If Motty heard that noise, she’d tan Stella’s hide. Motty had warned her, over and over, not to go into the chapel—and certainly never to go into the cave alone.
Yet…
She heaved again on the panel. Scooched it aside far enough to make a space wide enough for her body. Cool, wet air licked her face.
She went down.
At the last step she felt her way to the narrow passage, then followed it into the twisting heart of the cave. Then the air changed and she went still. She strained to—hear? feel?—the presence of the God.
“Hello?” she called softly.
She looked up, because in communion he always came from above. She climbed onto the table and stood, arms out. It made her dizzy to stand like that in the dark with nothing to orient her. She lifted her hands.
The hole in the ceiling, the chimney he descended from at the start of each communion, was too far above her head. She couldn’t go to the God—he would have to come to her.
“I’m here,” she said. And then, like Motty had done years ago, she said, “Please.”
The dark ignored her. And she thought, What if the Ghostdaddy doesn’t want me here?
She told herself to be steady, to be patient. On the night before Judas betrayed Him—according to the Bible Elder Rayburn had given her—Jesus went to a garden and prayed all night while the disciples kept falling asleep on Him. He wakes up Simon Peter and says (in red letters), Could you not watch just one damn hour? Or close enough, in King James–speak. He’d spent the night asking God if there was any way He didn’t have to be crucified, and He prayed so hard that He sweat blood. Compared to that, this was nothing. She’d prove to the Ghostdaddy that she was worthy.
After another minute she sat down, feeling embarrassed. A cold knot of dread grew in her. She was wrong to be here. Wrong to bother him. And come to think of it, Jesus never got an answer either. God didn’t appear in the garden, and Jesus ended up being crucified. A sacrifice to Himself, from Himself. So stupid.
The floor vibrated beneath her. She hopped up, and now the air was trembling. Joy tightened her chest.
“I’m here,” she said.
14
1948
Intruder.
Stella sat up in bed with that thought in her head and a mental echo of a noise—the sound gone like a car over a hill. Then the smell hit her, and she realized it was the kind of intruder who cooked bacon.
Merle Whitt stood in front of the stove, cigarette in one hand, spatula in the other. She flipped a fried egg onto its belly and said, “Coffee’s ready.”
Merle didn’t do this kind of thing. She’d never just dropped by. She hadn’t even been in the house but once, the day Stella bought it, and Merle had arrived with spare furniture, extra kitchen goods, a brand-new shower curtain—enough supplies to set up housekeeping. After that, she’d stayed away, respecting Stella’s privacy.
Till now.
“What’s going on?” Stella asked.
“I hope you don’t mind I used your kitchen to make myself breakfast.”
“Always happy to help a friend out of a jam.” Stella was pleased to see Merle was using Motty’s skillets. Stella plucked a strip of bacon from the pan—hot! Clenched it between her teeth and wiped her fingers on her robe. “Eh ehh?”
A bouquet of flowers sat atop her little kitchen table. Huge yellow Maximilian sunflowers, purple asters, blue gentians like rockets ready to take off—fall plants evolved to surge into bloom right before the first frost, like come-from-behind Thoroughbreds.
“Don’t look at me,” Merle said. “Those were leaning against your front door when I got here. There’s a note.”
A little white card with a hole punched in it, tied to a stem.
Dear Stella,
Please accept my sincere condolences. I hope you know that there are some Rayburns who remember your love for Lincoln, and still hold you in their hearts. I’m sorry we have lost touch over the years. I wanted to speak to you at the funeral, but of course you were overwhelmed by family. It was a gift to see Sunny. I regret if my father’s words about her caused you distress, but all we want is what’s best for her. I very much hope we can visit together soon.
With Love and Great Affection,
Mary Lynn
Jesus Christ, Stella thought. One more play for Sunny, one more attempt to shame Stella into doing “what’s best.” Well fuck you, Elder and Younger Rayburns, fuck you very much.
Stella poured herself a cup of coffee, and one for Merle. “Um, I don’t have any…anything.”
“Milk’s in the fridge,” Merle said. And not just milk, a host of breakfast and non-breakfast groceries: a head of iceberg lettuce, jam, a chunk of cheese, mayonnaise, baloney. Someone else might have thought the shelves still seemed empty, but for Stella they looked as crowded as Wrigley Field bleachers. Take that, Final Okra.
Stella poured enough milk into Merle’s mug to turn it her preferred color. Stella kept her own black. They ate together at the little kitchen table.
“So,” Merle said. “What are your plans?”
“For today? Get back to work. Keep the farm running.”
Merle gave her a look. That hadn’t been her question, and Stella knew it. “What about Sunny?” Merle asked.
“I worked out a custody arrangement.” As they ate she laid out the deal she’d struck with Hendrick—the visitation rights, the rules about the cove. Merle’s frown grew deeper.
“This is good for her,” Stella said. “Hendrick’s going to get tutors, so she won’t be bullied for how she looks. She’ll get an education and a stable home.”
“And you get off the hook.”
“I ain’t off the hook. I’m involved.”
“From a distance.”
“That’s probably best for her. The more distance, the better.”
Merle ignored the joke. “You could pay for tutors, too. You’re making money.”
“Not as much as you think. And it’s not legitimate money. At any moment it could all go away. That’s no way to raise a kid.”
“I can help.”
“You’ve done your part.” Before Merle could reply Stella said, “Besides, Sunny loves Hendrick, and he loves her. He can handle her.”
“What if she hurts herself?”
“Jesus Christ,” Stella said. Merle was so direct, and so persistent. When Stella was fifteen it drove her crazy that Merle couldn’t be distracted when she wanted an answer—and partial answers didn’t satisfy. The only way Stella had ever managed to keep things from her was to go silent. She’d never told Merle about the Ghostdaddy, never described communion. When she left the cove she decided to never speak of it again, never think of it again. These past few days had been a nightmare of talking and remembering and talking and remembering. Every time she looked at Sunny she saw herself.
“She’s not going to do that,” Stella said. She brought her plate to the sink. “She hasn’t gone through what I did. She’s never going to. I’m going to make damn sure of that.”
“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have her own hurts. Stella, please, look at me.”
Stella turned, folded her arms. Merle had shifted her chair, but her hands were in her lap. “I know how hard it was for you when you left the cove. I didn’t understand everything that had happened, but I tried. I’m just asking you to think about Sunny, what it was like for her to grow up alone, without a—”
“Stop it.”
Merle’s eyes widened a fraction.
“She’s not my responsibility,” Stella said harshly. “That was settled long ago.”
“Sweetie.” Her voice soft.
“She’s not mine,” Stella said, “and I’m not…fit. Do you understand? I can’t be trusted with her. I can’t. So back the fuck off.”
Merle looked off to
the side, eyes moving, as if considering arguments and putting them aside. Finally she sat back in her chair. Her eyes were shining.
Stella felt sick to her stomach.
This was the moment to make repairs. Stella would apologize, Merle would say she understood, and Stella would go on about how wonderful it was to wake up to breakfast, and so on, one phrase overlapping the other, until the wound was stitched closed. Merle had taught her how to do this—Motty had taught her only how to cut, and parry, and cut again until they both were exhausted.
But Stella said nothing, and so Merle could not reply. Merle said nothing until she’d reached the front door. She looked back and said, “Have you told Abby that Hendrick’s taking Sunny?”
Stella drove west toward the Acorn Farm. Sunlight filled the car but her hands were cold on the wheel, and every bump in the dirt road made her clench her jaw.
Her foot had come off the gas. She accelerated again, blinking. Slammed on the brakes.
Screamed: “Fuuuuuck!”
She jammed the gearshift into reverse.
* * *
—
three cars were parked in Motty’s yard, all of them late-model sedans. All of them with Georgia plates.
Stella went into the house and was surprised to find it empty—or nearly so. Veronica was asleep in Motty’s bed.
“Where is everybody?” Stella asked.
Veronica opened one eye. Her smile was goofy. “Stella. Stel-lala.” She yawned dramatically. It was unclear if she was wearing anything under the blanket. “What time is it?”
“Near eleven. Hendrick’s not here?”
“Daddy said last night he had to go into Knoxville to see…I don’t know, Knoxville people.”
“There are a lot of cars in the yard and nobody around.”
“Well, Rickie was here—he slept in the other bedroom last night, I swear.” Drawled that last word out to five syllables.
So Sunny still hadn’t slept in her own bedroom since Motty died. Stella wasn’t sure what that was about. Still too many strangers in the house?
Stella walked to the kitchen. Noted the dirty plates in the sink. These crackers were barbarians.
She walked out to the backyard. No one. The barn was empty, too.
And then she thought: Shit.
* * *
—
fifty yards from the chapel, she heard the thrum of an engine. Thirty yards away she heard the bright sound of metal striking stone.
Jesus H. Christ.
The chapel door hung open. A few feet in front of it were a line of ten-gallon cans of gasoline and a Delco generator rumbling away. Stella followed the power cord inside.
The sanctuary was brightly lit. At the far end of the room stood a set of electric lights on tripods. A clump of men stood in their glare. One of them aimed a camera at the floor, while another man—fuck, it was Rickie—lifted a sledgehammer and swung down. The bang was tremendous. Cement chips flew and clattered against the wall.
“Hey!” Stella yelled. Faces turned her way. She marched toward them. “Get away from there!”
Rickie straightened. “Morning, Stella.” Standing a few feet back from him and the skinny cameraman were Brother Paul, holding a shovel, and a balding, moonfaced cracker she recognized from the kitchen last night. Now he was in shirtsleeves, holding a microphone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A reel-to-reel tape recorder sat at his feet.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” A stupid question. They’d chopped apart a chunk of the surface, and in the center was a hole as wide as a manhole. It wouldn’t take long to open the cave completely. She planted herself close enough to Rickie that he couldn’t swing that hammer. “Get the hell out. Now.”
“We’ll be done soon,” Rickie said. He seemed to think this was a simple misunderstanding. “We’re almost through.”
“Through? You moron, you can’t go in.”
Brother Paul said to the other men, “Stop filming.” The man with the microphone knelt to punch buttons on the recorder. Paul stepped toward Stella. “I think it’s best if you head up back to the house.” In the harsh light his pale skin glowed. “Hendrick will be back soon, and he’ll explain everything.” He reached out as if to guide her to the door. She batted his hands aside.
“Out,” she said.
His face contorted. He didn’t like being touched by a woman. “We can’t have this,” he said.
Paul grabbed her again, and the balding man fastened a hand on her other bicep. “Get your hands off me, you fuckers!”
Their hands dropped. Jaws too.
It wasn’t just the language. Her right fist was bloody. No, both fists were bleeding, the blood seeping through her fingers. She opened a hand. The wound in her palm had opened.
Brother Paul gasped. She looked up. His mouth hung open, as if he’d witnessed a miracle. The skinny man raised his camera.
Stella turned and stalked out, burning with embarrassment and rage and confusion. She hadn’t bled like that in a long time.
Away from the chapel, she knelt on the ground, wiped blood on the grass. Her palms ached. Then she heard the sledgehammer strike rock.
The boys were back at it.
She slammed through the house’s back door. Veronica, now in a robe, stood before the woodstove. “Do you know where you light this?”
Stella marched into the front room, went to the gun rack, and took down the Winchester 97.
“What’s going on?” Veronica asked.
Stella pressed the release, racked the slide. The tube was empty. She grabbed a box of shells.
“Is there an animal?”
“Yeah,” Stella said. She pushed a shell into the tube. “A bunch of them.”
* * *
—
the first person to see Stella was the cameraman. He was waddling down the aisle, a load of rocks pressed to his chest. He squinted into the light. She couldn’t have been much more than a silhouette to him.
Stella lifted the shotgun.
He stepped back, somehow holding on to the rocks. The three men behind him straightened.
Brother Paul held up his hands, aggrieved. “Miss Wallace, please. This is going too far.”
“Move over.” She gestured with the barrel. “Away from the hole.” Her hands were tacky with blood but that didn’t affect her grip.
Rickie laughed. “God damn, Cousin Stella!”
The moonfaced man—he’d picked up the shovel—frowned at Rickie and then fixed on Stella.
“Go on,” she said.
Nobody moved.
“I’m saving your lives, you idiots.”
Rickie smiled quizzically. “Um, you’re pointing a shotgun at us, so how does that work?”
“You don’t understand a God damn thing. Now move.”
“Enough.” Brother Paul drew himself up. His right hand moved toward his waist. “I’m warning you. Put down the gun and get out of here before we—”
A pew back exploded, throwing splinters. Paul ducked and covered his head. Maybe he cried out. The skinny man dropped the load of rocks and jumped to her right, behind another row of pews. A tripod fell backward and a lamp popped.
“Out!” she shouted. Racked the shotgun. “Out! Out! Out!” Her ears were ringing and she could barely hear herself. She stepped aside and the cameraman ran out.
Rickie was looking down at himself. He lifted his undershirt, reached gingerly toward his ribs. He pulled out a splinter the size of a finger. Looked at it in amazement. Tossed it aside. Blood welled from the wound.
She aimed the barrel at Brother Paul’s gut. “Out,” she repeated. She wasn’t eager to pull the trigger again; she was grateful the Winchester hadn’t blown up the first time. It was fifty years old, and no telling how long since it had last been fired.
&nb
sp; Paul said, “I’m going to speak to Hendrick about this.”
“You do that, Paul.”
He hesitantly moved toward the exit.
“Wait,” Stella said. “Where’s the other guy?”
Paul and Rickie looked around. The bald man wasn’t in the sanctuary. He hadn’t run past her. There was only one place he could have gone. Her stomach went cold.
Rickie started for the hole and Stella said, “Stay back!” She didn’t like how high-pitched her voice sounded. “I fucking mean it.”
Rickie put up one hand. The other was pressed to his bloody shirt.
She went to the hole, peered through, and it was like leaning over a high cliff. Her heart beat in her throat. The wooden stairs were still in place.
No, she thought. Do not go in there.
“Hey!” she called. “Fuckhead! Get out here.”
There was no answer. She glanced over her shoulder. Brother Paul and Rickie were watching her—and the shotgun.
“Answer me, damn it! I’m not going to—I’m not going to fucking shoot you.”
Still no answer.
Brother Paul was staring at her. Something in her face frightened him. “Let me go get him,” he said softly.
She shouted wordlessly, furious now.
“Listen to me, you son of a bitch!” she yelled into the hole. She put one leg through, onto the first step. “If you try to jump me, I will blow a hole straight fucking through you.”
No answer. She stepped down, and the shotgun barrel smacked the edge of the entrance. She moved her finger off the trigger. Ducked under. Her body blocked most of the light.
The last time she’d been in the cave, she’d sworn to herself she’d never return, except for one reason. Saving a Georgia redneck was not that reason.
“Listen…you,” she said. She’d never caught the man’s name. “It’s dangerous to be in here. Just walk toward my voice.”
Revelator: A Novel Page 18
