At first it was all dark. God was in the dark. Then it was like God had a wand. Whammo here, whammo there. Stuff starts exploding all over the place. I mean it was all clommed together and he starts separating out stuff one from the other. Whammo. Light. Bright as day. Bright shining light....
The guard at the gate, sitting in his little hut, reading Soldier of Fortune, does not hear the soft padding of tennis shoes as Vernon skirts under the lowered wooden arm.
Vernon heads for the first door he sees—one under a green panel.
In the pink-tiled foyer, the guard says, “Pass?” to the funny-looking boy, who stands before her, out of breath, rocking back and forth.
Out back, Wesley jumps into the waiting, packed van and the band is off.
Vernon, back outside, dismissed from Eastern LinkComm, watches the BOTA House van heading for the gate. It’s the band. He starts running after it, but it’s going too fast for him. They’re gone. Without him. He is suddenly stopped short by the sight of Santa Claus—right there in front of him almost —getting out of a big white car. Santa closes the door and heads inside. Santa Claus. The van is way out there past the gate and turning onto the main highway. Vernon looks inside the big white car. The interior is tan leather. He looks at the ignition switch. The keys are in it. Santa Claus’ car. Santa Claus won’t mind.
The van, followed by a white Continental, pulls into the parking lot at the Sunrise Auto Repair Shop and parks. In twenty minutes a school bus, painted a fresh dark green, emerges from the garage. Holister steps out of the garage and watches as the bus turns onto the dirt road. The rear wheel almost slips into the ditch, causing it to sway. A drum cymbal is visible through the emergency door window in the rear, and on the side of the bus in bright white letters is written: THE WANDERING STARS.
The band is on the road.
“Good Evening. Welcome to Eyewitness News. Sparks flew this afternoon at Eastern LinkComm after an impromptu sermon preached by halfway house resident, Wesley Benfield. More, after this word from Caldwell Chevrolet.”
After the commercial, Kim Creston, local news anchor, continues:
“In ceremonies at Eastern LinkComm today following a luncheon for selected members of the Shady Grove Nursing Home, Wesley Benfield preached a sermon on the creation story in Genesis.”
Viewers see a silent close-up of Mr. Wesley Benfield on camera, preaching, suddenly thrusting his arm wildly over his head. A voice-over by Miss Creston breaks the brief silence. “In his sermon, Mr. Benfield pointed out that there is not just one, but two creation stories in Genesis.” The camera zooms to Wesley’s face. The sound is now his voice. If you believe every word in the Bible is absolutely true like some kind of steel trap then you believe both of those versions are absolutely true and if you believe that then you ain’t using the brain God gave you.
Chapter 20
The Wandering Stars roll south along 1-95. Wesley is dozing, dreaming, waking, dreaming. He dreams that the bus pulls into a little church along some long straight stretch of single-lane road. Behind the church is a woods of pine trees that stand apart from each other. Pine straw is thick on the ground. It’s night and there are lights on inside the church. People are singing.
They all get out of the van and go in. They’re standing at the rear of the sanctuary. The ceiling, painted white, is only about seven feet high. Pews, under bare, bright white light bulbs, hold two hundred black people. A man in a maroon robe, standing down front, motions for them to come on down and sing a song. They all walk down, turn and face the audience. Ben pushes Wesley out front to sing.
Wesley starts singing quietly, moving slowly to the side of the church. “Is there a place for me in heaven—is that my seat?” he sings. He points to an empty seat on a pew.
The band charges in, singing backup, no instruments. “Is there a place, is there a place for me-ee-ee? Is there a place, is there a place in hea-a-ven?”
Wesley starts down a side aisle. “Is that my place?” he sings, as he points to an empty seat near the aisle. He moves in front of a couple of people—toward the seat—starts to sit as he sings, but just as he’s about to touch the pew, he quickly stands back straight. “Oh no, oh no, oh no-o-o. That’s. That’s. That’s somebody’s else’s place, somebody’s else’s place, somebody else’s place.”
Backup: “Is there a place for me-ee-ee?”
He dreams on—now of a sunset cruise. He’s lying on the bow of a sailboat. It’s going up and down, up and down through clear light green water. Phoebe lies beside him, resting against him. He looks back to land, a thin line of dark green trees. He points and Phoebe looks.
Then after a while, when they can’t see any land at all, they look at the red sky holding the red-orange sun just over the horizon. There is a warm breeze and the boat, a large white sailboat, moves on the gentle breeze, up and down slowly, up and down. The sun is almost ready to set; there’s only a little space between the sun and the water. The boat slows, and slows, and stops facing into the light wind. The sail flaps gently like Mrs. Rigsbee shaking out a tablecloth, as the sun touches the water and begins to melt, spreading on the surface of the water like an egg on a frying pan, then slipping, slipping down, down, down, nobody saying a word, and finally a tiny orange spot and blip, out of sight smoothly, moving right on to where it’s going. Not a sound. Nobody says a word.
Wesley moves along the aisle, points to empty seats, singing the question, on around to the back of the auditorium. Down the center aisle. He almost sits again.
The backup sings, “Is there a place, is there a place for me-ee-ee?” The band members down front are swinging loosely back and forth together, snapping their fingers. Is there a place, is there a place in hea-a-ven?”
Seven or eight people near the back suddenly rise to their feet, clapping their hands. Then four others stand up down front. Others join them. Now everybody is standing, swinging, clapping.
Wesley dreams on. He stands in Mattie Rigsbee’s yard. He sees her coming out onto the screened porch, opening the screen door, shaking out her dust mop, closing the door, going back in. He walks up the steps, looks around, grabs the door handle and pulls. It is hooked. He rattles the door, looks for the hook: there. It is a simple hook, without one of those gadgets. Easy. He pulls a book of matches from his pocket, opens the cover, inserts it down low in the crack of the door, and starts sliding it upward. It is about one inch below the hook. He hears footsteps inside. The house door opens. Wesley instinctively knocks.
Mattie squints. “How do you do?” she says. She walks across the porch. “Why, you’re the young man from the prison: Wesley. I been thinking about you!”
The whole place is beginning to move. Wesley is halfway down the middle aisle, pointing, singing the question, moving down a row, starting to sit down, sitting down, then jumping up, singing: “Oh no, oh no, oh no, that’s somebody else’s place, I said, somebody else’s place, oh yes, now, somebody else’s place.”
“Is there a place, is there a place for me-ee-ee? Is there a place, is there a place in hea-a-ven?”
“Look up,” says Phoebe.
Wesley leans back on the bow of the boat, looks straight up into the sky, and right up there, right up there past all of the air in the world and out there in empty, cold space—as if lying on the air, not too far away—is a bright, thin new moon. And right next to the moon is Venus, bright.
“It’s Venus being shot from Diana’s bow,” says Phoebe.
“Who is that?”
“Oh, Wesley.”
The sky in the west over the water has turned to a deep, darkening orange. The boat sits, facing into a gentle wind. The other people on the boat are very quiet.
“I been thinking ’bout you too,” says Wesley to Mrs. Rigsbee. He looks down the road toward Patricia’s car. The sun reflects off the front windshield. The matchbook he is holding does not move. It is stuck in the crack of the door. He turns it loose. “What you doing?” he says to Mattie Rigsbee.
“Oh,
just cooking a bite to eat. Here, let me unhook this. Here, let me unhook this. Here, let me unhook this.”
The hook seems to be stuck. Wesley pulls on the door handle. Mattie works at the hook. “Here, let me unhook this. The hook is stuck.”
Wesley needs to get in there on the porch with Mrs. Rigsbee, this woman who might be his grandmother, whose blood might be in his veins. So he punches a fist-sized hole in the screen, grabs the hook. It is stuck.
“It seems to be stuck,” says Mattie. “Don’t tear the screen, son.”
Wesley starts tearing away the screen. He’s got a fairly large hole in it now. About the size of a basketball. He will climb in through the screen.
But his feet will not pull up from the steps. He’s stuck to the steps. He reaches down and pulls on his feet. They are stuck.
The low western sky is turning a deep brown. Stars are coming out all over everywhere. Wesley is lying on his back on the bow of the boat. They are headed back in to shore. Up and down. Up and down. Water hisses as it’s cut by the boat’s prow.
The whole place is standing, clapping, smiling, laughing, crying, hands over heads, people in the aisle, watching him, watching him sing his song.
Wesley points to a seat, puts his hand behind his head. The back-up singing stops just as it’s supposed to. The clapping spatters and stops. Wesley holds his pointing finger in place. “I believe, I believe, I believe I found it. I believe I have found my place. I believe I have found my place in heaven. Oh, yes, let’s sing the song. I believe, I believe I have found my place. I believe, I believe I have found my place.” He sits in his seat, raises his hands over his head, as everybody stands and claps and sings the song with the band.
The sky above is dark. The low western sky holds a line of deep purple. Wesley lies on his back and looks straight up. The moon is so bright it almost hurts his eyes. Phoebe is moving her hands up and down Wesley’s legs. Up, down, up, down, then slowly up. He puts his arms around her and pulls her to him. She holds herself tight against him. He presses back.
Mattie Rigsbee is walking away, toward the kitchen. She’s wearing her brown sweater hiked up in the back. Wesley is trying to get his feet out of his shoes. His shoes have toes, toenails. His shoes are his feet. They are made of brown leather, with long pointed toenails. They begin to change to flesh —flesh with bright blue blood vessels.
Mattie stops, turns, looks at Wesley. “I think I’m going to put together a little bite to eat.”
The bus slows for a turn-off, jostles Wesley. He awakes, looks around, reaches for some popcorn in the bag in Phoebe’s lap.
“I want some,” says Vernon, reaching his hand over Wesley’s shoulder.
THE END
Published by Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of Workman Publishing Company, Inc.
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 1991 by Clyde Edgerton.
All rights reserved.
With appreciation to:
The John Simon Guggenheim Foundation; Shannon Ravenel, my editor, whose insights are invaluable; friends who have made suggestions for this and/or other novels—Susan Ketchin, Louis Rubin, John Justice, Sylvia Wilkinson, Margot Wilkinson, Lee Smith, David McGirt, Michael McFee, Bettye Dew, Jan Tedder, Jim Henderson, Sterling Hennis, Grant Romberg, Laurie Scheft, Tom Scheft, and Catharine Coolidge; my agents, Liz Darhansoff, Lynn Pleshette, Tessa Sayle, and their co-workers; the faculty of Meredith College, Ruel Tyson, Carl Holleman, and those who wrote letters and attended meetings in my behalf; St. Andrews College, for allowing me long stretches of writing time, and for being supportive in other ways; my publishers—Workman, Algonquin, Ballantine, Viking-Penguin—and their staffs; librarians; book sales representatives; bookstore owners and operators who read as well as sell books; Bruce, at the Tulane Jazz Archives; Paul Garon of Beasley Books in Chicago; Perry at Soundtracks Recording Studio, Raleigh, North Carolina; and Mrs. Lucille Ingram, for inspiration.
“Sour Sweetheart Blues” by Clyde Edgerton, Tom Scheft, and Dudley Jahnke. Copyright © 1990. Used by permission. All rights reserved. “When I Sleep in Class,” by Clyde Edgerton and Tom Scheft. Copyright © 1988. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Parts of this book have appeared in slightly different form in Southern Exposure and Chattahoochee Review.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available for a previous edition of this work.
E-book ISBN 978-1-61620-212-5
Also by Clyde Edgerton
Raney
Walking Across Egypt
The Floatplane Notebooks
In Memory of Junior
Redeye
Where Trouble Sleeps
Lunch at the Piccadilly
Solo: My Adventures in the Air
Killer Diller Page 21