“Listen,” he sang, “I read in Mark about an unclean man, I read in Luke about a blind man, I read in John about a dead man! Oh you people hear! The same blood that makes this River red, made that leper clean, made that blind man stare, made that dead man leap! You people with trouble,” he cried, “lay it in that River of Blood, lay it in that River of Pain, and watch it move away toward the Kingdom of Christ.”
While he preached, Bevel’s eyes followed drowsily the slow circles of two silent birds revolving high in the air. Across the river there was a low red and gold grove of sassafras with hills of dark blue trees behind it and an occasional pine jutting over the skyline. Behind, in the distance, the city rose like a cluster of warts on the side of the mountain. The birds revolved downward and dropped lightly in the top of the highest pine and sat hunch-shouldered as if they were supporting the sky.
“If it’s this River of Life you want to lay your pain in, then come up,” the preacher said, “and lay your sorrow here. But don’t be thinking this is the last of it because this old red river don’t end here. This old red suffering stream goes on, you people, slow to the Kingdom of Christ. This old red river is good to Baptize in, good to lay your faith in, good to lay your pain in, but it ain’t this muddy water here that saves you. I been all up and down this river this week,” he said. “Tuesday I was in Fortune Lake, next day in Ideal, Friday me and my wife drove to Lulawillow to see a sick man there. Them people didn’t see no healing,” he said and his face burned redder for a second. “I never said they would.”
While he was talking a fluttering figure had begun to move forward with a kind of butterfly movement—an old woman with flapping arms whose head wobbled as if it might fall off any second. She managed to lower herself at the edge of the bank and let her arms churn in the water. Then she bent farther and pushed her face down in it and raised herself up finally, streaming wet; and still flapping, she turned a time or two in a blind circle until someone reached out and pulled her back into the group.
“She’s been that way for thirteen years,” a rough voice shouted. “Pass the hat and give this kid his money. That’s what he’s here for.” The shout, directed out to the boy in the river, came from a huge old man who sat like a humped stone on the bumper of a long ancient gray automobile. He had on a gray hat that was turned down over one ear and up over the other to expose a purple bulge on his left temple. He sat bent forward with his hands hanging between his knees and his small eyes half closed.
Bevel stared at him once and then moved into the folds of Mrs. Connin’s coat and hid himself.
The boy in the river glanced at the old man quickly and raised his fist. “Believe Jesus or the devil!” he cried. “Testify to one or the other!”
“I know from my own self-experience,” a woman’s mysterious voice called from the knot of people, “I know from it that this preacher can heal. My eyes have been opened! I testify to Jesus!”
The preacher lifted his arms quickly and began to repeat all that he had said before about the River and the Kingdom of Christ and the old man sat on the bumper, fixing him with a narrow squint. From time to time Bevel stared at him again from around Mrs. Connin.
A man in overalls and a brown coat leaned forward and dipped his hand in the water quickly and shook it and leaned back, and a woman held a baby over the edge of the bank and splashed its feet with water. One man moved a little distance away and sat down on the bank and took off his shoes and waded out into the stream; he stood there for a few minutes with his face tilted as far back as it would go, then he waded back and put on his shoes. All this time, the preacher sang and did not appear to watch what went on.
As soon as he stopped singing, Mrs. Connin lifted Bevel up and said, “Listen here, preacher, I got a boy from town today that I’m keeping. His mamma’s sick and he wants you to pray for her. And this is a coincident—his name is Bevel! Bevel,” she said, turning to look at the people behind her, “same as his. Ain’t that a coincident, though?”
There were some murmurs and Bevel turned and grinned over her shoulder at the faces looking at him. “Bevel,” he said in a loud jaunty voice.
“Listen,” Mrs. Connin said, “have you ever been Baptized, Bevel?”
He only grinned.
“I suspect he ain’t ever been Baptized,” Mrs. Connin said, raising her eyebrows at the preacher.
“Swang him over here,” the preacher said and took a stride forward and caught him.
He held him in the crook of his arm and looked at the grinning face. Bevel rolled his eyes in a comical way and thrust his face forward, close to the preacher’s. “My name is Bevvvuuuuul,” he said in a loud deep voice and let the tip of his tongue slide across his mouth.
The preacher didn’t smile. His bony face was rigid and his narrow gray eyes reflected the almost colorless sky. There was a loud laugh from the old man sitting on the car bumper and Bevel grasped the back of the preacher’s collar and held it tightly. The grin had already disappeared from his face. He had the sudden feeling that this was not a joke. Where he lived everything was a joke. From the preacher’s face, he knew immediately that nothing the preacher said or did was a joke. “My mother named me that,” he said quickly.
“Have you ever been Baptized?” the preacher asked.
“What’s that?” he murmured.
“If I Baptize you,” the preacher said, “you’ll be able to go to the Kingdom of Christ. You’ll be washed in the river of suffering, son, and you’ll go by the deep river of life. Do you want that?”
“Yes,” the child said, and thought, I won’t go back to the apartment then, I’ll go under the river.
“You won’t be the same again,” the preacher said. “You’ll count.” Then he turned his face to the people and began to preach and Bevel looked over his shoulder at the pieces of the white sun scattered in the river. Suddenly the preacher said, “All right, I’m going to Baptize you now,” and without more warning, he tightened his hold and swung him upside down and plunged his head into the water. He held him under while he said the words of Baptism and then he jerked him up again and looked sternly at the gasping child. Bevel’s eyes were dark and dilated. “You count now,” the preacher said. “You didn’t even count before.”
The little boy was too shocked to cry. He spit out the muddy water and rubbed his wet sleeve into his eyes and over his face.
“Don’t forget his mamma,” Mrs. Connin called. “He wants you to pray for his mamma. She’s sick.”
“Lord,” the preacher said, “we pray for somebody in affliction who isn’t here to testify. Is your mother sick in the hospital?” he asked. “Is she in pain?”
The child stared at him. “She hasn’t got up yet,” he said in a high dazed voice. “She has a hangover.” The air was so quiet he could hear the broken pieces of the sun knocking in the water.
The preacher looked angry and startled. The red drained out of his face and the sky appeared to darken in his eyes. There was a loud guffaw from the bank and Mr. Paradise shouted, “Haw! Cure the afflicted woman with the hangover!” and began to beat his knee with his fist.
“He’s had a long day,” Mrs. Connin said, standing with him in the door of the apartment and looking sharply into the room where the party was going on. “I reckon it’s past his regular bedtime.” One of Bevel’s eyes was closed and the other half closed; his nose was running and he kept his mouth open and breathed through it. The damp plaid coat dragged down on one side.
That would be her, Mrs. Connin decided, in the black britches—long black satin britches and barefoot sandals and red toenails. She was lying on half the sofa, with her knees crossed in the air and her head propped on the arm. She didn’t get up.
“Hello Harry,” she said. “Did you have a big day?” She had a long pale face, smooth and blank, and straight sweet-potato-colored hair, pulled back.
The father went off to get the money. There were two other couples. One of the men, blond with little violet-blue eyes, leaned out of
his chair and said, “Well Harry, old man, have a big day?”
“His name ain’t Harry. It’s Bevel,” Mrs. Connin said.
“His name is Harry,” she said from the sofa. “Whoever heard of anybody named Bevel?”
The little boy had seemed to be going to sleep on his feet, his head drooping farther and farther forward; he pulled it back suddenly and opened one eye; the other was stuck.
“He told me this morning his name was Bevel,” Mrs. Connin said in a shocked voice. “The same as our preacher. We been all day at a preaching and healing at the river. He said his name was Bevel, the same as the preacher’s. That’s what he told me.”
“Bevel!” his mother said. “My God! what a name.”
“This preacher is name Bevel and there’s no better preacher around,” Mrs. Connin said. “And furthermore,” she added in a defiant tone, “he Baptized this child this morning!”
His mother sat straight up. “Well the nerve!” she muttered.
“Furthermore,” Mrs. Connin said, “he’s a healer and he prayed for you to be healed.”
“Healed!” she almost shouted. “Healed of what for Christ’s sake?”
“Of your affliction,” Mrs. Connin said icily.
The father had returned with the money and was standing near Mrs. Connin waiting to give it to her. His eyes were lined with red threads. “Go on, go on,” he said, “I want to hear more about her affliction. The exact nature of it has escaped...” He waved the bill and his voice trailed off. “Healing by prayer is mighty inexpensive,” he murmured.
Mrs. Connin stood a second, staring into the room, with a skeleton’s appearance of seeing everything. Then, without taking the money, she turned and shut the door behind her. The father swung around, smiling vaguely, and shrugged. The rest of them were looking at Harry. The little boy began to shamble toward the bedroom.
“Come here, Harry,” his mother said. He automatically shifted his direction toward her without opening his eye any farther. “Tell me what happened today,” she said when he reached her. She began to pull off his coat.
“I don’t know,” he muttered.
“Yes you do know,” she said, feeling the coat heavier on one side. She unzipped the innerlining and caught the book and a dirty handkerchief as they fell out. “Where did you get these?”
“I don’t know,” he said and grabbed for them. “They’re mine. She gave them to me.”
She threw the handkerchief down and held the book too high for him to reach and began to read it, her face after a second assuming an exaggerated comical expression. The others moved around and looked at it over her shoulder. “My God,” somebody said.
One of the men peered at it sharply from behind a thick pair of glasses. “That’s valuable,” he said. “That’s a collector’s item,” and he took it away from the rest of them and retired to another chair.
“Don’t let George go off with that,” his girl said.
“I tell you it’s valuable,” George said. “1832.”
Bevel shifted his direction again toward the room where he slept. He shut the door behind him and moved slowly in the darkness to the bed and sat down and took off his shoes and got under the cover. After a minute a shaft of light let in the tall silhouette of his mother. She tiptoed lightly across the room and sat down on the edge of his bed. “What did that dolt of a preacher say about me?” she whispered. “What lies have you been telling today, honey?”
He shut his eye and heard her voice from a long way away, as if he were under the river and she on top of it. She shook his shoulder. “Harry,” she said, leaning down and putting her mouth to his ear, “tell me what he said.” She pulled him into a sitting position and he felt as if he had been drawn up from under the river. “Tell me,” she whispered and her bitter breath covered his face.
He saw the pale oval close to him in the dark. “He said I’m not the same now,” he muttered. “I count.”
After a second, she lowered him by his shirt front onto the pillow. She hung over him an instant and brushed her lips against his forehead. Then she got up and moved away, swaying her hips lightly through the shaft of light.
He didn’t wake up early but the apartment was still dark and close when he did. For a while he lay there, picking his nose and eyes. Then he sat up in bed and looked out the window. The sun came in palely, stained gray by the glass. Across the street at the Empire Hotel, a colored cleaning woman was looking down from an upper window, resting her face on her folded arms. He got up and put on his shoes and went to the bathroom and then into the front room. He ate two crackers spread with anchovy paste, that he found on the coffee table, and drank some ginger ale left in a bottle and looked around for his book but it was not there.
The apartment was silent except for the faint humming of the refrigerator. He went into the kitchen and found some raisin bread heels and spread a half jar of peanut butter between them and climbed up on the tall kitchen stool and sat chewing the sandwich slowly, wiping his nose every now and then on his shoulder. When he finished he found some chocolate milk and drank that. He would rather have had the ginger ale he saw but they left the bottle openers where he couldn’t reach them. He studied what was left in the refrigerator for a while—some shriveled vegetables that she had forgot were there and a lot of brown oranges that she bought and didn’t squeeze; there were three or four kinds of cheese and something fishy in a paper bag; the rest was a pork bone. He left the refrigerator door open and wandered back into the dark living room and sat down on the sofa.
He decided they would be out cold until one o’clock and that they would all have to go to a restaurant for lunch. He wasn’t high enough for the table yet and the waiter would bring a highchair and he was too big for a highchair. He sat in the middle of the sofa, kicking it with his heels. Then he got up and wandered around the room, looking into the ashtrays at the butts as if this might be a habit. In his own room he had picture books and blocks but they were for the most part torn up; he found the way to get new ones was to tear up the ones he had. There was very little to do at any time but eat; however, he was not a fat boy.
He decided he would empty a few of the ashtrays on the floor. If he only emptied a few, she would think they had fallen. He emptied two, rubbing the ashes carefully into the rug with his finger. Then he lay on the floor for a while, studying his feet which he held up in the air. His shoes were still damp and he began to think about the river.
Very slowly, his expression changed as if he were gradually seeing appear what he didn’t know he’d been looking for. Then all of a sudden he knew what he wanted to do.
He got up and tiptoed into their bedroom and stood in the dim light there, looking for her pocketbook. His glance passed her long pale arm hanging off the edge of the bed down to the floor, and across the white mound his father made, and past the crowded bureau, until it rested on the pocketbook hung on the back of a chair. He took a car-token out of it and half a package of Life Savers. Then he left the apartment and caught the car at the corner. He hadn’t taken a suitcase because there was nothing from there he wanted to keep.
He got off the car at the end of the line and started down the road he and Mrs. Connin had taken the day before. He knew there wouldn’t be anybody at her house because the three boys and the girl went to school and Mrs. Connin had told him she went out to clean. He passed her yard and walked on the way they had gone to the river. The paper brick houses were far apart and after a while the dirt place to walk on ended and he had to walk on the edge of the highway. The sun was pale yellow and high and hot.
He passed a shack with an orange gas pump in front of it but he didn’t see the old man looking out at nothing in particular from the doorway. Mr. Paradise was having an orange drink. He finished it slowly, squinting over the bottle at the small plaid-coated figure disappearing down the road. Then he set the empty bottle on a bench and, still squinting, wiped his sleeve over his mouth. He went in the shack and picked out a peppermint stick, a foot long an
d two inches thick, from the candy shelf, and stuck it in his hip pocket. Then he got in his car and drove slowly down the highway after the boy.
By the time Bevel came to the field speckled with purple weeds, he was dusty and sweating and he crossed it at a trot to get into the woods as fast as he could. Once inside, he wandered from tree to tree, trying to find the path they had taken yesterday. Finally he found a line worn in the pine needles and followed it until he saw the steep trail twisting down through the trees.
Mr. Paradise had left his automobile back some way on the road and had walked to the place where he was accustomed to sit almost every day, holding an unbaited fishline in the water while he stared at the river passing in front of him. Anyone looking at him from a distance would have seen an old boulder half hidden in the bushes.
Bevel didn’t see him at all. He only saw the river, shimmering reddish yellow, and bounded into it with his shoes and his coat on and took a gulp. He swallowed some and spit the rest out and then he stood there in water up to his chest and looked around him. The sky was a clear pale blue, all in one piece—except for the hole the sun made—and fringed around the bottom with treetops. His coat floated to the surface and surrounded him like a strange gay lily pad and he stood grinning in the sun. He intended not to fool with preachers any more but to Baptize himself and to keep on going this time until he found the Kingdom of Christ in the river. He didn’t mean to waste any more time. He put his head under the water at once and pushed forward.
In a second he began to gasp and sputter and his head reappeared on the surface; he started under again and the same thing happened. The river wouldn’t have him. He tried again and came up, choking. This was the way it had been when the preacher held him under—he had had to fight with something that pushed him back in the face. He stopped and thought suddenly: it’s another joke, it’s just another joke! He thought how far he had come for nothing and he began to hit and splash and kick the filthy river. His feet were already treading on nothing. He gave one low cry of pain and indignation. Then he heard a shout and turned his head and saw something like a giant pig bounding after him, shaking a red and white club and shouting. He plunged under once and this time, the waiting current caught him like a long gentle hand and pulled him swiftly forward and down. For an instant he was overcome with surprise; then since he was moving quickly and knew that he was getting somewhere, all his fury and his fear left him.
A Good Man Is Hard to Find and Other Stories Page 4
