And If I Die

by John Aubrey Anderson

  Mann looked at the old gun and asked, “What’re you gonna shoot?”

  “Whatever comes down the pike.” Mose took his seat and picked up his cup. “We ain’t speculatin’ anymore; we fixin’ to get in a fight.”

  Mann let his eyes move around the table, looking from one person to the next. All three were looking at him. “You’re all carrying guns, aren’t you?”

  Missy said, “Dadgum right,” and Pat nodded.

  Silence followed.

  Mann left the table to warm up his coffee and leaned against the kitchen counter. “The three of you have been my family for almost half my life. You haven’t held anything back for yourselves . . . not a dadgummed thing.” The people at the table waited while he stopped to sip his coffee and arrange his thoughts. “There is no kid in the world—black or white—who feels any more loved than I do . . . and I’m grateful, but . . .” He put his cup down, rested both hands on the counter behind him, and looked at Missy. “But you’re expecting me to believe we’re in some kind of danger because of something that could have been a dream . . . or your imagination. I’m really and truly sorry . . . really . . . but I don’t think I’m being stubborn, and I don’t want to disappoint you . . . and I care whether or not you get mad at me.” He shook his head slowly. “I believe we’ll always be in danger from the Bainbridges, but I cannot believe any of this angel talk is . . . is real.”

  Missy knew trying to convince him would use precious time and probably be an exercise in futility. She nodded and said, “I know.”

  Mose was noncommittal.

  Patterson said, “I understand.”

  Mann touched Missy’s arm when he took his seat at the table. “Thanks.”

  Patterson addressed himself to Mann, “Mose and Missy and I need to talk about what we’re going to do, and I think it would be wise for you to sit in on the planning in spite of your skepticism. If we’re wrong, all you’ve lost is a little sleep. If we’re right, you’ll be more prepared. What do you think?”

  “You’re right,” agreed Mann.

  The skeptic moved back and forth between the table and the kitchen while the other three talked, listening to their conversation with half an ear while he baked biscuits and kept coffee cups filled. The believers spent their time trying to plan for an attack that might come at any moment, from any quarter. The dog split his time between Missy and the biscuit baker.

  Thirty minutes into the session, the planners found themselves immersed in “what if” scenarios that forked and branched like cracks in a shattered mirror.

  Mann was arranging bacon in the frying pan when Missy pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. “Y’all, this is ridiculous. We keep talkin’ about goin’ to war, but we don’t know any of the who, what, when, where, an’ how’s that’re waitin’ on us. An’ if that’s not enough . . . all we’ve got are these little .38 peashooters.” She pulled out her snub-nosed pistol and frowned at it. “I’m the best shot in here, an’ I’d have a hard time hittin’ the floor with this thing.” She put the pistol down by her coffee cup and turned away. “This is foolishness.”

  The three men watched as she walked into the living room.

  Patterson rubbed his chin and traced in figure eights on the tabletop with his fingertip. Mose massaged the arms of his chair and frowned. Mann brought the pot over and topped off their coffee cups.

  Patterson took a sip of coffee and said, “She makes a good point.”

  “Uh-huh”—Mose raised his finger like a teacher stating an important fact—“but not like you think.”

  “No?”

  “Not by a long shot.” Mose shook his head and stood up. “We been goin’ the wrong way.” He walked to the living room door and said, “Step in here, Missy.”

  When the girl was seated, Mose said, “You was right ’bout the foolishness. We been wastin’ our time tryin’ to figure out what we needs to do, when what we should’a been doin’ is prayin’.”

  “I’ve already prayed,” said Missy.

  “Then you prayin’ the wrong way, child, or you wouldn’t be so put out.”

  Her tone was too curt when she said, “You’d be put out too if you were as scared as I am.”

  The words were on their way before she gave a thought to where they were going. Her eyes went immediately to Bill Mann; he was watching her and patting the place where she’d hit him for speaking harshly to Mose.

  She took a deep breath, her hundredth in the last few hours. “I’m sorry, Mose.”

  “Never mind that, girl.”

  She couldn’t remember a time when she had been disrespectful to him. Her handgun lay on the table in front of her, and she picked at the checkering on the pistol grip with her fingernail. A tear spilled onto the table, and she beckoned to Mann, “Hand me a napkin.”

  He put one in her hand and she blotted her eyes. “You’re right. I’ve been spendin’ my time bein’ mad, an’ I need to pray.” She frowned. “An’ I’ve been mad ’cause I’m scared. Is it okay to be scared?”

  “Lemme read us somethin’, then we can talk some ’bout bein’ scared.” Mose’s new Bible was only nine months old and already showed signs of use around the edges. “Thus says the Lord, ‘Let not a wise man boast of his wisdom, an’ let not the mighty man boast of his might, let not a rich man boast of his riches; but let him who boasts boast of this, that he understands an’ knows Me, that I am the Lord who exercises lovin’kindness, justice an’ righteousness on earth; for I delight in these things,’ declares the Lord.” He let the words hang for a moment then said, “We done clean forgot what our job is. Missy, me an’ you talked ’bout this a million times when you was growin’ up—we supposed to spend our time knowin’ God an’ makin’ Him known; He takes cares of the rest . . . all the rest.” He closed the Bible and rested his hand on it. “We’d do better to turn loose of what we wants . . . an’ start thinkin’ about what God wants.”

  “I don’t understand.” Missy looked at Pat then back at Mose. “Will thinkin’ about what God wants help me know this is gonna turn out right?”

  “It sho’ will, if you get yo’ mind right. I was named after the Moses in the Bible ’cause he was God’s man for the time, but he got started slow. He had everything goin’ for him, but he balked when God chose him ’cause he didn’t know God good enough—but when he put his hand to it, it turned out real good. God didn’t have to come down hard on David ’cause David spent the whole time he was a boy, thinkin’ on how to know God better. When that giant poked fun at God’s folks, didn’t nobody in that whole army have to tell David what needed doin’ . . . that child stepped up an’ done it.”

  The room was quiet. The day’s first redbird twittered shrilly, and Missy stood up and walked to the front door. The bird called again, and Missy pushed the screen door open. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She stood on the porch, her silhouette showing up against the hint of daybreak. The men ate biscuits and bacon and drank their coffee in silence.

  The Moores Point Café opened at five o’clock, and Mason’s coffee was waiting for him at his regular table. He was unfolding his newspaper when Van Hobbs slid into the chair opposite him and offered the older man his regular greeting.

  “Mornin’, Mr. A. J., ready to go for a ride?”

  Mason was shaking his head before the question was out of the man’s mouth. He took a sip of coffee and got busy with his paper. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  Hobbs came home from World War Two and started a one-man crop-dusting operation. In the years since the war, his business expanded; he bought more airplanes and hired two pilots to help him. For the past ten years, he had used his profits to finance a respectable farming operation. The easygoing pilot’s offer to take Mason up in one of his airplanes was a standing joke, but the old man’s response never varied. Mason hated the thought of getting off the ground.

  The waitress took Hobbs’s breakfast order, and the two men drank their coffee in silence until Mason happened to think that th
e agriculture flying was over for the year. He said, “How come you’re flyin’ today? The cotton’s all ready to pick.”

  Hobbs was engrossed in his own newspaper. “Gotta take one of the planes out . . . get new wing rigs installed. Got an empty seat, but nobody’s got the urge to ride along.”

  “Mmm.” Mason lost interest.

  Three cups of coffee later, Hobbs stood up and said, “Well, don’t ever say I didn’t offer to show you the Lone Star state.”

  Mason put his cup down slowly. “The what?”

  “Texas.” Hobbs grinned. “I’m heading out to Weatherford. You could’ve had a bird’s-eye view of Texas for free.”

  “How close’ll you be comin’ to Denton?”

  Hobbs shrugged. “I’ll be going north of Dallas . . . probably fly right over Denton.”

  “Does Denton have an airport?”

  “Yep, and an old grass strip north of town called Hartlee Field.”

  “What time would we get there?”

  Hobbs grimaced. “I’m real sorry for baitin’ you, Mr. A. J. I gassed ’er up before I came to town, and I’ve gotta leave as soon’s I can see . . . that means you don’t have time to pack anything. Maybe next time.”

  Mason stood up and pointed at the front door. “I need one thing out of my truck, an’ I’ll be ready to leave. What time will we get there?”

  Hobbs looked at his watch and shrugged. “We’ll stop in Texarkana for gas . . . probably be in Denton before noon.”

  Mason said, “I’m ready when you are.”

  When Missy came back into the kitchen, she said, “I’ve been tryin’ to do this by myself.”

  “An’ so have the rest of us, but that’s behind us.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “That’s just it, child. This ain’t ’bout what you gonna do . . . it ain’t never been ’bout you . . . it’s ’bout what God’s gonna do. You go to yo’ house an’ get on yo’ knees an’ thank God for whatever’s past an’ whatever’s comin’ . . . an’ leave the rest to Him.”

  One question continued to resonate through her mind. “I can’t figure out why He’d pick me.”

  “I’ve seen how you live yo’ life, baby, an’ God ain’t never made a mistake yet. We all been comin’ to this day since ’fore the earth was here. It goes back past you an’ me, past Pap even. God’s been gettin’ us ready for a long time.”

  “But why me?”

  “Have mercy, child, you listenin’, but you ain’t hearin’.” He was frowning. “You got to turn loose of that thinkin’ ’bout yo’self. The good Lord ain’t never give us a chore to do without givin’ us the wherewithal to do it, an’ He never will. He just calls us to step up an’ do the confounded job.”

  She looked down at the handgun. “Even with a peashooter?”

  “Oh, yes, baby.” Mose smiled. “Lemme see that shooter.”

  She passed the gun to him and he opened the cylinder. The bullets dropped into his palm and he stood them in a line on the table. “Five cartridges . . . same number as them smooth stones that young boy—that chosen one—took up agin’ that giant.”

  The young woman let the words sink in, then pushed away from the table and stood up; the men stood with her.

  Her moves were deliberate; she took the bullets, one at a time, and slipped them back into the .38. When it was loaded, she closed the cylinder and smiled softly at her almost-daddy. “I guess that’s what I’ve been needin’ to hear.”

  Mose and Mann walked their guests outside. Mann and the dog followed Pat and Missy to their car. The sun wasn’t quite up, but alternating layers of vivid red and bright blue said it was on the way.

  Mann looked at the horizontal streaks of color and said, “My dad used to say, ‘Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning.’ ”

  Pat paused and looked at the coming daylight before sliding behind the wheel and said, “I guess that makes it official.”

  At nine that morning, Pat took one of the shotguns and walked into the hall. “I’m going to put this one by the front door.”

  “Mmm.” Missy crossed the den and stood in front of a wide bookcase, searching the rows of books until her eyes fell on the spines of a pair of identical volumes. The book she pulled off the shelf first was fairly nondescript—a medium-blue hardcover, slightly larger than a college dictionary. She put it aside and reached for its twin. The second book was decidedly more unique—a hole as big as her finger was centered in the front of the book, just under its title . . . Things to Come. She sighed as she traced her fingertips over the cover’s fabric, letting the rough, black flecks on its surface tickle her fingertips.

  In 1958, during the second of Missy’s three clashes with satanic beings, a demon-crazed college boy, a young man masquerading as a Christian, fired a pistol at her from less than three feet. The damaged book— owing to God’s direct intervention—took the bullet meant for Missy’s chest. She touched the cover’s surface to her face and let her cheek move across the rough specks of burned gunpowder, remembering.

  Without thinking, she closed her eyes and sank slowly to her knees; her chin touched her chest and the bookcase became an altar as she whispered, “Lord, people have been tellin’ me I was special ever since the first time You called on A. J. to save my life. I may be lookin’ forward to havin’ to use a gun today, an’ You an’ I both know I can’t shoot like A. J. I beg You, Father . . . I implore You . . . in what You have chosen for me to face . . . that every action I take would bring honor to Your name. Lord God in Heaven, give me only that Your power would be perfected in my weakness. Amen.”

  She took one of the books to the kitchen and pulled open the drawer where she kept a few small tools and some single-edged razor blades.

  Missy spent most of the morning reading her Bible and praying. Pat prayed and read as well and got up every thirty minutes or so to walk through the house. They had sandwiches and iced tea at noon, and she was cleaning off the table when the doorbell rang. They looked at the kitchen clock first, then each other. It was almost one, and they weren’t expecting company.

  Pat said, “Better let me open it.”

  She nodded and followed him toward the door.

  When Pat opened the door, Missy heard A. J. Mason say, “Boy, I sure hope you got a gun in that other hand.”

  Pat took his right hand from behind the door and showed the pistol to Mason. “Come in, A. J.” When Mason stepped across the threshold Pat nodded to his left. “I think you already know my wife.”

  “Hello, A. J.” Missy was standing six feet to the side with a shotgun snugged against her shoulder. The gun’s barrel was pointed at a spot just left of the door; Missy’s finger was resting on the trigger guard. “You’re just in time for dinner.”

  Mason nodded his approval. “You’re a little perkier than you were the last time I talked to you.”

  “Yes, sir. Mose had a little talk with me right after you did. It wasn’t easy, but he finally got the message across.” She stood the shotgun against the wall behind a drape, then linked her arm in his and started for the kitchen. “Well, you didn’t have time to drive. Did God send you out here by Angel Express?”

  “Caught a ride with Van Hobbs, an’ I ’preciate God gettin’ me out here so quick.”

  “You rode in an airplane?”

  “Mm-hmm, an’ next time I’ll be comin’ on that Super M.”

  “Super M?” asked Patterson.

  “Tractor.” Mason winked.

  Missy took her friend’s hand and squeezed it. “I stood on Mose’s front porch this mornin’ an’ prayed to God that He’d send you.”

  “Well, He sure done it.” Mason put the only thing he’d brought to Texas on their coffee table—his Bible. “Let’s call Mose an’ get me a handgun.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The thunderstorms promised by the dawn came in at mid-afternoon and left just before supper. Mason sat by himself on the covered patio and watched the weather move northeastward. He’d spent m
ost of the afternoon with Mose; since getting back to the Pattersons’ house, he’d sought solitude— content to sip an occasional cup of coffee and read from his Bible. He passed on supper.

  Patterson finished eating and stepped outside to ask Mason if he wanted more coffee.

  Mason ignored the offer. “This rodeo place . . . is it covered?”

  “Yes, sir. Brand-new indoor arena—doubles as a show barn—first class.”

  “No mud?”

  “No sir. Everything’s covered or paved with blacktop.”

  “It’s a big rodeo thing then . . . lots of people.”

  “Probably ten thousand tonight, depending on the weather. It’s not in the class with Fort Worth or Houston, but it’s big.”

  Mason stood up, taking his empty cup with him, and went over to stand by one of the stone columns at the edge of the patio.

  After waiting long minutes in silence, Patterson opened the back door and stepped inside the house. He looked back at Mason and said, “We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

  The old man didn’t turn; his eyes were fixed on something Patterson couldn’t see. “I’m ready.”

  Patterson, Missy, and Mason drove straight to the fairgrounds; Dee would meet them at their seats.

  Every person who’d been at the fair the night before brought a friend, including the midway barkers. The drugstore cowboys were out, flanked by women wearing tall hair and rhinestones—glitz and glimmer, noise and lights. Las Vegas was in Texas.

  They were almost to the arena when they saw Mose standing near a concession stand. He was holding a cup of coffee and watching the crowd move by.

  Mason looked at Mose’s coffee. “Any good?”

  “Not good as mine,” said Mose, “but it’s tolerable. Can I buy y’all a cup?”