by Alex Bledsoe
She heard cows lowing somewhere in the distance and glanced at her clock. Three minutes after twelve. The sound of cows after midnight was supposed to be another herald of death. Then again, it could just be insomniac cows. Not all superstitions had that supposed grain of truth to them.
The wind suddenly billowed the flag curtain into the room. Then it snapped back against the screen, as if the air pressure outside had suddenly dropped. At that moment a soft voice said once again, “Private Hyatt…”
Bronwyn swallowed hard and realized she was sweating. A haint could do nothing, she knew, except appear and speak to those meant to hear; nevertheless, knowing a dead person wanted to chat sent chills up her spine. She often wondered if the Tufa afterlife was the same as the regular one; Tufa passed through time differently, but once it stopped, they were like any other dead thing. When their song was over they decomposed, in both the literal and ironic sense.
So when someone crossed back to this world to deliver a message, everyone assumed it must be pretty important. Yet to be the recipient of that message left Bronwyn with a tingly, tangible fear completely different from the one she’d known during her ordeal in Iraq. Those people had wanted to do her physical harm; this haint might be after something else entirely.
But she’d never know until she engaged it. So she turned to the window and said, “I’m here.”
The haint emerged from the shadows beneath the red oak trees. As before, it stood so that the missing tissue in its side was plain, the wound looking for all the world like it had been made with a giant cookie cutter. Blood soaked the edges, but otherwise it was surprisingly neat. It took off its helmet, revealing the same dark hair all true Tufas sported. It had been a lovely young girl in life, but was now free of both flesh and gender.
Bronwyn forced herself not to look away. The haint’s eyes sparkled with moonlight as if they glowed. Its expression was wide eyed and blank.
“Okay,” Bronwyn said at last. “Come in here and let’s get this over with.”
The haint did not move. Slowly it pointed at the window. The blue glass still rested on the sill.
Bronwyn took a crutch and, after three swings, finally knocked the rocklike chunk of glass to the floor. It landed with a thud that reverberated throughout the house.
By the time she settled back against her pillows, the haint stood at the foot of her bed.
“Yah!” Bronwyn cried. She waited to catch her breath, then said, “Okay. What’s up?”
“I’m Sally,” it said in a voice that was just a hair slower, and considerably more sepulchral, than a normal speaking voice. “Sergeant Sally Olds. I died on the road to Basra in 1991.”
Bronwyn’s mouth went dry. Everything had happened on that road. “I drove that way myself.”
“I know. I saw you. I watched.”
Bronwyn shifted on the pillows; the pins in her leg ached more than ever. When she looked up, the haint had vanished.
A slightly darker shade stood in front of her dresser. Bronwyn said, “Oh, come on out here, will you? If I can’t even scootch around without freaking you out, this isn’t going to work.”
“It’s very hard to stay this way,” Sally said. “And I’m here for something important.”
“Yeah, I know. My mom’s gonna die, and I have to learn her song.”
“No,” Sally said. “I’m here just for you.”
Bronwyn’s breath caught in her throat. “For me,” she said flatly.
“You are surrounded by walls, Bronwyn. They were there before you were hurt, and even though your body is weak now, these walls are stronger than ever. They must come down if you are to be what you must.”
Rage flared in her heart; she hated being lectured. “And what’s that? Somebody’s wife? Mom to a brood of barefoot heathens just like me? I put those walls there for a reason, to keep me from marrying the first guy who made me come and being stuck in this valley for the rest of … of time!” She had no idea where this sudden insight came from, but she grasped its truth even as she blurted out the words.
“Yes, just like you’ve always known, none of that is for you. Your path is…”
The haint made a hand gesture that left Bronwyn speechless. For a moment the only sound was the night wind through the open window.
“I will help you,” Sally continued. “I know what happened. As I tell it to you, you will recall it. And relive it. That can’t be helped.”
“The hell it can’t,” Bronwyn snapped.
“There is no time for your pain, Bronwyn. It has to be drawn out, looked at, and dealt with. What will happen, will happen, and you must be ready for it.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Be ready for me tomorrow night,” Sally said, and turned toward the window. It gave Bronwyn an unobstructed view of the wound. Pieces of ragged organs dangled like the ribbons on a war hero’s chest. Before the haint took three steps, it vanished.
Bronwyn stared off into the night. Crickets and tree frogs gradually grew louder. The breeze stirred the banners and curtains.
She turned on the bedside lamp. There would be no sleeping for a while, and now she had to pee. Bedpans quickly lost their charm, and although getting up and going to the bathroom was a production even with her mother’s help, this time she was determined to do it herself.
The worst moment was when the weight of her leg hung free before it tipped downward. She felt it in her lower back and, oddly, her triceps as she braced herself, lowering her leg as slowly as she could until her heel touched the floor.
As she caught her breath, she saw an envelope half-hidden by her nightstand. Leaning as far as she could, she managed to retrieve it. The effort made her break out in a fresh sweat.
She turned the envelope over. It had fallen from the mail sack when Deacon moved it against the wall. The writing was a child’s, and the address in Jasper, Alabama. She opened it and pulled out the card.
Dear Private Hyatt, it said. Thank you for protecting our country. Someday I hope to join the army, too. Maybe by then they’ll let girls fight.
Bronwyn smiled at that. The girl would learn quickly enough how often girls fight, especially in the army.
But one thing makes me sad. I’m a Christian, and I’m sure you are, too. The Bible tells us not to kill people, and yet you had to. I feel very sad knowing you had to do that. All people are brothers, and we shouldn’t go around killing each other. But I know God forgives you, and I know Jesus loves you.
Your friend,
Adelia
A small photo of a gap-toothed little black girl had been enclosed. Bronwyn gazed into those wide, dark eyes. She saw nothing she recognized.
She put the picture beside her on the bed. Someone was sad, not because she was nearly killed, but because she had to kill other people. Bliss’s words came back to her once more: Even with people, there’s some that need killing.
She realized with renewed vividness that she truly was different from other people, even most other Tufas. The haint knew it. And maybe that’s why Bliss entrusted her with that pragmatic truth so long ago.
She no longer had to pee. She lifted her leg back onto the mattress, wincing at the slight, almost obscene movement of metal bolts penetrating her skin. This would have to end soon. She took three Vicodin, one more than her doctor recommended, and closed her eyes, waiting for the effects to kick in. But she found herself still awake as the sky outside lightened at dawn, her curtains waving in the last of the night wind.
12
Craig Chess waved to George Landers across the Shoney’s. Craig had already claimed a booth, and the older man sauntered over with the easy grace of someone content with his place in the world. This particular Shoney’s was located at an exit equidistant between Craig’s home in Smithborough and George’s in Unicorn, and they’d met here several times so Craig could pick George’s brain.
An elderly lady stopped him and said something that made him smile. He patted her hand before continuing on. Craig felt a tingle
of envy, because it was exactly that sort of moment he craved. He wanted the respect he saw in the old woman’s eyes. But he also knew George had spent years building it, and he, Craig, had yet to preach his first sermon in his own church.
When George reached the booth, Craig stood and offered his hand. “Reverend Landers.”
“Reverend Chess,” the newcomer replied. Then he laughed. “Craig, it’s both a pleasure to consider you an equal, and a little disconcerting. I have golf shoes older than you.”
“I’m not your ‘equal,’ George. You’re still my elder.”
“Ouch. ‘Elder.’ I should be wearing bifocals, then, and using a walker.”
Craig knew George ran three miles every morning, even on Sunday. “You know what I mean.”
They sat, ordered coffee, and when the waitress was gone, Landers asked, “So how goes the new church? Ready for opening morning? Is it next weekend?”
“No, it’s this Sunday. If anyone shows up, I’ll be surprised.”
“Reaching the Tufa has defeated many a young zealot, I reckon,” Landers agreed. “I knew a man who’d once been a top vinyl siding salesman before hearing the call. His first post was in Needsville itself, if you can imagine that. Not only did no one show up, he couldn’t keep his piano in tune. For some reason that aggravated him more than anything else. He asked for a post in China soon after.”
“That’s a big reason I wanted to meet with you,” Craig said. “I’ve been spending time in town, just hanging out and introducing myself, offering any help I can. Everyone’s friendly enough, but I can’t imagine any of them in a pew on Sunday morning.” He sipped his coffee. “What do you know about them that I don’t?”
“They’re quiet, keep to themselves,” George deadpanned.
“I already know that. But why don’t they come to church?”
“Why doesn’t anyone? We’re not relevant to them.”
“Are the Tufas even Christian?”
Landers shrugged. “Son, greater men than you or I have puzzled over that. The real Tufas, the ones with family ties back to pre-Revolutionary times, won’t talk. The ones that do talk, don’t know anything. So it’s a tough little nut.”
Craig recalled Deacon Hyatt’s comments. “They must believe in something.”
“Sure, they do: music. I’ve never met one yet that didn’t sing or play some kind of instrument. And play the heck out of it, too. If they ever wanted to, about half of ’em could probably move to Nashville and be on everyone’s iPods within six months.”
“Why don’t they?”
“Some do. Ever heard of Rockhouse Hicks?”
“Sure, he sits outside the post office every day. I’ve met rabid skunks who were friendlier.”
“That’s him. Well, back in the late sixties, he almost made it as a big bluegrass star. Put out a record, traveled with Bill Monroe, was right on the edge. Then he got caught in a sex scandal, and that was that.”
Craig didn’t hide his surprise. “A sex scandal? That’s a little hard to picture.”
“He’s just a man,” Landers said. “Prey to the same temptations as us all. But my point is, that tends to happen to any of the real Tufas who leave their little valley. Look at your latest celebrity, Bronwyn Hyatt.”
“Being hurt in a war is a little different from having trouble keeping your pants zipped.”
“Maybe. But both happened away from Needsville.”
The waitress refreshed their coffee. “So they play music, and they fare badly when they leave home. That still doesn’t help me get them to church.”
“No. But in six months when you get moved to another position, you’ll at least understand a little about why this didn’t work.”
“That’s pretty fatalistic for a minister.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, if God wants them in church, they’ll go to church. I believe that, and apparently so does the annual conference, because they keep sending new ministers until they find one who can reach these people.”
“Do you believe God wants them in church?”
Landers looked around, then leaned over the table and spoke softly. “Here’s what I think, and if you repeat it, I’ll deny it. I believe God wants everyone in church, but I’m not entirely sure our God and their God are the same thing.”
“There’s a school of thought that would call that blasphemy.”
“And they’d be right, but there it is. We also have noses that run and feet that smell. Sometimes the universe just doesn’t make sense.”
* * *
Don Swayback pulled his car to the side of the road beneath an oak tree. The sporadic shade made the sunlight dance on his dusty windshield. He picked up the road atlas and compared it to the Internet maps he’d printed out at home. Both agreed; so where the hell was the turnoff?
Ahead he saw the intersection of Highway 23 and Curly Mane Road. A tractor reached it and slowly pulled onto the highway, headed away from Don. Far behind him, though still visible in the mirror, was the turnoff for Jenkins Trail. And in between should have been the road that dead-ended at the Hyatt farm, called simply Hyatt Way. But he’d been up and down this stretch of blacktop a dozen times without finding it.
He thumped the steering wheel in annoyance. He’d always heard the Tufa could disappear when they wanted to, although he assumed that meant they vanished right before your eyes, which of course was impossible. It was typical of the stories that grew up around small, isolated places, and that white folks tended to spread about any group with darker skin. But he supposed that being impossible to find was the same as disappearing.
He jumped when an unmistakable electronic shriek sounded right behind his car. In the rearview mirror he saw the state trooper’s cruiser; in the side mirror, he watched the trooper emerge and swagger toward him. The officer took his time, planting each large foot flat and square so every step sounded like approaching retribution.
When the trooper reached the driver’s open window, Don looked up and saw his own reflection in the mirrored shades. “Sir, are you having car trouble?” the trooper asked, in a tone that seemed more suited to a Guantánamo guard.
“No, I’m looking for—”
The square face, with its huge flat-brimmed hat, leaned down. The name tag on his chest caught the light, and Don saw the word PAFFORD. “I asked you a yes-or-no question, not for your life story. If you’re having car trouble, I’ll call you a tow truck and make sure you get to a garage. If not, I expect to find you gone when I come back by here. Understand me?”
Don blinked in surprise. “I was just going to ask for some help with directions. I’m trying to find the turnoff for—”
Pafford smiled. Don suspected it was for the benefit of the trooper’s dashboard video camera, because his voice was a snarl of contempt. “Get smart with me, son, and I’ll shove a Taser so far up your ass, your nose will light up like Rudolph’s. I ran your license plate; I know you’re one of them reporters making a big deal out of Bronwyn Hyatt. Around here she ain’t no hero, she’s just white trash from the hills who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. You makin’ over her just means every other half-nigger Tufa will think they can smart off to the law and get away with it.”
Don stared. He’d encountered all sorts of cops in his job, but never one so brazen in his prejudices. “Officer,” he said carefully, “I don’t believe I’m breaking any laws sitting here. I’m certainly not bothering anyone.”
“You’re bothering me. And if you look up and down this highway, you’ll see that’s the worst thing you could be doing, because ain’t nobody gonna come help you out. Now git before I lose my good nature, and you lose an awful lot of time and money to the Great State of Tennessee.”
Don’s hands shook as he turned the key and pulled slowly out onto the highway. The trooper stood watching, hip cocked, one hand on his gun. Don wanted to turn around and go back the way he came, but instead drove straight, forty miles out of his way, to make sure he didn’t have to pass the trooper
again.
By the time he hit the junction to Highway B near the interstate, his anger had truly peaked. He thought of calling Sam at the Horn and getting a lawyer involved, but he had no proof of anything. After all, the trooper let him off with a warning, and the dashboard camera would show nothing out of line.
“Fuck,” he snarled. He was as angry as he’d ever been, just like he used to get as a young man. But this was no frat-house bully, he reminded himself. This was a cop, who could beat him senseless—or kill him—and get away with it.
He stopped at the intersection. There was no other traffic, and he took a moment to calm down. But it was hard to do; it felt like something long buried was now free and unwilling to go back in its box.
“You’re not chasing me off,” Don said to the air. “I’ll find that goddamned road. Just wait and see if I don’t. And if I see your blue lights again, I’ll make my own recording of what goes down, and we’ll see what happens then.”
But first, he decided, he needed some lunch. His anger had left him ravenous. He turned onto the access road that ran parallel to the interstate until he reached the exit with a Shoney’s restaurant. He parked and gathered his atlas and printouts; maybe he was just disoriented, and the turn was actually obvious. He’d make another run before giving up, and if he ran into that trooper again, he’d be sure to have his cell phone on to record the conversation.
As he entered the restaurant and waited for his eyes to adjust, someone called, “Don!”
He turned. George Landers waved from the cash register. Don went over and shook hands. “You’re a long way from Unicorn,” Landers observed. “Is one of our softball teams in a tournament I don’t know about?”
“No, I’m on double-secret assignment,” Don said with mock drama. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to write your obituary.”
Landers turned to the young man beside him. “Don, this is Craig Chess, the new minister at the Triple Springs Methodist Church in Cloud County.”