by Ron Levitsky
“Oh, Lord, take me in Your arms. That’s what I want. That’s all that I want.”
The Book . . . yes, the words would set him on the right path again. As he fumbled through the pages, he heard the muted sounds of a thump, then a man cried out from somewhere in back of the house. A moment later the house again became so quiet, maybe he’d imagined the noises. Suddenly he heard a man’s voice, very distant, then silence once again.
Holding the Bible, Jesse walked past the pulpit, through a small hallway that led into the kitchen. He listened carefully but heard nothing. About to return to the main room, he glanced through the back window and saw a cellar door being closed from the inside. Maybe Reverend McCrae was home early and had work to do downstairs.
Jesse went outside. As his hand moved toward the handle of the cellar door, it suddenly flew open and a short, stocky man, wearing a service station uniform, almost knocked him over. He’d been carrying two brown boxes the size of small orange crates. As they tumbled from his hands, one broke open, dumping clear plastic bags of something dark and crinkled like tobacco.
“Jesus Christ!” the man shouted to someone inside. “He’s seen the stuff!”
As Jesse tried returning the bags to the box, the other man pushed him away.
“Leave it alone!”
“It’s all right, Gary.” Popper Johnston climbed halfway up the stairs and grinned until his teeth must’ve ached. “It’s only Jesse Compton. He’s a friend of me and Gideon’s. C’mere, Jesse, ’n’ sit a spell. Don’t be getting shy.”
Gary glanced from Jesse to the boxes. “He’s seen it, Popper. Ain’t no two ways ’bout it.”
Jesse shook his head. “I just stopped by to see Reverend McCrae.”
Popper asked, “When’s Gideon coming by?”
“After work. About four.”
“Don’t give us much time,” Gary said.
Popper laughed. “If you hadn’t dropped the cellar door on your foot and screamed, he’d never a’ come out here. Just relax. I’ll take care of everything.”
“This here’s a problem, a big problem. Like that other one.”
“Shut up. Go on and deliver that stuff the way we planned.”
“But . . .”
“Just do what I tell you. I want you to come back this evening about nine. It’ll be dark, and nobody’ll be around. When you come, bring the truck and a shovel. You’ll have to make one more delivery tonight. An oversized one, somewhere way out in the woods. You understand my meaning?”
The other man’s eyes suddenly narrowed; then he smiled just enough for his teeth to show. Jesse felt a chill down the back of his neck. He started to back away toward the house, but the other man dragged him toward the cellar. Popper was waiting, a gun in his hand.
“Get yourself down here, Jesse. We’re gonna visit a spell.”
Following Popper down the stairs, Jesse heard the cellar door slammed shut behind him and a lock snapped into place. His eyes adjusted slowly to the room’s interior. There seemed to be two sources of light—one at the top of a wooden stairway directly ahead of him and the other a lamp on the desk to his right. A plywood wall ran the length of the room behind the stairwell. The foundation walls were bare concrete.
“Welcome to my office,” Popper said, sitting on the cellar steps. “Take the guest of honor chair, over at my desk.”
Jesse noticed two more boxes stacked together in the corner beside the desk.
“This used to be the root cellar, where firewood was delivered,” the other man continued. “Somebody turned it into a proper basement, which Gideon lets me use as my office. I take care of church business and, as you saw, any that’s my own. Place don’t look like much, but a lot more money goes through here than most of them fancy offices in Nashville.”
Jesse looked at the boxes. “You’re selling drugs, aren’t you?”
“Welcome to the real world, professor! Too bad you ain’t a botanist. We’d have a lot more to talk about.” He pulled one of the boxes to the front of the cellar steps, opened it and took out a plastic bag. “Know what this is?”
“Marijuana.”
“Ever use it?”
Jesse shook his head.
“Didn’t think so. Anyway, you never had anything like this. We’re talking sinsemilla, the Rolls-Royce of grass, the emperor of shit. Stronger than hash. Why, you work in the fields with this stuff, and just the resin you lick off your hands’ll put you in orbit.” From his shirt pocket he took out a small gold-plated lighter and what appeared to be a hand-rolled cigarette. “Here, try a joint.”
Again Jesse shook his head.
“You sure? It’ll make things a whole lot easier on you. A helluva lot better than a last cigarette.”
“You’re going to kill me, just as you killed Lemuel Banks.”
Popper lit the joint; it smelled like burning rope. “I have to. You know what they say, a man can only hang once.”
“So,” Jesse half whispered, “I’m going to die.” Deep in his belly he felt the fear trying to scratch its way out, but he kept it down. He was going to die. That wasn’t so bad—soldiers died for their country, fathers died rescuing their children from fire, even people walking across the street died from being hit by a bus. At that very moment, somewhere in Earlyville, a man might be dying under the wheels of a bus. Everybody had to die. How much better to know it was your time, to have a Bible in your hands and know that Jesus waited for you on the other side, His arms offering eternal salvation. After all, that very morning Gideon McCrae had assured him of . . .
Suddenly the fear clawed at his throat. “Is . . .?” He coughed hard. “Is Reverend McCrae involved in this?”
“Gideon . . . Mr. Holier-Than-Thou? Not on your life! He don’t know nothing about this, and that’s the way it’s gonna stay. That’s why I have to kill you, Jesse. Can’t have you telling nobody.” He held the joint in front of-his eyes and giggled. “Sure you won’t try this? It’s good shit, man.”
“What about Bathsheba?”
“Now she’s some work of art, ain’t she?” He took a deep drag on the joint. “No, Bathsheba’s no part of it. I don’t know what’s going on in that girl’s head. She could probably use some of this, but then, so can we all. I’ll tell you, ain’t too many men lucky enough to combine such profitable business with pleasure. I kicked around a powerful long time, sometimes counting my last few nickels to get me a hamburger. Ain’t so no more. Now folks . . .”
Jesse sighed softly, closing his ears to Popper’s rambling. He was going to die, but it was all right. He opened his Bible and began to read passages at random. “‘But first must he suffer many things, and be rejected of this generation.’” Yes, he’d suffered quietly all those years. There’d be one more moment of suffering, when the bullet went into him, but it would be quicker and more merciful than the slow painful nails He had endured.
Bowing his head, Jesse prayed, the words pouring from his heart too quickly for his lips to form them. He prayed for his mother—that she would somehow know he had at last found peace. He prayed for his friend, who’d come to Earlyville simply to answer a call for help. Jesse hoped that one day Rosen would find his way, if not to Jesus, then back to the God of his fathers.
Only when he tried praying for Bathsheba did the words slow, stumbling from his lips. He tried thinking of her as she sat beside him in church, eyes wide and hands clasped upon her lap as she listened to her father’s sermon. The image was so perfect, he even saw her breasts lightly rise and fall with each breath. Her heavy breasts, and her long legs wrapping around him in the grass. No, he wasn’t to think of those things anymore . . . not at a time like this. Grasping the Bible so that it almost folded in half, he shook his head hard. He crossed two fingers and stared at them until they became the crucifix and he thought no longer of his own passion but the Passion of Christ.
He sat straight in his chair and rested the Bible on one knee. Popper had finished his joint and stared at his watch as if it were conversing
with him.
“I know, I know,” Popper whispered. He looked at Jesse. “You said Gideon’d be coming to church about four. Can’t waste any more time. You understand. It’s just business.”
“Go ahead,” Jesse heard himself say, but he read the words through the cover of his Bible as clearly as if they were a sampler on the wall: “‘Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.’”
At last Jesse was at peace and waited calmly for the bullet. He waited for a long time and, when it didn’t come, stared at the other man. The gun barrel wavered between Jesse and the stairway leading up to the house; Popper cocked his ear in that direction.
“Shh!”
Jesse heard the flooring above them creak with several sets of footsteps. A moment later someone tried the door at the head of the stairs.
Popper aimed the gun at Jesse’s head and whispered, “You keep quiet, or I’ll—” He stopped suddenly and swallowed hard.
They both knew what he was about to say and how ridiculous it would sound. There was nothing Popper could do. If he shot Jesse, whoever was upstairs would hear and call the police. And if Jesse was going to die anyway, what was stopping him from calling out? It was so ridiculous, Jesse felt his own cheeks tingling with the other man’s embarrassment.
Above them the basement door shook harder, and Popper eyed his only escape route, the cellar door, which his accomplice had padlocked from the outside. The gun trembled in his hand as his eyes grew wide with fear. Jesse leaned forward, hands open, about to say that he wouldn’t betray Popper, that he had no intention of escaping his fate.
Slapping Jesse’s hands away, Popper shouted, “Keep away, or I’ll kill him!” The gun exploded, the bullet shot wildly into the ceiling. “That’s right,” he screamed at the basement door, “you keep away or I’ll kill him!”
“You don’t understand. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Keep away or I’ll kill him! I’ll . . . Jesus!”
A loud crack as the basement door clattered down the steps, hitting the floor and skidding against Popper’s legs. He kicked it away, then pulled Jesse to the floor directly below him, next to the open box of marijuana, and put the gun barrel against Jesse’s head.
A voice from the top of the stairs said, “This is Police Chief Whitcomb. What the hell’s goin’ on down there?”
“Holy shit,” Popper said.
“If that’s you, Popper Johnston, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Lemuel Banks. You can come upstairs quiet-like on your own two feet, or we can carry you out. Which is it gonna be?”
“I got me a hostage down here! You mess with me and I’ll kill him!”
“The hell you say.”
There was silence for a minute, followed by the scuffling of feet across the floor above them. Doors slammed, and voices shouted to one another. The soft droning of a police siren slowly grew into a wail as a squad car approached the church. Popper’s foot tapped spasmodically on the cellar step, his gun hand trembling, so that Jesse felt the cold metal pulsate against his temple.
He heard heavy footsteps walking down the stairs. Chief Whitcomb stopped two thirds of the way and sat on the steps, a shotgun balanced on his knees. Behind him, Rosen also sat down.
Turning, the police chief said, “Told you to stay upstairs. I’m responsible for your safety.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m sure I’ll be—” He stopped suddenly, seeing Jesse.
Their eyes locked, and Jesse smiled. “Hello, Nate.”
“I wasn’t expecting you down here. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.”
“I’m not worried. Really, I’m not.”
“That’s right,” Whitcomb said. “Popper Johnston’s the one needs to be worried, unless he drops that gun right now and gives himself up.”
Popper pushed the gun barrel against Jesse’s head. “I ain’t doing no such thing. I’ll kill him if you come any closer . . . swear I will! Ain’t going to jail or no electric chair. I’d rather get it over with here and now.”
Whitcomb patted his shotgun. “That can be arranged, though it’s not my druthers. You really want your brains splattered against that wall?”
“Ain’t you forgetting one thing? I got me a hostage. You back off, get me a car and a head start, then I’ll let him go.”
“Where the hell do you think we are, New York? We don’t do none a’ that hostage bullshit here. If you’re wanted by the law, then the law come gets you.”
“I’ll kill him!”
“Maybe so, but suppose I do like you say and let you go. Suppose your getaway car runs over a couple schoolkids, or you shoot a little old lady in the next town, or get caught three months later and go on the news telling everyone what a candyass the police chief of Earlyville is. No, sir, can’t have that. If you do shoot Jesse Compton here”—Whitcomb shrugged—“I’ll apologize to his mama, but at least I’ll have your body to show for it . . . that is, all except your face, which’ll be scattered across the room. Tell you one thing, when the pictures of your remains come out in the paper, dope dealers’ll think twice before stepping into my town. Maybe we’ll put one of them pictures on a Just Say No poster. Now, boy, my patience is wearing thin. What’s it gonna be?”
Popper moved the gun away, but only for a moment, while he wiped the sweat from his brow. With his free hand, he lit another joint and inhaled deeply.
Jesse looked up the stairs to his friend. Rosen appeared calm, a tight smile across his pallid face, but his hands clutched his knees, knuckles probably white. No doubt his mind was racing, analyzing what was going on and wondering if he should interfere with Whitcomb in order to save his friend. Jesse was touched at Rosen’s concern and, at the same time, slightly amused, the same way he felt toward the actions of Whitcomb and Popper. It was as if he were a parent watching three little children playing cowboys and Indians. They played so seriously, yet it was only a game—not real. The same way life on this earth was unreal when compared to the promise of eternal life.
Popper relaxed his grip somewhat. Clearing his throat he asked, “Suppose we make a deal?”
“Ain’t nothing you got I want. Danny Hobbes is willing to swear that you killed Lemuel Banks.”
“I mean about all the dope dealing in Earlyville. I can give you the names of everyone who’s dealing for me, even some contacts I know in Nashville. You’d make a name for yourself. It’d look mighty good come next election.
Whitcomb shook his head.
“Why not? I’m giving you something big! Who gives a damn about some nigger holy roller getting killed?”
“No deals.”
“You ain’t even asked the D.A. You gotta at least ask him.”
Whitcomb almost sighed. “If it’d been just Banks, you might have a chance. But you made a mistake killing somebody important like Ben Hobbes. That’s a capital M murder. You gotta pay the price in full for that.”
“Ben Hobbes? What the hell you talking about?”
“He used to come walking by his nephew’s cornfield, the same way Banks did. The night of his death, he was mad as hell at the church. Told his wife it was doing something bad. Well, you’re a member of the church, and take a look at what’s going on here. I believe you killed Ben Hobbes just like you did Banks, before he could tell the police about the marijuana. You all use strychnine in your church service; that’s what killed Hobbes. I bet you got yourself a box of rat poison down here somewhere, with strychnine on the label and your fingerprints on the box.”
“As well as the prints of half a dozen other church members! You’re crazy. You ain’t got nothing but some circumstantial evidence that’d be laughed outta court.”
“Think so? You ain’t seen the D.A. at work. Besides, I don’t think he’s gonna need too much of a case. Folks around here sure liked Ben Hobbes, almost as much as they hate dope dealers. You ever seen Easy Rider?”
Popper’s forearm, the one holding the gun, tightened against Jesse’s shoulder. Taking a drag on his
joint, he sat very still for a long time, then, with his free hand, lifted a bag of marijuana from the box beside him, tore it open with his teeth, and poured the dope into a little mound back inside the box. He repeated the process another eight or nine times, emptying all the bags while humming some rock and roll song.
“Name that tune, Whitcomb,” he said, giggling.
“Can’t quite place it. I know it ain’t by the Judds.”
Popper laughed so hard the gun almost fell from his hand, and his grip on Jesse loosened. Whitcomb inched the double barrels of his shotgun so that they aimed straight ahead. From the way the two men were positioned, Jesse knew he’d get most of the buckshot. He saw Rosen jerking his head as a signal for Jesse to roll to the floor and give the police chief a clear target. It’d be easy. Jesse would be safe; he’d see Bathsheba tonight. Maybe she and the town would think he was a hero. But the cost would be another man’s life.
“‘Born to Be Wild’!” Popper shouted, still laughing. “From Easy Rider. You remember them buzzing down the road on their cycles, the music blasting? Yeah, that was me in the sixties. I was a wild one. Sex and drugs and that good old country rockin’.”
Jesse glanced from Whitcomb’s shotgun to Rosen’s face, white as ivory. He had been so resigned to die, the thought of living seemed like a betrayal of faith. Not knowing what to do, he prayed.
He tried clearing his mind of everything but the image of the crucifix. It was easy at first; then came the thick odor, making him cough and burning his eyes. Popper had lit the pile of marijuana, which smoldered and raised a dark heavy cloud into the room.
“If you’re gonna pull the trigger,” Popper said, “then this is the way I want to go. One mind-blowing, cosmic-raising, psycho-fucking vegetarian orgasm!”
The more Jesse tried to catch his breath, the more smoke he inhaled. At first he thought he was, after all, going to die from asphyxiation. However, in a little while he began to relax as his breathing became more regular. Popper kept talking and Whitcomb was shouting something, but the words stretched from their mouths to his ears like thick gobs of taffy. His vision blurred; were his eyes open? He seemed able to step from his body and examine himself, prying his eyelids open until pennies spilled from his sockets, pennies with his picture, not Lincoln’s. Falling around him, they piled up to his waist.
