“I didn’t do nothing,” Charlie Lee says. “God did it.”
Esmerelda shakes her head. “Oh for Christ’s sakes. Fine. Why did God blow up that restaurant, Charlie Lee?”
“Oh. On account of that restaurant was serving lobster roll.”
“I’m serious!”
“So am I.” He shakes his head. “Those people should have known better—that is an abomination and a sin. That’s why I’m not that concerned whether or not there were any stragglers, you see. It was the Lord’s will.”
“You, like, bombed . . . a restaurant . . . because it was serving . . . lobster?” Esmerelda says. “I’m sorry, do you have any idea how fucking wacko that is?”
He takes a deep breath. “All right, y’all,” he says. “Ahem: And all that have not fins and scales in the seas, and in the rivers, of all that move in the waters, and of any living thing which is in the waters, they shall be an abomination unto you: They shall be even an abomination unto you; ye shall not eat of their flesh, but ye shall have their carcasses in abomination. Whatsoever hath no fins nor scales in the waters, that shall be an abomination unto you. Leviticus, chapter eleven, verses ten through twelve.”
Nobody says anything.
“Shellfish,” he says. “Bible says it’s an abomination to eat shellfish. Them people back there at that restaurant was serving lobster roll. That there is an abomination—a downright sin—and God smote them with my hand.”
Esmerelda continues to stare at him with a wide-open jaw, and says, “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
Charlie Lee bristles. “Oh I am, am I? It’s in the Bible, ma’am, the word of God! And people all over just flaunt it by serving that stuff up like there’s not a thing in the world wrong with it. It’s an out-and-out sin, don’t you see? Lookee here.” He leans toward Esmerelda, who bounces back to the cabin. “That same book of the Bible, Leviticus. Why, just nine chapters later it says, If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination. That’s your homosexuals. Bible says that’s a sin too.
“Few years ago, this wasn’t no problem. But those dang fools there in Washington and in some of the states allow the queers to get married. Can you believe that? I know some fellers—good, God-fearing boys, who are taking care of that abomination.
“Now all over the blessed thing, the Bible, it rambles on and on about the gift of life. Heck, one of the Ten Commandments says: Thou shalt not kill.” He smiles again and raises a finger. “Now that there is your aborters, your pro-choicers.
“Now your aborters, that’s even bigger. We been going after them for years. You probably heard of the one feller, that Eric Rudolph. He was taking care of that sin, smiting those who offend the Lord, by blowing up the clinics where they murder all those babies.”
He steps toward the cabin and leans inside. Arthur, arms akimbo like he’s a badass or something, leaps in front of Esmerelda and tries to mimic Kang’s most threatening expression.
“Well, now, you explain to me—all of you—why your homosexuals and your pro-choicers are getting their punishment for their sins, and your shellfish eaters are getting off scot-free?”
Charlie Lee puts his bag at his feet, crosses his arms, and lifts his chin. “Well now they’re not, y’all. Thanks to the Birmingham Kid. I done smoted twelve shellfish-serving restaurants in Alabama, four in Georgia, and that one there, the Steak Shack of Crofton, was my sixth in Kentucky.”
“That’s twenty,” Esmerelda says.
“So it is.”
Lobster Newburg is one of Jean-Paul the chef’s specialties. The Paste Eaters and I often hung out at the Long John Silver’s at the King of Prussia mall and munched on popcorn shrimp. Just the other night, when Kang had steamed shrimp, I felt more at home than I had in days. Had I only known then it was a sin, I would have stuck with the potatoes. Jesus, it’s all so confusing. You get the same bullies at the Primrose School—in certain hallways it means a Paste Eater’s ass if he gets caught wearing a black turtleneck. But in others, it’s acceptable. I just bet you there’s a different group out there that says you have to eat shellfish, or that’s a sin and you’ll get blown up. Religion—it’s the biggest bully there is.
“I didn’t know you couldn’t do that,” I say. “Eat shellfish, I mean. So much is sacrilegious that I just didn’t realize.”
“A lot of people don’t realize, Winthorpe,” Charlie Lee says. “That’s why, before I set off any of my plastique, I yell out, God is great! That sends them all scrambling out the exit doors quick as jackrabbits. And, like I say, if any stragglers are there . . . well, that’s God’s will.”
I try to act like I’m interested, but the guy is mad crazy, so I try to sit as far away from him as I can. It’s best to humor people like that. What does fighting with them get you?
But Esmerelda and her new little toady Arthur clearly don’t agree. “Hey, like, how did you know that place served lobster, Charlie Lee?” Esmerelda asks. “You didn’t have a chance. You were only in there for a couple of minutes. And it was called the Steak Shack, not the Seafood Shack.”
He unzips the front of his backpack and pulls out a piece of purple paper. “They got it right here on the to-go menu. See? Lobster roll.” He holds it out for Esmerelda, who snatches it from him and goes back into the cabin.
For a little while it’s quiet, and I’m hoping Esmerelda is going to keep her fat yap shut. I watch the woods fly by. So much has happened, and my brain is just not working anymore. Something in my pocket is digging into my thigh—it’s the patch, the one with the snarling cat face on it. I hold it and run my finger along the stitching, staring into the woods and wondering if I’ll be able to sleep at all with a God-freak bomber on board.
Then Charlie Lee leans horrorshow close.“Say,” he says, “what’s that you got there?”
I try to speak, but just then something sucks all the moisture out of my throat. “It’s . . . uh . . . well, I just found . . .”
He puts out a hand. I black out for a second. Now he’s standing there holding the patch in front of that broad, underbite face.
He frowns. “Why, you’re . . .” his voice is all trembly. “You’re one of ’em!”
I feel numb. His eyes skip all over me like a wandering spider.
“No,” I manage to say.
“Yes, you are too, ain’t you? You’re one of ’em!”
Mind reeling, reservoir long since blown to smithereens, I grunt.
Charlie Lee raises both his arms, everything blurs, and my heart pounds in my ears.
But the guy hugs me. Toe-cheese floods my sinuses. Horror and disgust tangle inside me.
“Well, I’ll be!” he says, laughing in my ear. “I certainly will be. I never expected you was one of them!” He lets go. “Are all the rest of ’em—Esmerelda, Arthur, and that Injun—part of it too?” Tears fill the man’s eyes. “Y’all were having fun with me. Pretending you didn’t know the Birmingham Kid. Well, it surely is a pleasure.”
He hands the patch back to me. “Oh, you mean this patch,” I say. “No, I’m not one of . . . whoever. I just found this patch, is all.”
Charlie Lee blinks. Then, the smile slides off his face. “You what?”
“I found it. In the woods up in Ohio.”
He stands and scratches his scalp. “You found it?” he says. “In the woods? You mean to say you ain’t one of ’em?”
“No,” I say. “Sorry.”
He nods and smiles sadly. “It’s all right, Winthorpe.”
Leaning his backpack on the side of the boat, he sits next to me. His smell burns my eyes, and I duck my nose into the remnants of my turtleneck. My own scent isn’t much better, but I find my own brand of unwashed funk, a Campbell’s chicken noodle soup odor, more tolerable.
“First time I seen that patch was about four years ago. I was living at my home in Crawdad, and one day a traveling preacher come into town, and he had a patch just like that.”
“A traveling p
reacher?” I ask. The patch didn’t look religious. In fact, it looked much more badass than that—something a biker might have on his jacket.
Charlie Lee nods. “Yep. He was a good man. The Reverend Harlan H. Spikes. Head of Higher Purpose Ministries, which is one of them government-funded, faith-based organizations. The good Reverend is the one who’s responsible for saving the Birmingham Kid, Winthorpe.”
“How?”
“Well, he saved me from the hellfire of eternal damnation.” He reddens and lowers his head. “Fact is, down in Crawdad, I used to work on a . . . a shrimp boat. That’s right. Used to make my bones catching them abominations. The Reverend come into town one day and pulled us aside and told us how what we was doing flew in the face of the Divine Plan, and that we could be saved. So a bunch of us boys in Crawdad went to his prayer meeting, which he had in a big old tent in the fairgrounds. Told us how he’d given spiritual council to that there Eric Rudolph fella years ago, and how simple human beings can become vessels for God’s wrath. Simple human beings like me and my friends. And how you can get your reward in the sweet by-and-by. Big plots of real estate in heaven. Reverend Spikes told me I could get myself a nice little corner lot on several acres and just sit, drink my weight in Pabst, and strum a harp all day long in the kingdom of heaven. Never had nothing but a double-wide and a bug zapper here on the old blue marble.
“A few of us went back to his prayer meeting and met with him private. And that’s when I seen he had a patch like that sewed onto an old army jacket. I asked him what it was, and he told me it was a special club he belonged to a long time ago, and that they were good God-fearing people who could do what needed to be done. And he said if I was to ever run into somebody with a patch like that, I was to show them respect because they were wonderful men of God who certainly would be watching my good deeds.
“Well now, Reverend Spikes didn’t really organize or nothing. Just got us to studying on what was wrong in the world today and how a body can be God’s instrument and stop it all. Some of my other buddies went out to states that’s been lettin’ queers get married and blowing up the court houses. Another fella is trying to get going on the abortion clinics.”
Esmerelda steps out of the cabin. Her face is still red, but now she’s smiling, like she just made it to level five in Heckenluber. “Well, Mr. Birmingham Kid, it looks like you’ve made a big-ass mistake.”
She holds out the purple take-out menu for the Steak Shack. Charlie Lee takes it from her. “What’s that, pray tell?” he says, returning her smile.
“Did you happen to notice the asterisk next to the lobster roll on that menu?” Esmerelda asks.
Charlie Lee glanced at the paper.
“And what, braniac, do you think the asterisk stands for? Look at the bottom of the page.”
I look over Charlie Lee’s shoulder. Next to an asterisk at the bottom of the page is typed: Made of imitation lobster product/flounder.
The Birmingham Kid’s face sags.
“That’s right, asshole,” Esmerelda says. “That wasn’t shellfish they were serving at the Steak Shack. It was imitation shellfish, made of flounder.”
“Dear God,” Charlie Lee murmurs.
“And last time I checked,” Esmerelda continues, her voice getting louder, “the Bible doesn’t say a whole hell of a lot about eating flounder. Which would make what you did a sin!” She gasps, mocking him.
“What are you doing?” I snap. “Quit poking him!”
She ignores me, again, so I stand up in her face—her throat, actually. “You’re going to get us all killed!” I hiss.
She looks down at me. She blinks. What I’m saying is confusing her, I can tell. For the briefest moment she’s scared, but then all at once it goes away, and the hard look is back in her eye like she’s a cop on some TV show.
Charlie Lee drops the menu. Then he starts to cry. His shoulders fall, his face reddens, his mouth contorts.
Esmerelda frowns at him and crosses her arms. “So now you’re upset,” she says. “Good.” She spins around, barks, “Asshole,” over her shoulder, and walks back into the cabin.
Kang steps out. His fists are at his sides, and he watches Charlie Lee, who just sits, shoulders shaking in loud, moist sobs. Kang inches nearer to him, and I brace myself for what looks like a badass fight. But instead Kang reaches for the knapsack. Even though he’s overwrought, Charlie Lee hugs it to his stomach. Hugs it like it’s his baby. Kang stands there for a minute, blanches, then turns and goes back into the cabin.
I exhale and slump against the gunwale. If everybody just leaves this guy alone, maybe his killer baggage won’t go off, and we’ll drop him off and never see him again.
The Birmingham Kid slips the knapsack back over his shoulders. He grabs me by the neck and pulls my face down to meet his. We’re nose to nose. Tears blur his eyes.
“They all got out, didn’t they, Winthorpe?” he says. “You think they all made it out of there okay, don’t you?”
I try to stand, but he holds me down. “I don’t know, Charlie Lee. It—it looked like it.”
He lets me go, buries his head in his hands, and makes choking sounds. Then he shouts, “God!” a few times; each time I shake like a mofo and almost pee.
And then: “What have I done? Atone! I must atone! I must make this right!”
At midnight Kang anchors in a tree-lined lagoon and cuts the engine. He goes down to check on Seabrook, who has been sleeping most of the day. Kang gives Seabrook more of the Tylenol Esmerelda bought in Crofton and changes the dressing on his wound.
Charlie Lee makes a racket, moaning and talking about how he needs to atone for his sin, how he has offended God and now he needs to do something to make it right.
We pile into the cabin, giving him the deck to pace. Esmerelda drifts off with her head in Arthur’s lap, which would have turned the kid into a blithering spaz a couple days ago, but now he just sits there and watches the Birmingham Kid rant.
“She needs to chill,” I whisper.
He doesn’t react.
“Seriously, man. Who knows what’s in that bag? And he was fine before she opened her big fat yap.”
Arthur mouths, I know.
“So what are we going to do? Wait until he gets tired out and then jump him?” I look at Kang, who sits there and stares at the guy without changing his expression.
We don’t jump him. We watch this crazy guy wandering back and forth over the deck. Why have we even stopped? Maybe Kang is thinking he’ll go to sleep, and then he can separate him from that bag of his. I don’t know.
When I finally drift off, I have another one of those freaky dreams I’ve been having lately. I’m at a cotillion in a white ballroom with bleached hardwood floors, and the Moms and His Eminence are there.
I am a crab.
His Eminence has donned his tuxedo, and the Moms is in her best gown, a blue number with blazing sequins around the neckline. On the breast pocket of His Eminence’s tux is sewn that patch I have in my pocket—the one with the snarling cat face on it. The Moms has a similar patch on the bust of her gown.
A Grizzlies’ tune is playing in the background. My fave: “When the lightning flashes and the thunder rolls, I will not yield. I will stand fast and resolute.”
All around, people are dancing. High heels, wing tips, and loafers nearly crush me.
When he sees me scuttling across the floor beneath the dancers, His Eminence smiles and lets out a bellow. He runs across the room, pushing dancers out of the way. Finally, he stands over me. When I look up at him, the old man’s smile fades to a sneer. He raises his foot and tries to squash me. I dart out of the way just in time. Then Charlie Lee, who’s there next to His Eminence wearing a powder-blue tux with big ruffles, tries to step on me. Next, the Moms aims a red leather pump at my head. Soon the whole room of people has stopped dancing—they’re all trying to step on me, tap-dancing around me, pouncing at me, and firing lobster pickers in my direction.
All the guests are wear
ing patches.
I manage to claw my way up onto the banquet table and make it across, swerving to miss silver plates of hors d’oeuvres and champagne glasses. The partygoers stab at me with forks.
When I reach the end of the table, a large rotisserie the ’rents sometimes use for roasting pigs is at the end. Turning on the spit, over and over, is the pink, naked body of Doctor Seabrook.
Then I wake up. Before going to camp I barely ever had dreams, let alone nightmares—but now, minus television, my brain is mush.
It’s early morning, and the sky is gray. The lagoon where we anchored the night before is a still pond. Big trees are everywhere, filled with cackling birds that make a dome of sound over the boat.
The radio is hissing and droning away. “As you can possibly see, I have an injury myself—not here at the hospital, but in combat with a cedar,” someone says through the static. “I eventually won. The cedar gave me a little scratch.”9
Arthur and Esmerelda sleep in opposite corners of the cabin. I don’t see Kang, but I’ve never seen him sleep and figure he might be down in the hold with Seabrook.
But where’s Charlie Lee? Maybe he took off into those woods, I hope, to “go make things right.” Good riddance.
I stretch and cross the deck. We’re probably still in Kentucky. We have to reach another town before long. Maybe I can try the pay phone thing again. But I don’t know. The patches. His Eminence’s Bitchin’ Poster. Now Charlie Lee. Ever get the feeling you’re not in on everything?
Something is scattered across the floor in front of the hemp cooker. Miniscule orange filaments spilling from a plastic grocery bag.
As I approach, I realized what it is. After we ate shrimp and boiled potatoes the other night, Kang had gathered the trash into a grocery bag and dropped it in the aft corner of the boat. Someone found the bag, untied it, and dropped the shrimp shells on the deck.
Shellfish are an abomination.
Something pasted to the side of the hemp cooker catches my eye. Someone has smeared a gray plastic lump, about the size and thickness of a brick, across the hemp cooker. Wires protrude from it.
We Are All Crew Page 17