan

  The Messenger of Magnolia Street

  A Novel

  River Jordan

  For my Aunt Kate—not a work of fiction at all but of flesh and bone and blood. Thanks for the bossin’ and the biscuits and for that big bosom of love.

  Contents

  Sunday, 11:36 P.M.

  Monday, 6:45 A.M.

  Thursday, 5:36 P.M.

  Friday, 8:14 A.M.

  Saturday, 9:37 P.M.

  Sunday Morning

  Monday, 6:33 A.M.

  Tuesday Morning

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Sunday, 11:36 P.M.

  God is walking through Shibboleth, rummaging through the pockets of his memory, the distant past and the near future. The people of Shibboleth are sleeping, unaware of his presence or that he is considering them and their present circumstances.

  He turns the corner of Magnolia and Main, observing that time has not passed well here but has come tearing its way along with such deceptive quietness that the people live unaware, tricked into silence. This isn’t the way that the story of Shibboleth, keeper of an eternal key, was meant to unfold. Can one simple town be the keeper of something so precious you ask? And can that trust still stand when a hundred years have passed, have rolled their way along into the over and beyond? Well, that’s what you’re here to discover and what I’m here to write down, because I am the Recorder of all that ever was, is now, or is yet to come. Tough job, you say. Well, yes, of course, but then it’s my created purpose until the end of—yes, here’s that word of elusive comportment—time. But enough about me. Right now you don’t know beyond this moment. Only that currently the town of Shibboleth has the smell of rotten eggs. Of secret stealth and things that move along wishing to be left alone. You would notice this if you traveled here. If you were walking down the street in the twilight hours of the evening, you would feel it under your skin, would look over your shoulder twice, possibly even three times, wondering if someone, or something, were following. And if you were fast enough on your feet, you might see a dark mist hovering above the ground like the breath of an unseen predator. Watch closely now, it’s breathing in and out of the very ground, the very foundation of Shibboleth. An inky blackness that hovers and moves at will. You might see it but not the good citizens. As I told you, they are sleeping. In their spirits and in their minds. Some of them have forgotten that the dark passages of their childhood imaginings are relative and real. That their guarded treasure was the Key. The eternal fact that one hope, one dream, one falling wish is worth protecting. Of such simple things the world is made, and kept. In this clear fact, the good people of Shibboleth knew for certain who they were and what was meant to be. In a more distant past, all of Shibboleth knew this. Pilgrimages were made, one by one, or in hand-held groups, down a well-worn path where wild violets bloomed in the grass, to the repository of all their heart’s well-worn desires, their spirits best-said prayers, the Well. Coin by coin they cradled wishes and cast them off, dropping them like falling stars into the clear spring water waiting. And in due season, when time passed into time, the dreams and wishes would manifest on the breath of their believing. And the Key was so well protected, so well kept, that the people breathed a heavy sigh of satisfaction, and rested. But their rest fell into a time of rest and then a time of forgetting.

  Now look. I stand at the forgotten path, weed-eaten and overgrown. The Well now dry. And my wings tremble with so much loss, while time moves forward full of empty.

  On the surface, Shibboleth is still very much the same as many small Southern towns you’ve driven through on your way to somewhere else. There is a town square (more of a circle really) that holds Shibboleth City Hall, Kate’s Diner, Zadok’s Barbershop, Obie’s Salon for Women, a Piggly Wiggly grocery, and on the far reaches of the square, the old PURE station, which has been closed now for many years. The post office is inside City Hall. There are no parking meters, and people can park and take care of business for as long as business takes.

  In the middle of this circle is a large Heritage Oak tree. Shibboleth is full of oaks, water oaks and scrub oaks to name a few, but this one is the granddaddy of them all. It has an official plaque that tells how many wars it has survived and that it is so old it was here before America. In the minds of the people of Shibboleth, that’s farther back than anyone needs to go.

  From a low-flying hawk’s eye, depending on the season, you can see fields of cotton and of corn, rows of beans, or rows of collards, mustard greens, and potatoes. But regardless of the season, what will strike you most is the sleepy patchwork pattern fashioned from the living essence of these kindred souls. You will hear people’s voices rising on the air, their hands clapping with excitement at the telling of their stories, or the softhearted music of their listening to the stories of another. And on happy occasions, grand occasions, you will catch them buck-dancing until they are red-faced and breathless. I have watched this melody of life for more years than you’ve been steady on your feet. It is the dance of time.

  The people in this small town are busy with the charms of contentedly raising their children, and their children’s children, and with the ultimate blessing of divine grace, their children’s children’s children. One generation after the next gazing over their shoulders at children in the yards or up the trees, calling, “Not too far. Not too high.” To the people of Shibboleth, children are the very essence, the future of their faith in everything everlasting and good to the last drop. They memorize the size of their hands, the smell of their sweaty hair, the expressions in their large, trusting eyes, their growing games and funny sayings. And they will tell the stories of their babydom till kingdom come.

  The people’s lives appear simple because they are, but not because the people are simpleminded. They are not. Not in the derogatory sense that people of prejudice might believe. They are simple out of ritual. Out of generations of placing one thing before the next. Taking things one step at a time. And from passing down the Key.

  Do not be mistaken or misunderstand. More so, do not underrate them with any ill-conceived notions of what shape intelligence takes or how it sounds. They are wise, eagle-eyed, and quick. Sure-footed. And they will kill you if they have to. But that would be a hard thing. A terrible thing. Killing is not something they like, and war brings them to their knees in prayer. But they will protect their young and their own with a vengeance. Make no mistake about that.

  If you should venture into Shibboleth, either on the road or in your dreams, notice this: when the people first meet you, they watch you very close even when they aren’t looking. By instinct, they watch you and what comes out of your mouth. They see whether it falls to the ground and takes root or dances off with the dandelions. If they see that you are true of heart and bold of soul they will mark you friend. Then they will fight to protect you, too. To the last breath. It’s their way. And their way is grafted in skin to skin, bone to bone, blood to blood, forever and ever and so on. The Protectors know their purpose.

  Yes, the people of Shibboleth know their purpose, or more correctly, they once did. Lately, they have become lazy. They are not tuned in to the future but are looking back a long, long way and thinking yesterday is where they’re standing. A muffled reality has settled upon them. Can you feel it? It’s as if they are being suffocated in cotton candy. Waking and walking in a sticky sweet half-life, a sugar-coated coma. Good Lord, have mercy.

  Now God has determined to wake them, one by one, and to call someone in particular to get a job done. This someone is a good boy a long way from home. I say a boy, but by now Nehemiah is all of thirty years, four m
onths, three days, twelve hours, eleven minutes and counting. By all worldly standards a full-grown man, but to the people of Shibboleth, he’s their boy. (They have a way of owning what they love.) A charmer he is. Has been since he was two. Has a way of pulling up a chair, straddling it, and holding court on an open porch or the diner floor. And he will tell stories far and wide, or so he once did. And the people would laugh and slap their knees and say, “Tell us another one, Nehemiah, tell us one more for the road.” And he would gladly oblige. Grinning his you just gotta love him grin, the one that shows the dimple on the right side of his cheek, he’d rear back and say, “Just let me see,” and then pull something from his repertoire as easily as a trick man pulls a rabbit from a hat. If they’d had a football team, he would have been their quarterback. If there had been a crowning, he would’ve been their prince. But Shibboleth was content for Nehemiah to simply be the apple of their eye, and for a long time so was he.

  What a baby boy he was for so on and so long. Not a soul grew up more adored in this good town. Not a soul, I tell you. But then the curtains fell and twisted in such a way that Nehemiah couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stay, and he turned his back and headed off to a city with enough noise to stop the questions surfacing in the silence. Enough noise maybe to forget. Or at least blanket the remembering.

  And so now what we are watching is the unfolding of the beginning. A simple chain of events, of causes and effects, that will render a change in Shibboleth. Just in time. No timetable on trust, you say? Ah yes, but even now I hear the ticking of an eternal Timeclock. It’s telling me to move on.

  There now. God’s feet have reached the end of Magnolia Street, where Magnus lives with her fourteen cats (although she claims only seven). She mumbles in her sleep, stretching out her big feet, lets out a snort of sorts, and two cats move along her side to resettle themselves among their brothers. But it isn’t Magnus that God is seeking but Trice (which rhymes with rice) who lives with her in spite of all the good-sense reasons not to. Trice helps Magnus, and for this, well, it’s hard to say what she will get, although others say she’ll surely get to heaven for caring for the ornery old hen.

  God smiles when he hears this, people determining in advance what deeds might usher someone into the Light or what cancels out all possibility of their entry. Scorekeepers, he calls them.

  God says, “Wake up, Trice,” and she does but not as you would suspect. Not as you would suppose. She falls into a deeper dream of things. A dream of images and imaginings. Of visions. Ones that she will not remember in the morning, yet she will remember something. And in that something, a message. She will step outside to see what could be about, could be calling, and there it will be—an unfolding that meets her at the front gate, right next to Magnus’s dahlias and tomato plants. Things have gone wrong. Call Billy. And that statement will push her into tomorrow. She will see the past laid out before her like a roadmap, the present as it is, and the future, as it will be and will be again in a different way. Where the future is a quick right and a quick left.

  Which one is the truth? you ask. The path that time takes, of course.

  As quickly as Trice sees this, all the components, the puzzle pieces will evaporate and leave her just a little breathless with a shiver running up her spine. Just like she is, as we see her, shaking her head, running her hand through her uncombed hair. And that’s how it happens that things are set into motion when she walks into the house, picks up the phone in the hallway, and begins to dial a number.

  Magnus hollers, “Who you calling?” from the other room, her finger in the business.

  Trice says, “Billy.”

  Magnus asks, “What for?”

  And Trice replies, “Just ’cause,” because she really isn’t certain why. Sometimes the answers aren’t ready in the making and aren’t meant to be.

  There are four rings before she gets a gruff “You are interrupting breakfast.” Billy has a weakness for fired pig and biscuits. I make no excuses for him. I don’t have to.

  “You’re supposed to say good morning.”

  “Good morning, Trice.” Billy, named William Daniel by his mother, is a lumbering bear of a man who still misses his momma and daddy and tears up when he thinks about them. And he misses his little brother, Nehemiah. He doesn’t cry when he thinks of him, just feels an emptiness in his chest like something is missing that ought not to be. He does not miss Trice, who is always interrupting his plans to do nothing. Like right now.

  “I just got up and I saw something. Then I thought about you, when just like that”—she snaps her fingers—“I was face-to-face with Nehemiah.” She pauses but there is no further response on the line except for the sound of chewing. Billy knows her “saw something” won’t be anything that is of the natural. That her “saw something” will shoot right through one dimension into another. A wild place that he can only hear about from her. Afterwards. You should’ve seen it, Billy, she’d exclaim, like he could just click his heels and live in the land of Trice. You should’ve seen it. Great white eagles on mountaintops and they were telling me… He has never encouraged her to continue. Not once. But he listens just the same.

  “It occurred to me to call you,” Trice says and then hushes, waits for his response like always, but as usual Billy doesn’t comment on a thing. She stands on her toes and takes little baby dancer steps, a nervous habit since she was two. “Let’s take a ride.”

  Billy reaches for a biscuit from his plate and bites before asking, “Where to?”

  Trice cups the phone next to her mouth, sheltering her words from listening ears, and whispers, “Washington.”

  “You have lost your mind.” Butter is dribbling down his chin and he wipes it with the back of his hand.

  “Billy, like I said, I’ve got,” her baby steps are full of madness now, heel toe, heel toe, she lowers her voice three octaves and it rumbles across the phone line, “a feeling.”

  Trice’s feelings are not new or news to the people of Shibboleth. They amount to everything from a change in the weather to someone dying and everything in between. Most people find it a bit disconcerting. But they wouldn’t use that word. They would say spooky. Sometimes something comes of those spooky feelings that people can touch and believe in. Those times will cause them to be amazed in wonder. Sometimes it seems to be nothing at all. Right now he is hoping for the latter because he had hoped to sneak in some fishing and a whole lot of it.

  Where did God get off to in the middle of the night? Just out walking around. Taking a bit of inventory. Of the dark and the light. Seemingly not in much of a hurry, considering the encroaching penumbra. Considering that when I look I see an open gate where there should be none. And what longs to enter through it, darkness and devastation. And I can feel that evil longing emptying out the good of Shibboleth, pulling on it with every rancid breath as it stands waiting for the gate to open farther. Waiting to step forward and devour a people. I turn to God and look for answers. He motions for me to be still. To keep my silence and write the answers as they unfold. So be it.

  Now he is standing outside Billy’s house drinking a cup of coffee and admiring the oak tree in front, thinking it has fulfilled its promise. It dwarfs the house with roots twenty feet under, branches forty-five feet up. And while he’s admiring it, he’s also listening to Trice’s conversation and Billy’s responses. God is known for being a multitasker.

  He nods his head toward Billy’s house, once, twice, and then there is a groan that translates over the telephone wire to this: it is the sound of the words “All right” and boots being pulled on, a truck being gassed up, and a man heading off in a direction he doesn’t want to travel for a reason he doesn’t understand.

  “Good man,” says God. And the oak tree smiles.

  Monday, 6:45 A.M.

  Old Blue is pointed north, into strange territory. Billy’s hands are on the wheel of the ’73 F150. The tires on the highway create a steady drone of distance. Sunlight flashes through the pines, shoots across th
e road. Billy and Trice move forward, vaulting the shadows in quick succession. They are caught in an undertow propelling them onward, beyond the edges of their time.

  “I can tell you one thing, Nehemiah is not gonna be happy to see us, that much I know.” Billy is anxious, hasn’t given in to the present. “And I tell you another thing, I should’ve called ahead instead of listening to you and us showing up without any warning.”

  “Maybe he’s not gonna be happy to see you but he’s dang sure gonna be happy to see me. But you go ahead, blame it all on me if it makes you feel better.” Trice is up on her knees rummaging through a bag behind the seat. “Besides, who has to warn their brother that they’re coming?”

  “Sit your butt down, Trice, you are bothering me.”

  Trice emerges with a pack of crackers. She’s a nervous eater but you can’t tell by looking at her. Except when she’s eating, of course.

  “He has business up here. Things we don’t know nothin’ about.” Billy hates being corrected by Trice. Just hates it. “Things we don’t want to know nothin’ about. What do you think us just showing up is gonna do, Miss Trice? Make him more than happy to see us?”

  “I told you. He’ll be happy to see me. You’re on your own now, Billy boy.” Trice runs her hands through her hair and tries to untangle what the wind has whipped into a frenzy. She doesn’t feel a smidgen of guilt about dragging Billy up to Washington, and she doesn’t really care if Nehemiah is happy to see either one of them. His happiness has nothing to do with it. Serves him right, she thinks, as she tries to pull through another knot with her fingers. Old Blue my butt, she is thinking. The Chevette has air. Is better on gas. But no, Billy’s gotta kick and swear he can’t breath in it.