by Joan Hess
"Do you think Baby'll be okay in the station wagon?" Ruby Bee whispered to Estelle.
"Do you think I'd put him there if I didn't?" Estelle retorted, offended by the very idea. "Nobody ever comes down this road anymore except for a occasional chicken truck headed for Hasty. We don't have caravans of Gypsies going up and down the road, looking for babies to steal. Baby's as safe out front as he would be in your storage room."
"Hush!" Madam Celeste said as she closed her eyes. "You are worse than a squawling baby."
Estelle snorted, but very quietly. Beside her, Ruby Bee tried to keep her mind on the matter at hand and not worry about Baby out in front.
Brother Verber woke up with a groan. His back hurt something awful from the night on the couch, and his knees felt like they were gripped by rubber bands. On the television set across the room cartoon characters moved their lips like amateur ventriloquists as they discussed invasions and wicked princes. He looked at the clock.
"Holy Jesus," he muttered as he sat up. His foot knocked over the glass of sacrificial wine, sending an odorous splash of red all over the braided rug and the pile of study material. It was nearly eleven o'clock. There was something he was supposed to do, but he couldn't for the life of him think what it was. A bedside visit to some dyin' member of the flock? A meeting with the church elders to talk about the behavior of the newest Sunday-school teacher, who'd been seen coming out of a coed skating rink in Farberville? A counseling session with some of the sexually depraved parishioners?
He used his handkerchief to wipe off the study material, wishing it was the counseling session, now that he'd had the opportunity to engage in some right serious research into the possibilities of depravity. On the cover of one of the manuals was a photograph of a young man wearing a black mask, a studded leather collar, and not much else. Noticing the model's rippling thighs brought it all back.
Brother Verber looked at the telephone receiver, which still dangled at the end of the cord. Sister Barbara was expecting him to come by for a piece of pecan pie. Or she had been expecting him more than thirty-six hours ago, anyway. But he hadn't gone because…(Brother Verber tugged his earlobe)…he'd felt the need of atonement for…(he scratched his stubbly jowl)…the sin of…(he squirmed like a nightcrawler in a coffee can of dirt)…arrogance. Yeah, that's why he hadn't gone by to praise her for her Christian zeal in taking in those bastards and trying to instill in them a healthy dose of decency and morality and humility and eternal gratitude.
It was because she was more pious than he was, and he'd seized the necessity of praying in solitude. It wasn't because he didn't want to lay eyes on those filthy bastards. It wasn't because he wished to avoid unpleasantness. No, he told himself, wincing as a lightning bolt flashed across his head, he was doing the correct thing by isolating himself in humble prayer without permitting the intrusion of the telephone to disrupt his concentration.
And since it was Saturday, he mused as he eased himself back onto the couch, he needed even more isolation so he could work on his sermon. In fact, he was going to need isolation all day long. Comforted by the necessity of all that impending isolation, he mentally ran down the list of his favorite sermon themes: charity covering the multitude of sins; the wages of sin being death; the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man avail thing much; by their fruits ye shall be knowing them.
None of them struck just right. As he rolled over, he saw the centerfold of one of his study manuals. The woman was clad in the typical sinful blacklace underthings, which never seemed to go under things since these harlots never wore things over them. He picked up the magazine and held it a few inches from his nose. Looking at the photograph inspired him in more ways than one.
"Shall I continue doin' this, my angel?" Kevin asked, raising his head so he could see his beloved's face over the generous contours of her body.
Dahlia gave him a tender smile. "You're doin' right well. Why, one of these days you're going to know exactly what to do without me having to tell you." She opened her lips to allow the escape of a tiny burp. "I'm beginning to feel like I'm in heaven."
"You are? Gee, that's great, honeybun." Gulping nervously at what he felt was an epic challenge to his manhood (and perhaps a civic responsibility as well), Kevin returned to work.
Dahlia entwined her fingers under her neck and gazed at the ceiling. She thought about how she loved Kevin, for his devoted diligence, if nothing else. Some might say he was kind of a slow learner, but she figgered they had all the time in the world-and then some. After all, wasn't nobody ever going to find them. Not Kevin's sharp-tongued mother nor his mean ole pa, not her own granny with the scary quotes from the Old Testament and her glass eye that all the time fell out and rolled under the recliner like a marble, not thundering Brother Verber, not even Arly, who might throw Kevin in jail for what all he did.
"Just a smidgen higher," she murmured contentedly.
11
"I thought you were going to Starley City to get the crystal shipment," Rainbow said, coming into the Emporium office.
Nate was sprawled on the couch, a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. "I hafta to hang around for a call," he said through a yawn. "I'll get over there Monday."
"A long-distance call?"
"Just a call." Nate yawned again, and settled himself farther down in the cushions. "Don't bother to ask, because I don't want to discuss it. Or share it, as you'd say. It's personal business." And it would get him out of this godawful town and back into the pool halls of Farberville, where he belonged. Hell, he'd have enough bread to hit all the pool halls in the state, if not the whole damn country. Cold beer and hot women. No more of this aren't-we-centered crap. No more screwing a woman who shrieked about cosmic convergence when she came, or half listening to her discussion afterward about the starlit seeds vibrating in her womb, of all goofy things. No more nonsense-if, of course, his partner was right about being able to predict the moment the policewoman abandoned the stakeout long enough for them to chop the dope and get it out of there.
Too bad his partner was opposed to just going up there and doing whatever was necessary to the woman. They were already facing a murder-two rap at worst, a negligent homicide at best. They were waist deep in shit; one more death wouldn't make a whole hell of a lot of difference. He realized Rainbow was staring at him. "What's wrong with you?" he said, scowling at her.
"You're not one of us," she said as she crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway. "Your soul is still tortured from bad experiences in the past, isn't it? You're not capable of seeking a higher spiritual plane; you're not even able to explore the present physical reality. You'll never be able to counterbalance those discreative intentions or cleanse your inner channels."
"Blah, blah, blah. You know what-you make me sick. Every time you start gabbling about spiritual planes and cosmic harmony, I want to puke. Hell, maybe I'm pregnant like our fat little friend out behind the counter."
Rainbow's smile tightened until her lips ached. "Then why are you a member of our family, Nate? Why don't you pack your tattered duffel bag and find some new friends more like yourself?"
"When I get the word from my astrologer, maybe I will. Like when Capricorn rises in Gemini, the moon is in the seventh house, Jupiter aligns with Mars, and all that crap, maybe I will." Laughing, he turned his face to the back of the couch.
Rainbow went to the front of the store and dug through a drawer for her astrological miniguide. She was frowning at the squiggles when Poppy waddled over to her. "Capricorn doesn't rise in Gemini," she murmured, puzzled.
"I never said it did," Poppy said. "So what?"
"I was just checking. When's your appointment with the midwife?"
"I was supposed to go this afternoon, but Nate said not to take the truck. My ankles are so swollen I doubt I can walk all the way out there. I guess I'll try to go tomorrow or the next day." Poppy ran her hand over her bulging belly. "If it's not too late."
"You think…? This would be a very aus
picious day for a birth, astrologically. Nate's mutters made no sense, but anyone can see that a child born today will have a very solid basis in Scorpio. Oh, Poppy, let's align our vibrations and see if we can induce labor!"
Poppy wasn't all that eager to induce labor, a.k.a. labor pains, but she managed a smile as she closed her eyes and began to hum through her nose. It would be nice to have a Scorpio baby; Scorpios could be very determined and levelheaded.
Mrs. Jim Bob realized things had gotten real quiet. She took the damp washrag off her forehead and sat up, her nose twitching like a rabbit approaching a trap. When she still didn't hear anything (especially along the lines of shrieked profanities or shattering glass), she went to the door and put her ear against it. Nothing.
But it was the kind of quiet that made you shiver if you were watching an old horror movie, because you knew in your heart that the monster was fixing to spring out of the bushes. It was the kind of quiet that comes between the flash of lightning and the boom of thunder, when you nervously count off the seconds under your breath. It was the kind of quiet that blankets a cemetery on a cold, drizzly day.
Mrs. Jim Bob looked outside at the desultory rain coming down. At last, unable to contain her curiosity, she opened the door and peered down the hallway. She took off her bedroom slippers, then crept to the top of the stairs, prepared to flee back to the sanctuary should she hear the slightest noise. No muffled giggles. No sudden gasps or snorts. Nothing. She made it halfway down the stairs without hearing anything but the thudding of her heart. She made it to the bottom.
"Bubba?" she whispered. "Are you nasty little bastards playing hide-and-seek? You're going to be real sorry if I find you."
She did some seeking, and determined that they were gone. Where, she couldn't begin to imagine, but she didn't waste a lot of time on it, either. Mr. Jim Bob had said, albeit with more snarling than anything else, that he'd better not find those bastards in his house if she knew what was good for her. She didn't believe some of his threats, partly because she was a good Christian woman who would never listen to that kind of language, and partly because he was so angry he was incoherent. It was pretty clear, though, that he didn't want to run a makeshift orphanage.
Neither did she. In fact, after giving him a couple of hours to calm down, she'd tried to call him back to tell him she'd think of some way to get rid of the bastards. A snooty desk clerk had informed her that Mr. Buchanon had checked out. No, he hadn't left any messages, and good day, madam. It had turned her blood to chilled tomato aspic.
Now, as she considered it, it came to her that she'd done the kind, generous, pious thing by seeing that the bastards were brought down to town and given food and shelter. That had been her Christian duty. She'd pointed out their sinful ways and instructed them in the path of righteousness. In fact, she'd set them on the path and given them a swift pat on the fanny to start them on their way. She'd done her duty and then some.
There was a dreadful mess on the kitchen floor, but she stepped over it and put on the kettle for a nice cup of tea. More than her duty, she thought as she took out a cup and saucer, a box of tea bags, and her nicest creamer and sugar bowl-the ones with the lavender rosebuds that had belonged to her grandmother.
Arly had taken advantage of her kindhearted soul, Mrs. Jim Bob told herself. Arly was the one who should have disinfected the bastards and seen to their basic needs. Arly was the chief of police, which meant she was in charge when the mayor and town council were out of pocket. Arly could have put the bastards in a jail cell, where they couldn't destroy someone's lovely home with new beige carpeting.
She poured boiling water into the cup, then took the tray into the dining room and sat down at the table. It was becoming increasingly clear that this whole disaster was Arly's fault. Everybody knew Arly had lived in New York City, which was filled with perverts and muggers and book editors. Not to mention society women, who ran around in skin-tight dresses and miniskirts that were the devil's own designer fashions. They painted their faces and drank martinis all day and slept with each other's husbands all night. Now that she thought about it, Mrs. Jim Bob realized it was no wonder at all that Arly'd been able to trick her like she did. Good Christian women didn't know all the big-city dirty tricks, much less how to avoid being mistreated and abused by them that did.
"Jim Bob's going to have a word with her," she said aloud, practicing just a tad. "He's going to tell her that she's responsible for all the damage done to our home and carpet. What's more, he's going to make her pay to shampoo the carpet and reupholster the sofa."
There was a navy-blue print fabric over in Farberville that would look real nice. It had peacocks with their tails all swooped up, and some flecks of beige. The current plaid was dingy, and she'd happened to glance through the fabric samples one day, purely out of idle interest. The peacocks would look fine. And those heathen bastards had probably wiped their filthy hands on the wing chairs, which would look better if they were re-covered in something brighter, maybe rose to counter the navy.
Feeling much better, much better indeed, Mrs. Jim Bob went to the telephone book and looked up a number. When a voice answered, she briskly said, "Perkins, let me speak to your eldest. I'm going to need her to clean today."
She was in the middle of negotiations (Perkins' eldest thought cleaning houses was as delicate a job as brain surgery, and therefore expected to be paid about the same hourly rate) when the doorbell rang.
She told Perkins' eldest to hold her horses, then hurried to the door and threw it open. "I am on the telephone."
David Allen tried a smile meant to reassure her his intentions were good, if not his timing. "I came by to talk to the children. Shall I wait here while you fetch them?" he said, trying to ignore the rain dripping down his collar.
"They're gone. Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't have time to visit with you at the moment." Mrs. Jim Bob started to close the door, her mind toying with the possibility of paying minimum wage just this once. It was something of an emergency, what with Jim Bob most likely roaring up the highway.
"Where'd they go?"
"Now how would I know? I certainly can't read their pornographic little minds, not that I'd want to even if I could. Why don't you ask Madam Celeste?" She again tried to close the door, but someone's foot was in the way.
"When did they leave?" David Allen persisted, despite the pain.
"They left a while back, and they didn't say where they were going. They are not my responsibility, David Allen, and I don't keep track of everybody's comings and goings like I was some spinster at an attic window. Arly's the one who'd better do that, especially if she has a mind to keep her job."
The door closed in the guidance counselor's face. He blinked, then turned and looked as far as he could see in all directions for Buchanon children. When that didn't do any good, he drove over to the Bar and Grill to see if Ruby Bee had any theories. When that didn't do any good because nobody was there, he drove on home and got a beer out of the refrigerator. That did some good.
It may occur to you that a lot of people were lost-and it's undeniably true. For all intents and purposes, Kevin and Dahlia had dropped off the face of the earth. Four Buchanon bastards had taken off for parts unknown. Mr. Jim Bob had checked out of the hotel and was no longer snarling threats from his hotel room. Yes, Baby Buchanon wasn't googooing in the station wagon when Estelle and Ruby Bee came out of Madam Celeste's house, which set off a goodly amount of screechings and wild accusations and indignant rebuttals. Mason Dickerson wasn't available to ask if he'd seen anyone on the road, and his sleek silver car wasn't parked in the driveway. Madam Celeste was in the house, one supposed, but she wouldn't come to the door despite a lot of banging and pleading to do so.
Other people were where they were supposed to be. Nate was still napping on the sofa in the back room of the Emporium, waiting for a call he hoped would liberate him. Poppy and Rainbow were out in the front, sounding off like kazoos. Zachery, the fourth partner, was in the loading
area in the back, smoking a joint and enjoying the rain that misted his hair and beard with tiny crystals. David Allen was fiddling with his toys and on his third beer. Perkins' eldest was trudging up the driveway to the mayor's manor, a bottle of ammonia in her purse, while inside same manor Mrs. Jim Bob sat at the dining room table and sipped tea from a porcelain cup. Brother Verber was scribbling away, his face flushed with inspiration as he thought up increasingly pious expressions that would knock the socks off 'em the following morning at the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall.
The minor players were doing minor things of no great import. Kevin Buchanon's mother was hunting for a recipe for sweet potato pie, because her last hadn't been quite spicy enough and she prided herself on the perfect combination of cinnamon and nutmeg. Her husband, Earl, was wondering where the hell Kevin was, but he wasn't worrying all that much since boys will be boys and at least Kevin wasn't in the sweet gum tree peeking at naked hippies. He'd checked first thing, but the tree was uninhabited.
Elsie McMay was hovering near the telephone, just in case the filthy pervert called. Merle Hardcock stood on the north bank of Boone Creek, trying to refigure the angles. Carol Alice and Heather were cross-legged on Carol Alice's bed, thumbing through fashion magazines for ideas for bridesmaids' dresses, Heather being steadfastly opposed to both puffy sleeves and high waistlines, since neither flattered her and she knew it. Carol Alice's fiancé was over in the National Forest with a couple of his buddies, drinking beer, telling risqué stories, and arguing about the best location for a deer stand whenever they chanced to remember the purpose of the jaunt. Gladys Buchanon was squinting at her grocery list, since she couldn't find her glasses again and wasn't about to pay fifteen dollars for psychic revelations. LaBelle was in the little girls' room, cursing that doctor in Farberville who wasn't a day older than her nephew and therefore hardly qualified to prescribe medicine and prod at people's privates. Harve was grumbling over reports that looked like they'd been written by third graders. Decidedly minor things.