by Ronald Kidd
“Beware!” he would bellow. “We’re sinking!”
The people would shout and jump and make sounds I’d never heard outside the tent. I’d squirm and sink lower in my seat. Daddy would rail against dirt, gluttony, xylophones, and science. Then he would get to subject of music, and he’d glare down at me.
One night I got fed up and glared back. Hard. He hesitated, then stopped and seemed to make a decision.
He asked the crowd, “Have you all met my son? Not Arnie, my little firecracker. I’m talking about his big brother, Nate. Come up here, Nate.”
I didn’t move. I wasn’t part of his show.
Arnie shot me a crazy grin and started chanting, “Nate! Nate! Nate! Nate!”
The crowd joined in. The place rocked.
Next to me, Mama whispered, “Oh, for Pete’s sake, go on up there. It won’t kill you.”
I did it for Mama, not for Daddy. Never for Daddy.
Rising, I began walking to the front. His gaze was fastened on me, like a rope pulling me in. When I reached him, he grabbed my shoulders and turned me around to face the crowd.
“He has the bug,” said Daddy. “He has the cancer. Music! Music!” Daddy squeezed my head in his hands and started to pray. “Jesus, help him. Clear his ears and his thoughts. Purify this, your sinful son. Drive out those evil notes.”
I struggled, then stopped. I heard a melody, not from the radio like before. This one was inside me. It was Mama’s song, gentle and pure. As Daddy prayed, it grew until it filled me. It was a feeling, like you get on Christmas morning. There were gifts to be opened, secrets to be discovered. There was truth, and I would find it.
Daddy didn’t know it, but as he pronounced his hateful words, he was praying me out of the tent, out of his grip, and into the sweet, sad arms of music.
***
Winter turned to spring, and the offering plate got emptier. I spent more time helping Mr. Lane, trying to earn extra money. I fixed the Packard and drove him around town, sometimes with Gray but mostly without.
I came to realize that my friendship wasn’t with Gray, or even with Mr. Lane. It was with the car. When I opened the hood and listened to the hum of the engine, I was in a world that worked, a world that made sense.
One Sunday, Sue Dean was busy, so we couldn’t go to the cabin. Daddy and Arnie went into town, and I spent some time in the cemetery. I was by myself there, but I felt like I had company. There were people all around me, their bodies in Bristol and their souls elsewhere. Kind of like me.
As I crossed the street and went back into the house, I started to call out but then heard something. It was Mama, singing her song. The door to Mama and Daddy’s room was open a crack, so I crept down the hall and peered inside. Mama sat on the bed, humming softly, with a shoebox in her lap. She was going through some things in the box, but I couldn’t make out what they were. After a few minutes she stopped, sighed, and closed the box. Moving to the closet, she placed it on the top shelf, then shut the closet door and turned back in my direction. I ducked out of the way and sneaked off to the kitchen, where I went outside and came back in with a slam of the screen door.
“Hello,” I called.
She entered the kitchen, and I noticed that her cheeks were wet.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she said.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She wiped her cheeks and cupped my face in her hands. “I’m fine.”
Later that day, when I had the house to myself, I went to Mama and Daddy’s room. Opening the closet, I got the shoebox down from the shelf. I knew the box was private, and I wasn’t supposed to be in their room, but I couldn’t help myself. I sat on the bed, opened the lid, and looked inside.
It was Sister’s box.
You have to understand, at my house, Sister was more of a ghost than a person. Daddy talked about her. He talked to her and would get pretty worked up. Then he’d listen for an answer, and sometimes he heard one, like the time she helped name his church.
Sister had died when I was two, so I barely remembered her. Besides Daddy’s rantings, the main way I knew about her was from a photograph on the mantel, taken a few months before she passed. It showed all four of us, when I was two and Sister was six. We looked happy, which was amazing in light of what was to come. As far as I knew, that was the one photo we had of Sister. Until now.
The box was filled with Sister things—baby shoes, ribbons, a lock of hair, a drawing made with crayons. And there was a stack of photos showing her at church, in the yard, in the kitchen wearing an oversized apron and gripping a wooden spoon. In that picture her mouth was smeared with something—pancake batter, I guess—and her smile filled the room.
Next to the stack was a slip of paper. I unfolded it and saw Mama’s writing. She had used a pencil to write the first few lines of her song. There was sadness in those words, and wishing. It was like a prayer, not Daddy’s kind but the real kind.
At the bottom of the box, smudged like it had been handled over and over again, was one last photo. It was a picture of a gravestone with just a few words on it.
Sweet Sister
1910–1916
I imagined Mama touching the photo, running her fingers over it and humming her song. I recalled the story Mama told, of Daddy hugging that grave in the rain, trying to climb in, and Mama dragging him off to see Billy Sunday and get healed. Somehow it all went together, but I didn’t understand how.
I stayed there for a long time, thinking about Sister, trying to remember her. Then I closed the box, put it back on the shelf, and shut the closet door.
CHAPTER 22
By the time summer came, Bristol was hurting, and it showed. Families roamed the streets, begging for food—people we knew, hardworking people I’d seen at church and school. I wanted to help them but didn’t know how. Besides, we weren’t doing so well ourselves.
Daddy always said when you give to the church, it should be your first dollar. But it seemed that some of the people disagreed. The first dollar went for food, the second for clothes, the third for shelter, and sometimes that’s all there was.
“We need a jolt,” Daddy said after breakfast one Saturday morning. He had just come out of what he called a prayer consultation, something he did before church services to check in with Jesus and plan the service accordingly.
“A jolt?” I said. “Does God use electricity?”
Recently I had stopped thinking my comments and started saying them. Daddy didn’t much like it.
“Not an electric jolt,” he snapped. “A spirit jolt, a faith jolt. A Jesus jolt.”
“Oh Lord,” said Mama, who stood nearby washing the dishes. The tougher things got, the harder she scrubbed. I noticed that Mama had started saying comments too, but Daddy didn’t seem to notice hers. Most of them just bounced off.
Mama handed a dripping plate to Arnie, who was drying. He recently had turned nine and was still Daddy’s biggest fan. He even asked if he could preach, but Daddy said no. I shivered at the thought.
When I went to the tent that night, I was surprised to see Sue Dean standing at the entrance.
“Hey,” she said. “You have a minute?”
“Are you coming to the service?” I asked.
“Not this time. I wanted to talk.”
Mama stood nearby, waiting for me. I heard Daddy inside, starting to warm up the crowd.
“Can we do it later?” I asked her.
Sue Dean took a few strands of hair and twisted them, the way I’d seen her do when she was worried.
“I guess.”
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“I need to see you.”
I realized we hadn’t spoken in several days, and two weeks had passed since we’d been to the cabin.
“How about tonight, after the service? At the cabin?”
“It’s important,” she said.
“Nine o’clock. I’ll be there. I promise.”
She gazed into my eyes, then nodded and left.
&nbs
p; I joined Mama, and we went inside. “Where’s Arnie?” I asked her.
“Fiddling around in his room. Said he’d be here directly.”
The people filed in, and a few minutes later Daddy entered from behind the altar. He was wearing his good suit, the one with a cross on the pocket made out of sequins. He asked the people to take their seats, then spread out his arms.
“Folks, we’ve got us some trouble,” he announced in that booming voice of his.
“Amen!” some people called back.
“I’m not talking about money trouble. That’s the easy kind. We’ve got something worse—break-your-back, Lord-have-mercy, take-it-to-Jesus, spirit trouble.”
“Preach it!” somebody yelled.
“I tried that,” he answered, “but you folks wouldn’t listen.”
I glanced at Mama. She looked back, worried. Daddy preached fire and brimstone, but usually he didn’t insult the congregation.
Daddy went on. “I tried shouting. I tried healing and laying on hands. I’m not too proud to tell you it didn’t work. The spirit sagged. It sputtered like wet fireworks. So tonight, I’m bringing out the heavy artillery.”
He stepped behind the altar and came back holding a big, boxy object that was covered with a blanket. The people around us didn’t know what it was. But I did, and so did Mama.
“Jesus God,” she breathed.
From the beginning, Mama had begged Daddy to get rid of the snake, but a year had passed and it hadn’t happened. He kept it in that cage on a table in the shed, and he’d go stare at it. I knew for a fact that Arnie still went in there sometimes. He’d get a crazy look in his eye, then, I suppose, he repented.
Me, I had learned to live with it. After all, we’d been hearing for years that Satan was just around the corner. Now he was in the shed. Was that really so different?
Daddy still had plans for it. He’d told me a dozen times. When the time was right, he would take out that poisonous snake and handle it like a dang Chihuahua, cradling it in his arms, petting it, maybe even kissing it. If his faith was strong enough, the snake wouldn’t hurt him. God would win. Simple as that.
I had hoped he would never actually try it, but apparently the day had arrived. He was ready. He looked up at the congregation. Heaven shone on his face.
“Behold,” he declared, “Beelzebub!”
He whipped off the blanket. Under it was the cage. Only problem was, the cage was empty.
CHAPTER 23
“Beelzebub!” Daddy thundered. “He’s gone!”
There was a low murmur at the back of the tent, and it grew louder. Someone screamed.
I looked back. Arnie was walking up the aisle like a bride on her wedding day. The snake coiled around his arm, up and over his shoulder. It rattled wildly and peered across the tent, its tongue flicking.
As for Arnie, he was blazing. I had no doubt that if I touched his cheek, I’d get burned. He grinned like a madman.
“No!” shrieked Mama.
She tried to push past me and reach him, but I held her back.
“Be careful,” I told her. “Don’t startle the snake.”
The people had backed away, giving Arnie plenty of room, but Daddy had no such hesitation. He strode down the aisle, coat flapping as if in a holy wind. He and Arnie stopped and faced each other—tall and short, father and son, crazy and crazier.
Beelzebub hissed and rattled.
Daddy held out his hand. “Give him to me, Son.”
“He’s mine,” said Arnie, with a little lilt in his voice.
Drops appeared on Daddy’s brow, squeezed right out of his pores. “He’s not yours or mine, Son. He belongs to Satan.”
Arnie stuck out his chin. “I can handle him.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Daddy.
“I am,” said Arnie.
Maybe they would have worked it out. We’ll never know, because at that moment, right next to Arnie, a baby let out a holler. Beelzebub shook his head, I swear, the way I’d seen people do when they’re startled by a loud noise.
Then he struck.
He bit Arnie’s hand and latched on. Arnie shrieked and slumped to the ground. Daddy kneeled down, grabbed the snake, and yanked him off. Beelzebub slithered into the crowd.
There was a moment of silence as people realized what had happened. Then the place exploded. People jumped on their chairs or sprinted for the exits. It was a mob scene, right there in Daddy’s church.
I once read in Popular Mechanics about a woman, just a tiny thing, who lifted a car off her child. They said she got her power from something called adrenaline. Maybe Mama had adrenaline, because suddenly there she was, picking up Arnie and draping him over her shoulder like a dish towel. She grabbed me by the arm, then raced down the aisle and out the back, with me stumbling along behind. She didn’t stop until we were inside our house, where she slammed the door and locked it tight. I called the hospital, while she laid Arnie down on the couch.
A minute later Daddy pounded on the door. I let him in, and he hurried over to the couch. By that time Arnie was looking bad. His hand was puffed up, his skin was clammy white, and he said it felt like a red-hot sword was stabbing him. Every few minutes he would double up and vomit—on his shirt, on the couch, on Mama. She didn’t care. She just knelt there next to him, stroking his forehead and praying.
“Will he be all right?” moaned Daddy.
“Shut up,” said Mama.
After what seemed like a week, the ambulance got there, siren wailing. They loaded Arnie into the back, Mama climbed in with him, and they sped off into the darkness.
Daddy and I sat on the back step. I looked around, trying to figure out what had happened. The night seemed perfectly normal, but things had changed. Maybe Satan was real. Maybe he had killed Arnie.
That’s when I remembered Sue Dean.
Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was past ten o’clock. I mumbled an excuse to Daddy, got on my bike, and pedaled to the trailhead. Slinging the bike aside, I ran up the trail. Soon I was at the cabin. I opened the door.
“Sue Dean?”
There was no answer. The cabin was empty. On the table was a note.
Dear Nate,
I was here at 9:00. I’m sorry you didn’t come. I waited as long as I could, but then I had to go.
There was trouble at the lumber mill. The union had a meeting, and Mr. Lane found out. He told them to break it up, but they wouldn’t. My father grabbed Mr. Lane and threatened him. Mr. Lane fired my father and called the police.
We have to leave town tonight. My father says we can’t wait. I shouldn’t have come to the cabin, but I wanted to say goodbye. It was important to me. I guess it wasn’t important to you.
Maybe it’s better this way. You’re a friend of Grayson Lane. You might not want to be my friend too.
Sue Dean
Grabbing the note, I charged out of the cabin and down the trail, hopped on my bike, and pedaled furiously back to town. I had only been to Sue Dean’s house once or twice, but I managed to find it. The place was empty. Looking around frantically, I saw the red tip of a burning cigarette on the porch next door. I hurried over and found an older man sitting on a porch swing, smoking and sipping iced tea.
“You’re out late,” he grunted.
“Yes, sir. Do you know what happened to the Bakers? I’m a friend of Sue Dean’s.”
“Sure do. I was there. We were having a union meeting at the mill, and Lane showed up with his goons. He yelled at us, and Baker grabbed him. Lane fired him on the spot. Baker came back to his family, and they packed up.”
“Do you know where they went?” I asked.
The man shook his head. “Away.”
“You suppose they went home? They were from Virginia.”
“I don’t think so. He said they would try someplace new.”
“Where?”
“He didn’t tell us, and we didn’t ask.” The man glanced around nervously. “Sometimes it’s better not to know.”
Sue Dean had been worried. She had tried to tell me, but I hadn’t listened. She had waited for me, and I hadn’t come.
And now she was gone.
CHAPTER 24
As it turned out, Arnie survived, thanks to Mama and the doctors. His arm swelled up to twice its normal size, and he had terrible pain, but the doctors had stored some antivenom for just such a case. They shot him full of it, and a few days later he was feeling better. His symptoms hung on, and he was constantly going back to the doctor, but he was alive.
I couldn’t say the same for Daddy’s church. We searched for Beelzebub the next day but didn’t find him. A rumor started that he lived under the tent and came out when people prayed, which didn’t do much for attendance.
Daddy was subdued but didn’t want to give up. On Wednesday night almost no one was at the service. By Saturday night it was just him preaching and Mr. Fowler barking. Daddy tried a few more times, but there was no getting around it. The church was dead, with no resurrection in sight.
Not long after that, Daddy closed up shop and sold the tent. I saw it a few times out on Highway 11, part of a flea market they held on Sunday afternoons. Mama thought it was sad, but I didn’t. Daddy always said you reap what you sow, and that’s what had happened. His religion wasn’t real. It was made up, a rickety thing he had pieced together, like trying to build a car from old tractor parts.
Truth be told, I’m not sure Daddy’s church would have lasted, with or without Beelzebub. If you stick your finger in an electrical socket, you jump around for a while. Pretty soon, though, it wears off. You stop jumping. Maybe you sit down to rest and recover. Daddy brought people to a fever pitch, but they didn’t stay that way for long. They couldn’t live like that. No one can.
With church gone, Daddy spent a lot of time brooding about what he had done to Arnie and about Sister. Daddy’s church had taken his mind off Sister for a while, but with the church gone, she was back. Daddy prayed about her. I know because I heard him—at the table, on the porch, in the shed. Sometimes he mumbled and sometimes he shouted. We tried to ignore it, but I could feel him pulling us down to the dark place where he lived.