Revelator

by Daryl Gregory

  “Mind if I keep this?” She holstered his flask in her jacket pocket. “I’d like us both to go in armed.”

  “You mean loaded.”

  The porch and yard were overrun with chattering humans. A lot of them were cousins—Birches and Whits and Martins and Whiteheads—and members of the old cove families. She wondered how many had shown up just to retrieve the dishes they’d brought the other day. Most of them were old people, but it was surprising how many children were running around—girls in dresses, little boys in untucked shirts, incapable of suppressing their good mood. Why bring them to a funeral? Did their parents want them to witness the end of an era? Take note, kids: one of the last of the cove residents is dead; soon this place will be home only to deer and bears.

  More surprising was the number of strangers, standing around in formal clothes. They were clumped together, talking among themselves, giving the side-eye to the local hillbillies. Then Stella saw Brother Paul with them and realized who they were: more of Hendrick’s God damn Georgian disciples. They were multiplying. Even more alarming, one of them was cranking a handheld movie camera.

  A voice yelled her name. Stella looked around, spotted Veronica, or rather her hat, a floppy-brimmed extravaganza of bright flowers. She was talking to a dark-haired young man in a too-tight suit. Stella made her way to her, Alfonse trailing.

  “I want you to meet Rickie!” Veronica’s voice was too loud for a funeral, even an outdoor one. “My fiancé.” Hitting that last syllable hard.

  Rickie shook her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Stella said. “This is my friend Alfonse.”

  Rickie looked him over, but dropped his hand to the side.

  Oh, Stella thought. So he’s an asshole.

  Veronica did take Alfonse’s hand in her gloved one. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Stella says you drive like lightning.”

  Alfonse glanced at Stella. He was surprised she’d mentioned him to this Georgia peach. “Well, I do drive lightning.”

  Veronica laughed and said, “Your product liked to kill me!” Rickie looked confused.

  Stella said, “I see you recovered.”

  “Barely!”

  The Georgians nearby were watching this exchange. They seemed to know who Stella was—and didn’t like her much. Behind them, the Pontiac hearse that had taken away Motty’s body sat parked on the grass. Rows of folding chairs were set up nearby, and in front of them was a line of people making their way past a pearl-gray casket. Uncle Hendrick was shaking hands with people. She couldn’t see the hole behind the casket, but she could feel it.

  Veronica said, “We’re supposed to sit down front, right next to the grave.” She glanced at Alfonse. “Just the family, I mean.”

  “I’m fine back here,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Stella said to him quietly, and went to join the line.

  The top half of the casket stood open. Inside lay a shrunken gray figure carved out of soapstone, wrapped in baggy blue cloth—that new dress Ruth had brought. The figure didn’t look much like Motty. That was the thing about the funeral process; by the time you buried someone, days after their death, the body looked so little like the person you knew that it had become something else: remains. It was a gift, really. A necessary distancing. It felt immoral to put a loved one underground, but to bury some husk they’d left behind? No problem. It’s easy to throw out leftovers.

  Someone coughed behind her and Stella realized she’d been standing there too long. She had little choice but to take the seat next to Ruth.

  Veronica sat on her other side. “So what do you think?”

  “She looks horrible,” Stella said.

  “No, about Rickie!”

  Ruth shushed them.

  “Congratulations,” Stella stage-whispered. “You’ve snagged yourself a handsome boyfriend.”

  “Fiancé.”

  “Have you seen Sunny? Or Abby?”

  “Daddy said the funeral would be too much for her. She’s…” One white glove fluttered. “…shy.”

  “Well no wonder with these strangers taking pictures. What’s with the movie camera? It’s disrespectful.”

  “It’s a historical moment.”

  “What’s historical about it?”

  “Goodness gracious, Stella. Have you been up all night with that friend of yours? Look at your eyes.” Her drawl had stretched into full Vivien Leigh. “I’ve got concealer for those bags. Let me—”

  “Shhhh!” Ruth said.

  The folding chairs began to fill with ancient family members, anxious to get started before their own funerals began. Hendrick nodded to the two boys from Smith Mortuary standing by the hearse. They fiddled with something inside the casket and then closed the lid.

  Stella had a moment to wonder who Hendrick had gotten to preside over the service—and then he stepped forward, holding a Bible. Of course he was doing it himself. He thought he was Billy Sunday.

  “Thank you for coming here, on such late notice,” Hendrick said. “It warms my heart that you, our friends and family and church family, have gathered here, at our ancestral home, to say goodbye to my beloved sister, Mathilda Birch.”

  Jesus. He was pretending he loved Motty. Worse, he was pretending he liked her.

  “Mathilda and I were lucky to grow up here in the cove. Our daddy called it paradise on Earth. But Mathilda, praise God, has gone to a far more glorious place.”

  Quit calling her Mathilda, Stella thought. God, she was tired. There were pins and needles behind her eyes. Gray clouds roofed the sky, but the rain refused to fall.

  Hendrick rolled on, following the Standard Baptist Funeral Script, a time-honored string of bromides, Bible verses, reassurances, and evangelism. The loved one’s suffering is over, their race has been run, Jesus has called them home, and have you got right with the Lord? The main message was that you were a sucker for grieving. Why shed tears over someone who’s crossed over River Jordan into the Promised Land? And don’t you want to be there too? The whole point of the sermon was not to honor the dead, but to use that death to remind sinners their own souls were in jeopardy. The corpse on display was merely a motivational prop.

  What offended Stella most about the script was that it erased the woman they were talking about. Stella didn’t expect him to talk about Motty’s service to the God in the Mountain, but where was any mention of her regal stubbornness? The way she sailed on despite the gossip, like a ship in heavy weather? Someone needed to remind this crowd how Motty refused to take shit from any man, whether he was a preacher, cop, or government flunky.

  Stella sighed, and Ruth’s head whipped toward her. Oops—that was louder than she intended. Veronica put a gloved hand to her mouth, stifling a giggle. Hendrick glanced at Stella but kept talking.

  She thought, I’m going to run across the pews.

  Lunk had said that to her. She hadn’t thought of it in years. They used to worry about whether or not they were good people. Lunk’s death had settled the question for both of them. The only thing she had to worry about now was who else she’d hurt, how badly, and in what order.

  She wondered what Elder Rayburn had said at Lunk’s funeral. Probably the same platitudes as Hendrick was spouting now, but with a tragic spin: God called Lincoln home far earlier than we wanted, but we can’t blame the Lord, no sirree Bob. He has a plan. God works in mysterious ways.

  All gods do.

  “I believe Mathilda is with Him now,” Hendrick was saying. “She’s looking down on us, and if there’s one thing she would want us to—” He stopped, surprised by something behind his audience. Heads young enough to turn, turned.

  Absalom Whitt was making his way slowly through the crowd. People got out of the way and Stella saw the girl at his side, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. Sunny, in a white
dress.

  No one spoke.

  The pair walked alongside the chairs. Sunny touched Abby’s arm and then she approached the casket alone. She was wearing the dress that Stella had worn for her first communion. There was no trace of the beet juice.

  “Sunny, I’m so glad you’re here,” Hendrick said. “Do you want to take a seat?”

  The girl’s expression was hard to read. The swirls of red and white across her face acted like camouflage.

  Ruth leaned across Stella. “Veronica! Have her sit down!”

  “Open it,” Sunny said.

  “What’s that?” Hendrick asked.

  “Open it,” Sunny said, louder.

  “Oh, honey, I don’t think we should—”

  Stella stood up. Veronica squeaked.

  Sunny looked at her. Stella stepped to the casket, tugged at the lip, but it wouldn’t open. She gestured at the mortuary assistants.

  They hustled forward, did something under the lid, and lifted it. Sunny looked inside. “Huh.”

  Then she walked away, toward Abby. The cameraman, a skinny, nervous fellow, pointed his lens at the girl and cranked away. She ignored him.

  Abby whispered something to Sunny, and she nodded. The two of them walked away, heading for the trail that led to his cabin.

  Hendrick abandoned his sermon. He called for them to bow their heads, declaimed a few words, and then brought Polly Ledbetter forward. Stella hadn’t seen her since she’d helped her pack up her house, fifteen years ago. She sang “The Old Rugged Cross” in a high warble and some woman right behind Stella’s ear hummed along off-key.

  Hendrick said “Amen” and the service was over. The guests started assaulting the family with condolences.

  “It’s such an honor to meet you,” one of the Georgian men said. He took her hand between his and shook it. Good lord, was there anything worse than the hand sandwich? “I’ve heard so much about you, but to meet you in person—and now to see Sunny!”

  She pulled free from him. All around her, Georgians and cove people were saying Sunny’s name.

  A dozen feet away, Mary Lynn Rayburn stared at her with a mournful expression. It was a shock. For a moment she looked exactly like her brother.

  Mary Lynn started toward her and Stella thought, No, no, no. She looked around for an escape route and spotted Merle Whitt and Pee Wee Simms, standing on the other side of the yard with Alfonse. She marched up to them, resolutely not looking in Mary Lynn’s direction.

  “Why, it’s Stella Mae Wallace.” Pee Wee, projecting devilish charm with his Errol Flynn mustache, hands in the pockets of his deeply pleated slacks. Her middle name wasn’t Mae, and his grin was not funeral-appropriate.

  “Hey, sweetie,” Merle said. She was tall and thin, wearing slacks almost identical to her husband’s, but she looked better in them. She stood with her arms away from her body, open to a hug, but not forcing it on Stella; she knew better. But Stella surprised herself. She stepped in close, reached up to wrap her arms around the woman. Breathed in that familiar scent of Lucky Strikes and Drene shampoo. Stella had met Merle when Stella was thirteen, and it was comforting to think Merle would always be the adult—taller, yes, but smarter and more sophisticated too.

  “How are you doing?” Merle asked. “You eating?”

  Jesus, how bad did she look? First Veronica’s crack about her eyes; now this. It only made it worse that Merle’s concern was sincere. “Been better. Life’s complicated.”

  “We’ve had a long night,” Alfonse explained.

  Merle still looked worried. “How is Sunny? I’m glad she got a chance to say her goodbyes.”

  “At least identify the body,” Pee Wee said.

  “That was something,” Alfonse said. Poor guy. That bit with the casket wasn’t even the weirdness she’d been warning him about. It was only going to get worse.

  “I think she’ll be fine,” Stella said—and then laid out a collection of words that, if assembled correctly, clearly meant the opposite. She didn’t know if the girl was sad about Motty’s death, happy about it, or just ready to leave for Georgia.

  “Motty never allowed the girl to come to our house,” Merle said. “Being a bad example and all. When you finish with all this, you should bring her by the house.”

  Stella’s throat closed. This was the moment to tell her that Sunny might go live with Hendrick.

  “Or…just you,” Merle said.

  Stella hadn’t been to see Merle in months. There was no excuse for it. She and Pee Wee lived in Switchcreek, a short drive from her house in Maryville. These people had provided a home when Stella was thinking hard about following her mother into the air. They’d anchored her, and after the heavy weather of the dark years, they’d launched her into a new life. There was no one whose opinion meant more to her.

  Yet: Sunny.

  “I’m so sorry,” Stella said. “I’ve been pretty busy with work.”

  Pee Wee arched an eyebrow. “Alfonse was telling us about a recent mix-up.”

  “I mentioned we just dropped off a major apology,” Alfonse said.

  “And how did it turn out?” Pee Wee asked.

  Stella said, “You got your seventy gallons, right?” Pee Wee was her long-distance distributor. He didn’t so much run moonshine as gently escort it across state lines. He kept to the speed limit, and drove only late-model sedans, relying on the appearance of propriety and affluence to avoid police attention, and his personal charm on the rare occasions he was stopped.

  “Alfonse did indeed deliver it to my garage,” Pee Wee said. “Though I haven’t had a chance to taste it yet.”

  “Then let’s not delay.” She slipped him Alfonse’s flask. He scanned for watching eyes like a practiced tippler, then tippled. Merle took the flask next. She coughed but held it in.

  “Excellent apology,” Pee Wee said. “Heartfelt.”

  Merle said, “I don’t know how you two drink this stuff.”

  Stella was conscious of Mary Lynn’s presence and moved so her back was to her. “So…how’s the semester going?” she asked Merle. “Keeping the freshmen in line?” The first-year biology class generated Merle’s best stories.

  “Most of them don’t believe in evolution, and I’m starting to see their point. How can they get stupider, year after year?”

  “That’s sexual selection,” Stella said. “Those boys won’t get laid by Christian girls if they start using big ol’ science words.”

  “So they have to display their ignorance.”

  “Like peacock feathers,” Stella said. “But for stupid.”

  “We should write a paper together.”

  “I’ll have my grad students call your grad students.”

  Pee Wee shook his head in mock confusion. He loved their verbal badminton matches but kept to the sidelines.

  Stella was relieved to see Mary Lynn walking toward the road. She’d given up. There were still plenty of people milling about the yard, some of them the Georgia visitors, but the rest locals. But why weren’t they leaving? Thanks to Elder Rayburn’s disapproval, the Primitive Baptists hadn’t provided lunch, and no other church had crossed the picket line. Usually the quickest way to get rid of a Baptist was to tell them you were out of fried chicken.

  Then she saw who Uncle Hendrick was chatting with.

  Merle noticed her distraction and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  Stella said, “I have to go, but I’ll be seeing you soon, I promise.”

  Merle squeezed her arm. “Take care of yourself.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about.” She exchanged a look with Alfonse: You all right? He nodded.

  Stella ambled over to Hendrick to start the negotiations.

  * * *

  —

  hendrick, tom acherson, and Sheriff Whaley were huddled like the triumv
irate dividing up Rome. It bothered her to see them all so chummy.

  Stella took a breath. Walked forward at ramming speed.

  “How you boys doing?” she said. Ignoring Hendrick.

  Tom Acherson took off his hat, tucked it under his right armpit, and extended his left hand. “That was a beautiful service.” He wore a brown suit and a tan tie. Stella wondered if the outfit counted as dress browns.

  Sheriff Whaley offered his condolences—something he hadn’t bothered to do when he stormed the house the other morning.

  Stella said, “I’m sure Motty was a pain in all your asses.” Whaley chuckled, and Tom went red. He was too decent for his own good. Hendrick looked disapproving.

  She said, “Thanks again for allowing us to bury her here, Tom. I appreciate it.”

  “The least I could do,” Tom said. “I told Hendrick that whatever grave marker you put up, the park service will always make sure it’s maintained.”

  “Really? I thought the plan was to erase all evidence of our existence.”

  “What? Oh no!”

  “You’re not going to tear down this farm?”

  Hendrick said, “That’s not the plan, Stella. You haven’t kept up.”

  She tried to stifle her anger. “Well by all means, fill me in.”

  Tom said, “It’s true, the original idea was to return the cove to its natural state, but the park service changed its mind years ago. We’re going to preserve select homes and barns, for educational reasons.”

  “Select homes.”

  “Sure!” He was the most naturally happy man she’d ever met, and not even a funeral could suppress his cheerfulness. “We’re focusing on homes built before, say, 1910—cabins, frontier constructions. You know, to show people what the cove was like for the southern highlanders, back in the day. The Birches were one of the first families, of course, and this house—well, it’s not the original 1823 cabin, that was torn down in 1845 when the current cabin was built, and then there were the expansions in 1875 and ’80—”

  “It’s old. Got it.”

  “The point is,” Tom said cheerily, “I’m sure the service will want to keep it.”