Days of Little Texas

by R. A. Nelson

  “Just what is going on over here?” she barks.

  “Night terrors,” Certain Certain says, grinning and put ting his elbow into my side, making my face go hot. “Ronald Earl thought a burglar was trying to bust in.”

  “A burglar?”

  “Well, let’s make that a burglarette,” Certain Certain says. “Some little gal peeking in the windows.”

  “She wasn’t peeking, she was staring,” I say. “Did you see anybody coming up the sidewalk?”

  Miss Wanda Joy pinches her lips together. “There’s no one out there, Little Texas.”

  But just in case, we pile out on the sidewalk to peek. The air smells of French fries.

  “She must’ve run off the other direction,” I say.

  Close by there’s a set of busted concrete stairs and a Dr Pepper machine. It’s dark up under the stairs, making a little chill go through me. She could be hiding right there, all I know.

  “Where’s Sugar Tom?” Certain Certain says.

  “Asleep,” Miss Wanda Joy says. “As should we all be. It would take the final trumpet to wake that man.”

  We crawl back into bed, but I can’t sleep. Is she still out there lurking in the shadows, just waiting for our lights to go out so she can come back?

  The next day my head feels sour and my eyes are burning. We eat a quick breakfast and head over to the car dealership to break down the tent.

  “Oh my sweet Jesus,” Certain Certain says when we pull into the vacant lot. My mouth falls open, but I can’t find words to speak.

  “‘And he said unto them, I beheld Satan as lightning fall from Heaven,’” Sugar Tom says.

  There are long, jaggedy tears in the canvas side of the tabernacle. The pulpit has been tumped over and smashed.

  But the worst part is this: some of the folding chairs are hanging thirty feet up in the trees.

  The sheriff of Neshoba County is named Mr. Jimbo Martee. He wears a ring big as a gold lug nut and nearly breaks my hand shaking it.

  “So, regarding the contents of your—um—tent, you’ve said that the only thing damaged—”

  “We’ve been all over that,” Miss Wanda Joy says, rolling her shoulders. She is every bit as tall as Sheriff Martee and twice as motivated. “I want something done, and I want it done now.”

  Sheriff Martee grunts and honks his squashed-up nose into a handkerchief.

  “And you’re certain, ma’am, that there wasn’t nobody— anybody—suspicious hanging around after the service? Anybody that bothered y’all around town?”

  “No—if you would try listening this time—this is obviously a deliberate, malicious act against our ministry. You have to find these people and find them now.”

  Sheriff Martee takes off his ventilated cowboy hat and wipes his brow on his shirtsleeve.

  “Well, Miss …” He studies his pad. “Miss King. Tell you the truth, ma’am, being how they didn’t leave any messages behind, nothing to go on, there is nothing that makes me think your … ministry was being targeted in particular. So I figure it was just some kids that done this, out having fun.”

  “Fun?”

  And off she goes, and I can’t stand to listen to another word. I head over to where Certain Certain is surveying the damage.

  “A man is bringing a thirty-foot double-cleat ladder for the folding chairs,” Certain Certain says, looking up at the trees. “Rest is rigging a new pulpit and patching them tears.”

  He makes his hand like a claw, shows us how something ripped at the canvas in three stripes, over and over again.

  “You mean to tell me some kind of animal got hold of it?” Sugar Tom says. “What kind of animal hangs folding chairs in the trees like Christmas ornaments?”

  “No animal I know of got three-toed claws that big,” Certain Certain says. “Somebody using a three-prong hay fork, more like. Awful sharp one, too.”

  “You think it was those Conover High School guys we ran into at the rest stop the other day?” I say.

  Certain Certain snickers. “Sure thing, Lightning. Them kids are following us all over creation, just itching for the chance to tear up our tabernacle.”

  “Well, they were pretty mean.”

  “Look at them cuts. This was done by something powerful. Something slashing hard. Something angry. Damn angry.”

  Sugar Tom clears his throat and nods at me like my ears are being polluted.

  “Wait a minute,” I say, feeling cold. “You think it was that girl I saw at the motel?”

  Certain Certain smiles. “You mean that little invisible gal nobody else saw but you? Naw, little invisible gals don’t have it in ’em to do something like this. Even if they did, they don’t have the strength, neither—”

  “Can you mend it?” Sugar Tom says.

  “Why, hell yes I can mend it, doctor. You fetch me a little industrial-strength thread and a needle big as a rug hook, we in bidness.”

  “Then what are we going to do?” I say.

  “Pack,” Certain Certain says.

  Meridian, Mississippi.

  “They call this town the Queen City—you know that?” Certain Certain says, laughing a little. “Don’t know why. Ain’t no royalty round this locality. Used to be the largest city in the state. Set up on land borrowed from the Choctaw. Funny how sooner or later everything winds up getting owned by the white man.”

  He laughs and gives my head a rub. I push his big hand away.

  “Cut it out. I hate it when you do that.”

  “Whew. Simmer down, boy. Things’ll smooth out. Every revival I’ve ever been on had its lumps and bumps ’long the way.”

  He punches on the radio, and I nod off for a while. When I wake up, he’s gulping kipper snacks from a little red tin with a plastic fork, steering with his knees.

  I sit up and rub my eyes. We’re rumbling along a quiet road on the outskirts of town. Meridian looks like it has a lot of trains. Certain Certain is talking just like I never even went to sleep.

  “Forty thousand folks. Ought to be our biggest crowd this season,” he says. “Back in the Civil War, General Sherman burnt Meridian to the foundations. ‘Meridian no longer exists.’ That is a direct quote to General Grant. You can look it up.”

  I yawn. “How come you know so much about this town?”

  “My Uncle Fish used to live here. Called him that on account of he had this sunk-in scar on his side from a accident with some ice tongs. Shaped just like a fish.”

  “Will he be at the service tonight?”

  “Not unless they dig his raggedy tail up from the Rose Hill cemetery. Here we go.”

  Certain Certain turns the truck down a patchy paved road between a stand of hackberry trees and pulls to a stop. The setup place used to be a drive-in movie theater; now it’s choked with milkweed and poke salad. You can see the paint peeling off the big white screen at the far end of the field, and metal posts stubbed up in rows.

  “That’s where they used to hang up the speaker boxes,” Certain Certain says. “Used to come here with Uncle Fish a time or two myself. Bet you’ve never been to a drive-in picture show, have you, Lightning?”

  “No, sir.”

  There’s a train embankment on the far side of the theater lot, crawling in kudzu. A gang of men is already waiting. We get out and stretch, and Certain Certain gets the helpers started. The air is buzzing with katydids calling to each other.

  I don’t like the feel of this place, hemmed in by trees on one side, the steep hill on the other. Only one way in, one way out.

  The cars start arriving early, engines growling. Some of them have signs taped to their windows saying things like WELCOME, LITTLE TEXAS OR GOD BLESS CHURCH OF THE HAND.

  Certain Certain was right. It is a big crowd, so many there’s not enough seating. The latecomers stand in the back, shifting and restless, some of the younger ones picking at each other and laughing. I hear people asking about the claw marks in the canvas. It doesn’t feel like a regular church crowd.

  I wait, tu
gging at my tie and kicking at gravel behind the stage. Listening to the voices and wishing I could let go of her.

  Sugar Tom stands and has his say, getting the crowd worked into a lather. But something feels wrong—the congregation is not just loud, it’s rowdy. When I step up to the microphone, you would think they were trying to bring down the walls of Jericho.

  It feels strange not having the pulpit to lean into or beat on. Things start to settle down a bit, but shouts and giggly squeals keep breaking out. People are turning and glaring at a gang of kids standing in the back.

  Forget them.

  I raise the Bible and close my eyes, trying to let the whiteness come. With so many people, it feels awful close in here. I need to get above the hot lights, need to step outside my body, outside the tent walls.

  “Hey!” somebody hollers in the back. “I got something you can use to slick down that hair. Come around back, and I’ll give you a squirt.”

  A rough laugh dances around the tent. My eyes wink open.

  “You come to heal us?” a different boy says. “I got something needs healing. It’s all swole up.” Another burst of crazy giggling spills over us.

  “Little Texas, huh.” A girl this time. “Just how little we talking here?”

  This really sets them off in the back, screaming and whooping.

  Finally a barrel-chested man with a cowboy hat stands and faces the crowd.

  “Excuse me,” he says. “Excuse me. I don’t know what some of y’all’s problem is, but we come to hear this boy speak. Now if y’all can’t act civil and behave, you need to get on out of here. Otherwise you’re going to have to answer to me.” He sits down again and looks at me. “I’m sorry, please continue.”

  The kids in the back quiet down some, but I can still see them smirking, sticking their tongues out. Some of the girls are moving their bodies almost like they are dancing. Tank tops, belly buttons, sneers, those white iPod wires dangling from their heads.

  A little bead of sweat comes sliding down my temple right into my ear.

  I lift the Bible higher and stand there for maybe thirty seconds not saying a word, sweat pouring off my face. I can smell dust burning on the halogen bulbs. Say something. Say anything.

  I pour every speck of concentration I have into the moment. My vision begins to blur, till I can see the congregation only as one big blaze of light and shapes.

  It’s working.

  I close my eyes again, feeling the lightness coming into my feet, my legs, and I open my mouth—

  A train smashes by on the hill, whistle shrieking through the kudzu.

  I bring the Bible down, open my eyes. Now all the girls are laughing at me, even if I can’t hear them over the screaming of the train. I can see it, see their scorn and disgust.

  I walk over to Sugar Tom and hand him the Bible.

  “I can’t do this,” I say.

  “Ronald Earl?” he says. His eyes look smoke-colored and yellow.

  I touch his spindly arm and put my mouth close to his ear. “I can’t do this tonight. I’m sorry, Sugar Tom. I’m not—I’m not feeling right.”

  He stands there a couple seconds. Then he nods and goes out on the stage, but I can see they are not looking at him. All those heads are turned toward me.

  Miss Wanda Joy’s mouth is open, face froze halfway between horror and pure disbelief. I turn my head in the other direction, see Certain Certain waiting next to the Calvary Rail. He lifts his shoulders, his eyes making a question.

  I step behind the curtain at the side of the stage. Pull off my suit coat and hang it over a chair. Sit down heavy as a stump.

  Miss Wanda Joy comes huffing around the curtain, jerking it back. She fixes her eyes on me, and I can’t help it; I have to look away. I can feel how mad she is just looking at her legs, the way she is standing, the way her arms hang. I have never let her down like this before. Not on stage. Not once.

  “What is going on?” she says, teeth in her voice.

  “I’m sorry, I just can’t go on tonight,” I say, looking down. “I’m just not feeling right. I—I can’t do it. I’ll be better at the next service.”

  She slaps a hot hand up against my forehead. “Are you ill?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She takes her hand away. “Then what is it? What could possibly cause you to leave the stage like that? You do realize this is our largest congregation of the season?”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “One last time—are you going to get up and speak or not?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m not. I can’t.”

  Miss Wanda Joy takes a long breath and lets it back out slow.

  “I will never forget this.”

  She turns and leaves. I watch out the corner of my eye as she takes her place in the same chair as before. I hang my head and listen to Sugar Tom apologize to the congregation. Folks are starting to trickle off. Miss Wanda Joy turns her head sharply away from the people, refusing to watch them leave.

  “Reckon it’s tuna and jerky for supper,” Certain Certain says, his torn-up lip curling. He glances at Miss Wanda Joy. “I don’t know what got into you, boy, but if you need to rent yourself a new backside after she gets done chewing on it, just call me. I got plenty extra.”

  I sit on the half-dark stage listening to people talk through the canvas as they head out to their cars.

  “But he was so good last time.”

  “Wonder is he all right?”

  No, I think. He’s not. He’s all wrong, and I don’t know if he’ll ever be all right again.

  Sugar Tom vanishes into the motor home to smoke. The volunteers grumble and cuss breaking down the tent. Miss Wanda Joy circles like a turkey buzzard, waiting for them to leave.

  When everything is packed away and the last car is gone, Certain Certain squeezes my shoulder.

  “Good luck.”

  He leaves me sitting on an upturned trash barrel with the drop cord hanging from a speaker box post. The light doesn’t help, just makes the dark closing in around me that much worse. At last Miss Wanda Joy comes in for a landing.

  “I have never been so embarrassed in my whole life,” she says, face broiling red.

  “Said I’m sorry.”

  “You are supposed to be a professional. How would you feel if you attended a music concert, and the band refused to play because they just didn’t feel like it?”

  That’s different, I think. A band always has its instruments.

  “But nobody pays to see me,” I say.

  Miss Wanda Joy pulls her fingers through her hair so hard, I’m afraid she’s going to snatch herself bald-headed. She gets in my face.

  “Pay you, pay you! They pay you when the show is over!”

  Never mind that’s not what I said. Her words bounce off the drive-in movie screen like the voice of God.

  “They pay you when you are worth being paid! They pay you when you give them what they have come to expect. They come expecting something spectacular. They come expecting miracles. Miracles performed by an anointed son of the Lord. That. Is. What. You. Give. Them.” She jabs me in the chest on every word. “And. You. Let. Them. Down.”

  Forgive me, Lord, but I want to hit her so bad. I do.

  White foam has collected in the corners of her mouth. I have to wipe spit off my cheek. Miss Wanda Joy steps away from me, arms crossed, shaking her head. Her breathing sounds like she’s been hoeing a garden. She breathes that way a little while, not looking at me.

  Finally she turns to face me again and tucks some loose hair around an ear.

  “That’s all I have to say. Except this: you are not only a professional, Little Texas, you are also a celebrity. More than a celebrity. You are a living representative of the One True God. With that status comes a responsibility. You have to treat these people as your fans, as much as I despise that word. No matter how they behave. No matter what you feel like. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes’m, I d
o. It won’t happen again.”

  “It can’t happen again. It can’t. Our ministry will not survive it.”

  She drops her hands, exhausted, and makes her way to the motor home, slamming the door behind her.

  I wait a little while, then get up and walk away from the light, toward the railroad embankment.

  I think for a long time, looking at the hillside, hands in my pockets. The hill is steep, but I could do it. Claw my way through the kudzu to the tracks at the top. Follow them wherever they go. There is a world out there.

  After a little while I take my hands out of my pockets and start walking back across the parking lot. And I see a blue dress.

  Lucy’s standing in a puddle of yellow light, blond hair shining. Same blue dress. Same little white basketball sneakers. Same skinny arms hanging against her sides. She’s looking right at me.

  My chest starts to ache; finally I realize I’ve forgotten to breathe. I take a long inhale; I can smell honeysuckle on the air.

  What’s she doing here?

  I guess I know the answer. She’s following me. Following me wherever I go.

  But why?

  No car, nobody else in sight. She couldn’t have just walked here, could she? Is she all right? Where are her parents? Please, Lord—she hasn’t run away from home on account of me, has she?

  A thought stabs me like an icicle.

  What if—what if there’s something wrong with her?

  Standing so straight and still, she could almost be a wax figure in a museum. I take a couple of slow steps toward her, afraid I might spook her if I move too quick. Everything’s so quiet; the only sound is my shoes on the gravel.

  I’m closer now, so close she has to see me coming. If it’s bothering her, she doesn’t show it.

  Fifty feet. Twenty. Ten.

  “Hey—”

  There’s something different about her hair.

  I stop walking.