by S. P. Shane
“What's going on?” He looks up at me, but quickly looks away, as if he's done something wrong.
“Funny. I was going to ask you the same thing.”
He nods and takes his eyes off me. He pushes his chair back from the table, gets up, and lumbers to the stairs. There's a desperate tone in his voice, almost apologetic. “See you at church.”
The streetlights along Main Street light the way to the church. The faithful hurry through puddles and hide beneath umbrellas as they make their way through the rain. No one gives as much as a glance to the front marquee that's aglow in white floodlight.
As I stagger out onto the porch, my eyes fall upon the marquee and my stomach sinks at once. Dad has changed the message. Call it irony, call it a bad omen, but the words ring in my head like a church bell: “Be Sure Your Sins Will Find You Out”. I have no idea what Dad has planned for a sermon, but there's a sick feeling in my guts that this is his proverbial olive branch. This could be his Jimmy Swaggart moment, where he forces real tears and cries out “Father, I have sinned”. But something tells me that the Pew Hogs of Crenshaw's Creek won't be quite so sympathetic.
The organ plays, and the notes of “It Is Well With My Soul” hum out from the tall smoked-glass windows. “Good morning, Mister Caleb,” a voice calls from the church steps. A handful of church-goers waits outside beneath the awning, catching up on their weekly gossip. I'm not sure who it is that called out to me, so I just wave a silent reply.
As I step into the soft light of the sanctuary, I hear a soft gasp. Eyes the color of molasses fix on me. She sits by herself about halfway down on the left side.
“Hey, Lindsey.” I wave at her before quickly taking a seat on the back pew.
If it were any other Sunday, I'd go down and sit with her, but I don't want her to see me like this. My eyes fix on the back of the pew. I keep my head low, hoping not to draw attention to myself. Mom sits in her usual spot near the front. She has her head down, reading through her Sunday School book. It's best for now that she doesn't see me.
As the organ grows quiet, a familiar voice speaks into my ear. “Mind if I sit here?”
Scoot, stands at the edge of the pew. I'm torn between not really giving a rat's ass and surprise. Scoot was never as bad as the rest of the goons, but I remember plenty of times saying “hi” to him and he'd just keep on walking. And I can't forget his face among the goons, as Grant taunted Jimmy in my journalism class. I give it the old shrug. “Free country.”
“Uh, I wanted to... Say I'm sorry... For being such a dick to you.”
I find myself nodding without even really thinking about it. “It's cool. I haven't been a Saint myself.”
“Yeah, but I've been running with all the wrong people. And for all the wrong reasons,” he says.
“Uh...” I don't know what to say really. He sits next to me, looking like he's ashamed of himself. “Okay.”
Voices grumble from the congregation. Dad walks up to the pulpit. He's not wearing a tie or a jacket. His blue shirt is not tucked all the way in and is badly wrinkled. His hair is a mess and his eyes are narrow from lack of sleep.
He sets his bible down on the pulpit and looks up at the balcony. His eyes seem out of focus. He nods, as if he's answering a question to himself. “Truth...crushed to the earth... shall rise...again.” He pauses and shifts his gaze to the center island. Mark nudges my arm, turns to me with a what-the-hell face. “The eternal years of God are hers... But error... wounded... writhes in pain...and dies among his worshipers.”
A few muffled whispers. Sideways glances. Mom looks away from him. “William Cullen Bryant wrote those words more than a century ago. But it's strange. The truth does have a way of making itself known. Even if it takes years to do so.”
“Is your dad drunk?” Scoot whispers in my ear.
“Nah.”
Dad's eyes find their way to Mom. Sighs. “I...” He hacks and coughs. Covers his mouth with a fist. He's silent for half a minute. "I'm afraid I've failed you."
My eyes wander to Mom. She appears both confused and ashamed, burying her in face her hand.
"I'm not... the man that you think I am—the man you expect me to be. I haven't been for quite some time. I don't remember when it was that I lost my way exactly. There's a good chance that I was never on 'the way'.”
The air turns warm, as a muffled commotion spreads through the congregation. There are dozens of questioning glances, raised eyebrows, and even gasps. Mom takes her hand from her eyes and stares directly at him. Her face is flushed and she shakes her head at him. She's saying something like “don't do this” beneath her breath.
As he steps out from behind the pulpit, he gives my mom a look that says “I have to do this now. I don't have any choice.”
Dad spots me within the crowd. I'm a part of all of this now, even if I don't want to be.
“I grew up in a little town, not that much different than this one. And, in that town, the preachers were leaders, pillars of the community. People came to them for answers, for guidance, looking for help with the crisis of their lives.”
I hide my eyes in the back of the pew again. I can't stand to watch him and I can't stand to see the looks on the faces of the pew hogs.
“ Then, I came here—to Crenshaw's Creek. And I had to help a mom to bury her boy and no one should ever have to do that—bury their child. And then your high school's football season was canceled. I started to look around and saw a lot of broken people.”
Dad stumbles, making a half-step toward the pulpit, and nearly falls. He catches himself on the pulpit and leans against it. “And I didn't know what to say.” He hangs his head, as tears roll down his cheeks. A sob echoes through the sanctuary. “I was... I am... broken too. I've helped criminals—laundering their dirty money. ”
Even if Lindsey's not looking at me, I feel like she is. I feel like she's sitting there judging me. I can practically see her eyes growing cold and dark.
“And even if our father in heaven can forgive all of that, it may no longer be enough," Dad continues.
A collective gasp echoes through the sanctuary, as Mom stands to her feet. She doesn't look at him. She grabs her bible and her purse and heads toward the back door of the church.
There's an empty look on Dad's face—almost numb—as he watches her walk away. For a moment, I think he's going to call out for her to wait, but he has the eyes of a man who's made up his mind. He's not gonna ask her to wait anymore.
“This morning something happened. I couldn't look my son in the eye. I couldn't tell him that he should strive to be a good man... when I'm clearly not a good man myself.”
Mom stops at the church door, pressing her hand against it. She listens as Dad continues to speak. “And, then there's my wife, who's stood by my side all these years. She's stood up for me and defended me. She'll never be able to forgive me either.”
She pauses for a moment. Every head in the sanctuary turns to watch her. She nods, then, she pushes the door open and leaves the church. And just like that, it becomes painfully clear that the day I had feared for so long has now arrived. She's leaving him.
Scoot reaches over and grips my shoulder. When I look at him, he just nods. Makes this face like “you're gonna be alright,” but it's clear that he doesn't have any better idea of what's going on than I do.
“And most of all I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself,” Dad says, as he looks up at a stunned and silent congregation. “So, there you have it. And I think it's time that I stop preaching this good gospel."
He pats his bible, climbs down from the pulpit, and bumbles out the side door.
Chapter 43
All I can think about is getting up to my room, throwing my crap in a bag, and making a clean break. There's not really any time to get all sentimental.
When I bust into the kitchen, I hit the light switch, but there's no light. The clock on the microwave is dark. There's not any time to worry about circuit breakers, or checking to see if ma
ybe the whole street's lost power.
“Mom?” My voice echoes through the house, but there's no answer.
A police siren squawks out on the street. Brakes squeak, a diesel engine grinds into the church parking lot, and blue light flashes through the kitchen window. “Jesus!”
When I get to the bottom of the stairs, there's a rapping at the screen door and I nearly jump out of my skin. I half-expect officers to storm the house with guns drawn.
“Hey, Caleb?” Scoot calls into the house. When I look back to the door, he's peering through the screen, already drenched by the rain. He lets himself inside. “You gonna be alright?”
I'm not even sure what Scoot is doing here. I'm leaving, but I'm not about to start explaining myself to him. There isn't time, even if I wanted to. He comes in through the kitchen and hovers at the bottom of the stairs.
In the hall closet, there's a green canvas duffel bag. It's all I'm gonna take; whatever I can fit into it. A few toiletries, underwear, socks, jeans and a few shirts.
“Hey, Caleb?” Scoot calls again, as I duck into my bedroom, grabbing shirts randomly from my dresser and throwing them on the bed. “Don't ya think we should talk about this?”
His feet pound on the stairs as he climbs up to my doorway. He clears his throat.
“Scoot, what are ya doin' here?”
“Tryin' to be your friend.” He has this weird tone, like he's trying to copy an ABC After School Special. Surely, he has to see the stupidity of it. Like I'm really gonna spill my guts to him now?
“It's a little late for that.”
“Hey, I'm sorry this is happening to ya, but you can't...”
“Scoot, ya don't get it. It's not like I'm runnin' away because I'm pissed off that my dad cut off my allowance or some dumb shit like that.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because my dad's goin' to prison. And my mom's gonna go crawlin' home like... some sort of stray dog or something. And I just can't do that. I... cant!”
I pull the bottom drawer out of my dresser and dump all of my socks and underwear onto the bed. There's also my Swiss Army knife and the August issue of Playboy.
“Nice mag,” Scoot says.
“You want it?”
He steps into my room and picks the magazine up off the bed. “Ashley Allen”.
“Who?” I brush by him and snatch jeans and shirts randomly from the closet.
“Ashley... The girl on the cover.”
“Oh her...” He doesn't seem to get that I got other things on my mind.
A knock from the screen door echoes through the house. There's a pause, then a second knock that's somewhat louder. “Caleb? Are you in there?”
“Sounds like Lindsey,” Scoot says, as if I didn't know.
“Jesus! I'm the most popular guy in town today,” I mutter.
“He's up here,” Scoot yells down the stairs.
The duffel bag makes a thump, as I drop it on the bed. The fumes of water-proofing chemicals and silica beads drift to my nose, as I unzip the bag. Turning the bag upside down, I give it a shake, so that all the packaging materials fall out onto the bed.
“Holy...” Scoot mutters. His eyes bug out. I follow his eyes to the bed, where among my socks, my underwear, and wads of packing materials is a couple rolls of tightly rolled cash.
“Figures,” is all I can think to say.
“How much is there?”
My answer is half-smirk and a shrug. “Don't know. Don't care.”
The floor creaks, as Lindsey comes to a stop outside my bedroom door. “My God, Caleb! What's goin' on?”
No time to answer her. I pick up rolls of socks and shove them one at a time into the bottom of the duffel bag.
“You're leavin', right?”
“Yeah.”
“With Josh?”
I grab a pair of jeans and begin wadding them into a tight roll. “Well, we're in similar situations.”
“You should stay.”
“There's nothing here for me anymore.”
“I'm here.”
“Lindsey.” I put my hands on her shoulders. There was a time—a few weeks ago, maybe even a few days ago—when Lindsey would have been enough of a reason for me to stay, but right now she's just as much a part of Crenshaw's Creek as everyone else. “Lindsey, I just gotta do this. I gotta go. I'm sorry.”
“Don't...”
There's a loud knock at the front door. “Caleb Calloway?” A woman's voice carries into the house.
“Who's that?” Lindsey whispers.
I shake my head, shrug. “Scoot, find out who that is.” I gesture toward the door with my chin.
“Who's there?” He calls loudly down the stairs.
“Jesus, Scoot! I could've done that.”
He shrugs and throws up his hands.
“My name's Nancy Bartley. I'm with Child Protective Services.”
“Guys, ya have to stall her.” I shove the last of my T-shirts into the duffel bag and zip it.
“Caleb, she's gonna...”
“Let 'im go,” Scoot says.
I sling the duffel bag over my shoulder. “Scoot, buy me some time.”
He nods. “Alright,” he says, as he heads down the stairs.
“Caleb?” Bartley calls again.
“Be right there,” Scoot calls in a loud voice.
"So, this is it then? You're leavin'?" Lindsey eyes fill with tears.
"This is it."
“Well, take care of yourself.”
“You too, Lindsey.”
There's an awkward moment when I don't know whether to hug her... kiss her cheek... or shake her hand. I end up making a half-assed salute, which ends in a cheesy wave.
I swoop down to pick up my duffel bag, but Lindsey calls “wait!”
I raise my head to look at her and she's standing there with my binoculars in her hands. “You should take these.”
She swoops down, opens the top of my bag, and tucks it inside. “Take it.”
“Alright... Whatever.” Scooping up the duffel bag, I run down the stairs. Lindsey's right behind me.
Scoot is at the front door, as I shuffle toward the back door.
“Caleb Calloway?” Bartley asks, as Scoot opens the door to flashing blue light.
“Uh, yeah,” Scoot replies.
“We need you to come with us.”
I sling the duffel bag over my shoulder and ease out the back door. It's only a small window of time that Scoot's buying me, maybe just a couple of minutes. It's not gonna take them very long to realize that they've got the wrong kid.
In an even trot, trying not to call too much attention to myself, I hurry across the side yard to a vacant lot. Once I'm concealed behind a honeysuckle bush, I venture a glance back.
The streets a clutter of police cruisers, unmarked cars, and tactical vehicles. There are dozens of agents dressed for battle—flack jackets, helmets, and goggles. Agent Tolliver, if that's his real name, is flanked by Sheriff Beecher on one side and a half dozen agents on the other side. In front of him stands my dad, with his hands cuffed behind him.
Agent Tolliver leans over his shoulder and whispers something in his ear, as he opens the rear door of a gray cruiser. As Dad nods, there's movement in the back of the cruiser. A woman leans toward the door and calls out to Dad.
Mom?
Chapter 44
A soft mist carries on the breeze and a trace of sun peeks through the clouds. Sirens scream on Main Street, as flashing blue lights reflect into the alley. The shadow of Josh's Kawasaki stretches tall against the wall of Eddie Lane's garage.
“I'm coming down,” Josh calls from the roof, just as the fire whistle hums in the distance.
He drops his feet over the edge of the roof and grabs the top rung. A blue poncho covers his body from neck to ankle, but he's left the hood down. Sopping wet hair clings to his face in thick clumps.
Hardly the agile spider on his way down, he grasps each rung firmly, carefully lowering his foot to the next rung
.
He reaches the ground and pulls the hood of his poncho over his head before turning around. He tries to hide his face, but his pale skin and puffy eyes are clearly visible. He's been crying.
“Sorry about your mom and dad,” he croaks.
“How'd you...”
“It's all over the police scanner.”
I start to ask him about his telescope—if he could see anything from the roof. But none of that seems important. “What about Marilyn?”
There's a look in his eye like you see an old war films—the one thousand yard stare, as he glances down the alley toward Broad Strokes. He's frazzled—shell shocked. “They, uh... They got her.”
“Josh, I'm sorry.”
He shakes his head, trying to put on his “it ain't no big deal, dude.”
“And Harlan?”
“He's...” His voice breaks. When he looks back at me, his chin trembles, his lips quiver, and tears spill from his eyes.
“Josh...” I grab a hold of him and pull him into my arms. “Easy, man... Easy.”
“They're not gonna take him alive, Caleb.”
“Shh....” I just hold him, tapping against his back. “You're gonna be alright.”
He goes on for a minute or so, until he finally gets himself together. He snorts, raises his head and wipes his cheek. “You ready?”
He nods. Slides onto the motorcycle.
“Why's the fire whistle goin' off so early?”
“It's floodin' out in the county. Water's comin' over the levee.”
The bike makes a congested hacking sound, as he tries to start it. He shoves on the throttle and kicks it again. Chug-a-chug, chuga-a-nothing! “It's this damn rain! Spark plugs are prolly wet.” He kicks it again and the engine starts to hum.
He puts the kickstand up and eases on the throttle. The bike lurches forward and trolls slowly down the alley. No looking back.
A dizzying, disorienting maze of turns and doubling back takes us out of Crenshaw's Creek without seeing another soul. Josh turns onto the county highway, as the last traffic light of Crenshaw's Creek blinks behind us.
