WHERE TROUBLE SLEEPS

by Clyde Edgerton

  "What yellow shirt?" asked Mae.

  "The one staying at the Settle Inn—with the pencil-thin mustache. And if Claude T. moved off somewhere you know Dorothea would go with him. I don't know what it's all coming to."

  "Did you hear that cricket?"

  "No. I might have heard one outside."

  "I'm talking about in the bedroom."

  "No. There's not a cricket in there. It was outside."

  "Listen. Did you hear that?"

  "That was outside," said Bea.

  "I don't think so. I think it was right in there in the bedroom."

  "No it wadn't."

  "The thought of trying to find that thing. Just wait until you get in there. You'll hear him then."

  "There ain't no cricket in there."

  Umstead pulled up to the Pendergrass Grill. No cars in the parking lot, but lights were on inside. The screen door slammed behind him. The lights were bright and a young woman, mighty attractive young thing, was wiping off a table. "Y'all closed?" he asked.

  She looked at a clock over the door. "Not until eight. We can fix you up something."

  "1 just want half a hot dog with slaw and peanuts on it, half a pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum, and a Coca-Cola."

  She picked up a tray with plates and glasses. "We don't serve chewing gum except on Tuesday."

  "Then make it a hamburger all the way and a Pepsi. Y'all don't sell beer, do you?"

  "Nosir." Cheryl moved toward the back. "One burger, all the way," she said to the kitchen. "That's pretty funny," she said to Umstead.

  "Coming up," came a woman's voice from the kitchen.

  Umstead looked around. Pictures hanging on the walls—some men holding big fish. Checkered curtains. Electric cords running up to lighted 7-Up and Pepsi signs. A clean feel. Polished wood.

  "There's your Pepsi. It'll be just a minute on your hamburger."

  "I got all night... but I'll try to be out of here by eight, so you can go home and get some rest."

  "I just live right out there."

  "Oh, you must be...? What's your daddy's name?"

  "Johnny Daniels."

  "That's right. I used to live over the other side of T.R. and I'm kind of passing through, visiting some relatives. I used to come over here to Listre years ago."

  "Welcome back."

  "Thank you. Seems like I remember you got a big brother —or sister?"

  "Brother. He's in Memphis now. I got a little brother here."

  "That's right. I don't think he was born when I left. Well, I know he won't."

  "He ain't but seven."

  "Order up," the woman in back called.

  "That Mrs. Pendergrass back there?"

  "Yessir."

  " 'Sir?' Don't call me 'sir.' Makes me feel old."

  "I'm sorry. What's your name then?"

  "I'm Delbert Jones. My pleasure. And what's your name?"

  "Cheryl. Cheryl Daniels. Here you go. Burger all the way. Maybe you ain't all that old."

  "I ain't. Listen, I been aiming to ask somebody—how does that old bulldog over at the gas station tell the weather?"

  "Trouble. Depends on where he ... Trouble. That's his name. Depends on where he takes his morning nap. If it's inside, it's going to rain. Don't let them bet you over there. They've won money on it."

  Over in her office, Mrs. Clark tucked a clean white sheet around the couch cushions. She swallowed several of her capsules with a cup of water, smoothed her hand over the sheet. She felt the very presence of Jesus Christ of Nazareth. The Lord, in His house. The sheets were so clean and white.

  In the bathroom she hooked the latch and took off all her clothes and draped them on a chair. Just like at home, this was something she could do the very same way every time.

  I come to the garden alone,

  While the dew is still on the roses.

  And the voice I hear, falling on my ear,

  The Son of God discloses.

  She dried off real good with the towel Claude T. had brought.

  Back in her office, in her pajamas, she hooked her door, then looked through the window down at the blinker light, blinking yellow, lay down on her back on the clean sheet, feeling all clean. She pulled her sheet and blanket over her.

  "Dear Lord," she prayed aloud, "thank you for our county, and state, and the United States, and our North American continent. We pray for the sick ..."

  On his third try, Jack Umstead found an outside church door that was open. About one in two churches had one door open somewhere, and very often there was a stocked refrigerator in a church, sometimes a full kitchen, with crackers and canned goods. And he wasn't beyond going through a trash can or two if there'd been a chicken dinner the night before. You could find whole chicken wings completely untouched, sometimes fried and/or barbecued. They'd keep for up to a week. And with his suit, white shirt, and his tie, he knew damned well he could talk his way out of any difficulty.

  As he stepped into a kind of small office-library room, he heard a voice behind a closed door: "... and we pray for all babies without mothers. We're thankful for our earth, our solar system, the Milky Way, everything in the universe, our beautiful moon, and the universe itself. Help us to love one another and to love Jesus and accept Him as our Lord and Saviour. In Jesus' name, amen."

  She heard steps, quiet steps in the library room out there—approaching her door. Dear Lord, she thought. Could that...? It wasn't Mr. Crenshaw's walk, or the janitor Andrew's, or Claude T.'s, and they were the only ones who ... It was a very soft walk. Could that... be...? His Own Self? Here in His own house? Did He live here sometimes? Too? Should she ... should she speak?

  "Jesus?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh, Jesus. Is that You, Jesus?"

  "Verily, verily, it is. For God so loved the world He gave His only begotten son that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. All is well. Do not be afraid. I am, ah, come to save the world."

  She heard a chair being pulled up to the door. This could not be. But what if it was? He'd said believe. "Dear Jesus, I have hurt myself. And I'm having to spend a few days in Thy house.

  I have ... I have bathed and come to bed." But he would already know all that. She took a deep breath. She didn't want to faint now. This was really happening.

  "Okay with me," said the voice—said Jesus. "Good bathing is a good habit. Did you brush your teeth?"

  "I brush them every morning with baking soda."

  She had dreamed and dreamed of walking in the garden with Him, alone, but she'd always believed she'd have to die first and go to heaven. Now she was actually talking to Him through a closed door at the church and it was taking her breath. It was all true. The Bible was true. God was true. She felt a little faint. So what if she did faint? It wouldn't make any difference now. It was all true. This might be the very beginning of the very end of the world. The end of Time, with heaven waiting, waiting for her and all the other Christians, dead or alive, to ascend up into heaven itself.

  "Make yourself at home," said the voice. "And what would ... what would thy name be?"

  "I am Dorothea—Mrs. Claude T. Clark. I am Thy servant, oh Lord. Did you hear my prayer, oh Lord?"

  "I sure did. It was a mighty good prayer, too. I don't get too many that good."

  Dorothea tried to picture the face behind the voice. She never liked hair on a man's face, but she'd never questioned Jesus' right to have it. Then it struck her that He might not have a beard. All that had gone on so long ago when customs were different. "Jesus, do you have a beard?"

  "No, I don't, Dorothea. I do have a mustache, though. I, ah, shave when I come to America."

  "Well, I'm glad, but I also try to understand the customs of the Middle Ages, Jesus. And, Jesus, I've always tried to be a good person."

  "And you have been. You have been a good person, Dorothea. One of the best in this church. You've always done real good. I'm proud of you. Mr. Clark had problems, though, before he died ... no, he h
asn't, he hasn't died, has he?"

  "That's right, he hasn't." That proved it was Jesus. He knew. "And I knew he had problems, Lord. Claude T. just got too interested in money, Lord."

  "You can call me Jesus."

  "Yes ... thank you, Jesus. He just got too interested in money ... Didn't he, Jesus?"

  "Money is not something that is very important, Mrs. Clark. As you know. I don't even carry none with me anymore. Love is what is important. Love thy neighbor as thyself. Love thine enemy. But sometimes I do need to get a little money to live on. Love won't buy a fruit pie and a Pepsi, you know—something Jesus needs, too—and so I usually just stop by a church, a Baptist church is always a good bet." Dorothea thought about the preacher's discretionary fund, looked over at her desk.

  "And while I'm at it," said Jesus, "is there a little money in there, say a five or ten, that you could slide under the door? Better not open the door. I have to depend on the kind hearts of, ah, fellow Christians for money. Fellow Baptists. I'm just like everybody else, more or less, when I'm on earth."

  "Well, yes, there's Brother Crenshaw's discretionary fund." His mind was working right with hers. "Let me just get it. This is Your money, Lord—Your house and everything in it. Let me get up here."

  Right to thirty-five, back around past thirty-five to five, back right to sixteen; the big envelope with Mr. Crenshaw's discretionary money in it. Her hands shook. Her ankle was hurting. She got out two fives, hobbled to the door, dropped them, and pushed them, one bill at a time, with her cane—it was hard with those four little feet—under the door. She had a sudden urge. She flicked back the hook, grabbed the door handle, turned it, pulled.

  It pulled back, with some force.

  "Whoa, there, Mrs. Clark. My face might ... might blind you, I'm afraid. Sometimes that happens."

  "Certainly, Lord."

  "Maybe next time we can work something out. Some kind of protection for your eyes."

  "Yes, Jesus. Yes, I can understand that. I'm sorry. Oh, Jesus, my favorite song is 'In the Garden.' And I want you to know I slapped Claude T.'s hand over and over."

  "I remember 'In the Garden.' I sure do. I remember that one. Lovely song. I walk through the garden alone, while the da da da da da da da, and Claude T.'s hand needed slapping. Good for you. And how long you reckon you're going to be stuck in here?"

  "Oh, Lord, I don't know. Will you come back? I'll be here for a while with this ankle. Could you...? Dear Lord, could you heal my ankle?—if you got time. It's all right if you can't."

  "Mrs. Clark, I can't heal your ankle—I just don't do that kind of thing much anymore, but you been so good I might be able to work something out. You keep that ankle elevated, and don't say anything about me dropping in, if you don't mind. You know. Anything. Maybe I could speed up the healing some. But if you tell anybody about this, some of God's plans could get messed up. Not that He couldn't straighten them back out, but you know what I mean. I'll be back real soon, probably tomorrow night. Don't tell anybody, because as soon as you do I'll have to leave town. Now, may peace be with you."

  "Jesus, I don't mean to talk bad about Claude T. He's a good man at heart. He's been real good to me. I don't want to give the wrong impression."

  "Claude T. is a good man. He sure is. Don't you worry about Claude T. Claude T. does have a good heart down beneath everything."

  She had always suspected that.

  Umstead walked to his car. He wished he had a buddy around that he could tell all that to. Telling a buddy—reminded him of that joke: Man on a desert island. Been there for years and years. He sees somebody struggling in the water. Saves her life. Turns out to be Rosalind Russell. Rosalind takes all her clothes off, says, "You saved my life. I'll do anything for you." He says, "Let's go to my little shack over there and make love for a week." She says, "Okay." They do, and at the end of the week she says, "I'm so happy you saved my life. Is there anything else I can do? I just feel like I ought to do something else." He says, "Yeah, you can pretend you're my fishing buddy, Bob." She says, "What!?" He says, "Yes. Please. Put on this hat and coat, go stand under that tree." She says, "Well, okay," and does. He walks over, puts his arm around her shoulder, looks her in the eye, says, "Bob, old buddy, you ain't gonna believe this, but Rosalind Russell has been choking my chicken for a solid week."

  He needed some kind of buddy. Maybe that Luke down at the service station. Or better still, Train. Train could keep a secret. That was pretty clear by just looking at him.

  As he pulled his Buick out onto the road, he looked over at the parsonage. Now, there—in there—was a man with some power. A whole community cooking him chicken and stew beef, and him having to work just on Sundays for half a day, and visit the hospital once in a while. Selling God. But the man sure was not free. He was locked in that house and all, with other people—a damn family. But on the other hand, maybe he was one of the Christians who went all the way, the whole nine yards.

  He approached the blinker light—blinking yellow. It was like it was saying a little something to him, but he couldn't figure out exactly what. Nobody could.

  Stephen escorted his mother up the long stairs from the church basement to the quiet hymn-book-smelling first floor behind the giant room with pews. They were near the narrow door where the choir members entered the choir place. You could go through another door into the big room with all the pews, walk over close to the high mighty wood thing the preacher stood behind, and the two giant chairs up there. You could walk up on the stage and look out there where all the people would be sitting on Sunday. Now, today, with everybody gone, the silence would be God's breath. To be in there without all the people was like a secret.

  They walked through the little library of books and pamphlets about church things and on into Mrs. Clark's office.

  "Alease, it's mighty nice of you to come over here to do this."

  "I thought you might like a little something to eat, too," said Alease. She put down a piece of pound cake wrapped in wax paper beside some other food already on a little table.

  "Sit down ... Son, why don't you sit on that stool over there. I declare, you're turning into such a fine young man. I appreciate you thinking about me, Alease. People have been so nice. You know, there were a few things said when I stayed in here last winter, but I was just doing the best I could. I couldn't do anything other than what I did."

  Stephen couldn't quite figure it out. It looked like she was living in there—a pair of bedroom shoes over there. And a jar of stuff women put on their face at night.

  "Alease, I have felt so close to Jesus, and Alease, I've got to tell you, I've just got to tell you. I've got to tell you that"—Mrs. Clark leaned forward—"I had a visit from Jesus. He came. He really did."

  Stephen remembered that new man. His Sunday school teacher said Jesus would dress different in modern times. "Did he have on a yellow shirt?" asked Stephen.

  "I don't know. I couldn't see him."

  "Honey," his mother said, "that's not what Mrs. Clark is talking about. She's talking about something in her mind, in her prayer. Here, Dorothea, let me get your feet up here so I can get to those toenails. Is it going to be all right to work on your foot with that sprained ankle?"

  "I think it will. But, no. No, I am talking about the real Jesus, Alease. Standing right outside that door. It was Jesus His own self. I just have to believe it was."

  "Well, that's good," said his mother. She was getting her clippers and file out of her pocketbook. "That's good."

  "But I shouldn't be talking about it."

  Stephen watched as his mother removed Mrs. Clark's shoes, then started in on the old lady's toenails. The big toe-nail on one foot was yellow and looked like a big cornflake.

  "That little toe toenail on my right foot ain't come back yet."

  "It sure hadn't. Stephen, do you want to try to cut one? You wouldn't mind, would you, Mrs. Clark?"

  "Oh, no. Long as he's careful."

  "Do you want to, Stephen?"

 
; "Yes ma'am."

  "Better let your mama do the big one," said Mrs. Clark. "You do the second one, maybe."

  "But watch me do this one first," said his mama. "We want to be real careful."

  Stephen remembered what his mama's feet and toenails looked like. He remembered his daddy's, Uncle Raleigh's, Mrs. Clark's, Miss Bea's, Miss Mae's, and his own. His own toes were bland little faces, his mama's were good, and one time she let him paint them red, his daddy's were careful and a little bit afraid and real white, Uncle Raleigh's were red and messed up, Miss Bea's and Miss Mae's were the same—very mashed together, with Miss Bea's long second toes—and Mrs. Clark's had the cornflake and the one without any toe-nail at all. Every foot was a little community without a blinker light. He had cut one of his mama's toenails one time and one of his daddy's three or four times and it was very pleasing, like sweeping lines of dirt into the dustpan. Like picking a old, dry, heavy scab. Like sitting on the grocery porch and drinking a Big Top grape. Like being a fireman or a cowboy. Like hearing the story of David and Goliath. Like baseball. Like cowboys killing Indians.

  THE COLLISION STORY

  Just after daylight the next morning, Jack Umstead sat in his chair near cabin 6 at the Settle Inn. He couldn't sleep in the mornings, but he could sit beside a road and watch cars pass. Their front ends looked like faces—Studebakers with great big noses, Fords with pop eyes and regular mouths, Chevrolets, Buicks, and Oldsmobiles with turned-down fish mouths. He knew the year, make, and model of every single one.

  Umstead had this theory: Animals had all these mental nerves that told them what to do, what to be afraid of—what not to do so they wouldn't end up dead. And people had mental nerves that got developed back when they lived like animals, and these mental nerves kept working past the time they were actually needed. And what one of those mental nerves said was: If you see anything that moves across the ground, you'd better look at it in the face to figure out if it will eat you up. And this is why cars looked like they had faces.