Bringing Home The Rain: The Redemption of Howard Marsh 1 (The Jubal County Saga)

by Bob McGough

  Yasmine’s was literally the end of the road, which in a lot of ways was kinda a metaphor, considering what went on there.

  The dirt road turned into a long driveway, lined with aged cedar trees. They grew so close together as to almost block the view of fields gone decades to waste, where once there had been a thriving farm. As the drive gradually curled up the low hill, Yasmine’s came into view.

  It was as stately an antebellum home as you could ever hope to see, all white paint and tall columns. Two stories tall, a dozen or more windows peered out of its front, most of them framed by neat green shutters and bathed in wispy white curtains.

  In the tidy yard was a tall pecan tree, its spreading limbs covering the space in shadow. From some hung gaily painted wind chimes, from another was a tire swing idly shifting in the breeze. Flower beds dotted the yard almost at random, with small patches of riotous color that had clearly been well tended.

  The woman of the hour was hunched over one of those beds just then, pulling weeds it looked like to me. As I pulled up Yasmine rose to her feet, taking off her gloves as she watched me pull up.

  She was a tall woman, taller than me, her gray hair pulled back in a loose ponytail which allowed much of it to roam free. Errant strands curled around her face, framing a face lined with wrinkles. Thin, she had a dancer’s grace still in spite of her age, and the overalls she wore were splotched with paint, but the white blouse she wore beneath them was clean.

  Yasmine O’Connel had been away at college, for art of all things, when her parents had died in a car wreck. So she came back to run the family farm, only she had no more interest in that than I did. It showed as the farm slowly fell into ruin, and her attempts at being an art teacher didn’t do much better, this being Jubal County.

  The plantation home, which had been in the family since not long after the Civil War, was going to ruin. A weekly art class with maybe four or five students barely kept her fed, much less kept the old house up. She had grace, she had beauty, she had refinement.

  More’s the pity you can’t eat that. Or pay your bills with it.

  I’d never heard how it all came to be, but what I do know is her place became a refuge of sorts. Women on the run from drunken husbands, girlfriends hiding from stalker exes, and single moms with no other options. All were welcome to stay for a day or a week, till they got their feet under them, or at least an idea how to.

  And for those who wanted to earn some money, well, Yasmine’s became a whorehouse. That sort of open secret that the cops ignore, either because they are bought off with free pussy, or for those with some sort of a heart because she does a lot of good with her woman’s home. That, or they were just as afraid of the .38 that Yasmine always carried in case some asshole husband came around looking. The one she’d used more than once, and to good effect. Seems an artist's eye translated well to her aim.

  I’d never visited as a client so to speak - if I had extra money it went to drugs, not sex. But when I’d been a kid I’d stayed here a time or two with my mother, hiding out from my dad. Yasmine had taught me to paint.

  Turns out when you are a lesbian that runs a cathouse, the mothers of the community don’t exactly rush to sign their kids up for your art classes anymore. So she scratched that itch by teaching the kids of the women who stayed with her. I’d had a little bit of skill she’d said, but like everything else really, that went the way of the dinosaur around high school.

  “Mr. Marsh,” she said, her face cracking into a smile as she saw me get out of the car. That was her way; everyone, no matter how down and out, how grimy and fucked up, they were always Mr. and Mrs. “It’s been so long. You’ve done a lot of growing since I last saw you.”

  I nodded, and wished there for a second that maybe I looked a little less like the trash I was. Kinda like someone that art lessons might have stuck with, and less like someone who hadn’t worn a shirt in three days, and hadn’t showered in the past week. But that ship had sailed.

  “Afternoon Ms. O’Connel. It’s good seeing you again.” I was surprised that I meant it, even as I was saying it. I hadn’t had the best go of it as a kid, but the days I’d spent here had been good ones.

  She reached out and put a hand on my shoulder, smiling warmly. “What brings you out my way? Come for a follow-up art lesson?”

  I snorted at the idea of it, then grew serious. “I wish. But nah, I’m hunting Inez Richmond for her boys. They ain’t seen her in a week, and I said I would help find her. I know she sometimes comes here when she’s hard up for money, figured that might be the case now.”

  A worried frown crossed Yasmine’s face. “Oh, those poor children. No, Inez isn’t here, she hasn’t been in some months in fact.” She curled her finger and tapped it on her lip. “Do you think she’s ok?”

  I shrugged. “I found her car, but she wasn’t there. I already looked everywhere else I could think likely. You were sorta my last hope.”

  Her frown deepened. “That’s not good. I’ll ask around for you of course. Business isn’t on the up right now though, what with that revival getting everyone all worked up, but anyone who does stop in I will be sure to inquire. Do you have a number I can reach you on?”

  “May be best to just call her daddy, Elias Richmond. My phone’s out of, uh, commission at the moment.”

  “Of course, of course,” she said. She looked back towards the house, then back at me. “I just wish there was more I could do. You’re a good man Mr. Marsh, for doing this. Not many would take on this task I suspect.”

  I squirmed under her praise. “Well, I just had a little free time is all. You know how it is.”

  She nodded. “Can I invite you in for a glass of tea? I’m sorry, I should have asked earlier, I think the heat has gotten to my manners.”

  Shaking my head I thanked her for her offer. “I need to be getting on the road again I suppose. Miles to go before I sleep and all that.”

  “Of course,” she smiled. “Come visit me sometime Mr. Marsh.”

  “So we can carry on with our lessons?” I laughed.

  “Yes,” she said, so matter of fact that it kinda took me aback there for a second. “I mean it. Come visit soon. You are too talented to let that skill lay idle, and we’ve wasted enough time as it is. I’m sure I have a few things around here that need doing and would most certainly pay you for, to make it worth your time.”

  “You’re serious,” I said, laughing again. I was a bit incredulous. No one ever pushed to spend time with me, ever.

  “I expect to see you sometime next week Mr. Marsh,” she said in a tone that brooked no debate. She was turning back to her gardening, pulling on her gloves once more. “And I’ll keep an ear out for word about our dear Inez.”

  I stood there for a moment, staring at her, but clearly I had been dismissed. I was simultaneously annoyed and intensely flattered. With a nod I slipped back into the Pontiac and pulled away.

  Get Right

  Seems like everywhere I’d been to mentioned this damn revival. And as the last place anyone seemed to have ever heard of her going anywhere, it was there. I’d been fighting that thought, as me and religion were no good buddies, but inevitability had its way of rearing its ugly head.

  And if I was being really honest, I was doing anything I could to face the reality that the way her car was left, it said nothing good. She’d probably given the wrong trucker a rub and tug and was lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Or she’d taken a hotshot and was rotting in some abandoned crackhouse.

  But so long as I kept looking, and not thinking about it, she was still alive and I didn’t have to go back and tell Forrest something he didn’t want to hear. So I decided that in spite of my general annoyance at the whole situation, I would make one last stop, just to see if anyone knew anything up there. Then one way or the other, I’d be done.

  You’d have to be about blind to not know when and where the revival was. Even me, who typically lives with his finger terminally far from the pulse of happenings in the C
ounty, had seen the flyers. Seemed they were stuck to just about every building in town, and in half the gas stations you could drive to in the area.

  As it was, I knew that it was only about a twenty minute drive from Jasmine’s, but seeing as the Pontiac’s clock told me it was only a shade after four, and services didn’t start on week nights until seven, I had a little time to kill.

  Elk Grove wasn’t exactly on the way, but I had time to spare so within a few minutes I found myself outside my shed, parking the car beside Corey’s little blue Mazda. Even though his car was there, it looked as though he was gone, probably out having an early supper with his kids, or some such mess.

  Didn’t faze me much either way as I had tucked away the loot I acquired that morning. It took me aback there for a second how twisted the day had become from my original plan. Shrugging, I settled into my busted recliner and wished I had a beer or six.

  That twenty was burning a hole in my pocket, and I had to fight the urge to spend it mighty hard. Which for me was rare, because usually I would just give into my first impulse. But I made myself a promise that I wouldn’t spend it until after the revival meeting tonight, mostly because I suspected I would really need a beer then.

  Instead I took to rummaging through my much depleted box of oblivion, weighing my options. What would have me humming along just right about the time I hit the sermon. Some of my favorite options were a bit too low I feared, so I ended up settling on a little something I’d been saving for a special occasion.

  It’s a hell of a way to pass some time.

  Fucking While Camping Is In Tents

  Royce Andrew was known for two things: being a god-fearing Christian, and owning what was probably the biggest cattle ranch in the County. He was the sort of man who would always make time for church, and revivals, and one who had enough land that he could spare a bit for a traveling preacher and his tent.

  So it was that I found myself driving across his north pasture in a torrent of squeaking, screeching shocks, jostled about half to death. The grass was good and beat down, and even if I hadn’t been following a few other cars and trucks, I’d have easily been able to find my way across the broad green expanse.

  This time of year, the sun wouldn’t be setting for another hour, but a few dark clouds were rolling in. It was looking like one of those late afternoon or evening thunderstorms you experienced around these parts for half the summer. They’d run real hot for a few minutes, coming on hard and heavy but would be gone quick as you please. A lot of noise, a good drenching, then moving on leaving the area even more humid than it was before.

  The pasture was a low rolling hill, with the kind of worn terraces that you could tell meant this used to be some other sort of farmland, maybe corn. It made driving across it feel like a ship cresting waves, rising and falling all rhythmically. I was sure I was getting a lot more of that effect than most however.

  Atop the hill spread a large canvas tent. It was a sort of tan, creamy color, in places almost light brown. It had probably been stark white when it’s life began, but time had done made it a bit dingy. It looked well cared for though, without holes or noticeable patches, at least that I could see.

  A double line of cars was forming up a hundred feet away from the tent, and I found my place at the end of the line, next to a shiny new F-150 with a pair of wrinkled old people inside who looked as if they were having some sort of heated debate. Why old folks wasted time squabbling I couldn’t figure out, time was too short as it was.

  I stepped out of the car, and I could feel the storm in the air. That sort of cool, crisp wind with just a hint of something electric in it. It was driving away the heat, making it feel about as nice as a body could hope for. Coupled with the excess exuberance the drugs had left in my system, I was in a far better mindset than I had expected I would be upon arrival.

  A few folks shot looks in my direction, most of them none too pleased, but I didn’t know why. I’d actually bothered to put on a shirt for the occasion, and one of my nicer ones at that. It was a Natural Light shirt I’d only ever worn once before, something I’d won or stole from a gas station in Sumpville. I couldn’t quite remember at just that moment.

  I couldn’t be troubled to care much at all, feeling as good as I did. I started looking around as I walked towards the tent, looking for people I might know. Or rather, people that might be seen talking to me in public. I knew almost all of these people, and had done little odd jobs for a good number of them. But the sort of glances they cut me were all filled with daggers and darts and darkness, cut from the same cloth as the coming storm.

  Fuck ‘em.

  I could see a camper with a little enclosed trailer parked back behind the tent, and I guessed that was where the preacher lived. The Reverend Silas Hatty the flyers had proclaimed, who was coming to save the poor sinners of Jubal County from the devil himself. I wondered if I counted more in the sinner column, or the devil column, and the thought sent me giggling, which earned me a few more looks.

  The tent had rows of metal folding chairs underneath it, maybe a hundred, maybe a little more. I coulda done the math, but to hell with that. It was a good number, and even with the weather looking like it was about to turn to bullshit, it was a touch over half-full. Everyone was clustering around the middle of the tent however, away from the edges.

  I prefer bad weather to most people, so I took a seat in the very back. I didn’t much care if I caught a little rain on my shoulders, I could probably use a bath anyways. Besides, the way the storm was blowing in, I figured I would be mostly okay. Unless lightning struck the tent, then I reckoned we would all be dead. Which of all the ways to go, wasn’t on the top of my list, but the irony of me dying in a church was enough to cause me to crack a smile.

  “Marsh?” came an incredulous voice from behind me, one I knew pretty damn well, and was hoping to hear. I didn’t even bother turning, aiming to come across as all cool and shit.

  “Evening Jerm,” I said, cool as you please.

  Nice Shirt

  I didn't have to look, I knew that I would see what was basically a taller, uglier version of myself. Pushing six feet and rail thin, with a number of prison style tattoos, maybe a few done by some kitchen scratcher; nothing that you'd pay real money for, cause let’s be honest, real money went to drugs.

  Jerm took a chair on my row, but two down from me, and leaned over stretching out his arm to shake my hand. I took it, fighting the urge to grimace as his clammy skin touched mine. “I'd have never thought I would see you here,” he said. “Me here is odd enough, but you...” he laughed nervously.

  “Maybe I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Nice clothes by the way,” I offered.

  They were pretty nice, at least for such as us. A pair of khaki cargo pants without a stain on them, and a pretty nice long sleeved shirt. I mean it was clearly some sort of cheap Walmart one, and the colors were pretty faded with age and washing, but it looked clean. It'd once been dark blue with a purple stripe down each arm, but now it was more of a light blue, with a darker blue stripe.

  “Had to dig deep to find these,” he laughed. “Lucky my momma kept my old church clothes. And they still fit, more the shocker.”

  Of course they did, I thought to myself, seeing as he'd probably lost close to twenty pounds since high school. And it's not like he'd been anything but skinny then. Meth is a hell of a weight loss drug, if you discounted all the side effects. Though I guess teeth do weigh something. How do you think I keep my current svelte, girlish figure?

  “Go figure,” I said, trying to be polite. “Tell you why I'm here though, I'm looking for Inez. She got some folks missing her, and she ain't turned up in a while. I heard maybe she came here. You see her?”

  “Fuck yeah I did!” Jerm said, then slapped a hand over his mouth. “I mean, hel...heck yeah I did. It was crazy man.” He sat there shaking his head, a sort of wild look in his eye. Just shaking, not speaking.

  “Well?” I prompted.

&nbs
p; That seemed to knock the words loose. “See, it's like this. Both of us, we got to talkin' about how maybe things weren't going exactly how we'd always planned. You know how it goes.”

  I did, and I hated it. There was nothing more annoying than sitting around having a pity party with a bunch of downers. Not that I hadn't partaken of a few in my earlier days, but by now, my thought was either come to terms with it, or shut the fuck up.

  “She said that Tom, he'd gotten his shit straight, well at least until...” he paused, thinking about all those people burning up in that church no doubt, “but it got her thinking that maybe she should do the same. And I don't know, it sounded good I guess. So we agreed to ride out one night, get us some salvation.”

  “Y'all ride together?”

  “Nah, she drove herself. Me I got John and Dempsey to drop me off.” Those two were his main running buddies, and no stranger to me, or Jimmy.

  I snorted. “I bet they got a good laugh outta that.”

  Jerm frowned. “A bit yeah. But they did it anyway. I couldn't convince them to stay though. But anyways I was already there when she showed up, sitting about right around here. It was standing room only by the time she made it though, but wouldn't you know it, the Reverend, he'd saved her a seat special. Said he'd been expecting her a long time. Right up there by the front.”

  That didn't sit well with me at all. “Why'd he do a thing like that?”

  Jerm shrugged. “I ain't heard it from his mouth, but I've heard folks saying it was an act of forgiveness, charity-like. Showing that even though her boy done a bad thing, she was still welcome in the eyes of god.”

  I had the decency to turn my head before I rolled my eyes.

  “So the sermon starts up, and come time for the call to the altar, she goes right up there. And the Reverend, he laid hands on her, right there in front of god and everybody. She started sweating and shaking, and he started whooping about driving all the poison from her veins. It was some sure enough crazy shit, I'll tell you that. I swear that was all the drugs just coming out of her, cleaning her up.”