In the confusion and tumble of flesh, Retha clawed to hold the blanket and protect its contents from Shepherd Isaiah’s hands. She stopped her own screaming as she saved strength to maintain her tenacity. Their tug-of-war continued in total silence until Shepherd Isaiah finally found a handhold and pulled hard in triumph.
With a muffled pop, the doll’s leg separated from the rest of the body and slipped loose from its pants leg. Shepherd Isaiah fell backward, clutching the leg in his hand. He threw it away from him in an impulse of horror.
At the glimpse of the tiny bare leg and the perfectly formed foot tumbling into the screen of the television, three of the women screamed before they realized it was plastic. Junior fainted outright; with the others mesmerized at the dismembered baby, he fell unnoticed at the back of the crowd and hit his head on the armrest of the couch.
As for Retha, she was so relieved that the Glory Session had ended, she began to giggle in hysterics.
**
“I’m sorry you had to be part of that,” I said to Glennifer and Elaine after Pendleton’s departure. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Nicholas.” Glennifer reached across the table and patted my hand. I blinked. Aside from what was demanded by formal manners, this was the first time she had touched me. “We’re your friends.”
I nodded. I was wearing a dark dinner jacket. I reached inside and pulled out an eight-by-ten manila envelope, folded lengthwise to fit inside. “Perhaps you’ll find this far more interesting.”
Glennifer reached for it, her hand trembling only slightly. I’d seen her in the antique shop, writing shaky lines on paper. I knew the effort it cost her to fool me with this attempt at steadiness.
“I got this from Angel after I asked her to look around her house for it,” I told them as Glennifer pulled out the contents. “She gave it to me at the hospital just before I came here.”
There wasn’t much for them to examine, and I was already familiar with the contents. A recent photo of Timothy Larrabee. Two sheets of information on him. And a letter from a local private investigator, Kellie Mixson.
Glennifer and Elaine each donned glasses to study the papers in the dim light of the candles. While they did that, I waved away the waiter. We could order later.
“Nicholas?” Elaine said after each woman finished studying the papers.
“Angel’s grandmother paid an investigator to search for Timothy Larrabee. When I asked Angel why, she said she didn’t know.”
“This says that until 1992, Timothy Larrabee spent fifteen of the previous twenty-five years in prison. Repeated offenses for stock swindles, grand theft auto, even assault—” Glennifer picked up the sheet and reread the information—“yet now he’s an elder at the Glory Church of the Lamb of Jesus.”
“Yes. I went there this morning looking for him.”
“I’ve heard about that church,” Elaine said. “They insist that faith in God is all they need. Didn’t some child die there because of lack of medical attention?”
“That was a few years ago. Appendicitis. There were also newspaper clippings about the church in the report. But I wouldn’t call it a church. As you just read, as a condition of joining, members give power of attorney to the church leader, all property is held as a commune, all wages and salary earned by members go to the church, and in return, the church takes care of all their needs.”
“And Timothy Larrabee belongs there?” Glennifer said. “Strange, for someone who has no compunction about stealing cars or hitting people with tire irons.”
“That must have been before his conversion,” I said dryly.
I looked over at our waiter, hovering just out of earshot. He quivered with anxiety. “Shall we order?”
We did. I preferred the crab cakes at Magnolia’s, and Glennifer and Elaine ordered steaks, which I found an amusing choice for women who appeared so frail. I wisely kept the opinion to myself, for they weren’t frail and would have had no hesitation impressing that upon me.
Then, as Glennifer and Elaine continued to sip their mint juleps, I told them about Bingo, minus the switchblade attack. I told them about visiting the church. I told them about not finding Timothy Larrabee, but finding the baby abandoned in my Jeep. About Jubil’s deadline that gave me only two days to get the baby back to the mother.
At first, they gasped in their whimsical Southern way. As I got further into the story, however, they became so absorbed that the gasps grew less in volume, until they each sat completely still.
“And this baby?” Elaine asked softly. “How is he doing?”
“Better, I think. He had a stomach virus and was desperately dehydrated. From what the doctors indicate, he needs at least a couple days in the hospital.”
“You can’t take him back to his mother then, not before social services takes him, if I understand right about your friend Jubil’s deadline. If you could, do you want that baby back in the church where they refuse to allow doctors?”
“No,” I said. “But I can bring his mother to him, something
I am quite determined to accomplish.”
Dinner arrived before I could say more. Not that I might have said what was on my mind. I had once believed that my own mother had run away from me. Because I knew so well the sense of abandonment, I was not prepared to turn my back on this baby. Alone, who out there in the world would console him? Without help, he was just one more tragedy in a world filled with despair. One of the uncounted many to struggle briefly before sliding beneath the surface to disappear into the blackness. Yet could my involvement make a difference against the wailing and grief that afflict life?
Perhaps Glennifer and Elaine sensed the intensity of my private grief. They turned the conversation to the food, and after a suitable time, back to Angel and her grandmother.
“Why would Angel’s grandmother search for Timothy Larrabee?” Glennifer said.
“And how could she know that he was in the lowland area?” Elaine added. “We hadn’t heard a whisper about his return.”
“Shocking,” I agreed. “If you haven’t heard, then it really hasn’t happened.”
“Nicholas,” Glennifer said in a warning tone, “you know we’ve spoken to you about your penchant for sarcasm. And remember your admonishment to Pendleton. This was meant to be a civilized dinner.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Your apparent contrition fools no one,” Elaine said. “Now tell us more. When you met Angel today, didn’t she ask you if the Bingo character had directed you to the man who would purchase her painting?”
“I told her that I went to the church and couldn’t find him,” I said. “I told her that I left my address for him to contact me.”
“This young woman seems very determined for you to find the man, doesn’t she?”
I nodded. “Whether or not Angel’s family legitimately owns the painting now, think about how much selling it would mean to her.”
“But not to her grandmother? Don’t you expect this Zora to return soon?”
“Angel’s done a good job of ducking that question,” I said. “And believe me, I would like to meet Grammie Zora.”
“A voodoo woman,” Glennifer said. “So exciting. I’d certainly like to know how a woman like her came into possession of the Larrabees’ Van Dyck. Especially if she got it legally as Angel claims.”
“Laney,” Glennifer said, “it’s simple. There’s got to be some connection between her and Timothy Larrabee.”
Elaine looked at Glennifer. “After all these years. What could it be?”
“Crown of thorns,” I threw out. “The phrase seemed to hold some kind of power over Larrabee. Grammie Zora told Bingo once he heard it, he would follow.”
Glennifer frowned. “Say that again.”
“Crown of thorns.”
Her frown deepened. “You neglected to tell us that earlier, Nicholas.”
I realized I had, but it wasn’t deliberate. There had been a lot to tell.
“Crown of thorns,” Elaine
said to Glennifer. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I believe I am,” Glennifer answered. “After all, when Agnes Larrabee was a child, it wasn’t that long after the Larrabee family was forced to free its slaves.”
Now it was my turn to be puzzled.
“A dark part of our collective past, Nicholas,” Glennifer said. She pushed away her plate, with very little of the food eaten. “Laney and I are old enough to know more of it than most of your generation. Many of our generation pretend today that our families had no part of slavery. But it’s there, something we cannot deny. Far worse are some of the actions in our history. Branding of slaves is not easy to forget, much as we would prefer to.”
“Yes,” Elaine finished for her. “Back when the Larrabee family held a plantation, they, like many other owners, branded their slaves. It sticks out in my memory because of what I heard the brand was.”
“They were a religious family,” Glennifer said. “So they branded their slaves to belong to Jesus. With the mark of a small crown of thorns.”
Chapter 11
The next day, I found Pastor Samuel in the office of the Mount Carmel African Methodist Episcopal Church. He sat in an old recliner. He was asleep, with his glasses on his forehead and an open Bible across his lap. He snored softly.
I sat on a chair nearby.
The office was decorated simply. On the wall hung some family photos. The bookshelves held commentaries on the Bible. His desk was clear of paper. The phone on it was a rotary dial.
Samuel was close to retirement. The pants that would have fit him snugly when he was young and muscular now hung loose on him, supported by suspenders. The bald top of his head divided curly white fringes on each side. When he was awake, with his thick glasses in place, his eyes seemed like bulging eggs. But they were eyes that were always kind and compassionate.
Here, I thought as I watched him, is a man at peace with himself and with his world. The Bible, for him, was a source of inspiration, meditation, and meaning. If a man like this were to be held up to the world as an example of Christianity, the world would find little to mock and much to admire in those who strive to follow Jesus and his teachings. Yet men and women like him were rarely leaders in a public sense, and rarely wanted to be, just as Jesus himself focused on the heavenly kingdom and refused to get dragged into the politics of his day. And many of those eager for the limelight were anything but the representatives of Christ they claimed to be. So it is that too many outside of faith have misconceptions of what faith should be and no understanding of how faith in the Christ makes for a life of peace and purpose and hope.
I knew Samuel and his wife, Etta, because my mother had once been a member of Mount Carmel. Months ago, during my first return to Charleston, they’d been the ones to help me discover some of the facts of my childhood. I’d visited their home once since coming back again, and it had been over a week since I’d stopped by the church.
Eventually, Samuel realized he was not alone, and the rhythm of his snoring ceased. He dug his knuckles into his eyes and slid his glasses down onto his nose. He levered his recliner upright and swallowed a few times. “I’ve started sleeping earlier and earlier in the day,” he said, blinking recognition at my presence. “Just little naps, you understand.”
“I understand.”
“Good to see you again. Etta and I enjoy your company.”
“I wish this were a social call,” I said. “But I’m here to ask if you can help me find someone, anyone, who was part of the Larrabee household.”
It was sad that I didn’t have to explain I meant someone black who had been a servant for the wealthy. Samuel had been
a pastor for decades. He knew the black community as well as anyone. I wouldn’t be here if I was looking for someone white.
He straightened more. “Agnes Larrabee? The one poisoned?”
I nodded.
“That was forty-some years ago.”
I nodded again.
He grinned, showing surprisingly white teeth. “And you figure I’m ancient enough to remember.”
“Sharp enough to remember,” I corrected. “The newspaper archives don’t mention much about her household.”
“Sharp enough, huh? Any more sugar you intend to pour in my tea?”
My turn to grin. “Only if necessary.”
“I suppose that’s enough,” he said, “because you came to the right place. As a matter of fact, one of the members of my congregation did work in the Larrabee household. A woman by the name of Evelyn Palmer.”
**
Retha woke with her face pressed against hard-packed dirt. For her first few moments of consciousness, she didn’t move, couldn’t move. Pain paralyzed her limbs as surely as if she had been tightly wrapped and bound with red-hot wire.
With returning consciousness came the memories: Shepherd Isaiah’s tender regret at her sin, which had slowly built into holy rage against Satan and thundering calls of damnation against human deceit. The angry babble of the elders, giving full voice and approval to the castigating rage of their leader. Their questions, slamming her like physical blows. Her refusal to answer those questions and tell them where the baby was. The slamming of the door as they departed to leave her alone with Elder Mason. Junior, standing sullenly beside Elder Mason, recovered from his fall but cut badly where his head had slammed into the wooden edge of the couch’s armrest. The trail of blood that trickled from Junior’s scalp into his eyebrow, and from his eyebrow onto his cheekbone, and from there into his wispy beard and his mouth as he watched Elder Mason shout at her. The first punch into her stomach as she backed away from Elder Mason. His fury at the humiliation he had suffered in front of the other elders, and the flurry of kicks and blows as she dropped to her knees to cover herself. Junior protesting weakly but not stepping between her and Elder Mason’s rage. And dimly, the darkness of the night and the feel of wet grass as Elder Mason pushed Junior aside to drag her out of the house and back to the toolshed.
All of these memories returned with her first moan. She rolled over, crying in pain as fresh bruises pressed onto the hardpan dirt. Then she realized she couldn’t see.
It brought a dry half-scream that was hardly able to leave her broken body. She brought her hands to her eyes. It felt as if they were covered with scabs. She touched her eyes gingerly, surprised there was no pain, then discovered that blood and dirt had caked them over, and she almost sobbed with relief.
She tried to spit on her fingers, but her mouth was swollen and cracked and entirely without moisture. So she had to pick at her eyelids until she was finally able to flutter them open.
Morning was outside the shed, sunlight easily able to penetrate because Junior had built the shed to his usual sloppy standards. Retha saw on the ground, among the scattered tools and beside a rusted lawn mower, the dog-food bowl filled with water again.
She tried to stand but could not.
Last night’s voices screamed at her. “Tell us, child, where is Billy Lee? Satan, let go of this child! Child, let go of Satan! We beseech thee! We beseech thee! We beseech thee! Cast out this child’s sins! We beseech thee! We beseech thee! We beseech thee! Loosen her tongue and spare this child from the eternal brimstone fires of hell! Child, where is Billy Lee?”
Retha’s mouth tasted of the copper of blood.
She dragged herself to the bowl of water. Once again, dead flies floated on the surface. She tried to pick them out, but the movement of her arms hurt too much and she wanted the water too badly to have the patience. She struggled to sitting position, leaned against the wall of the shed, and drank the water through her teeth, gagging as one dead fly slipped through. She set the bowl down and rested for a while from that effort.
Something felt strange to her. At first, with all the other sensations, she could not decide what it was. Her legs and arms were covered with chigger bites from hours on the dirt. She burned with aching bruises, and any deep breath brought another stab of fire into her chest. Her tong
ue was still swollen with thirst, and pushed against a broken tooth.
Why then this strange inner contentment? Then Retha understood.
She was free.
The night before, as the anger and shouting and condemnation thundered louder and louder around her, her determination rose to match it. She clearly remembered telling herself that she did not want Billy Lee brought back into a life where Jesus would hold him prisoner as surely as Jesus and all his rules had held her prisoner all her life.
Now, beaten and outcast for defying them all in a way that made their forgiveness impossible, Retha was finally free, even though all she had now was a bowl of water and the certainty that Shepherd Isaiah would return to the shed and that her own husband would not protect her from him.
In her newfound peace, Retha was able to think clearly. She knew what it would take for Billy Lee to escape Jesus.
A lie. She would tell the lie, knowing it might send her soul to hell. Because she didn’t want Billy Lee to know the Jesus that she knew.
**
Twenty minutes later she heard a man’s heavy approach, his breathing as he fumbled with the key, the click of the opening lock.
By then, Retha was ready. Disconnected from the itching of chigger bites and her screaming nerve endings. Calm and ready.
Shepherd Isaiah pushed the door open and entered. Elder Jeremiah followed, his shadow blocking the sun. Although blinded by the light on either side of Elder Jeremiah, Retha recognized a leather belt folded in loops in his right hand.
“Have you repented?” Shepherd Isaiah asked. His voice was almost sweet. “Will you now tell us where the boy is?”
“Woman, do it!” Elder Mason shouted from outside the shed.
“That is enough,” Shepherd Isaiah spoke to Elder Mason. “She is a child of God.”
“The baby’s dead,” Retha said. The night before, her defense had been silence. Now it would be a lie. “I buried him out in the woods.”
Crown of Thorns (Nick Barrett Charleston series) Page 11