by Ace Atkins
“Where do you work?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not say.”
“That’s fine,” Caddy said. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“She said you’d helped her a few years ago,” Milly said. “Said not to say her name because you might be ashamed she’d gone back into the life.”
“You work at the Booby Trap?”
“They call it Vienna’s now,” Milly said. “Miss Fannie is trying to make the place more respectable. She’s got an antique bar she bought in Kansas City and everything.”
“You got a place to sleep?”
“I’m not staying here much longer,” Milly said. “I’m only dancing to make enough tips to leave town.”
“You know where you’re going or what you’ll do?” Caddy said.
Milly shook her head. She looked down at her hands, short fingers with short nails painted black. Milly chewed at a cuticle, looking out a little square window at her white Kia loaded down with probably everything she owned.
“I left here a long time ago thinking I would start over,” Caddy said.
“What happened?”
Caddy smiled. “Got as far as Memphis.”
“And then what?”
“And then the bottom really fell out,” Caddy said. “I was up there a while. I never thought I’d live to see thirty.”
“I don’t know if I’ll make twenty,” Milly said, sort of laughing. “I used to be someone. And now I’ve gotten about as low as I can get. My daddy thinks I’m nothing but a whore.”
“What do you think?”
“I think my daddy is a coward,” she said. “I think he’s just like everyone else in this rancid county, wanting to be all smiles and pats on the back and not facing the bad stuff that goes on. People around here hate when you tell the truth.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Your brother was the sheriff,” Milly said. “Wasn’t he?”
Caddy nodded, walking toward the mouth of the barn, where a little wind had kicked up. She pulled the wet T-shirt away from her body, nearly sweating through the thin white cotton that morning in the garden.
“My daddy said he was a troublemaker,” Milly said. “He said that Sheriff Colson got kicked out of office because he didn’t understand the law.”
“That’s bullshit,” Caddy said. “My brother is the bravest person I’ve ever known.”
“My daddy is good with bullshit,” Milly said. “I wish I still had a brother. I got a sister and, to be honest, she’s about the furthest thing from brave there is. All she does is play on her phone all day and eat Klondike Bars.”
“Let’s get you fed.”
“Are you going to preach to me?”
“No.”
“Good,” Milly said. “Because I don’t think Jesus can help with my troubles.”
“You’d be surprised,” Caddy said. “There was a time after Jamey died that I felt I had to handle everything myself. I think it was mostly about pride. I believed I was the only person who could make things right. You put too much weight on your back and it’s going to break you.”
“I don’t want any more on my back,” Milly said. “I want to take some off. And I want someone to listen to what I have to say.”
“OK,” Caddy said. “But how do you get that done?”
“Folks got to stand up,” Milly said. “I can’t carry all this mess on my own.”
“I understand.”
“How can you?” Milly said. “I’ve done some rotten things in the last year. Mainly, just for the money. Or drugs.”
“Come on,” Caddy said. “Let me tell you a little about myself and where I’ve been.”
• • •
Quinn could tell his mother had been crying the moment she opened the door of his childhood home over on Ithaca Street. She wiped away the tears and told him to come on inside, she was just making a pimento cheese sandwich for Little Jason and would be glad to make some more. Quinn told her he’d appreciate that and she snapped open a bottle of Coke and sat it on top of the kitchen table.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s just so sad,” Jean Colson said. “So damn sad.”
Quinn knew. He’d heard it a hundred times. But he knew all he could do is agree with her.
“You see it in Charley Hodge’s face when he brings out his guitar,” Jean said. “He knows how much Elvis is hurting. He stands there by his side, not knowing if he’ll be able to get through ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ They knew it was the end. They always did.”
“I thought you weren’t going to watch those last concerts anymore,” Quinn said. “Elvis looks terrible. He sounds terrible.”
Jean turned around from the sink counter where she was cutting his sandwich and pointed the end of the knife at her son. “Hush,” she said. “He was putting his soul into those last few performances. The last concert, the one that was on that CBS Special, shows him hitting those high notes on ‘Unchained Melody.’ That’s a very difficult song.”
“Momma?” Quinn said.
Jean looked to him. He pointed to the knife in her hand. And she looked down at the blade, glinting in the light. “Oh,” she said. She set the sandwich in front of him and called to Little Jason, who was in the family room on the same couch Quinn had played on growing up. He bounded into the room and gave Quinn a hug, wanting to know if he wanted to play some video games. “Maybe we can get that Call of Duty?”
Quinn looked over his shoulder to Jean and smiled. She smiled back. “Not until you’re twelve,” she said. “Besides, your uncle’s played that game plenty.”
Quinn ate some of the sandwich, Jean Colson never short on talent in the kitchen. She added something to the pimento cheese making it smokier and richer than anything he’d ever tasted. She’d won two local awards for it but refused to share the recipe. Jean was good at keeping secrets. Served with a side of Golden Flake chips and bread-and-butter pickles.
“Good?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good to have some real cooking?”
“Food’s not bad in Afghanistan,” Quinn said. “I kind of miss it. My favorite was this qabuli pulao.”
“What’s that?”
“Qabuli pulao,” Quinn said. “It’s made with lamb, rice, raisins, and carrots. It’s their national dish. Good stuff.”
“Better than my meat loaf?”
Quinn looked to Little Jason, Little Jason stifling a giggle, as neither of the Colson boys were fans of her meat loaf. But Quinn just smiled and said, “No, ma’am. Just can’t compete.”
Jean finished washing off the utensils and the cutting board and came up to the table, taking a seat, still drying her hands. Jean, like Quinn, had a face of sharp angles and prominent cheekbones, but with much lighter coloring than her son. Her eyes were a bright blue that matched her pale skin, and her red hair that once was natural was now colored. She had on faded mom jeans and a flowered shirt open at the collar, a gold cross on a chain around her neck. “Everything all right on the farm?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Your father still not paying you any rent?”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“Well,” Jean said. “He should. If he had any pride ’bout himself.”
Quinn finished the last bite of sandwich and pushed the plate away. He’d known by coming over to his mom’s house, he’d soon be talking about the original Jason Colson. He just didn’t think it would’ve happened so fast.
“I hear he’s thinking of opening up some kind of dude ranch,” Jean said. “You two being partners.”
Little Jason was drinking a big glass of milk and his big light eyes looked up to Quinn over the glass. Quinn asked his mom if they might discuss farm business a little later.
“Jason, baby,” Jean said. “Why d
on’t you run into the living room and find Grandmomma’s cigarettes?”
Jason bounded out, always happy to ditch his lunch and have a challenge.
“Your cigarettes are on the counter,” Quinn said.
Jean smiled. She folded her hands in front of her.
“What you’re hearing is just talk,” Quinn said. “I haven’t agreed to do anything.”
“Well,” Jean said. “I certainly hope not. Your father is playing around with something that isn’t his.”
Quinn knew this part was coming, had expected it after talking with Caddy. Beckett land, now being in the family for a hundred and twenty years, was some serious business. Jean had grown up on the farm, her father—the old farmer—had, too, and so on. They’d worked that land since they’d cleared it in 1895.
“I don’t like it.”
“The only consideration is what will happen to the farm while I’m gone,” Quinn said. “It would be nice to have a caretaker. That place can grow wild quick.”
“Then set something up with Boom,” Jean said. “I’m sure he’d be happy to stay out at the farm and look after Hondo and the cattle while you’re gone.”
“He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Quinn said. “It’s just Daddy’s way, you know?”
“Better than you,” Jean said. Little Jason bounded into the room and said he couldn’t find her cigarettes or her lighter anywhere. “That’s OK, baby. Go watch a little TV. Andy Griffith Show is about to come on.”
“What about Uncle Quinn?” Little Jason said. “Are we gonna play?”
“Just a second, sir,” Quinn said. He waited until the boy had left and then turned back to his mother. “I have other things on my mind right now. I can let him dream all he wants. He can’t get the money anyway.”
“What’s he need money for?” she said. “You own it outright.”
“He wants to buy the parcels Uncle Hamp sold off to Johnny Stagg.”
“Why?”
“For more pasture,” Quinn said. “Riding trails. But it doesn’t matter. You and I both know Stagg’s got nothing better to do than hold that land hostage.”
“So if you’re not worried about your daddy,” Jean said, “then what?”
“The future.”
“What of it?”
Quinn stood up, walked to the old coffeepot plugged into the wall, and poured out a cup. There was always hot coffee at his mother’s house. He sat back down and looked at his boots for a moment and then lifted his eyes back to his mom. He nodded, sure now he should tell someone. “I want to ask Anna Lee to marry me,” he said. “I take this next job and I’ll be back in the spring. We could think on how to move forward then.”
Jean nodded, reached for the gold cross on her neck, and played with it back and forth on the chain. She took in a long, deep breath and Quinn waited. A warm breeze blew through the room, knocking a vase of flowers off the sill, glass breaking and water pouring to the floor.
“Let me get that,” Jean said.
9
Milly made it to the Wednesday night service just in time to hear Pastor Zeke Traylor let everyone know, who hadn’t heard it already, that man doesn’t live by bread alone. “God’s word is alive and sharper than a two-edged sword,” Traylor said. “The Psalms of David tells us that thy word is a lamp upon my feet and a light unto my path to see where I’m going clearly.”
Traylor spoke more laid-back on a weeknight, the old man wearing a blue golf shirt and khaki pants, casual for a man who seemed to be born wearing a suit. His hair was white as Christmas snow and he had on the same bright, round gold glasses she’d seen him wear her whole life. When he really wanted to make a point, he softened his words, making you strain to hear the whisper. “You hear what I’m saying?” And when folks nodded along because what the hell else could you do, he’d say, “Amen.” And things would continue on and on like that. On and on.
It had been a while since Milly had shown her face at the Jericho First Baptist. A couple folks craned their head around to make sure it was really her. That girl. She’d taken a seat in the back row, a place she’d always preferred since her parents insisted on sharing the same church after the divorce. Her daddy and Charlotte’s fat ass sat on the right side of the sanctuary at First Baptist and her momma and sister on the left. As the song wound down to the last note, Traylor said, “Lift him up. Lift him up. Slam the devil!”
Traylor dropped to one knee, battered old Bible in his right hand, and began to pray that the church would be a light on Jericho’s Main Street, the congregation a light to all those lost, and each member a light to family and friends who’d lost their way. Words filled up the big screen again and the dozen folks who made the service sang: Lord, I sing your praises. I’m so glad you’re in my life. The written words scrolled over a video of a car driving down a long, twisty road. Nothing but blue skies and green mountains. A couple folks raised their palms high. Pastor Traylor sang off-key about how Jesus came from heaven to earth to show us the way. Milly bowed her head and hoped they’d be wrapping things up real soon because Reverend Traylor was her last damn hope. She prayed that the old man would come through.
Come on, Milly said silently. Jesus H. Christ. Come on.
Despite their differences, several interventions that didn’t go so well, and a failed attempt to get her to date a pimply-faced grandson from Pontotoc, she believed Traylor was on the side of right. After the sermon, a few more big-screen gospel tunes, and a call to the leaders of this God-less country to seek His wisdom, Traylor stepped down from the sacred red carpet of the pulpit with old dog-eared Bible in hand.
He invited everyone to join him in the events room for chocolate chip cookies and homemade punch before spotting Milly. “I don’t believe it,” Pastor Traylor said. “Our own little lost sheep.”
Milly wanted to quote the Bible about how the shepherd should’ve been out looking for that goddamn sheep. But she kept her mouth shut and smiled. She’d even worn a simple summer dress to church that night. She hadn’t worn a dress in two years.
“I need to talk, Pastor.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Pastor Traylor said. “But how about some cookies first?
“You mind if we skip the damn cookies and punch?” she said. “I ain’t in the mood.”
Milly turned to watch the last of the parishioners head out the front doors. With a lot of effort, Pastor Traylor sat down on the carpeted steps and motioned for Milly to join him down on the floor. It was just like the kids’ sermon he delivered every Sunday, spoken seated from the steps in words even the simplest child could understand. Jesus was the shepherd. The kids were the sheep. Stay on the path and don’t get lost. Milly straightened her short skirt over her tan legs and wondered if Pastor Traylor ever spoke about young sheep working that pole.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I don’t even know where to begin,” she said. “Things are real messed-up.”
“I know some of it,” Traylor said. “Your daddy and I have been praying for you.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Drugs can warp a young mind,” he said. “Boys, too. Lead you to do things you never imagined. But you never get too low for Jesus. Jesus will lift you up.”
“This ain’t about me, Pastor,” she said. “It’s about what happened with Brandon.”
Pastor Traylor took off his golden glasses, blew a hot breath on the lenses, and cleaned them with a white hankie from his shirt pocket. His old skin was real white and sagged at the neck. His eyes were the clearest blue, and he smelled of old hymnals, musty old coloring books, and something sugary sweet. He’d always had that smell about him—peppermint candy and the Word of God.
“Your family’s been to hell and back,” he said. “When someone makes a decision to end their own life, it can be the most selfish thing they’ve ever done. They don’t think about everyone they’re leaving behind.”
“You think Brandon had a choice?”
“God gives us free will,” he said. “We all have choices.”
“I don’t blame him,” Milly said. “We all know he was exposed to things that no young boy should ever know. He got saddled with all that sickness and he didn’t have nowhere to run.”
“He was a very confused young man.”
“You didn’t believe him?”
Pastor Traylor swallowed hard and put the glasses back on, lenses still smudged with a fat thumbprint at the edge. He smiled real wide, showing off those thick yellowed veneers. “He did a lot of finger-pointing in this town,” he said. “But he never looked on himself and saw things he might’ve made different.”
Milly looked at the pastor’s old grandfatherly face and saw it as a hollowed-out, saggy mask. She stared into his unblinking clear blue eyes and said, more to herself than him, “You’re the same as the rest, aren’t you? You know but don’t care.”
“Come on, Miss Milly,” he said. “Leave your burden with Him. Let’s pray on it. But I want you to leave that burden your brother left right here and now.”
“It ain’t no burden,” she said. “It’s more of what I call a responsibility.”
The pastor reached for her small hands, held one close, and closed his eyes. “Lord, Lord, Lord.”
“You know,” she said. “Don’t you? That man is real sick?”
“Good Lord,” Pastor Traylor said. “Let’s pray for Milly and her family. Let’s pray for forgiveness and healing.”
Milly stood up on the steps where she’d heard all the good stories about Jacob and his coat of many colors, Moses lost in the bulrushes, and Jesus walking on water. Every kids’ sermon had a purpose, a moral lesson, to be learned. She’d never heard a story about shutting your mouth in the face of true evil.
“I’m letting it all out.”
“Milly,” Pastor Traylor said, still seated. “I’d be careful. A bunch of tall tales could hurt a lot of folks in this town.”