The Bastard Hand

by Heath Lowrance

  At first glance, Cuba Landing seemed like something out of a Faulkner story. A row of small businesses lined one side of the street, facing a small park on the other side. In the middle of the park stood a statue of a man decked out in Civil War attire. Beyond the park, and down each side street we passed, were row after row of colorful wooden houses with big front porches and huge trees in every yard. I spotted a young couple walking hand-in-hand toward the park, and an old man in a summer suit perched in front of the post office, but other than that, not a soul. With the exception of two or three cars passing in the other direction, Main Street was also empty.

  The Reverend read my mind. “It’s Sunday, Charlie, ’member? All the shops are closed today, with the possible exception of the bar t’ other end of town. Cuba Landing is closed for business on Sundays, and every weekday after six.”

  A police siren wailed behind us. I nearly jumped up from my seat and bolted out of the moving car—training I’d had as a wandering bum—but the Reverend only glanced casually in the rear-view mirror and said, “Now what the hell?”

  The siren wailed again, a short sharp burst. I craned my neck to see the police car right behind us, flashing a white light from the dashboard. My heart started pounding. I said, “Gun it, man. Just go.”

  He looked at me as if my head had fallen off and rolled onto the floorboard. “Go? What the hell you on about, Charlie? You wanna get us arrested?”

  Shoving the empty whiskey bottle under his seat, the Reverend steered the Malibu over, stopped in front of a bike shop.

  “Reach in the glove compartment there, Charlie. My license is in there somewheres.”

  My hands shook as I fumbled through the compartment, and I felt the Reverend’s eyes on me. The license was under a pile of ragged maps and religious pamphlets. I handed it to him, not meeting his gaze.

  “Try to relax, Charlie. It’s just a cop.”

  Behind us, the cruiser door slammed and a pair of heavy boots clomped toward the Reverend’s side of the car. I watched the cop approach in the rear-view.

  A wide face, youngish but rugged, peered through the open window. “Evening, gentlemen.”

  Reverend Childe grinned at him. “Howdy, officer. What can I do for you?”

  “You can start,” the cop said, “by showing me your driver’s license.” His face friendly enough, but the voice stern, leaving no room for argument. Still grinning, the Reverend passed his license over, and the cop glanced at it quickly, comparing the picture to the Reverend’s face.

  Satisfied, the cop gave the license back, said, “Did you know, Mr. Childe, that your left taillight is out?”

  “Is it now?” the Reverend sounded genuinely troubled. “Well, I sure didn’t know that.” He looked at me. “Did you notice that, Charlie?”

  I shook my head.

  Turning back to the cop, he said, “It’s mighty good of you to tell me that, officer. We been driving just about all day long to make it here and we never even noticed the taillight.”

  “You need to get that fixed soon as possible. I’m going to ticket you for this, but—”

  “I wonder if you might tell me where I can get that taillight taken care of, officer. I can’t see driving any farther without it, ’specially considering how close to dark it’s getting.”

  “Well . . . everything’s already closed up here today, but—”

  “Well, shoot,” the Reverend cut him off. “Don’t that just beat all?” He laughed easily, nudged me in the arm. “Good thing we ain’t going any further, eh, Charlie?” Then, to the cop, “I guess I’ll just have to take care of it first thing the mornin’. Is that all right with you, officer?”

  The cop stammered, “Well, yeah, sure—”

  “Thankee. I appreciate your understanding.”

  “Don’t think nothin’—”

  “I wonder if you might tell me where the Freewill Baptist Church is? Like I say, we been driving for a spell and we’re anxious to get settled.”

  The cop frowned. “The Freewill . . .” Then understanding dawned on him and he laughed out loud. “Childe! Of course! You’re Reverend Childe, come about the church!”

  It was the Reverend’s turn to look surprised. “Well, yeah.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” the cop said. “This whole town’s been waiting on you, did you know that? Welcome to Cuba Landing, Reverend!”

  He stuck his hand into the car. The Reverend shook it, said, “It’s good to be here, Officer . . . ?”

  “Oldfield. Ernie Oldfield. Pleasure to meet you.” He squinted into the car, trying to get a better look at me.

  The Reverend said, “This here’s my good friend-in-the-Lord, Charlie Wesley.”

  I nodded at the cop, who said, “Good to meet you, Mr. Wesley. Boy, folks are sure gonna be happy to see you, Reverend. We weren’t really expecting you ’til tomorrow, but we got a whole big shindig planned.”

  “Do you now?” the Reverend said, obviously pleased to be the focus of so much hubbub.

  “Yes sir, the Ladies Church Club are gonna do you up proud, Reverend. We’ve been without a regular minister for almost a year now.”

  “Now that’s just a shame. A fine town like this is entitled to hear the Word of God every chance it gets, and I just can’t abide otherwise.”

  Officer Oldfield laughed. “Well, that’s a thing of the past, now that you’re here, ain’t it?”

  “God willing, brother. God willing.”

  We followed Officer Oldfield’s cruiser up Main, around the far end of the park, onto a side street called High Park Lane. The Cuba Landing Freewill Baptist Church—the only church in the whole town I’d seen so far—stood on the corner, across from the park and within sight of a bookshop, a bakery and a small bar with a crowded parking lot. The bar was where all the people were.

  We parked on the street, right behind Oldfield’s cruiser, and looked the place over. The church wasn’t very different from the one up in Memphis. Cleaner, maybe, but the red brick and the small yard with the inauspicious bulletin board were the same. The steps leading up to the front doors were broad and low, shaded by several large shrubs and a low-hung awning. The Reverend and I saw the notice on the bulletin board at the same time: Mon. eve . . . plEase Come Out to meet our New Pastor Rev. P. Childe supper in the basement after please meet New pastor.

  I said, “You didn’t tell me they were expecting you. I thought you were just coming down to check out a possible position.”

  The Reverend shook his head, laughing. “Well, that’s what I thought. I talked to someone on the phone ’bout a week ago and she told me that their old pastor had sort of skipped out and they needed someone to fill in.”

  “He skipped out?”

  “Yeah. It happens sometimes, y’know. He prob’ly got some young girl in trouble and didn’t have the balls to own up to it or something. Anyhow, it sounded promising on the phone, but I had no idea they’d made up their minds ’bout me.”

  “What if you don’t like it here? What are you gonna do?”

  He looked at me. “Charlie, it don’t matter if I don’t like it. Doing the Lord’s work ain’t always a picnic, you know. Besides, I think I’m gonna like it just fine. It’s a pretty little town, ain’t it? Full of possibilities.”

  Oldfield had been sitting in his car until then, probably on the radio to announce our arrival to his boss. He stepped out, and the Reverend and I did the same.

  “Well, here it is,” Oldfield said. “Whatta ya think?”

  The Reverend put his hands on his hips, nodded his head grandly at the church. “Beautiful. Mighty beautiful, indeed. I just know some souls are gonna be saved in this place.”

  “Would you like to see the inside?” Oldfield said, grinning. “I just called in to Captain Forry and he told me the rear entrance is unlocked.”

  I said, “Do they always leave the place unlocked?”

  Oldfield explained that the Ladies Club had been holding the key until a new pastor could be found—they held their
meetings in the basement and cleaned up twice a week. The door was left open just in case any members had to get in for whatever reason. “But now that you’re here, Reverend, that won’t be necessary anymore. The Ladies Club will turn the key over to you tomorrow night. Knowing them, they’ll prob’ly make some dramatic deal out of it.”

  Oldfield held the back door open for the Reverend, then followed. I caught the door from swinging shut on my face and went in after them.

  It wasn’t bad. The short back hall led past the stairs to the second floor and the basement, and right into the church itself. Reverend Childe lingered there, gazing over the rows of empty pews with a strange look on his face. Behind the podium was a mammoth piece of artwork, depicting a serene valley, rich with green and blue and brown, and above the painting Jesus looked down on us casually from a red crucifix.

  Oldfield said, with some pride, “That crucifix was carved by hand, believe it or not, by our very own Aarons brothers.”

  The Reverend looked at it appreciatively, said, “Aarons brothers? Well, that is something, ain’t it? They good church-going folk?”

  Oldfield grimaced. “Not as such, I’m afraid. I don’t think anyone in this town can say the Aarons ain’t Christians, but we haven’t seen ’em around here for a few years.”

  “Well that’s just a shame.”

  Shrugging, Oldfield said, “They sorta keep their own company, you know? They got a place out by Moker’s Hill and they spend all their time hunting and raising dogs and making illegal moonshine.”

  The Reverend glanced at him. “Making moonshine?”

  Oldfield nodded. “Yessir, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Ain’t that against the law? Why don’t you arrest ’em?”

  Oldfield looked apologetic. He said, “Well, it ain’t illegal to make it, Reverend, it’s just illegal to sell it. Those boys make a point of not selling it to anyone in town here. Besides, illegal booze is the county sheriff’s problem, and, according to my sources,” —a bit of pride crept into his voice— “the Aarons give the stuff away to the sheriff’s boys to keep ’em off their backs.”

  The Reverend nodded. “Ah, well. Some things you just can’t do nothing about, huh? It’s just a shame that men with such obvious gifts from God would waste it. Maybe I’ll go up to Moker’s Hill and see if I can’t talk to them.”

  “I wouldn’t really recommend that, Reverend. The Aarons are always heavily armed. And they don’t care for folks coming out on their property.”

  The Reverend said, “The Lord’s will don’t care nothing about guns, Officer.”

  “Well . . . if you go up there, at least let me know so that I can go with you.”

  With the spiritual matters behind us, the rest of our tour of the church addressed more practical needs. Downstairs, Oldfield showed us the pastor’s office, the bathrooms, the huge kitchen. The main hall was amazingly wide, and Oldfield said, “Most of the church events are held right here in the hall. You’d be amazed how many folks can fit down here.”

  Upstairs was a private bathroom with a small shower, and two furnished rooms. Automatically, the Reverend claimed the larger of the two by sitting on the bed and bouncing up and down on it a couple times. His windows looked out over High Park Lane and the park on the other side of it. My room had a view of the dumpster and the parking lot, but I wasn’t complaining. After all, this was the Reverend’s gig. I was just along for the ride.

  We went back downstairs and Oldfield showed us the industrial-size coffee maker. He brewed up a pot, and the three of us sat at the tall food prep counter to go through the shooting-the-breeze portion of our tour. Oldfield, who just happened to be a member in good standing of the Baptist Church, covered a few of what he considered the major points of the town. There were a few reserve officers in town, he told us, but mostly the only law around was him and Captain Forrey, whom we’d meet tomorrow. The mayor in Cuba Landing for the last nine years was a man named Bishop Ishy—another personality to meet on the next day’s itinerary. The Reverend perked up a bit only at the prospect of meeting the members of the Ladies Club.

  Finally, Oldfield got around to asking the question that had been on his mind. He’d been looking at me speculatively, hem-hawing, wondering how to approach the subject. Sipping his coffee, he went for it. “So, Mr. Wesley . . . if you don’t mind my asking . . . what exactly is your, uh, official capacity?”

  The Reverend jumped in before I could answer. “Charlie’s been my personal assistant for going on three years now. Wherever I go, he goes. I just couldn’t get anything done without him, I tell you.”

  “Oh,” Oldfield said. “Well, that’s a good thing, I suppose. I imagine church business can get down-right burdensome, can’t it?”

  “Amen to that,” the Reverend laughed. “I get so caught up sometimes in God’s work that I tend to forget the everyday stuff that needs to get done. Charlie helps me stay on top of it, don’t ya, Charlie?”

  “Well,” Oldfield said. “Good thing we have two rooms up there, eh? Although, I gotta tell you, I’m not sure what the church budget is like. The pastor’s salary is always pretty small anyway, you know, and a second person . . .”

  “That ain’t nothing to worry about,” the Reverend said. “I’ve always paid Charlie outta my own pocket, and as long as we got food in our stomachs and a roof over our heads, God will provide. He always has.”

  Oldfield nodded wisely. Finishing his coffee, he stood up, said, “I reckon you folks are pretty dogged after your trip, so I’ll be on my way for now. If you need anything, you just call down the police station any old time, I’d be happy to help.”

  We stood with him, and the Reverend stuck out his hand. “Kind of ya, Officer Oldfield. Good to meet ya.”

  “Likewise,” Oldfield grinned. He shook our hands in turn, and we followed him upstairs to the back door.

  Oldfield paused right outside, turned back around as if a thought had just occurred to him. He said, “Oh, yeah, something I forgot to mention that you might want to know, just so you’re ready for it.”

  “Do tell,” the Reverend said, smiling.

  “Tomorrow night, at this shindig they got planned, you’re probably gonna meet the old pastor’s mama. A lotta folks been giving her a hard time for a lotta years now, saying just all kinds of ugly things about her, but to her credit she’s been good to the church for years now, ever since her boy became the pastor. Heck, even since he took off, she’s been here every Sunday, come hell or high water. I’m sure she’ll want to meet you.”

  The Reverend said, “What kind of ugly things do people say about her?”

  Oldfield shook his head. “I ain’t one much given to gossip. She’s had it pretty rough, and I’d hate to spread anything around. Some folks think she might have driven the old boy off or something, and ever since then it’s just been one thing after another with her whole dang family. I don’t know. Heck, you know how people like to gossip. In any case, you’re sure to meet her tomorrow evening.”

  “What’s her name?” the Reverend said.

  “Kimberly Garrity. She’s always been a friend to the church here, so I don’t—”

  I cut him off. “What did you say her name was?”

  He repeated it for me, and continued what he had been saying to the Reverend. But I didn’t hear the rest.

  I’m not sure, but I think I said something about going to the bathroom. I stumbled away from the Reverend and Oldfield, made my way upstairs, careened into my new bedroom. I opened my bag, riffled through my few belongings and pulled out the Bible I’d swiped from the laundromat.

  I opened the Bible to the inside front cover, looked at the inscription there, even though I already knew what it said. Garrity. Kimberly Garrity, for God’s sake.

  I dropped the Bible back in my bag and went into the bathroom and splashed water on my face. Then I stared at myself in the mirror and repeated it over and over. Garrity. Son of a bitch. Garrity.

  This was no coincidence, I said to the fa
ce in the mirror. Not by a long shot.

  After Oldfield left, I took a long shower, then went to my new room and fell into bed. I heard Reverend Childe come up, quietly so as not to disturb me. He spent some time in the bathroom, then retired to his own small room. Still in a state of shock, I spent a long time staring at the ceiling and trying to put it all together in my head.

  It was still with me the next day as I walked the streets of Cuba Landing. When I woke, the Reverend had already left on some errand or another, so I took another shower and wandered around the empty church by myself until the echoes started making me nervous. I went out into the warm May morning.

  In the park across from the church, a single adult supervised a group of elementary school kids on a picnic. Cars crawled slowly up and down Main. In front of the bookshop, a handsome middle-aged woman was setting up a display of discount books, apparently just opening for the day. The bar was closed, but a teenage boy busily swept the parking lot of broken glass and other debris. Hordes of people gathered inside the bakery, and the smell of fresh bread wafted at me from across the street.

  Yesterday, I’d seen a small diner a couple blocks up Main, so I headed in that direction, past clusters of happily strolling couples, sweating joggers, and distracted-looking housewives walking vapid-faced dogs. The night before, Cuba Landing had been an abandoned town, hardly a single person to be seen, and now people moved everywhere, smiling and nodding as I passed, all caught up in this small moment of their lives.

  Outside the diner, a young black kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, strummed a beat-up guitar and howled a bluesy rendition of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”. He was the first non-white person I’d seen so far. I dropped a dollar into his open guitar case and went inside.

  The smell first—biscuits in the oven and sausage sizzling. An old man sat at the counter and a waitress poured coffee into his cup and nodded at me. I nodded back, found the nearest empty booth. It was small, only a row of booths along the window facing Main, and a short bar with six stools. Half-full, but the two waitresses were obviously seasoned and their casually fast pace kept it from seeming hectic. The jukebox was turned off, and the black kid’s song drifted through the glass, underlying the murmur of conversation and laughter. The kid had a damn good voice, and played the guitar pretty well, too.