Reverend America: A Journey of Redemption

by Kris Saknussemm

  “Son, you couldn’t get that little lass to do a damn thing she didn’t wanna do! And you can’t blame yourself for the life she led. You’re just high hattin’ yourself if you do. I think you’re the kind who’s helped more people than you remember and been helped by many. Now, it’s time to help yourself.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Casper asked, put out.

  “Look atchyou!”

  “You can barely see through those cataracts.”

  “I can feel,” the old man answered and held out his worn right hand and pressed it to Casper’s face. The hand was neither smooth nor rough—but experienced, alive unto itself. And scented with vanilla.

  Hoptree laughed loud and clear. “You think she’s too young for me!”

  “Or you’re too white for her!” Casper replied. But the notion of racial difference didn’t seem to carry any weight on the bayou.

  “There,” said Hoptree, clapping his hands, as if about to begin a song. “That’s what you don’t do enough of. Using those smiling muscles God gave you. You walkin’ around like a haint—never thinkin’ about a home. Hell, you look like you got more past than old Mrs. Nedd. We’ll be asking you about Appomattox soon. Gotta make your way to the moment. Leave the Oldsmobile and the trailer out in the desert behind—whatever happened.”

  These last words hung in the air like anxious birds.

  “You were talking to yourself while you were driving,” the old man said. “You thought I was off with the woolly mammoths—but you were off with the ghosts and the shadows I suspect.”

  Casper gave a light shiver. “Did Angelike hear?”

  “She was out. And you didn’t make enough sense to give away any secrets. No need to turn any whiter than you already are.”

  “I’ve done bad things,” Casper said.

  “No doubt,” Hoptree agreed. “But running from them doesn’t do anyone any good, least of all you. Everyone’s guilty of something. If you want to make good, then let the past go and start looking ahead. That’s the gift the little girl’s given us. Given us both. You just did the driving.”

  “You’re right there,” Casper said.

  “This here is a good moment,” the old man declared.

  Hoptree’s inflection had turned crisp and worldly, but his words were dust of the road honest. They reminded Casper of a Mexican field hand he’d seen once in a row of sugar beets, going down to an irrigation canal and using a stray hubcap to take a drink.

  “I don’t think she’s coming back.”

  “I know,” the old man answered. “I’m just saying that you need a home. From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs. You might have one here, if you let yourself see it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “That’s why I asked you what you think of Miss Dickinson. Odessa reckons she can help me work out a way to get these cataracts removed—and she thinks she’d let you stay on. She needs an extra hand. Even got some funding to help pay for it, so I hear. You could earn your keep. Odessa says she’s a widow too.”

  “What do you mean too?”

  “Like Odessa. But I do hear she’s a fine lookin’ woman. Then again, I don’t see so good, as you say. Although that may change.”

  Casper knew what the old man meant, and that it came from his heart—but it still annoyed him. “I’ll think about it,” he replied.

  “And you could join the church. No prejudice with these folks—they’re all too much in each other’s barbeque for that.”

  “Yeah,” Casper agreed, thinking back to the night before when he was welcomed like no black stranger would’ve been greeted by whites in the South—sitting around a campfire with people offering him crawfish heads.

  “You might even think about the preacher’s job. I’ve already told them you’ve got the way, although they picked up on that themselves. And with the funeral, well, word gets around quick. No money of course—but folks would respect you. Ole Luther Box ain’t gonna be ‘round forever.”

  “I don’t know if I feel religious just now,” Casper gruffed, peeved by Hoptree’s slide in and out of his folksy dialect.

  As if savoring this discomfort, the old man poured on the molasses. “I’ll tune up my fiddle, I’ll rosin my bow, and I’ll make myself welcome wherever I go. Preachin’ ain’t zackly ‘bout religion with these folks. Iss ‘bout singin’ an’ playin’—heppin’ eachotha in hurricanes—and havin’ children.”

  “Did you say children?” Casper prickled. The remark seemed either terribly insensitive just at that point—or so alarmingly optimistic as to be deranged. “You don’t mean to say—you think you can father a child?”

  “I hadn’t thought about that yet—but I got me a woman. That’s a damn good start.”

  “Not Odessa?” Casper gasped, with his mouth open as wide as it could go and still allow him to talk.

  “I don’t mean Mrs. Nedd,” the old man laughed—and then whispered . . . “Odessa’s asked me to move in.”

  “You’re joking!” Casper squawked.

  “I am not!” Hoptree insisted, feigning being miffed.

  “You mean to say . . . you already . . . ”

  “Son, you may think it crass of me while Missy was facing such trials—but I tell you, you don’t have to be 151 to know time gets away if you don’t grab it.”

  “That sounds like just what you did!”

  “Like I said before, you get to a certain point and you think about making hay whether the damn sun’s shining or not. Wise Ben would agree.”

  “So—you’re—shacking up with her?”

  “We’re gonna play house and see how it goes. Maybe a baby. Haha.”

  “But she’s way too old! You’re beyond too old. Don’t you know that?” The old weasel’s exuberance was getting on Casper’s nerves.

  His words got up Hoptree’s nose now.

  “Why are you always talking about Old—and Can’t? You’re young enough to be my son. You should still be thinking about Can. You’ve got too much blood in you to be a ghost. Can’t find a red bird, a jay bird’ll do—skip to my lou.”

  God, thought Casper. That’s what Angelike would’ve said. It was the way she behaved anyway. She’d been taken off in a helicopter, bleeding, in agony, separated from her newborn dead child, thrown in amongst strangers every bit as much as he was, not knowing what the future held—or if there would be any future to hold—having just lost the one possibility of family and help she’d counted on—and still she showed no sign of giving in.

  “I’ll think about what you’re saying,” Casper promised, feeling warmth and affection for the old henhouse raider again.

  The old man touched his steady right hand to Casper’s shoulder. “I gotta get back. Wouldn’t want Odessa to think I’m out on the prowl! You don’t need to worry about me anymore. She keeps that bait shovel handy.”

  Casper tried to smile.

  “The only thing I did was wrong was to stay in the wilderness too long,” Hoptree recited. “The thing we did was right was the day we started to fight. Keep your eyes on the prize. We’re going to need all the help we can get in the great struggle against the corporate forces of Big Money around here. The dignity of the common man is at stake against the interests of capitalist greed. Organizing and preparation is the key.”

  “I had an old friend who used to say something like that,” Casper replied.

  “You’ve got an old friend right here,” Hoptree said. “And don’t you go kite flying and forget it. You stick around and I’ll learn y’all some gitar. I can play everything from Doc Watson to John Lee Hooker.”

  “Do you happen to know ‘The Red Headed Stranger’?” Casper asked.

  “From Blue Rock, Montana. Know it by heart,” the old man answered. “I may even teach you some Hoptree Bark. The real Hoptree Bark, I mean.”

  “You’re pretty real yourself,” Casper said. “You’d be a good teacher. Stay out of trouble now.”

  “You mean, stay in the moment,
” Hoptree replied.

  “That’s what I said.”

  Merrit boated the old man back to Roy’s where Odessa was waiting for him with a plate of hush puppies, polk salad and some blackberry pudding. Casper went back inside his room, lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

  He had a dream . . . about Summer. He saw her walking out of her house—the family home she’d remained in, even as an adult. She stepped in front of the speeding ambulance.

  In all the years since, it hadn’t occurred to him that her death wasn’t an accident . . . or perhaps it had—he just hadn’t been able to see it. Cloudy, then clear. He’d never known the secret of her family life. She’d always kept that well hidden, just as Little Red had guarded the snakeskin belt. Maybe she hadn’t been run down. Maybe that was her way out of the small room Hogerty had talked about.

  The knock at the door startled him up out of the depths of the past. It was Emily Dickinson. Three hours had gone by.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “Truth?” Emily Dickinson answered, and he realized that despite her weariness she was a very attractive woman. She smelled good too—like a mix of pralines and cantaloupe. “Gurl’s got problems on top of problems. Should’ve done a Cesar. Gonorrhea in the past, scarring, she done it hard—and been busted up by someone—but I think you knew that.”

  “I did. The man who did that learned his lesson. Is—is there any good news?”

  “She fightin’.”

  “I—I want to thank you for all your help,” Casper said.

  “Doan think I did much. Not enough anyway.”

  “Yes you did. Don’t high hat yourself, you can’t save everybody.”

  “High hat myself?” Emily Dickinson frowned, and then gave a wan smile.

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect,” Casper said.

  “I know you didn’t. You all right?”

  “I—I’m OK, thanks. I appreciate you letting me stay here.”

  “Doan worry ‘bout that. You can help out—if it comes to that—for a while.”

  “She’ll make it?” Casper asked, although it occurred to him that Angelike might already be gone. Just as Emily Dickinson wouldn’t let him tell her the truth about the baby, maybe the truth was being held back from him now.

  “You keep yo head up.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “Not jes yet. Let the chile rest.”

  “She is still alive?”

  “You keep yo head up like I sed. It’ll be all right. You can stay here long as you like. We doan have much—but Myron could use a hand.”

  “He’s a fine boy—young man. I heard your husband died. I’m—I’m sorry.”

  “Police officer in Nawrleans,” she said, lowering her head. Casper noticed how smooth her skin was. “Whole city like St. Louis Cemetery. And that was before Katrina.”

  “You’re from here, aren’t you?”

  “Ought nevva to’ve left. Nevva will now. Where you from?”

  “West Virginia, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, the Greyhound Bus.”

  “Whattya do?”

  “I was raised to a be preacher . . . but then . . . long story.”

  “Well, Myron’s got some red beans on. You come over an’ join us for supper. I got some homemade ice melon. Come by when you’re ready.”

  He did, and enjoyed the simple meal. He especially appreciated not being questioned further about his past. These people seemed to get a read on you and take you as they found you, like all the good people he’d ever met.

  The quarters that Emily and Myron had taken for themselves consisted of a small but clean cottage adjacent to the motel. After they ate, Casper helped Myron wash up while Emily went to soak her feet. Myron wanted to try out for the wrestling team. His eyesight didn’t keep him from hunting—but it made him self-conscious. He had great strength and quickness for his size—probably wrestling was a good idea, Casper thought. The mother and son seemed to get on well, although underneath their fondness he sensed the ever-present vacuum left by the lost father / husband. He admired their courage.

  Then he headed back to his room, the storm smell seeming nearer now, jags of heat lightning in the distance.

  24

  The Hour of Lead

  Inside his room there was news of a hurricane potential storm ravaging the remains of the Gulf shrimp fleet. What didn’t these people face down with bravery? Oil spills, storms, floods. The old television screen fluttered. He kept thinking of Angelike, wondering if she was going to be all right—wondering if she was awake—wondering if she was alive. He consulted his Medicine strips.

  MAN DROPS DENTURES OVERBOARD THEN FINDS THEM IN A FISH SIX MONTHS LATER

  He took that as a hopeful message. He moved to turn off the TV and stopped dead when he saw the commercial that had come on. It was an elephant being massaged with Spanish Extra Virgin olive oil! His mind flashed back to Hogerty and the mysterious Wink Group. My God, he thought . . .

  That now seemed like a happy memory and set him mulling over what Hoptree had told him. What business did he have thinking about preaching in a black gospel church—or to anyone for that matter? He’d killed a black boy not much older than Myron. He’d killed two other men and should be in leg-irons at Angola.

  The answer came back to him out of the past. Survival. Hoptree had walked in the path of the whirlwind and had been saved. So had he. Many times over. He’d gone on because a Rinder had come. Be not too quick to judge the tasks set before thee, for in the appointed hour, despite your burdens, you shall be called upon to stand up in your heart. He’d written those words himself.

  He realized that Hoptree was right, he could find a home here. A home at last. That’s what Angelike had given him. He pulled the Only Men songbook from out of his pack. Beyond the last of the Reverend America Bibles, it was the only thing he’d salvaged from his days with Poppy and Rose. Like her organ, Rose had left it behind without a thought. Poppy never mentioned it once during his trial or the last time Casper had spoken to him, even though they’d spent hours with it—years—and had made a lot of their money because of it. He hadn’t looked at the cover in a long time. He seemed to see it now for the first time.

  Glory’s Bitter Road

  The Lost Songs of America’s Negro Troubadour Preachers 1845-1898

  Collected and Arranged by Warwick and Mercia Field – NewYork, 1927

  He laid it on the bed—this he would keep, because it wasn’t his to let go. Then he took his precious Medicine Bag and went outside. The wind had died down and the moon came out from the clouds. He laid his Medicine Bag in the water, watching the strips melt away. Time to find or make some new Medicine. The last words he saw were GOLDEN ANTEATER. Then he waded in himself, fully clothed as he had in his religious days. Another baptism. “Create in me a clean will if not soul,” he said, as he let his old Reverend America Bible sink out of sight. “For the rebellious dwell in a dry land.”

  There was a sound in the water nearby. Perhaps the Murker, feeding on the old headlines. The wind picked up and plucked at loose metal. He went back inside, brushed his Red Wings and said a prayer for Little Red . . . and for the others. The dead, the damned, the doomed . . . the undaunted. He stripped and slept better than he had in a long time.

  The next morning the storm had passed. He helped Myron set a trap line and he caught his first lunker bass. Emily Dickinson went off to see how the patient was doing, or so she said—after lancing Altana’s boil and testing Hooker Barr for diabetes (he didn’t have it—yet). The day after, Emily Dickinson once again insisted that Casper let the girl rest. So he caught a catfish and cleaned out her boats. He learned how to make a fricassee. The following day he motored back up to Roy’s and with Merrit’s help disassembled the LeSabre, chopping and spray painting panels, grinding off serial numbers, harvesting what components could be sold, ditching the rest. Despite his infirmity, the boy worked well, and he sang softly while he worked—some Cajun French song Casper didn’t know. He had a peculiar b
ut good, true voice. No questions were asked, and Casper got so he could sort of understand him. He learned some things at least. A bullfrog was a wowmaron, a dragonfly—a zirondelle. And a schneille seemed to be a kind of fuzzy caterpillar that bites and causes fever.

  When they were finished with the car, Merrit made a momentary departure and returned carrying something in a secretive, important fashion. It was just an ordinary drawing pad—but on it was a series of rather fine sketches—mechanically lush line drawings in superb detail, but done with a freehand freshness and organic energy. They presented a half man-half frog creature—with both a kind of defiant aristocratic bearing and the embattled look of the hunted fugitive.

  “M-muuurker,” the boy said behind his hand. “No tell.”

  How appropriate, Casper thought, that the boy would envision the legendary World Weekly News creature as part man, part frog. Then again, if the Murker had showed itself to anyone on the bayou, Merrit seemed the perfect choice. He felt privileged the boy had shared this private vision with him. Who are your friends if you can’t share your visions with them?

  Come Saturday, Luther Box was feeling poorly and Aura Ryder, on behalf of the congregation, came and asked Casper if he had a mind to fill in. He was eating pain perdu. He said he couldn’t presume to take the place of Reverend Box. Well then, wondered Aura, would he care to give a message as a layman—to make a guest appearance? And after much thought, he said yes he would. He was bound and determined to visit Angelike that afternoon, to see how she was doing, because he still wanted to believe—needed to believe. But that night . . . Emily Dickinson told him the truth. There’d been a massive hemorrhage and a critical drop in blood pressure. In trying to elevate it, the girl had gone into cardiac arrest. The doctors had done what they could and brought her back twice with the paddles. But there was internal bleeding from an injury. She slipped away under anesthesia when they were prepping her for surgery. The body was being returned from Lafayette the next day. It was finished.