Deliver Us From Evil

by Allen Lee Harris

  Suddenly he looked behind him, at the clump of kudzu that descended from the toolshed. A figure was crouched down in the shadows. But the moonlight was bright enough for Charlie to make out the snow-white hair. He walked over to him.

  “Hank? You all right?”

  The man stared up at him, his lips trembling. “Heapmore,” he whispered softly, his voice a whisp of sound.

  “It’s okay now. I’m going to take you inside.” And then Charlie put his hand under the man’s arm and gently lifted him to his feet.

  “What you doing?”

  Startled, Charlie jumped and turned around. Aura Lee was standing by the corner of the house. She was pointing her shotgun right at Charlie’s head.

  “It’s just me, Aura Lee. I found Hank.”

  She stepped closer. “I done been calling out for you,” she said, still not lowering the shotgun. “My baby hurt any?”

  Charlie nodded. “He’s fine.”

  Aura Lee came a little closer and took Hank’s hand in hers. “You’re going to be fine, baby,” she told him. But Hank’s eyes were still on Charlie. “Heap,” he said whimpering.

  “Ain’t no heapmores,” Aura Lee said. “Sheriffs been under the house, looking all around, and he didn’t find a single heapmore. Ain’t that right?”

  Charlie felt the bump on his head and nodded. “That’s right.”

  But when Aura Lee went to lead Hank back around the house, he didn’t budge an inch. His lips moved in the shape of his word, but no sound came out. Charlie looked uneasily into his eyes, then felt a shuddery tingle on the back of his neck. Hank’s eyes seemed to make up for what his tongue lacked, conveying a desperation so intense that Charlie had to look away.

  “Heap—”

  This time Charlie put his hand under Hank’s arm and together with his momma, they walked him back around the house and up onto the porch. It was here that Charlie said his good-byes. “He’ll be fine in the morning. Looks like he just got a good scare.”

  Hank was still standing on the front porch when Charlie turned and disappeared around the bend.

  13

  He was back there again. It was night and he was standing outside. He was looking up at the second floor of the old house.

  At first it was just a bright light in the upper window. He watched it as it began to glow brighter and brighter. And from behind him he heard the hoarse whisper, and he was afraid.

  “Who am I, Jamey? Tell me who I am.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”

  The other windows on the second floor began to glow in the same way and he watched as the flames began to rise into the windows.

  That was when they started screaming. He could recognize each one of the screams. They were the screams of the other boys who slept in the room with him.

  “Stop it,” he pleaded. “Make it stop.”

  The man was laughing now. “Keep looking at that window, Jamey. Watch.”

  And then he saw his friend. The boy who had talked with him each night as they fell asleep. He was trying to open the window to get out and he was screaming. He looked right down at Jamey and screamed, “Help me, Jamey! Help me, please! I’m on fire! I’m all on fire!” And he watched as the flames spread over his screaming face and as the face blackened and burned. The boy’s hands beat and beat and beat on the window until they, too, were burning and blackening.

  “Who am I, Jameyboy?”

  “The nightmare man,” he whispered.

  And then he heard the laughter. “And where does the nightmare man come from?”

  “From me,” the boy heard himself whispering through his tears as he watched his friend’s body as it turned into a blackened shadow against the fiery windowpane of the flaming house.

  With a scream, Jamey sat up in his bed and looked around him. He swallowed hard. He looked at the window and then back at the door.

  Then he remembered. It was the new room in Abigail Parker’s house. He wasn’t at that other place anymore.

  He lay back down and stared up at the ceiling, listening.

  It was the same noise as on the other nights since he had been here. He knew now what it was: The sound of the screen door on Abigail’s back porch as it was quietly pulled open.

  And then he heard the other sounds. Those, too, he knew. They came from the back stairway, the slow, soft sound of footsteps in the darkness. The sound of footsteps that no one was meant to hear.

  He waited and listened. The footsteps were in the hallway now. They stopped, and the boy heard the doorknob as it was slowly turned.

  Please, he whispered to himself, his eyes fixed on the door. Go back, go back to where you came from. Go back tonight.

  Slowly the door opened, and in the moonlight Jamey saw the man’s face.

  “Jamey. . .”

  Part Two:

  Abigail’s Orphan

  1

  The next morning, after Larry had finished eating breakfast, he got his football and was heading out into the backyard when Charlie took him by the shoulder. “Hold on there, partner. Where you tearing off to?” Charlie asked him.

  Larry looked at his dad’s face and knew at once that he wasn’t happy about something.

  “Me and Clemson were going to play some football.”

  Charlie said nothing to this but merely lit a cigarette he’d taken out of his shirt pocket. Then, raising his eyebrows slightly always a bad sign, Larry knew—he coughed into palm of his hand. Larry recognized these deliberate delaying tactics from previous experience.

  “Something wrong, Dad?”

  “I don’t know, son. I thought maybe you could tell me that.”

  “I do something?”

  ‘Well, I don’t know yet if you did or didn’t. Miss Eula came by the office this morning, about eight-thirty.”

  “Miss Eula Watkins?”

  “That’s the one. Seems last night she was up around two-thirty in the morning and she saw a whole mess of boys over in Abigail Parker’s yard.”

  “Oh?” Larry could feel his cheeks blushing. The night before, when he had gotten safely back, he figured there would be no further consequences. He hadn’t reckoned on Miss Eula.

  Larry glanced up at his father. He could almost feel him saying, “You tell me you weren’t with them, son, and I’ll just take your word for it.”

  But Larry couldn’t say it. He bit the edge of his lip and glanced down.

  “You with them?” Charlie asked finally.

  “Yes, sir,” Larry mumbled.

  “Whose idea was it?”

  “Clemson’s, mainly. And Alvin’s. You know how they are, Dad.”

  “But you still went along with them, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what exactly was it you boys were doing out there at that time of night? You mind telling me that?”

  Larry hung his head. “Well, Clemson said he wanted to go look at the new retard.”

  “Meaning who?”

  “That orphan, the one that came to stay with—”

  “You know his name by now, don’t you, son?”

  Larry looked up. “Yes, sir. Jamey. Clemson and Randy and Alvin said they were going over to take a look at him.”

  “At two-thirty in the morning?”

  “Well, Clemson said Miss Eula told his mom that new— Jamey, I mean—was supposed to be standing up at this window, looking out all night or something.”

  Charlie nodded impatiently. “Yeah, I know all about that. Miss Eula told me, too.” Shaking his head, Charlie tossed his half-smoked cigarette to the ground. “I swear, I don’t know what gets into people sometimes. Maybe I couldn’t expect any better from Clemson or Randall or Miss Eula. But I sure as hell figured I could expect more from you, son.”

  Larry looked up. “You mean sneaking out
at night?”

  Charlie shook his head. “I don’t mind about the sneaking out. That’s what boys your age are supposed to do, every now and then. It’s what you were sneaking out for that I don’t like.”

  Larry frowned. Then, halfheartedly mustering a defense, he said, “It wasn’t like we hurt anybody.”

  But Charlie wasn’t impressed. “It ever occur to you that maybe that boy Jamey has feelings, too? Just like you and me? Just like Clemson and Randall even? You all ever stop to think about that?”

  “Guess not.”

  “Well, it’s about time you did,” Charlie said. Then, shaking his head, he looked at his son. “I guess you think that’s all you got to do, just say you’re sorry and everything’s okay.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want me to, Dad,”

  Charlie stared down at his son. “There’s only one thing I want you to do. And that’s the right thing.”

  Larry blinked. “What d’you mean?”

  “I was kind of hoping you’d find out on your own, son. After all, that’s what growing up is all about.” Then, turning around, Charlie walked toward his car. He opened the front door and stopped, looking back to Larry. “You just think about it, okay?”

  Larry thought about it all day along, but it wasn’t until the next morning—in the middle of Miss Amelia Amos’ Sunday school class—that he finally realized what the right thing was, and then only after he had already done it.

  “This morning we have a very special guest and I want all of you to make him feel right at home,” Miss Amelia said to the class. “He’s a little older than most of us, but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy our Bible class just as much as we do.”

  “No, ma’am, Miss Amelia,” Alvin said loudly. Alvin always talked about Miss Amelia whenever he thought she couldn’t hear him, but when she was looking, he was all sweetness.

  “That’s right, Alvin, honey,” Miss Amelia said.

  Alvin beamed, and the moment Miss Amelia turned to one of the other kids, he poked Larry in the ribs. “I got her eating out of the palm of my hand.”

  Miss Amelia continued, “Because, boys and girls, Bible school is for anyone who comes to Jesus the way He asks us to. And you remember how He asks us to come to Him?” Miss Amelia looked around the class. Alvin, his hand straight up in the air, kept saying, “I know, I know, Miss Amelia.”

  “Well, Alvin, honey, you tell the others, then.”

  Alvin looked all around him, a nauseating grin on his fat face. “Like a little child.”

  “That’s right, hon,” Miss Amelia said, then went to the door of the classroom and opened it. “Hank, honey, you and your momma come on in now.”

  Alvin leaned over to Larry. “Here comes the retard. You think he’s going to pee on himself, way he done last time his momma brought him? I thought I was going to laugh my ass off. You remember, Larry?”

  Larry did. He had been chosen to help clean up the place where Hank had been sitting.

  “Ain’t that something? Thirty years old if he’s a day and still don’t know how to pee by hisself,” Alvin said with a snicker.

  Hank was led to his seat. He waited, looking around the room, then gave his quick karate-chop nod. He sat down bolt upright in the chair.

  “And now, boys and girls, let’s sing a song about our favorite thing in the whole wide world. Can anybody tell me what that is?”

  “Jesus!”

  “That’s right, Alvin.” Miss Amelia went over to the battered old stand-up piano at the front of the room. She turned back around to the class. “Why don’t we sing a song now that we all know. Were going to sing ‘Sunbeam,’” she said, smiling in particular at Hank.

  “Jesus wants me for a sunbeam, a sunbeam, a sunbeam, Jesus wants me for a sunbeam, to shine for Him each day.”

  The children, at varying pitches and different rhythms, joined in, and as she played, she kept turning back to them, looking over her shoulder, giving nods of encouragement.

  Hank sat stiffly, staring silently at Miss Amelia. He looked like a spring that had been pressed down too tight.

  Then, with another elaborate flourish, the chorus began. Hank waited until everyone was repeating the word “sunbeam,” and tonelessly, at the top of his lungs, he began to yell “Sunbeam, sunbeam, sunbeam!”

  Miss Amelia gave Hank a smile of approval. His momma gave a nod. Finally, Miss Amelia made a grand and triumphant cadence to the last repeat of the chorus, but even after the music had ended, Hank did not stop.

  “‘Sunbeam’ is over,” his momma told him, poking at his shoulder. With the same automatic suddenness, he stopped. His mouth open, he stared at Miss Amelia, panting slightly like a dog on a hot summer’s day.

  “That was very good, wasn’t it? Doesn’t Hank sing well?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Alvin called out.

  “Now can you tell us what Jesus wants you to be, Hank?” Miss Amelia asked.

  Hank looked up at her, his eyes filled with panic.

  “Say, Sunbeam, Hank,” his momma told him.

  He was silent, then suddenly he barked out, “Sunbeam, sunbeam, sunbeam.”

  Hank’s eyes were fixed on the door. Larry turned around to see what had caught his attention, and filling the doorway was Abigail Parker. She was wearing a big red hat with an even bigger feather sticking out of it. In her enormous hands she was clutching a boy by his narrow shoulders. She gave him a good shake, like an old carpet she had taken out for an airing. “Miss Amelia, this here’s little orphan Jamey, what there is of him.” Larry looked at the boy closely for the first time. From the stories he had heard, he had expected him to be frail and puny, like a child wasting away from a disease. Abigail’s orphan looked even worse.

  The other children stared up at the strange boy with unconcealed curiosity.

  Suddenly Larry noticed that the orphan boy was looking at him. It was the look you give somebody you’ve seen before, but can’t quite place. “Shit,” Larry whispered to himself, blushing with embarrassment. He must have spotted him the other night.

  “You go on sit now, you hear? And mind Miss Amelia good,” Abigail said to the boy. “You send him on home when you finish with him,” she said to Miss Amelia.

  “Last week we talked about Joseph and his dreams,” Miss Amelia began. “And today we’re going to learn how he was put down into that well. Can anybody tell me who put him into the well?”

  But none of the children seemed to be aware of Miss Amelia’s question. They were all staring at Hank. His eyes were nearly bulging from his head, and his lips were trembling.

  “Shit,” Alvin whispered into Larry’s ear, “He’s fixing to have him one of his heapmore fits.”

  Hank’s momma nudged him with his elbow. “Be still, baby” she told him. “Ain’t nothing here’s going to—”

  Suddenly Hank stood up, knocking his chair back over behind him. He was trembling all over now, his eyes still fixed on the orphan boy. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the orphan boy since he had first entered the room.

  “Looky there. I told you.” Alvin chortled.

  “Hank, honey,” Miss Amelia said. “Something wrong?”

  Hank was crying. Crying aloud a single word, over and over: “Pretty. . . pretty. . . pretty. . .”

  The orphan boy sat there, his face even paler than when he had first stepped into the room, his eyes down. Aura Lee looked at him with a scowl. “It’s that orphan got him so worked up. That’s what it is.”

  Miss Amelia nodded. “Larry, honey,” she said, “why don’t you take Jamey here outside for a little while?”

  Ten minutes later, Larry was walking the orphan boy back to Abigail’s. Miss Amelia had told Larry she thought it would be best if they went on home, seeing that Hank was still pretty agitated. “But you come back next Sunday,” she told Jamey.

  Larry kept trying to think
of something to say to the other boy, but the best he could manage was, “I’m sorry about what happened. Hank just gets that way sometimes. Nobody ever could figure out why he has those fits of his. He’s . . . slow, you know.”

  Jamey, up until that moment, had not spoken a word to Larry since they had left the annex. Then in a soft voice and with only a trace of his stammer, he suddenly said, “I used to know somebody like that. At this place where I used to be. He was like Hank. Only w-worse.”

  “Worse than Hank?”

  The other boy nodded. “He h-had hydrocephalus.” He stopped walking. “You ever wonder why some people are born like that?”

  “Sometimes,” Larry said.

  The other boy frowned. “It’s something I used to think about, where I was before. If I was God, would I have let people be like that? Would I let them have things like that wrong with them?”

  Intrigued, Larry asked, “What did you decide?”

  “That I wouldn’t,” Jamey said. “I mean, I tried to think of ways it might work out better for people to be like that, but I couldn’t.”

  Larry shrugged.

  “I guess I always kind of figured God must know what He’s doing. I mean, If He didn’t, who would?”

  “I don’t know,” Jamey said, his voice sad and forlorn. He nodded at Larry and said, “Appreciate you bringing me home. Guess I’ll be s-seeing you.”

  Larry watched as he brushed through Abigail’s weed-ridden yard. He had just gotten to the steps when Larry had a sudden inspiration.

  “You supposed to do anything today?”

  Jamey shook his head. “Why don’t you and me go back to my house for a while. We could play a little baseball or something?” Larry asked, hardly able to believe what he was saying.