Call the Devil by His Oldest Name

by Sallie Bissell

  “You could probably light that old fucker off, eh?” Happy Lavalais waved his hand in front of his nose. “He’d go up like a pine tree.”

  “How long’s he been in here?” asked Jonathan.

  “They threw him in Sunday, the day after they grabbed me.” Lavalais spoke English with an odd French lilt. Jonathan figured him for Jamaican, or perhaps Martiniquais. Apparently Ruth’s protest had grown to international pro­portions.

  “What are you in for?”

  “Ganja. Cops banged on my trailer looking for some baby just as I lit up the bong.”

  “A baby?”

  “So they say.” Lavalais wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Me, I think they just wanted to roust some people. They leaned on some construction workers pretty hard, and a bunch of Indians, too. Then they got bailed out and the political shit started. Place has gone nuts ever since. They’re keeping everybody they arrest now over in the next county, at a bigger jail. I haven’t seen a real deputy here in days. A tall guy who looks like Abe Lincoln brings coffee every morning, and some old lady wheels in lunch and dinner. Pork chops and iced tea and hot biscuits. She serves it up, then talks to us about Jesus while we eat. Says the jail is her ministry.”

  “What does he do?”Jonathan eyed the drunk, who let fly with another juicy-sounding fart.

  “Drinks the tea, but won’t touch the food.”

  Lavalais laughed. “She prays especially hard over him.”

  Jonathan pulled himself to his feet, holding his left side as his breath zinged a knife-like pain all the way around his chest. Two, maybe three broken ribs, he figured. Considering how those deputies had laid into him, he was lucky not to have a ruptured spleen as well. He walked gingerly to the single window of the cell. The day had faded to dusk, the lights of houses were beginning to spark on the mountainside. People were coming home, turning on their televisions, getting ready to eat supper and watch Monday night football.

  “What time does that old woman come?”

  Lavalais shrugged. “Whatever time she gets the chops done, I guess. Why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  Lavalais’s mouth twisted in a gap-toothed smile. “You aren’t thinking of checking out of here early, are you?”

  Jonathan made no reply.

  “Look, my friend, a snootful of dope isn’t worth ten years in some hillbilly jail. You got a plan, you cut me in, eh?”

  Again, Jonathan remained silent.

  He stared out the window, trying to find a position where some part of his chest didn’t hurt. This day, which had begun so full of hope, had turned into such a nightmare that he still couldn’t wrap his brain around it. Why would anybody have stolen Lily? He and Ruth had less than eight hundred dollars in their checking ac­count. Nobody wanting big bucks would have kidnapped his child. He watched a yellow cat slink around the trash Dumpster behind the courthouse, then trot off down an alley. No, whoever had taken Lily had done it for some­ thing other than money. Either Ruth had pissed somebody off big-time, or someone wanted Lily for their own. Damn Ruth! He had warned her not to come here—why just this once could she not have listened? He turned away impatiently from the win­dow. Where was that old woman with the food? Why was she not coming? He needed to get out of here. He needed to find Lily.

  With Lavalais’ hard gaze upon him, he made six circuits of the cell—ten steps down, four steps across, ten steps back. Finally he heard a door­ knob rattle. He looked out through the bars. Just as Lavalais said, a man who looked remarkably like Abraham Lincoln opened the door from the outer office. He wore canvas pants and a blue work shirt and entered the room with a pearl­ handled Colt revolver protruding from a holster. A white-haired lady in a blue pantsuit shuffled behind him, wheeling in dinner on a cart, smiling like everyone’s grandmother.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” the old woman said as Abe Lincoln unlocked their cell. She nodded at Jonathan, but bid him no special welcome as the newest guest of Nikwase County. “Everyone all right?”

  “Just fine,” said Happy Lavalais, ogling the food cart.

  “Mrs. Lunsford cooked meat loaf tonight, and Mrs. Fortney sent cheese grits.” The old lady beamed at them. “First, though, let’s all bow our heads for a word of thanks.”

  Jonathan bowed his head, but kept one eye open. The old lady stood just inside the cell while Abe Lincoln leaned against the wall, head bowed, his right hand resting lightly on the revolver. If he’s not real fast, Jonathan calculated, this might work. If he is real fast, then Lily would likely grow up never knowing her true father. You pays your money, his old sergeant’s words rang in his head, you takes your chances.

  As the old lady continued to thank God for a laundry list of blessings, Jonathan took a step toward the open door. He meant to dart, quick as an otter, but a sudden, swift pain shot up his left side and made him stumble. Before he could recover his footing, Abe Lincoln had his revolver drawn, the hammer cocked all the way back.

  “You of a mind to go somewhere, boy?” The man snarled low, like a junkyard dog.

  Jonathan shook his head, realizing escape was impossible. “I just got dizzy.”

  Abe drew a bead on the middle of Jonathan’s chest. “Then maybe you’d best get down on your knees and pray for better balance.”

  Realizing the man’s words were more than a mere suggestion, Jonathan sank to his knees and bowed his head. Finally the old lady ended her prayer with a plea for comfort, especially for those newly arrived in these circumstances.

  After she said “Amen” and the drunk gave another fart, she began to serve dinner.

  “You two move apart.” Abe Lincoln pointed his revolver at Jonathan and Lavalais. “Eat by yourselves.”

  Lavalais shuffled to the far corner of the cell. Jonathan scooted over to lean against the thick iron bars. The old lady gave him a paper plateful of food and a single plastic spoon to eat with. As she handed him a cup of tea, she said, “Have some dinner, young man. We’ll talk in a few minutes.”

  She rolled her cart toward the other men. Though the food looked good and smelled delicious, Jonathan had no appetite. All he could think about was Lily—where she might be and how he was going to get out of here so he could find her. As he took a perfunctory sip of the cold, sweet tea, the old lady returned, carrying a small folding stool and a thick black Bible with gold letters.

  “You want to talk, young man?” she asked sweetly, setting down her stool in front of him. “Jesus is always ready to listen.”

  Jonathan closed his eyes, not knowing whether to laugh or scream. His baby had vanished. His wife was frantic. He was stuck in jail with an aging wino and a Rastafarian dopehead. Right now he needed Jesus to do a lot more than listen.

  “What’s the matter, son?” The woman touched his shoulder as if he were some kind of wounded animal. “How can I help?”

  Jonathan looked up at her. “Somebody stole my baby,” he rasped.

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “No. My daughter. She’s only three months old.”

  The woman’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “The little Indian baby?”

  He nodded. “I’m her father.”

  “But they said you were the one who took her. That you got mad at your wife.”

  Jonathan gave a bitter smile at the quasi efficiency of small-town gossip. “I did get mad at my wife. But I did not steal my little girl.”

  The old lady frowned. “Then why are you in here?”

  “Let’s just say I expressed my opinion of Sheriff Dula’s investigation.” Jonathan, winced as he touched his shattered ribs. “And he expressed me right in here.”

  The woman pursed her lips, then said, “I’ve known George Dula since he was five. He’s not a bad man, but sometimes he acts first and thinks later. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “Can you get me out of here?” Jonathan asked, ho
ping maybe she was Dula’s old Sunday school teacher, and still had clout with the bald pated sheriff.

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. But I’d be happy to call someone for you. A lawyer, perhaps? Or a friend?”

  Jonathan considered her offer. He’d never been in jail before, but he knew getting released entailed lawyers and judges and bail bondsmen. What he needed was to get out fast, so he could go search for Lily. “Could you get my wife over here?”

  She smiled, her eyes crinkling in a sunburst of wrinkles. “That, young man, I think I could arrange.”

  An hour later Abe Lincoln escorted Ruth into the room. Though he kept his weapon holstered, he gave Jonathan a look that let him know he would have no problem drawing it, should the need arise. Holding Ruth by her elbow, Abe steered her over to the cell. “You got five minutes,” the deputy said as he backed away to keep watch at the door. “Don’t try anything stupid.”

  Jonathan rose to his feet. Ruth stood on tiptoe and kissed him through the bars, smelling of soured milk and cigarette smoke and something else he could not name.

  “Honey, how are you?” she whispered.

  ‘’Just a few busted ribs,” he replied tersely. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “I was so scared!” Tears choked her voice. “I thought they were going to kill you!”

  “I said don’t worry, Ruth.” He brushed off her concern, not wanting to waste their five minutes talking about his stupid ribs. He reached through the bars and lifted her chin. “Look, you’ve got to get me out of here.”

  “I’ve been trying to get you a lawyer. They only have three in this whole town. One’s had a heart attack, one took his family to Florida when the riots broke out. The third one’s supposed to call me back tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I can’t stay here till tomorrow afternoon!”

  She shrugged helplessly. “The only other thing I can think of is drive to the next county and try to find a lawyer there.”

  “No, that will take even longer.” He squeezed the bars of the cell, wishing he could, like the biblical Samson, simply tear the building down. Why had he grabbed Dula? Why had he acted like such a fool?

  “Have you heard any more from Mary?” he asked, desperate to think of something they could do.

  Ruth shook her head. “Not since this afternoon.”

  “But you know where she is?”

  “Christiana, Tennessee. A little town near Nashville, I think.” Ruth tried to twine her fingers in his. He pressed his forehead against the bars. Lily was beyond his grasp now, but gaining speed and racing farther away as the hours passed. And there was nothing—nothing—he could do to stop it. If he wound up losing his child because he’d gotten himself thrown in jail, he would go mad. Suddenly he had an idea. He couldn’t help find Lily, but maybe Ruth could. He raised his head.

  “Listen, honey. I want you to go to Christiana. Find Mary. Help her find Lily.”

  Ruth gave a little gasp, as if he’d asked her to do something repugnant. “But Mary told me to stay here,” she objected. “She said I needed to stay in Dula’s jurisdiction, to keep the case open.”

  “I can keep the case plenty open right here in this cell,” he told her. “Right now Mary needs all the help she can get!”

  Ruth let go of his hands and wiped her eyes, brushing away tears she didn’t want him to see. “But don’t you want me to stay here with you?” She sounded like a hurt child. “If I leave, they might beat you up again.”

  “I’ll be fine, Ruth,” he promised firmly. “They won’t beat me up anymore. You need to go help Mary. Right now, as soon as you walk out of here. Buy a map. Find Christiana. Make Clarinda drive while you get some sleep.”

  “But—”

  “Ruth,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes, trying hard not to remember that if she’d only listened to him in the first place, they’d all be back at Little Jump Off, safe in front of their fire­place. “If we both stay here and do nothing while Lily’s out there lost, we’ll never get over it—not for the rest of our lives. One of us needs to go find Lily. I can’t, but you can.”

  She gazed into his eyes, as if searching for some different version of himself that his words had not conveyed. He didn’t know if she found it; all he knew was that a moment later, she gave a deep sigh and straightened her shoulders.

  “Alright,” she said, brusquely. “If that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what I want.” He leaned forward and kissed her, then Abe Lincoln called out that their five minutes were up.

  “Go now, Ruth,” Jonathan called as she began backing toward the door. “Go get us our old life back.”

  “Our old life back.” She gave him a crooked smile as Abe Lincoln unlocked the door. “Okay, Jonathan. I’ll do my best.”

  Twenty-eight

  “JESUS CHRIST, CAN’T you shut that kid up?” Stump Logan bore down hard on the gas pedal as the baby’s shrieks tightened the screws inside his head.

  “We’ve done all we can, Señor,” explained Paz, twisting around in the passenger seat. “She is clean, she is medicated with the rash ointment, we have tried to feed her.”

  “Then why the hell is she still crying?”

  “Ruperta says she wants her mama.”

  “Well, tell her she’s getting a new mama,” Logan snapped. “Tell her by tomorrow she’ll have a brand-new set of parents.”

  Paz looked back at the screaming baby, her small fists waving in the air. “I do not think a new mama is what this baby wants.”

  Logan chuckled. “Everybody in America wants a new mother, Paz. Tell her she’s just getting the jump on everyone else.”

  He needed to shut out the child’s crying so he could concentrate on the road ahead. In a few minutes they would pull into Edwina’s driveway and he’d be done with this little shitting, puking mess. Edwina could clean her up and shut her up, and he could get on with his plan. He unwrapped a chocolate bar, trying to clear the static from his head. It wouldn’t be long now. Soon everything would turn out okay.

  Nine miles later, he pulled into Edwina’s long, winding driveway. As he neared her house, he saw that the upper story was dark, but lights blazed from the lower rooms. Good, he thought, she hasn’t let any new girls come. Grinning, he pulled up in front of the door and planted his fist on the horn. The stupid baby started screeching again, but Logan didn’t care as Edwina came hustling out the door, eager, no doubt, to see her latest little chunk of change.

  “I’ve been waiting for you since Saturday, Duncan,” she snarled as Paz helped Ruperta and the baby out of the van. “It’s Monday night. What happened? Why didn’t you call? My van looks like a trash pit.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered, feeling as if he were sixteen again and making excuses to his mother. “Everything just took longer than I expected.”

  Edwina glanced at the child in Ruperta’s arms. “I can’t accept this baby if you didn’t get your girlfriend’s signature on that parental rights form.”

  “Calm down.” He patted his back pocket, the repository for all the documents he’d forged for this little adventure. “I got it.”

  Edwina scowled at him, then turned to Ruperta. “Okay. Take her inside. Let’s have a look at what the cat’s dragged in.”

  Ruperta carried the screaming child into a small bedroom in the back part of the house that Edwina used as a treatment room for her pregnant girls. An examination table stood under a big arc light in the center of the room. Edwina flipped on the light as they entered, then rolled a fresh sheet of paper down over the surface of the table. She nodded at Ruperta, who put the baby on the table and began removing her clothes. When the child lay clad in only her diaper, Edwina stepped forward, putting a stethoscope around her neck. “Bring me my notebook, Ruperta. I’ll need to write this down.”

  She examined Lily Walkingstick thoroughly, peering into her eyes with
an ophthalmoscope, poking a tongue depressor into her little mouth, jotting down notes as she went along. “A female infant, roughly three months old, posterior fontanel closing nicely. Pupils are equal, reactive, with no strabismus. Lungs are clear, no audible heart murmurs, abdomen normal…”

  Edwina removed the child’s diaper, spreading her legs apart. “External genitalia are normal although she does have a mighty case of diaper rash. Don’t you know better than to let a child get like this?” She glared at Ruperta.

  “The formula does not agree with her, Señora. I kept her as clean as I could.”

  Edwina snorted, then turned the baby on her stomach and eased a thermometer into her rectum. “How long has she had this fever?”

  “I sponged her off all day yesterday. Señor Duncan said you would give her medicine when we got here.”

  Edwina withdrew the thermometer. “One hundred and four,” she said, taping the diaper back on and once again taking up the ophthalmoscope. She peered into the baby’s right ear. “Have you given her any water?”

  “I tried, Señora. She will not take anything from the bottle.”

  Edwina turned to Duncan, her eyes blazing. “Don’t tell me your girlfriend was nursing this child.”

  He shrugged. “She might have been. What’s the big deal?”

  “Unless your girlfriend’s on bromocriptine, she’s probably got a breast infection. Her baby has otitis media—and diaper dermatitis—and I bet she hasn’t taken three ounces of milk since her mother turned her over. Next time you want to enter the adoption market, Duncan, try the dog pound. Their clients can suffer your abuse a little better.”

  “Will she be okay?” Logan tried to look worried, though this little squawker could die of diaper dermatitis for all he cared.

  “Fortunately for the human race, most children survive the care of their parents.” She handed the baby to Ruperta. “Give her a tepid—tibio—bath and put her in some clean clothes. I’ll give her some amoxicillin and aspirin. If she won’t take Pedialyte from a preemie bottle, we’ll have to start an IV. With luck, she should be okay by the time the parents start coming.”