by Edward Lee
Now that his perverse duties were over, his nightmare filtered back into his head.
“Jiff, you look inconsolable.”
The liquor bit hard. “Huh?”
“You appear to be troubled by something…”
“Bad dream, is all. I get ’em sometimes—don’t rightly know why.” The horrid images felt like bruises in the back of his brain. “Dreamed I was a coal shoveler, back durin’ the war.”
“Heaver,” Sute corrected. “That was the official job title in those days. A coal heaver. They shoveled sixteen hours a day, for about fourteen dollars a month.” Sute’s “afterglow” left him relaxed, or perhaps it was just Jiff’s presence. It was a conversation, not a demented sexual scenario. “A contributing factor to the C.S.A.’s surrender was its inability to mine coal as effectively as the North. You were a Confederate coal heaver I take it?”
Jiff’s nude pecs popped when he rubbed his brow. “Naw, and I weren’t paid no fourteen bucks a month, neither. See, in this dream, I was a black man. I was a slave.”
Sute’s bulbous face creased in concern. “You seem terribly upset, Jiff. It was only a dream. But this is interesting. Where were you working?”
“What’s that?”
“Where were you shoveling this coal? A supply ship? A locomotive?”
Jiff shook his head. “A big furnace, and I mean really big.”
Sute’s attention became more focused. “And how do you know it was during the war?”
“On account’a the place was full up with Confederate guards all walkin’ ’round with bayonets on their rifles. They was all callin’ me nigger’n tellin’ me I’m dead meat if I don’t keep shovelin’. Bunch’a other black fellas with me doin’ the same thing. Seemed like the dream went on forever: me throwin’ in one shovel fulla coal after the next. Place was so hot I could feel my skin blisterin’.” Jiff took another inch of scotch and sighed. “I been havin’ weird dreams every now and then long as I can remember, always durin’ the war, but each time I’m someone else, and it’s always horrible.”
“Slavery was a horrible thing, Jiff.”
“Aw, shit, that ain’t what I mean. The really horrible part was what they was usin’ that furnace for.”
“Smelting ore, I presume.”
Jiff shook his head. “Weren’t no ore in the place that I could see. It was more like a prison camp. See, we was shovelin’ the coal into the fuel chutes on one side, but on the other side, the soldiers was throwin’ people into the furnace.”
“What?”
“Yup. They’d bring folks in a few at a time; women and kids, mostly, and most of ’em were naked—see, they come offa these wagons outside. Some still had their clothes on but they was all shit’n puke-stained and fulla bugs. Then every now’n then some Indian fellas’d bring in more women, and each time they done so, a soldier’d give ’em some money.”
“Delivery fees,” Sute said. “Same thing as a bounty. Gast’s deputies frequently recruited nearby Indians to round up civilians who’d fled their homes as the Union forces encroached. Strange that you should dream something so accurate.”
“Aw, shit, but that weren’t the worst part,” Jiff went on, beating down his disgust with the liquor. “Lotta the women they brung in was pregnant, and the kids, too, just little girls, all starin’ out with big hollow eyes in their skinny faces like they ain’t et in weeks. And the soldiers just fed ’em all right into the furnace. Didn’t even think twice about it.”
Sute went silent.
“Babies, too, they was throwin’ in. We could see inside’n the fire was so hot sometimes the person they throwed in would just explode. Others looked like they was melting. Like they’d just turn into vapor.”
Sute lumbered up and began rubbing Jiff’s shoulders. “You’re letting the legends get the best of you. Come and lie down with me…”
But Jiff was spacing out. “Finally, I fall down. I’m so weak, see, that I can’t shovel no more coal, so…so—”
“What happened?”
“The soldiers throwed me into the furnace…”
Sute stroked Jiff’s face from behind. “It’s just the legend, Jiff, it’s the legend. Put it out of your mind.”
“That’s just it, J.G.—my mind. Why in hell would my mind serve up somethin’ so vile? And after I got tossed in, I just kept burnin’. I could see the flesh smokin’ right off my body, but the nightmare still wouldn’t end. Finally I did wake up, and I was screamin’ bloody murder. And you know what? ’bout a minute later, I heard Lottie screamin’, too—her bedroom’s right next to mine. How fucked up is that? Lottie cain’t talk, can’t barely make no sound at all. But she was screamin’, too, like she was havin’ a nightmare herself. Jesus H. Christ, I hope she didn’t have the same one as me.”
“I’m sorry to see you in such duress, Jiff.” Sute was nearly in tears. This was the first time that Jiff had ever confided in him, the first time he’d ever regarded Sute as more than just a kink trick. “Stay with me. Let me make you breakfast.”
Shit, Jiff thought. What am I doin’? He snapped out of it. He’s right, it was just a dumb dream, and I’m all actin’ like a baby about it. He pulled away from his client and began to dress. “Naw, I gotta go. Got work at the inn.” He blinked away the remaining dream fragments yet still felt his stomach souring.
Sute sat back down on the bed, morose that the love of his life was leaving. “If it’s any consolation, Jiff, a long time ago I spent the night at the inn when my roof was being reshingled. You were just a teenager then. But I had a nightmare, too, that’s similar to yours in some ways.”
Jiff paused to look at him.
“I dreamed that I was a Confederate general, who’d sold his soul to the devil, and the first man I met after making the pact was Harwood Gast.”
Jiff felt as though a tarantula had just skimmed up his back. He didn’t want to hear anything about the devil. But he had to ask, “J.G.? You think a place can make nightmares, ’cos of what happened in it in the past?”
“Well, that’s one endless rumor about the Gast House, Jiff. But in truth…no. I really don’t think so.”
“I hope not.”
“It’s ironic, though: the content of your nightmare as well as the history of your mother’s inn. That man from the TV show is quite interested in the topic. He’s almost obsessed with the Gast legend.”
Jiff eyed his client with suspicion. “Yeah?”
“Seems quite odd, doesn’t it? A book writer and celebrity from California, so taken by a Southern ghost story.”
Yeah, I guess it is…“He’s a nice guy and all but this town definitely ain’t the place for him.”
“Southern pride.” Sute managed a smile. “I’ll call you again soon.”
For a split second, he had the most noxious vision: Jiff was shoving Sute into the furnace’s fiery maw. His hand was shaking when he grabbed the doorknob. And, no, he wasn’t going to tell Sute yet that he was dumping him as a client. The tricks were so much easier at the Spike. He’d simply had enough. I’ll tell him next time he calls, he decided, and just said for now, “See ya later.” Then Jiff turned to leave.
“Gracious, Jiff. You really are out of sorts, aren’t you?”
Jiff turned. “Huh?”
“You were about to do something you’ve never done before.”
Jiff was getting irritated. “What’cha talkin’ about?”
“You almost walked out of here without your money,” Sute informed him and smiled. Then he gave Jiff a check for one hundred dollars.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I
“There’s no gray area here, folks,” the minister said. “You can’t get more cut-and-dry than the Ten Commandments. There’s no interpretation necessary to understand Christ’s Golden Rule, ‘Do to others as you would have others do to you.’ When Jesus said on the Mount, ‘Blessed are the merciful for the merciful shall be shown mercy,’ we don’t need a literary analyst from Harvard to tell us what that really m
eans. The Word of God is simple. It’s like boiling rice. If you follow the instructions on the bag, it works. God’s Word works, too, but our problem is we don’t really listen. We may try to, or we tell ourselves that we’re listening, but we really aren’t because as humans we exist in error. We’re unworthy in the shadow of our sin…”
Collier felt inhibited throughout the service, as out of place as a Washington Redskins jersey in a Dallas sports shop. The minister reminded him of the Skipper on Gilligan’s Island but was bald as Telly Savalas. He interestingly mixed fire and brimstone with lackadaisical good humor: “We’re all premeditated sinners worthy of nothing but hell, but God’s a pretty cool guy and he cuts us slack if we earn it. He knows we’re all screwed up but he loves us anyway! He doesn’t want heaven to be full of nothing but stone-faced boring pilgrims and monks who haven’t cracked a joke in their entire lives!” Collier figured heaven would indeed be Dullsville if exclusively populated by such folks.
Dominique held his hand through the entire service, save for intervals for hymns. She as well as most everyone there listened to the minister with the same attention that Collier had paid to those Girls Gone Wild commercials: with rapt veneration. Maybe that was the difference.
The minister pointed his finger at the congregation, like an accuser, then slowly aimed it at himself. “My friends, there really are seven deadly sins: wrath, lust, pride, greed, envy, sloth, and—my personal favorite—gluttony…” He stepped away from the lectern and hoisted a considerable belly beneath his vestments, which summoned laughter from the pews.
“But the other day I was thinking that maybe that’s why God put seven days in the week—a day for each sin. Why don’t we reserve each separate day to atone for one, and stick to it. Monday can be pride, Tuesday can be envy, Wednesday can be sloth, and so on. And today? Sunday? Let’s assign greed to Sunday, and use the Lord’s day to try to redeem ourselves of this sin. Let’s remember Jesus’ story of the widow’s mite, how a destitute woman gave her last two leptons to the offering box—only a fraction of a cent. That’s not much money but to Christ that woman’s selfless sacrifice was worth more than a mountain of gold.”
Collier grew suspicious. Here it comes. Open up your hearts and open up your wallets…
“Let’s remember that for every dollar we give, we get back a hundred in spirit. Let’s remember the word of James: ‘Every act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above,’ so that when we give in the name of God, we become like God. And the words of Matthew: ‘Freely we have received, so freely we must give.’ Just go out and give—let’s do that today instead of watching TV or washing the car—”
The collection plate’ll be making the rounds any minute now, Collier thought.
“—and for you wise guys out there who think I’m just pumping you up for the collection plate, I’m asking you to not give a penny to this church today. Give it to someone else instead—”
Collier frowned.
“—and if you’ve got no money, give your time. Or maybe we can follow our best examples”—he pointed to someone in the pews—“like Mr. Portafoy who spends every Friday night helping terminal patients at the hospice, or Janice Wilcox who runs the local clothing drive, or Dominique Cusher who prepares a hundred meals before her restaurant opens and drives them all the way to the Chattanooga homeless shelter every Sunday—”
Collier looked at her…then wondered if he’d ever given anything as charity in his life…
“Let’s be like those wonderful people, and also remember Corinthians: ‘God loves a cheerful giver.’” Next the minister stepped away from the lectern again, hoisting his belly. He seemed to be looking right at Collier when he said, “And for you wise guys out there wondering what I’m going to give? I’m not going to eat today, but instead I’m going to go drop a hundred dollars on pizzas and take them to the Fayetteville soup kitchen. I’m gonna drive those people at Domino’s nuts…and I’m not even going to snitch a slice for myself. I swear!”
More chuckles from the crowd.
“Go to the hospital and give a pint of blood! Go to the underpass and dole out a backseat full of Quarter Pounders! Go online and throw some of that MasterCard at the Red Cross, or fill out that organ-donor form and drop it in the mail. You’re not gonna need your liver when you’re dead, are you? So go on and do it!” Then he scanned his finger across the pews and barked like a game-show host, “And until next week, go in peace to love and serve the Lord!”
Everyone said “Amen” while they were still laughing, then a jazzy organ kicked in to signal the final procession.
“Wow,” Collier whispered. “Church has changed.”
“When was the last time you went?”
“Ah, you would ask. I’m too ashamed to say. When was Oliver North shredding documents for Reagan?”
Dominique chuckled. “Being here is a start, isn’t it? And, yeah, Father Grumby gets a little gung ho sometimes but he’s a great pastor.”
Collier’s throat felt thick when he noticed two young girls in white dresses filing out behind their parents. Couldn’t be, he thought. He still wasn’t sure if he’d really seen the girls or if it was a booze-triggered phantasm.
Then his belly twitched again when he recalled the other mirage: the four small hands playing with him…and the dog…
“Let me ask you something,” he said on a completely inappropriate lark. “Does Harwood Gast have any descendants?”
“Nope.” She smiled at him. “Why do you ask?”
“I bought a bunch of books from Mr. Sute but I haven’t read them yet. Isn’t it kind of curious that the Gasts never had kids?”
“Oh, they had kids, two of them, two girls.”
Collier felt a twinge. “But you just said he didn’t have any—”
“No descendants, that’s right.” She seemed to stall on a thought. “But his two daughters died in their teens, during…the war.”
Collier watched the backs of the two girls. One was dirty blonde, the other drably brunette. Just like…
Before they exited the nave, they turned for moment to wave to some other children. Collier saw that it clearly wasn’t them.
“Did…Gast’s daughters have a dog?”
“Justin, how would I know that?”
“Well, you know a lot about the legend. How did the two girls die, exactly?”
She nudged him. “I don’t think church is the best place to talk about Tennessee’s version of Ivan the Terrible. If you insist on obsessing over it, go ask your friend J.G. Sute. He’ll tell you all the facts and all the B.S. you want to hear. If anybody’s more obsessed with this stuff than you, it’s him.”
Collier felt foolish now, but what she’d said spiked him. Maybe that’s what I’ll do today—give Sute a call. Suddenly he felt intent on learning about Gast’s two children.
He followed Dominique out as she spoke briefly to acquaintances. Outside he said, “So I take it you’re busy this morning.”
“Yeah, like the man said, that’s what I do on Sundays before work.”
“It’s quite a gesture.”
“No it isn’t—it’s no big deal. I use all the leftover side dishes from Saturday, then make some kind of meat dish with overstock or specials that didn’t sell. It’s actually kind of fun. One time I made chimichurri pork tenderloin with a banana-pepper drizzle and wasabi mashed potatoes for a hundred homeless.”
“I’ll bet that made their day,” Collier said.
“They loved it. Another time my supplier was trying to get rid of eight-count sea scallops, so I bought a bunch on the bulk discount and did them up over penne quill pasta with truffled cream pomodoro sauce. It was a riot. The only real hassle is driving all the way to Chattanooga and back.”
Collier felt a stab of obligation. “Let me help you. I’ve got nothing big to do today.”
“No, no, it’s something I do by myself. You heard Father Grumby; you’ve got to choose your own manner of charity.” She grinned. “You’ll think of s
omething.”
Collier felt relieved beneath his falseness. The last thing he’d actually want to do is cook for homeless people hours away. But at least he felt like less of a schmuck for offering.
He pulled on her hand and stopped her. “I hope I can see you later.”
“Of course you can. Anytime after five at the restaurant, but I’ve got to run now. Today I’m taking chicken marsala and saffron rice to the shelter.” She kissed him briefly but not so brief that she didn’t have time to run the tip of her tongue across his lips. Collier tried to retrieve her for a longer kiss but her arms pressed him back.
“If you keep messing around with me you’re only going to wind up pissed off and aggravated,” she said with a coy smile.
He already knew what she was clarifying. “How do you know I don’t like being pissed off and aggravated?”
Her smile dropped down a notch. “Justin, I’ve already told you, I’m never going to have sex out of wedlock. I don’t put out. Get it?”
“As a matter of fact, I received that impression very distinctly last night—”
“If you’re looking to get laid, you’ve got the wrong girl.”
“How do you know I don’t like not getting laid?”
She shook her head, amused. “What I’m saying is I’ll understand if you don’t show up tonight.”
“Great. I’ll see you tonight.”
She kissed him one more time, then pulled away. “’Bye…”
He watched her traipse off in the morning light; he was speechless. Even in the distance, her beauty poured off her. He watched after her until she disappeared around the corner.
Collier considered his plight. Over the past few days I’ve turned into a hell-bent, primo-perverted, lust-obsessed sex maniac…and I’m falling in love with a girl who will never have sex with me.
“Oh well,” he muttered aloud. He started back to the inn, to retrieve the phone number of Mr. J.G. Sute.