Reverend America: A Journey of Redemption

by Kris Saknussemm

  He was awakened by Merrit, just as the sun was rising in a colorless sky that smelled of impending rain, surprised at how little he’d been bitten—as if something had been watching over him. The head-challenged teenager carried a shovel. Ananda, hoping to have her freezer scrubbed out and operational again as soon as possible had dispatched him to boat out to Hermione’s island to dig the grave so it would be ready for the ceremony.

  Only a few miles away, Enrique was also waking up—behind the wheel of his Cadillac, after belting down a tad too much Thorazine and tequila, following the disposal of the trooper’s body in the methane glare. He’d driven like a fiend for what seemed like quite a bit of rumba. When he did at last make it into bayou country, he got lost several times before stumbling onto a narrow overgrown road where he came upon some giant webbed footprints beside an abandoned rental car. The sight of these tracks provoked the self-medication. Before the next heinous dose kicked in, he tried to get his blurred bearings. When he did, he saw a faded wooden sign with the words ROYS BAIT followed by the ghost of an arrow and a childlike rendering of a smiling frog. Enrique smiled too, and reloaded the Luger.

  Angelike looked tired and scared upon waking. Ananda’s idea of moving them to the old motel that the nurse named Emily Dickinson ran sounded like a good one—the best hope for a successful birth under the circumstances—and Lord only knew what sort of complications Angelike’s lifestyle might throw in. Emily Dickinson had delivered more than her share of babies, often under difficult conditions, Ananda explained. In the modestly equipped clinic she ran, she could provide Angelike with at least some hygienic security and professional assistance. The young girl was too worn out to argue and agreed to go on down to the motel once they’d buried her auntie.

  After beignets and couche-couche, and some chicory coffee, Casper and Merrit, who continued to make his frog noises, lifted Hermione out of the fish freezer and into a pirogue, which they towed behind one of the Rogere’s motorboats. Angie leaned against Hoptree, glad that the old man’s mind and normal tone had returned, although his voice remained strained and the bumps on his head sizeable.

  There was a relaxed attitude to burying Hermione outside an approved cemetery. The Fish and Wildlife inspector had filed his report—Emily Dickinson in her capacity as the Parish Health Officer had signed the death certificate. Laying a refrigerated corpse to rest on a willow bar island of wild licorice and Cajun lily was all in the nature of things on the Bayou St. Jude. No one batted a walleye.

  So, off they went . . . Casper, Angelike and a hoarse and stiff Hoptree Bark in one aluminum boat, pulling the funeral pirogue with Hermione behind, with Ananda, Merrit and Mrs. Nedd (who was out of sorts) in another.

  The wind had stilled and the rain held off. The bayou was unusually low for the time of year. That was always the thing about living close to the land—you had to live with it. But soon the crawfish would be burrowing to hatch their young. Things would go on, in the green tree and in the dry.

  They reached the mangrove-rooted shore, where Casper and Merrit almost broke their legs trying to get Mrs. Nedd’s wheelchair out of the boat, and because the antique contrivance offered no traction in the silt-sand, they were obliged to carry her all the way to the graveside like some kind of partially embalmed African queen. Casper recalled all the times he’d tipped people out of old Jessie.

  Next they brought up Angelike (waddling not unlike Odessa Pepper), then Hoptree, who managed to play a gutsy, moving harp in spite of the injury his mouth had sustained in the collision with Shelby Verril (who back in Texas had just been informed that in addition to a broken nose, his bladder had been infected when he’d been sodomized with the fake bull’s horn) . . . and finally the guest of honor herself, no longer wrapped in polyethylene, but tucked into a mildewed Sears & Roebuck Pup Ranger sleeping bag that Merrit had had since childhood.

  “Does this island have a name?” Casper asked as they laid Hermione in the grave that Merrit had dug, along with her favorite pair of bird watching binoculars.

  “Naw,” said Ananda. “It’s not a big one where folks go offen ‘cause Hermione saw the woodpecker on it and tried to keep folks off. Maybe we should call it Woodpecker Island. She’d like that.”

  “Hmm,” Casper said as he tried to think of the appropriate words to farewell this stranger he’d never met. People expected something to be said, and it was more than Angelike could manage. Why did everyone turn to him? His mind was blank, and the more he scanned the group gathered around the grave, the emptier he felt his brain become. Heavy, brittle lines like . . . they die, even without wisdom . . . were of course all wrong—and it didn’t seem right to impose upon a non-believer—a wild child and pagan free spirit at that—the more joyful and uplifting promises of the door of salvation, whether he believed in them himself or not. Resurrection just didn’t sit well with a shotgun victim—and summoned up old tabloid headlines like . . .

  GHOULS TURN WEDDING INTO SMORGASBORD OF TERROR

  Then he thought of Old Joe and the sunrise. This seemed like a peaceful place to have arrived—even if it took the violence of a shotgun blast to get there. Not many women take their own lives with firearms, he knew. Hermione wanted to be sure. Would’ve taken courage to do it. One of the simpler, quieter lines from the Good Book crossed his mind. It didn’t mean much on its own, but on this island at this moment, it did . . .

  And all the trees of the field shall clap their hands . . .

  The trees did seem to clap their hands. Wetland pine, cypress, willow, cherry bark oak—and one the locals called thicketine. There were no proper fields here—or rather the fields were a blend of cane, saw grass, marsh, and slow moving stream. The word “bayou” may in fact be a French approximation of a Choctaw word that means small stream. The whole landscape was fluid, as life is . . . poised between sky and water . . . the jambalaya and elegies played out like a cakewalk of shadows between two ever changing mirrors.

  Somewhere an unseen bird sang out—like a pennywhistle—then a rat-tat-tat-ta-toom. Casper wondered if it was the famous woodpecker come back from the dead to say goodbye. How many things, and creatures too, that are thought to be gone forever, live on in secret, waiting for the searcher with the pure heart for them to reveal themselves? He cleared his throat, like a singer waiting to come in on the rhythm section’s cue.

  “And all the trees shall clap their hands,” he said. “So should we today, for though we’re here to mourn a death, we’re also here to celebrate not just one life, but all Life. This is as fine a place as any I can imagine to end a journey and begin a new one. I’ve traveled a lot in my days, from Savannah to Sacramento—and I’ve met many people who seem to have never moved far from the first house they lived in. But everyone I’ve ever met has been a Searcher. There’s good reason to believe the woman we’re saying goodbye to today found what she was looking for—and I don’t just mean proof that an animal thought to be long dead is still alive and may even be watching us right now. I mean she found what we’re all searching for . . . friends . . . the family we find or make. It doesn’t matter how we come together—and it may not be for us to understand.

  “Hermione can rest now. From what I can see, she found a strong family . . . and a sense of purpose . . . and the fact that chance or destiny—or maybe even God has brought her niece here at this time says that it was the right time.”

  He paused for a moment, wishing to himself that Hermione had left something to Angelike. But looking around at the faces of the gathered, he saw she’d left something to them all. She’d deeded the land rights to her foundation and left with it a fighting fund to resist the oil company if need be—and the Disney interests. She’d looked after her family as best she could—from the woodpeckers and the terrapins, even to wizened Mrs. Nedd.

  “Today,” he continued . . . “Is another chance to appreciate the wisdom of chance. I think if Hermione had met Angelike, after all the years in between—if she knew about the baby . . . it just would’ve be
en harder for her to do what she felt she had to do.

  “I never got to meet her, but standing here on this little island that was important to her, I feel the presence of a life well lived—not death. I see her life reflected in the faces gathered here now. I think her timing was as it needed to be . . . and she’s left a legacy to help carry on the work she lived for, and to look out for the lives of others. Like the trees, we can clap our hands. Like the birds, we can sing . . . because it’s natural to do so.”

  A gravel-throated Hoptree Bark launched into a scratchy yet still clear rendition of “Across the Waters,” which brought Angelike to tears. They weren’t tears of grief—they were almost happy—the recognition that this was indeed a fitting end—even noble.

  Casper recalled the lyrics to the hymn like some ghostly lullaby and started singing along, harmonizing with the old man without even trying. If the tune was melancholy, the mood of the assembled wasn’t . . . and certainly not the rambunctious percussion of the unseen bird, which though faint and mingled with the flow of the water, seemed near enough to hold in hand. When the last tones had faded out, they gave Hermione a cypress wood cross, and Merrit left one of his prize garden statue frogs on guard to protect her spirit.

  After the burial, Ananda produced a smoked catfish to share amongst the mourners. It was a small enough cat as it was and then Link Duquette and his cousin showed up—and Valentine Tate motored Odessa Pepper out to pay her respects and to be near Hoptree just in case one of the bonne a ríennes or “no-account wimmen” got any ideas. Casper took the fish and managed to serve everyone, which was a minor miracle and then they left Hermione to her island—all except for Link who was hung over from rotgut and had fallen asleep.

  21

  For Reasons That Escape Me

  When they arrived back at Roy’s and had off-loaded Angelike, Mrs. Nedd and the rest, Hoptree sought out Casper for a confidential throaty word, although Casper thought it may have been to avoid Mrs. Nedd.

  “Mighty nice eulogy,” the old man coughed. “You’re a natural.”

  “Nothing natural about it,” Casper shrugged. He consoled himself for the swindles of yesteryear by recalling that he’d always believed he was doing some good, telling some truth.

  “No,” Hoptree insisted, shaking his silver head. “You’ve got a gift. It’s like singing in tune. You can’t fake it—at least not in person. Folks can hear it right away. You speak with authority. You’ve been places . . . seen things. You know things.”

  “A lot I wish I didn’t,” Casper replied, thinking back to the Oldsmobile and Rick James. So many dreams and nightmares.

  “We all can say the same,” the old man answered. “But you can speak to people so they’ll listen. I can tell you were a preacher—but I know for damn certain you’re a leader.”

  Casper made a sound that wasn’t quite a word.

  “You may balk at that like a white donkey,” Hoptree frowned. “But you can’t run away from it like the other things you’ve been running from son . . . no matter who’s chasing you.”

  Casper got stuck on that word “son.” He knew it was just an expression, but it occurred to him that as nutty as Hoptree was, he was as close to a father figure as he’d had since Joe, and a lot more peaceful. Hoptree was summer breeze by comparison. Even if his mind did go kite flying.

  “You’re feeling better,” Casper said.

  “I am,” the old man acknowledged. “Did I cause any problems?”

  “Nothing that couldn’t be explained.”

  Hoptree chuckled. “I feel I should be ashamed—but I’m not. I remember the tornado . . . and squabbling with Little Miss. And wishing I had a sombrero.”

  “You took a nasty knock when that kid collided with you—worse than the tree.”

  “Who?” the old man asked, feeling his lump.

  “Shelby. The matador’s little friend.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t remember, Austin? The crazy matador? Angelike’s ex-uncle?”

  “Nope,” said the old man. “Was he talking about fossils?”

  “You were talking about fossils,” Casper replied. “What do you remember?”

  “The funeral.”

  “And before that?”

  “Odessa.”

  “Good. And you remember the twister.”

  “What twister?”

  “You just said you remembered it!”

  “When was that?”

  “Never mind—what else do you remember. Before Odessa.”

  “Growing up in Birdsong, Mississippi.”

  “You said you grew up in Pennsylvania.”

  “Actually, I didn’t grow up in either place—although I sort of did in both.”

  Here we go again thought Casper.

  “You see . . . ” the old man said. “I was born in Birdsong, Mississippi. But I never lived there. I took the spirit of the place in by osmosis.”

  “I don’t understand,” Casper said, hoping this might lead somewhere he could.

  “My father was an unusual man,” Hoptree said, scratching his scraggly chin. “By the way, I hate to tell you—I’m not 151 years-old. Although I’m pretty sure Mrs. Nedd is—and then some. Jesus, her breath!”

  Casper almost grinned. “I’m glad we cleared that up. How old are you really? 149?”

  “You’ll be disappointed to learn I’m in this wretched condition at the still innocent vintage of 89 last birthday. Just old enough to be a fool and a liar, not wise enough to be good at either. But I’m working on it. And I wasn’t kidding to Missy about the erection.”

  “So you remember that?”

  “Son, you get to a certain point and you remember every erection. I think Ben Franklin said that. And you sure as hell remember every chance you get to use one—I said that.”

  Casper almost laughed. It struck him as rather wonderful, the old man’s childlike acceptance of the situation they were in now. Maybe their arrival on the bayou made more sense having been on an extensive imaginary tour of the American Museum of Natural History. It couldn’t have been any more confusing at least. “What were you saying about your father?”

  “What was I saying? Oh, yes. Both my parents were unusual. Both of them came from money, or at least culture. My father was an investment banker in New York. We lived in a brownstone near Gracie Square. But they were outsiders in their social circles. What he loved—and my mother too—was music. Not hifalutin music—down to earth stuff. They got out of Manhattan every chance they could—collecting music and song material. Old ballads, cowboy songs, field hollers, church stomps and spirituals. Like John and Alan Lomax.”

  “Who?”

  “Famous musicologists. Father and son. They collected songs for the Library of Congress. Visited ranches and rodeos, prison farms and levee camps. They discovered Lead Belly. My parents made some discoveries of their own. Nobody quite as famous, but a lot of good stuff . . . children’s game chants . . . chain gang rhythms. They went down to the old turpentine camps. They began collecting fragments of sheet music left by traveling black preachers—a mix of early blues, old hymns and hybrid songs these fellows—and one or two women too—wrote. They were called the Only Men and my folks put together a songbook of their work so it wouldn’t be lost forever. Their dream was to start their own phonograph record company. Oxcart Records. That’s what led them to Birdsong. There was an old mulatto man living there. Played a cardboard guitar and a bunch of instruments he’d made himself. Half Delta plantation Negro, half hillbilly—with Tennessee whiskey and Indian war paint for blood. He claimed to be the last living Only Man. He called himself Hoptree Bark, which is why I later took to calling myself that in his honor.”

  “What happened to your parents?” Casper asked, deciding not to ask his old friend what his real name was, and to say nothing about what he knew of the Only Men.

  The old man shook his head. “Their dreams never came true. Everything went to hell in a hand basket when the Grea
t Depression hit. The first Great Depression I should say. You’ve heard about the Wall Street men jumping off window ledges because they were ruined? Well, not all of them jumped. Some of ‘em got pushed.”

  “Your father was pushed—out a window?”

  “Folks were angry. Just like in more recent times, lots of people thought the fancy pants financiers got everyone into the shit. Of course nobody took any responsibility themselves. However it happened, dad ended up splattered on the cobblestones and any hope of Oxcart Records went with him. Broke and widowed, my mother had a nervous collapse. Tried to drown herself in the bathtub the day she let the servants go. Our maid was just leaving when she found what had happened. Mother survived, but she was taken away to what was called then a ‘Ladies Refuge’ on Long Island. A loony bin with azaleas. Her parents still had some money and foot the bill for a while. But then they died and she ended up in much less pleasant conditions upstate in Elmira, which is where she passed—alone, living on charity, out of her mind.”

  “What happened to you?” Casper asked.

  “That’s a damn good question, son. Whenever I can remember, I ask it all the time. Short answer is I was taken in by aunts in Rochester—and they raised me well, although they were both much older than my parents and not in very good health. They encouraged my interest in music. They bought me a Cleveland Greyhound trumpet—that was my main instrument at first—before I started plinking the ivories. I played the “Star Spangled Banner” at Niagara Falls once. Then they died within a month of each other and I was put in an orphanage, and after that a church run place for boys.”

  Casper couldn’t find the right words to respond. They stood in silence for a moment, staring out over the dock. The sky had gone the color of dried bone and the air was thick with female rain scent.