by Joan Hess
She raised her face to gaze so mournfully at me that I expected her to start howling. “Are you gonna arrest me, Arly? I don’t want to go to jail.”
I looked at Jim Bob. “So tell me what happened.”
“I was on my way to the lounge when I saw that gallon bucket of lard”—he flicked a finger at Dahlia—“slip something in her purse. She was acting so sneaky that I followed her all the way out to the parking lot. Problem is, she forgot to stop at the checkout counter and pay for what’s in her purse. That’s your basic definition of shoplifting.”
“What’s in your purse?” I asked Dahlia.
“Nuthin’.”
I held out my hand. “Then we’d better have a look.”
She clutched the purse to her breasts. “You got to have a search warrant.”
“You’ve been watching way too much television,” I said, my hand still extended despite a niggling worry that she might bite it. “If you didn’t steal anything, open your purse and prove it.”
“Oh, she did,” volunteered Jim Bob, who looked as if he was hoping I’d lose a finger or two in the line of duty. “I saw her do it, and you can bet your ass I’m filing charges. Now stop acting like a gooey-mouthed high school counselor and get busy upholding the law, Chief Hanks.”
“Shoplifting is not a class A felony, Mayor Buchanon,” I retorted coldly. “You’re impeding my investigation, so why don’t you step outside?”
Hizzoner blew a stream of noxious smoke at me. “This is my office, and I’m damn well staying right here.”
I wrapped my fingers (as far as they would go) around Dahlia’s wrist, although I could no more drag her to her feet than I could make major modifications to the landscape. “Okay, then I’ll continue my investigation at the police station. If I learn anything relevant, I know where to call you. Get up, Dahlia.”
It took Dahlia a moment to figure out that I wasn’t taking her to the county jail. Sniveling, she allowed me to hustle her out of the office before Jim Bob could get his boots on the floor. Kevin must have been lurking behind the rack of tabloids; before we were halfway to the glass doors, he skittered into our path and said, “I ain’t gonna allow this. You unhand my wife or I’ll be obliged to—to—”
“Coldcock me with your mop?” I suggested.
He stumbled back as if I’d shoved him. “Golly, I’d never smack you, Arly. It’s just that I have to defend my beloved wife, especially on account of her delicate condition. The doctor doesn’t want her to get riled up.”
I tightened my grip on his beloved wife’s wrist. “Then let me get her out of here before Jim Bob calls in the FBI. I’ll drive her home and make sure she’s feeling better before I leave. Why don’t you call your mother to come sit with her until you get off work?”
Kevin was trying to sort through the compound sentences as I propelled Dahlia out to the getaway car. Once we were at the edge of the parking lot, I said, “You can either tell me what’s in your purse right here, or you can tell me at the PD. I’d better warn you that the air conditioner wasn’t working this morning, so it may be hotter than a fire in a pepper mill by now.”
“A package of Twinkies. They don’t cost but seventy-nine cents. I was gonna leave the money on a counter, but then Jim Bob started prowling behind me like a rabid polecat, and I got so scared I hightailed it out of there. He can’t do anything to me, can he?”
“Put the Twinkies on the seat.” I realized I’d sounded like Dirty Harry confronting a murderous thug and tried to soften my tone. “This does constitute shoplifting, Dahlia, but I’ll give Jim Bob your seventy-nine cents and make it clear that he’ll be stirring up a lot of ill will if he files charges.”
“Thanks,” she said, snuffling into a wadded tissue.
“Why did you do it?”
“Kevin made most everybody in town swear they wouldn’t let me stray off this gawdawful diet. When I go to the clinic in Farberville, Kevin or his ma always drives me and watches me like I was a pickpocket at the county fair. If I’d tried to buy the Twinkies, Winnella—she’s the checker—would have yelled at kevvie to stop what all he was doing and come lecture me.” She sighed so vigorously the windshield fogged over, obliging me to switch on the defroster. “I’m gettin’ pretty tired of lectures. All I wanted was two little Twinkies. How bad kin they be?”
I pulled into her driveway and stopped. “Bad enough to risk a fifty-dollar fine for shoplifting,” I said. “I understand why you did it, but you absolutely cannot do it again. I want you to stay out of the SuperSaver until you have the baby, okay? Call Kevin and tell him what you need in the way of groceries, and he can bring them home after work. Do I have your promise?”
“I suppose so,” she said, although without much conviction. After a wistful glance at the package on the seat, she handed me exactly seventy-nine cents and heaved herself out of the car. “I don’t want kevvie to git fired on account of his wife being a Twinkie thief.”
I drove back to the PD, grabbed the radar gun, and retreated to one of my favorite spots out by the remains of Purtle’s Esso station. If anyone dared to exceed the speed limit by so much as one mile per hour, he or she was going to make my day.
Norma Kay replaced the telephone receiver and stared blindly at the papers scattered across her desk. The man she’d been talking to had refused to do anything more than promise to call back next week to arrange a counseling session with Malachi. She couldn’t wait that long. Sin was hovering around her, threatening to suffocate her with its evil stench. Only Malachi Hope could bring redemption and absolution.
She redialed the number, and when the man answered, said, “Listen, I have to talk with Malachi today. It’s gonna be too late if I have to wait, and—”
Thomas Fratelleon cut her off, saying, “I sense your urgency, Mrs. Grapper, but Malachi has gone into seclusion in preparation for the opening night of the revival. He always does this, and he insists that no one—not even his family—interrupt him. Doing the Lord’s work requires all his emotional energy.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Grapper. Malachi told me to schedule you in as early in the week as possible. I’ll call you Monday morning.”
He hung up and flipped through her uncommonly thick file. She’d written plaintive letters for years, each detailing the particulars of whatever personal crisis she was experiencing. Notations at the bottom of each letter indicated the amount of her donation and which form letter had been sent.
The form letters were masterful. Each was designed to address a specific problem such as marital conflict, unemployment, loneliness, poor health, and a myriad of minor complaints. During the corporation’s most successful period, a dozen employees opened letters, removed checks, selected appropriate responses from the computer file, and made sure the correspondent’s name was scattered through the letter like toppings on a pizza. Even though he rarely skimmed them, Malachi insisted on signing them himself. He’d referred to it as “the personal touch,” and it had worked well; most of those on the receiving end seemed to believe Malachi had read their letters and written an intimate reply along the lines of: “I have prayed for you, [insert first name], and felt a glow in my heart when I saw Jesus standing beside you during this time of tribulation. Yes, [insert first name], your prayers will be answered.” Those who sent a hundred dollars or more also received a booklet of daily meditations and a tiny plastic vial of water from the River Jordan (according to the enclosed card, anyway).
Thomas read Norma Kay’s last letters, in which she’d acknowledged having an extramarital affair despite Malachi’s gentle admonishments to study the Scriptures by purchasing—at a special discount—a genuine leather Bible with her name embossed in gold letters at no extra charge. Shipping and handling charges were another matter.
He was relieved that he was not the one who would have to maintain a sympathetic facade while she whimpered through a confession. In his youth, he might have enjoyed hearing the more prurient aspects, but he found hi
s amusement elsewhere these days.
He was reviewing delivery invoices when Joey came into the kitchen. “Yes?” he said, peering over the top of his bifocals.
“Power’s on in the van and I’m pretty sure the dimming-control panel will work okay. If Seraphina’s not busy, we can test the harness now.”
“She took Chastity into town to shop. Find one of the workmen who weighs one hundred forty pounds and test it on him.” Thomas let his eyes slide to the papers in front of him to make it clear he was busy.
“Has Chastity really agreed to go to the high school?”
Thomas pulled off his glasses to massage the bluish pouches beneath his eyes. The days preceding the first night of the revival were always hectic, and the nights on the cot were increasingly hard on his sixty-year-old body. “That is what she has said. For some inexplicable reason, she has signed up to play on the girls’ basketball team.”
“She’s acting pretty weird these days,” Joey said. He glanced over his shoulder at the door that led to the master bedroom. “I think she’s up to something. She usually pesters me to take her some fool place or other, but she hasn’t even tried to talk to me for a couple of days.”
“Count your blessings,” said Thomas as he replaced his glasses and picked up a pencil. He began to hum a hymn that reiterated the platitude.
“From Psalm Seventy-four,” intoned Brother Verber, who paused to look out at the faces in the congregation. Attendance was definitely down from the previous Sunday; it was likely folks were waiting for the revival to get their weekly dose of piety. Sister Barbara was in her regular seat on the second pew, but Brother Jim Bob was nowhere to be seen. Kevin and Dahlia were absent, though he wasn’t surprised after her disgraceful behavior the day before. Norma Kay was missing, too, as were several other dependable members.
He realized everybody was waiting for him to continue, mopped his forehead, and plunged into the text. “‘They have cast fire into thy sanctuary, they have defiled by casting down the dwelling place of thy name to the ground. They said in their hearts, Let us destroy them together: they have burned up all the synagogues of God in the land.’”
He slammed down the Bible and gripped the edges of the pulpit. “Now I suspect you all are wondering who it is I’m referring to. You’re asking yourself, ‘Who is this mysterious they he’s talking about? Are they some gang of arsonists intent on setting fire to the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall?’ I see the puzzlement in your eyes, brothers and sisters, I hear your unspoken questions. I smell your fear of being roasted alive.” He gave them time to chew on this, then continued softly. “But we know who they is, don’t we? We’ve seen their faces and nodded to them at the grocery store and the launderette. Some of us have chatted with them about the weather.”
His pronouncement, which sounded more like an accusation, elicited anxious stirrings in the congregation as everybody tried to remember if he or she had been consorting with Satanists or Catholics during the week.
Brother Verber basked in their uneasiness for a melodramatic moment. “Maybe we did these things only because we’re friendly folks who aren’t used to thinking the worst of everyone we meet. We stick out our hands and say howdy and pleased-to-meetcha without thinking twice about it. Well, maybe that wasn’t so bad—until they came to Maggody with their wicked scheme to destroy our modest services and our potluck suppers and our Sunday school picnics on the Fourth of July!” He leaned forward, his face turning red and his eyes bulging as the pulpit cut into his belly. His voice crackled with fervor as he roared, “Malachi Hope! That’s the one doing everything he can to destroy us—him and that blond, painted floozy that runs around in clothes from Satan’s own boutique. Just because she drives a Mercedes doesn’t mean she ain’t a modern-day Jezebel!”
“Amen,” said Sister Barbara, making sure everybody heard her. Lottie Estes jerked around so hard she nearly fell off the piano bench, but no one else twitched a muscle.
Brother Verber beamed at her and then got back to business. “Malachi Hope thinks he can lure you all to his tent and talk in a velvety voice until you pull out your wallets and give him every last dollar you have, even what you’d been setting aside so your little ones could have new shoes for school. That’s what he thinks, this sly preacher from the big city. But maybe you’re sly, too, and can see right through his phony act. Maybe you can see the dollar signs in his eyes and the stickiness on his fingers. Am I right, brothers and sisters? Am I right?” There were nods, mostly tentative but encouraging nevertheless. “Of course, I am, and I believe I’ll be looking at every last one of you this evening when we gather for our service and potluck supper out in the vestibule. I have it on good authority that we’ll be feasting on some tasty new dishes, as well as enjoying the opportunity to visit with one another and share news about our family and friends in distant towns.”
Elsie McMay stood up. “Only the other day you told everybody you was canceling the evening services tonight and Wednesday so folks could go to the revival.” She sat down real quick when Mrs. Jim Bob turned around and glared at her.
He clung more tightly to the pulpit as his palms began to sweat like saturated sponges. He’d been worried this was gonna come up and had prayed for the Lord to suggest a suitable comeback. If the Lord had a response, He had sent it parcel post instead of overnight delivery. And from the way most of the flock was watching him, he could tell they wanted an answer.
“Well, Elsie,” he said at last, “I may well have said something to that effect—but that was before I realized the depths of Malachi Hope’s depravity. Only someone with ol’ Satan lurking behind him could buy your souls with cotton candy. Is that all it takes to entice you to eternal damnation?”
He carried on in that vein for a while, wiping his forehead periodically and dropping veiled hints about the high cost of dentistry. There was an atmosphere of rebellion in the room, though, and he was on the verge of having to wring out his handkerchief and try a different tactic when Mrs. Jim Bob stood up.
“I have an announcement,” she said. “I meant to give it to Brother Verber so he could read it before he started his sermon, but I forgot to bring a pencil. The Missionary Society has voted to make the evening services more appealing to our youth by holding bingo games afterward. You have to make a dollar donation at the door, but every penny will go to buying Bibles for the little heathens in Africa. There’ll be cash prizes, as well as gift certificates from Jim Bob’s SuperSaver Buy 4 Less. Tonight’s grand prize will be a Mr. Coffee and a box of filters.”
The rank and file of the Missionary Society began to whisper to one another, but Brother Verber told Lottie to strike up the opening chords of the offertory hymn, “Give Your All to Jesus.”
Darla Jean and Heather walked across the pasture to join their teammates by the entrance to the tent. There was no sign of Chastity, but they figured she was in the RV getting dressed. There were men fiddling with a popcorn machine and muffled voices from within the tent. A banner flapped in the light breeze. A woman with gray hair pinned up in braids took T-shirts from a box beneath a table and set them in immaculate stacks. A younger woman did the same with paperback Bibles. A portable trailer advertised the availability of hot dogs and lemonade. On a big table was an elaborate model of the City of Hope, complete with a cardboard cathedral with multicolored windows and a soaring steeple, a glass lake lined with tiny trees, and all kinds of paths winding through fuzzy, green slopes to white buildings. A sign announced this to be Phase One. The girls agreed it was real cute.
“I thought Coach Grapper was gonna be here,” said one of the Dahlton twins.
Darla Jean shrugged. “Yeah, she said that, but she wasn’t at church this morning. I can’t recollect the last time she missed a service.”
“If she’s sick,” said Heather, “she might not find out if we kind of slip away as soon as everybody is sitting down. I’d like to watch the first part of a miniseries about a beautiful woman that’s raised in an orphanage and
doesn’t learn she’s really a wealthy heiress until—”
“Here you all are,” said Seraphina as she came out of the tent. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt that read: “Hope Is Here!” “It’s just so wonderful of you girls to help us out all week. Not only will you be earning money for your team, but you’ll also have a chance to hear Malachi speak of the true joy of dedicating your young lives to Jesus.”
“Swell,” muttered Heather.
Seraphina winked at her. “Oh, I understand about boyfriends and moonlight. I had my share of both when I was your age. You should be able to leave by ten o’clock every night, so you can still snuggle up on the porch swing with your guys.” She let that sink in, then added, “I need all of you to come to the van parked out back. We’ll give you your badges and some hints on how to make folks feel welcome as they arrive. That doesn’t sound too terrible, does it?” Without waiting for their answers, she headed for the corner of the tent, crooking her finger to indicate they were to follow her.
Like lambs, they did.
“Please,” moaned Kevin as he knelt in front of his wife, who was spread across the sofa like a load of topsoil, “please don’t fret over what folks are saying about what happened yesterday. Everybody knows Jim Bob’s meaner than his hide will hold. He had no business bullying you like he did, and iff’n you want, I’ll just go back down to the store and punch him in the nose.”
“He’ll have you arrested, too.”
“You wasn’t arrested, my goddess. Arly brought you home and made you promise to steer clear of the store until you have the baby. If she’d meant to arrest you, she’d have said something about it.” He took her hand and nuzzled it until she jerked it away. “You cain’t lie here for five more months. Why doncha put on that pretty pink dress Ma made for you and we’ll go to the revival? Do you recollect how we used to watch Malachi Hope and his wife on television? We don’t want to miss the chance to see ’em in real life.”
Dahlia turned her face to the back of the sofa. “I ain’t never setting foot out of this house as long as I live.”