by Ron Levitsky
“We’re home,” Jesse said. “I’ll get your luggage. You’ll be staying with me.”
“I thought you were a practicing attorney. You never mentioned being a college professor.”
“Didn’t I?”
Jesse led Rosen into a small hallway. The large area on their right, which must have served once as a living room, was now a work area. Bookshelves filled to capacity covered the wall directly ahead. An adjacent wall contained racks of phonograph records and boxes of cassettes. Stepping into the room, Rosen saw, to his left, a small partition dividing a wooden desk from a series of file cabinets. The fourth wall was covered with old music posters advertising A. P. Carter and other country singers.
Several folding tables, placed end to end, bisected the room. Two college students, a boy and a girl, sat at one end of the tables listening to music coming from a tape recorder. The boy kept starting and stopping the tape, while the girl scribbled on a legal notepad.
Jesse whispered to Rosen, “Two of my grad students. They interviewed an old-timey local musician, Willie Duncan. He wrote a lot of songs about life during the Depression. They’re transcribing the lyrics for a book the center’s doing.”
Rosen asked, “You’re not practicing law?”
“I gave that up a few years after returning to Earlyville. I never much liked the idea of corporate law and I’m afraid criminal law’s beneath a Compton. Noblesse oblige only goes so far.”
“So you chose the ivy walls of college life.”
“I got my Ph.D. in history and have been here six years. It’s a small school, but I’m happy. The college has let me develop a popular culture program, one of the few like it in the country. We’re saving history.”
“I’m sure you’re doing good work.”
Jesse smiled. “It’s a bit selfish, really. What else does the Compton family have besides its history? As a psychologist might say, my work allows me to self-actualize the same way your civil liberties organization lets you.”
“What do you mean?”
Instead of answering the question, Jesse said, “We’ll get you settled, then review the case. I’ve gathered some initial research.”
Climbing upstairs, Rosen smelled the stale odor of tobacco. The second floor contained three rooms and a bath. Jesse led him into the third room and put his luggage down. The room contained a bed, night table, chest of drawers, and rocking chair—antiques beautifully handcrafted of dark wood. A diamond-patterned quilt of red and green hung above the bed, and another quilt was folded neatly on the bed. A half-dozen framed photographs of Jesse’s ancestors were arranged on the wall with the window.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” Jesse said.
“It’ll be like sleeping in the Smithsonian. Are you sure you trust me with all these antiques?”
“This house survived a whole pack of Yankees long before you, during the Civil War. I’ll see you in my office, the room next door, when you’re ready. No hurry.”
After unpacking, Rosen pushed up his pillow and lay on the bed. As always when traveling to a new town, he took a few minutes to settle in, finding what the new place had in common with home. Usually it was easy. He kept his apartment in Washington nearly as Spartan as the dozens of hotel rooms to which, over the years, he’d grown accustomed. This room was different. It was home and family and deep roots and, for the first time in years, reminded him of his tiny bedroom as a boy, the aroma of his mother baking challah and the sound of his father and grandfather chanting holy words deep into the night.
His hands trembled, and his forehead had broken into a cold sweat. Rubbing his eyes, as if trying to erase the memory, Rosen went into the bathroom and washed with cold water. Then he walked into Jesse’s office.
A computer center built of oak—with printer, modem, telephone, answering machine, and a cassette player—ran the length of the right wall. The remainder of the room was taken up with rows of bookshelves and two straight-back rocking chairs resting on an American Indian throw rug woven in blues and reds.
Jesse sat at the desk and tapped an ash from his cigarette. “Try one of the rockers, both turn-of-the-century Hobbes. I think you’ll find them surprisingly comfortable.”
Rosen settled into the chair. “Very nice.”
“Before we start, there’s a message for you on the answering machine. Here.”
Jesse punched a button, and Rosen immediately leaned forward. His daughter, Sarah, was speaking.
“Hi, Daddy, it’s me. I called your boss, Mr. Nahagian, and he said I could reach you here. Don’t worry, this isn’t an emergency. I didn’t get shot or get a C on my report card or anything. I just need to talk to you. Call me real soon, please. ’Bye.”
Thinking about why she might have called, Rosen missed what Jesse was saying. “Sorry.”
“I was just wondering if she’s as pretty as she sounds.”
“Prettier.” He showed his friend pictures of Sarah in his wallet. “Fortunately, she takes after her mother.”
“Not totally. She has your eyes.”
“Think so?”
“Yes, and that’s the most important feature. As the poet said, ‘The eye is the mirror to the soul.’”
Taking back his wallet, Rosen studied Sarah’s face. “I’d like to think so. Do you mind if I call her?”
“Of course not. Use the phone here. I have to check on my students downstairs. Take all the time you need.”
Moving to the desk, Rosen lifted the receiver and hesitated. Whenever Sarah told him “Don’t worry” there was something to worry about. When he finally dialed her number, he knew he was right.
Chapter Three
“Hello,” Bess said.
“It’s Nate. I got a message that Sarah called. Is she all right?”
“Are you in D.C.? I tried reaching you myself, but your answering machine said you were out of town.”
“I’m in Tennessee on a case. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I mean, Sarah’s fine.”
“Why did she call?” The other end went silent for several seconds. “Bess?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m . . . getting remarried, that’s all.”
Now it was Rosen’s turn to grow silent. Finally, he asked, “Who is he? It’s not the one Sarah told me about last year, the one with dandruff who kept adjusting his underwear in public.”
“No, someone else. I’ve been seeing him for almost eight months.”
“What is he—an accountant or a doctor?”
“A doctor.” Again she hesitated. “I suppose Sarah will tell you anyway. He’s a podiatrist.”
“You’re marrying somebody who makes a living fondling other people’s feet? Don’t you find that the least bit disgusting?”
“Go ahead, Nate, get it out of your system. Then we can talk about Sarah.”
“You said she was all right.”
“She is. I mean . . . you know how she never really accepted the divorce. She fantasized that somehow we’d get back together again. Now she has to realize it won’t happen. It’s been hard on her. She’s seeing the school psychologist.”
“Is it that serious?”
“You know Sarah, she keeps most things inside. She’s grown even less communicative with me. I want her to get to know Shelly—”
“Shelly’s the foot massager?”
“He has two children from his first marriage, but they’re grown. I want the three of us to be a family. Not for him to replace you with Sarah, but at least they should get along.”
“I still don’t understand. Why a psychologist?”
“Like I said, she doesn’t talk much to me anymore. She cut a class—you know how seriously she takes school. And Mrs. Chang, her piano teacher, says she’s not concentrating. The Young Performers’ Competition is next semester. Did Sarah tell you what she did several weeks ago at an all-school assembly?”
“No.”
“She was playing her Chopin piece. It was so beautiful. Suddenly, she broke into Duke Ellin
gton’s ‘Satin Doll.’ In front of all those people—I could’ve killed her. When I asked her why, she said, ‘Chill out. Daddy would’ve liked it.’”
He couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe I would have.”
“That’s just what I expected from you! I thought for Sarah’s sake . . . Look, let’s not fight this time—please, Nate.”
“Sure. Let me talk to her.”
“She’s not here now. I’m certain she called you to talk about Shelly and me. I want you to do something—not for me, but for her.”
“What?” Rosen already knew the answer.
“I want you to make her see things the way they are, about Shelly and me and about you and me. Sarah will listen to you. She always does. Will you do that, Nate? Please, for Sarah.”
He imagined Bess sitting in the kitchen, holding the receiver while wiping the counter or checking a roast in the oven. She had the same long dark hair as their daughter. Rosen remembered how it tangled in his fingers when he drew her to him and they made love.
“Nate?”
“Sure,” he replied without thinking. “Sure, I’ll talk to her. When are you getting remarried?”
“In a few months, during Thanksgiving vacation.”
He wanted to say, “One more turkey shouldn’t make any difference,” but instead managed, “Well, congratulations.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell her you’ll call Tuesday night. She’ll be back very late this evening, and tomorrow Shelly and I are taking her with us to dinner. It’s Shelly’s birthday.”
“What do podiatrists eat—fillet of sole?”
“Very funny. Thanks again, Nate. Good-bye.”
Rosen held the receiver, as if through it he could see Bess at the other end. Pushing up her sleeves, she probably paddled in those fluffy slippers upstairs into bed and, sipping a Coke, finished grading papers for school tomorrow. She always waited until the last minute. He wondered if she still wore his old flannel pajamas at night. No, Shelly wouldn’t like that.
“All right to come in?” Jesse asked from the doorway. He held two tall glasses.
Nodding, Rosen hung up and returned to the rocker.
Jesse sat at the desk. “Is your daughter all right?”
“Yeah.”
“If you’d rather we put this off . . .”
“No, let’s get right on it.”
“Here, I thought you’d like some iced tea.”
“Thanks, Chavrusa.”
Rubbing his eyes, Rosen turned his attention to the case but knew it would take time to learn what his friend had to say. In law school, when they’d worked together, Jesse would inevitably be late with his part of the assignment. Lighting a cigarette, he would say, “It’s my Southern upbringing. You all are just too caught up in your Yankee rat race.” Yet, both outsiders, they were drawn to one another—Jesse as a Southerner and Rosen as one who had been raised as if in a Russian ghetto in another century. After a while, Jesse became his unofficial chavrusa, study partner, like the one Rosen had had in the yeshiva of his youth.
Rosen took a long swallow of tea. “This is good. Helps to wash down that science experiment the airplane called lunch. Now, about the case?”
Jesse handed Rosen a file of papers. “I’ve had some of my students compile a background on serpent handling. The practice began here in Tennessee in 1909, at a place called Grasshopper Valley. A farmer named George Hensley read Mark sixteen, verses seventeen, and eighteen: ‘And these signs shall follow them that believe . . .’”
“‘They shall take up serpents,’” Rosen said, scanning the pages in the file. “So this Hensley began to handle rattlesnakes at his church, and others in his congregation joined in.”
“Yes. From there it spread to neighboring states. In 1938 in Harlan, Kentucky—that’s coal mining country—three members of a serpent-handling church were arrested but acquitted.”
“No one was hurt. I see here in 1968, in Virginia, a minister put two rattlesnakes against his temples, was bitten and died the next day. One church member was convicted by the Virginia Circuit Court of Appeals.”
Jesse lit another cigarette. “That was a strange case. Apparently the man had to take the oath on the witness stand with his left hand. His right had been amputated years before, after being bitten by a rattler. There was another conviction in 1973, in Carson Springs, Tennessee. Two people died . . . not from snakebite but from drinking poison.”
“Swallowing poison, not snakebite?”
Jesse nodded. “Strychnine. Remember what it also says in Mark: ‘And if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them. . . .’ During Friday’s service, I saw Reverend McCrae and another man drink what I think was poison. Nothing happened to them.”
Rosen crinkled his eyebrows. “You saw this?”
“Yes. There were other things, too. People going into fits, speaking in tongues. I didn’t see it, but these churches also lay on hands to cure the sick and even handle fire without feeling pain or being burned.”
Rosen stared at the paper before him, but the words were blurred. What kind of people were these serpent-handlers? The man on the airplane had called them crazy. Another nutty religious cult, but what if it wasn’t? What if it was something else . . . something more familiar?
“Nate, are you all right?”
“Go on, what else?”
“Even though the two men died from drinking strychnine, the co-pastors of the church were convicted under the 1947 Tennessee law against the use of animals, including snakes, that endanger the life or health of any person. The state supreme court upheld the conviction. In 1987 near Greeneville, Tennessee, a man drank poison and died. No one was charged with a crime. There’ve been at least thirty recorded cases of folks dying from snakebite or poison during church services. Even George Hensley, the man who started it all, was bitten to death in 1955. It reportedly took him a long time to die. Snakebite’s real painful.”
Laying the file on the floor, Rosen walked to the window. Students slowly crisscrossed the campus, going to class or lunch. They were normal kids, probably thinking about a ball game or getting a date for the weekend—anything but a few holy rollers putting rattlesnakes to their temples and drinking poison. If serpent handling were mentioned to those kids, Rosen imagined the looks on their faces. That was normal; that was the way he should feel. Why didn’t he?
“Nate?”
Rosen turned to his friend. “Sorry. Guess I’m a little tired.”
“Maybe we should continue this . . .”
“No, I’m all right. Jesse, you were at Friday’s service. How did it strike you?”
Jesse took a long draw on his cigarette. “The truth? I don’t ever remember being so frightened. It wasn’t just because of the rattlesnakes, although that was unpleasant enough. It was losing control. That part of the service—how long was it, five or ten minutes?—seemed compressed into one long moment, as in a dream, where impossible things are not only possible, they’re the norm.” He shivered. “But this was a nightmare. Handling snakes, drinking poison, babbling in tongues.”
Rosen wet his lips so that he could speak. “You didn’t find any of the service . . . truly spiritual?”
“Lord, no!” Jesse laughed nervously, drawing on his cigarette. “That’s like asking a rape victim if the man who attacked her had sensitive eyes.”
Rosen watched his friend smoking, then asked, “How do you see us approaching this case?”
Jesse glanced down at the file. “It appears to be a straight Amendment One freedom of religion issue. Article One of the Tennessee Constitution declares that no one can interfere with the rights of a person’s conscience.”
“Yet your state supreme court upheld those 1973 convictions.”
“There’s always the U.S. Supreme Court. It refused to hear the appeal on that case. Maybe it would agree to rule on this one. Your organization would certainly like that, wouldn’t it?”
Rosen said, “That’s why it sent me here when you called.”
“So it’s really that important a case?”
“Could be. Times are changing for the worse. Our courts aren’t the great defenders of the little guy anymore. Christian Scientists being convicted of manslaughter when their child died without being given medical attention, members of the Native American Church being penalized for taking peyote in a religious service. Life’s getting much harder for those who are different. This won’t be an easy case.”
Jesse said, “Remember those mock trials in school? You always had us take the ‘loser side,’ as you called it. I loved watching you argue with the others. You always could argue real well. That’s why I called you.”
Rosen returned to the rocking chair. “Was it? Who’s the woman connecting you to this case?”
“See the way you cut through subterfuge? I called you for two reasons. The first is, quite frankly, I can’t handle a case like this alone. I’ve neither the experience nor the inclination. I’m happy running this popular culture center. It’s let me remain an outsider. That’s what I meant by self-actualization. That’s my perfect role, the observer, the interviewer. You’ve always been an outsider, too, but you’re a fighter. The greater the odds against you, the better.”
Rosen looked away for a moment, then nodded. “All right. What’s your second reason?”
Jesse leaned closer. “This woman, Bathsheba McCrae. She’s young, backwoods, unscrubbed, and I find myself . . . Let’s say I’m attracted to her in a way I’ve never felt toward a woman before.”
“Jennifer Ann?”
“As Mark Twain once said, that’s like comparing a lightning bug to lightning. I tell you this—you alone, because you’re the only person in the whole world I can trust not to laugh at me. If my family or friends were to find out . . . it’s unthinkable. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Besides,” Jesse added, leaning back, “the case itself should be reason enough. Instruct the American people on how to respect the Constitution. What’s that your rabbi used to tell you about teaching?”
Rosen smiled. “From Hillel. ‘Even when I strive in my own behalf to do the right thing, have I fulfilled my obligation? Certainly not—for I must still strive to teach others the right way.’”
