Sure, it made more sense when Bobbie explained the process like that. But all and all she was still standoffish in my direction. She kept quoting her poems and saying how she was going to be leaving for the mission field soon, and that was fine with me. Laced throughout her prattling was talk of some boyfriend out east and how he was coming to visit her soon. Fine, fine, fine, I thought. It’s a good life for you, Bobbie Barker, so the sooner you get hitched, the sooner you’ll be out of my thoughts once and for all.
Funny what thoughts your head still contains from tenth grade.
It was social studies class, and the teacher ordered us to write a report on anything that interested us. I wrote mine on liquor.
The great state of Texas is divided into 254 counties. Now, folks might think we’re all big drinkers in Texas in 1946, given that the war is over and everything else we do in this state is huge. But for the most part, it ain’t as easy as you’d think in Texas to buy a shot of whiskey.
I recollected from my tenth grade report that of all our state’s counties, there are only 93 in which distilled spirits are legal. Half those regulate the precise location you can buy a drink, and in nineteen of those you can only get a drink with 3.2 percent alcohol. If you want something harder, you need to cross a county line. Throughout Texas, it’s almost impossible to buy a drink near a church or a school. You can’t buy a drink on Sunday or election day, and although the federal law against prohibition was lifted in 1933, it took Texas a full two years more to legalize the sale of all liquors in the state.
And then, by contrast, there’s Cut Eye.
I asked around and soon learned that Cut Eye mostly follows the letter of the law when it comes to liquor. Oh, it’s a fact, you can’t buy booze anywhere in Cut Eye except in one joint. Every thimbleful of booze for two hundred miles around funnels straight through the Sugar House Tavern. The building is owned by Mayor Oris Floyd, it’s named after a mob of bootleggers from Detroit, and it sits right across the street from the Cut Eye School. The tavern came first, and since the school’s first principal didn’t want to walk too far on his lunch hour to get a drink, the town founders passed a special ordinance that got around state law. The school was built, has sat across the street from the tavern ever since, and nobody’s dared to question hide nor hair of the arrangement in a hundred and thirty years.
These days the Sugar House Tavern is open all hours, day and night, seven days a week including Sunday morning, due to special city ordinances passed by the mayor. The booze—and all the cash that flows with it—runs like a river. Since most fellas in town work at the plant with its regular shifts, the tavern does most of its business come day shift’s closing time and on through the wee hours of the morning, but a fella can still get a stiff drink when graveyard lets off at 8 a.m. On Friday and Saturday nights, business booms. Friday is busiest, seeing most fellas get their paychecks Friday afternoon.
The signature drink at the Sugar House is a privately distilled brand of whiskey known by the officious name the Sam Bass Black Hill to Round Rock Private Reserve. Rumor has it that Oris Floyd owns majority stock in the company, but it’s never been proved. Regular customers order the drink by tossing a fifty-cent piece on the bar and calling out “Sam Bass!” or simply “Sam!” It tastes oily and foul, like a mixture of kerosene and horseradish, and I know this because I tried it while scoping out the bank about a month before the robbery took place. But it’s effective at pickling a man quicker than you can say “Here’s mud in yer eye,” and on weekends it sells like a rainstorm in spring.
The real Sam Bass, for those who care to know, was a famous Texas train robber and outlaw who terrorized the terrain from Rio Grande to the Black Hills in the late 1800s. He held up, robbed, and pillaged at least four trains in the spring of 1878, and Texas Rangers and sheriffs’ posses chased him and his outlaw gang around most of the state for the next long stretch of time. They eventually shot him dead in a gun battle, but never found his fortune, leading to a heap of speculating about lost treasure in this state. His grave today is a popular tourist joint, attracting the curious, the condemning, and those who’d sing his praises as a legendary Texas hero, a man who fought the law but the law won.
Which is all to say that when Friday night rolled around, I drove the DUKW into town, parked near the baseball fields (the only spot available near the tavern), walked across the street, swung the tavern doors open wide, and knew a bit about the trouble I was getting myself into.
Inside the Sugar House it looked the same as any other tavern. There was a standing window table closest to the street already filled belly to back with drunks. Six round tables sprawled behind that, each jam-packed with fellas playing cards. Behind that sat the main bar with its mirrors overhead and rows of bottles behind. Three bartenders were working, all busy as jaybirds, each pouring rounds of Sam Bass as fast as he could. Behind that was a kitchen and grill, and to the side was the darts area with three billiards tables in front. Next to that was a staircase leading up top to the brothel. Men smoked and cussed, laughed and hollered. Barmaids called out drink orders. The working girls sat on fellas’ laps, laughing and smooching their faces. The jaunty blare of the horn section in “Shoo-Fly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy” could be heard over the din from a jukebox in the corner. I walked to the bar and nodded in greeting to the closest bartender.
“Shot of Sam’s?” he asked.
“I ain’t drinking tonight.”
“A fella’s got to drink in here.” He wiped the counter in front of me and set down a small, square paper napkin. “It’s rules.”
I looked the man square in the eyes. “I said I ain’t drinking tonight.” My voice was firm, just loud enough so he could hear it.
He leaned closer. “Then it’ll cost you a half dollar to stand at my bar.”
I fished into my pocket, pulled out a fifty cent piece, and slid it over.
The man eyed me quizzically. He wasn’t smiling. “How come you ain’t drinking?”
“That’s my business.”
“You came into my bar. I got a right to know.”
“Not necessarily. But if you must, it’s on account of my employment.”
“What kind of job keeps a man from strong drink?”
“I’m a preacher.”
The bar hushed up in an instant. The card games stopped. The working girls stood up from fellas’ laps and tried to look presentable. A bottle of beer crashed on the floor and broke. I glanced around the room. Nobody was smiling. I reckoned it would happen like this, and the trouble was brewing, just like I thought.
Across the tavern one man stood up. His face was sneering on the end of a thin brown cigar and stubbled over with five o’clock shadow. He was real tall, a few inches taller than me even, and just as muscular. “What you say, boy?” he called out.
I swung around and faced him direct. “You heard me.”
“Sounded like you’s a preacher.”
“You heard right.”
The man pushed his chair out of the way and walked over. He stood five paces in front of me. “Then you need to leave.”
I shook my head.
“I ain’t repeating myself,” the man said. “Either you leave, or the boys and I make you leave. What’ll it be?”
I sized him up as either a logger or a railroader. He wasn’t wearing a plant uniform, but he was the leader of the pack, I could tell—the sergeant who every other fella followed.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“My name …” He clenched his fists. “Is Gibbons. Deuce Gibbons.”
I eyed the man closely. “Well, Deuce Gibbons. I reckon I’ll leave in a minute, but before I do, I need to say something to the men of this tavern. That okay by you?”
“Nope.”
“Well, your response is noted, but I’m going to do it anyway.” My eyes didn’t move from his and I called out in a loud voice—“I’m here the new preacher in town. All you men need to be in church this next Sunday. That’s an order, and I ai
n’t gonna tell you twice.”
Deuce Gibbons blinked, like his mind was working mighty hard but couldn’t rightly fathom where to land with this information. A snort came out of his nose. Then another. His sneer broke and he busted loose into a long laugh of hilarity. The rest of the bar followed closely behind. For five solid minutes every breathing soul in the tavern laughed his fool head off. Men pointed at me and slapped their knees, held their guts, and rolled on the floor. I was counting Mississippis in my head. Finally Deuce raised his hand and the room shut up. He took a step closer toward me.
“Listen, preacher.” This time he was smiling an untrustworthy smile. “I’ll make you a deal.” He shrugged, grinned, and looked at the fellas on either side of him. “You like fights, Reverend? Every man in here you can whip will show up in church this coming Sunday. That’s the deal. If you can beat a man with your fists, then he’ll show up in church.”
I inhaled sharply. I reckoned it would come to this. “Seems like a reasonable enough bargain.” I clenched my fists.
“Ain’t finished explaining the deal yet.” Deuce’s smile faded. “The deal is we all come at you at once.”
I was about to say, “Seems a mite harder that way,” when the bartender cold-cocked me from my blind side. The wallop caught me off guard and I careened into the closest table, sending cards scattering. All six men sitting around the table stood up while I scrambled to my feet. Closest one hit me with a right cross. I plowed my fist into his jaw and he went down hard. The next fella swung toward my nose with a left hook. I blocked his punch with my forearm and hit him square in the eye. The rest of the joint broke loose in a brawl. Friends swung at each other. Coworkers thudded into each other’s guts. It was as much chaos as the fight in the mission.
I slunk to the floor, crawled closer to the pool tables, and stood in a clearing so I could survey the mess. All around me men pounded on each other. A fella barreled into me and I popped him on the side of the face and kept looking through the smoke. Across the tavern was the man I wanted to see. Deuce Gibbons spotted me right back. He was the only man I needed to beat. I lunged forward. He did too. I ducked a flying beer bottle, dodged a thrown chair, and waded back into the frenzy toward Deuce.
First punch to my jaw came from his right cross. Deuce’s fists were as rawboned as a mule’s kick. He must have served with the tank corps. I shook it off and walloped him back with a one-two combination. He jabbed twice on my chin with his left, then hauled off and punched me low in the gut. His tactics were dirty and I kept my breathing even, fighting to control the pain, then came back quick with a left-right combination. He countered with a crusher of a left hook. I dodged and pushed him hard toward the wall. He struggled to break free, but I knew I had him. I held him in place and pounded with my right. Each punch connected with his face, power and strength of mind flooded out of me. I was winning. This man was coming to church.
Crack!
From behind, a bottle smashed over my head. Glass shattered all around me. I remember reaching up and feeling blood pour out of my head. I remember seeing Deuce Gibbon’s battered face. He was smiling again, now that my grip on him was broken. I remember my hands feeling heavy, and I couldn’t lift them anymore to protect my face. Deuce Gibbons pasted me square on the cheek. I turned to him the other cheek, and he pasted that one as well.
After that I remember no more.
FIFTEEN
Next Sunday morning I preached on the second chapter of Genesis. It was my second sermon ever, and it was all about how God planted a garden of perfection called Eden and grew trees in it. I liked that. God walked in that garden in the cool of the day, and I wondered if he ever took hold of an axe, same as I liked to do, and poured out his aggravations against the hard trunk of a slash pine. Probably not, considering he was God and all, but it made for interesting speculation.
Genesis chapter 2 was also where God first created a woman. He made that fella Adam nod off into a deep sleep, and while he was dozing, God created this gal he called Eve. Everything else in that garden was good, God said, except one thing. That poor fella Adam was all alone, so God made him the naked woman—they were the first husband and wife, I gathered—and God called that good. Well, I’d never looked at a union before in that holy light.
That Sunday I preached with a black eye and busted-up nose and a bandage on my head, but nobody slapped me this time when my sermon was finished. My message was ten minutes from start to finish, and the sheriff shook my hand on the way out and said, “Keep practicing, son.” Deputy Roy still eyed me warily and walked off without a word. Another missionary was passing through town, and he took the evening service that night, which I was sure glad about.
Bobbie said I did better all around when we met again Wednesday morning. She’d fixed us a snack and brought it over in a picnic basket. Some deviled eggs, two apple turnovers, and a jug of fresh spring water. Said it would help us study, she did. She helped me outline my next sermon, quoted me some poems she’d composed, and ordered me to practice my sermon again in front of the woodpile.
I visited with folks in the congregation all during the week. I met with Mert and discussed how a fella might begin a building campaign, and tried to talk with Cisco Wayman about coming on the board, but he wasn’t listening yet. Sheriff was called away on business all week, so the vote for a new deacon didn’t come up in the deacon meeting, so all was fine for another spell.
Friday night I went to the tavern again, got into another fight with every man I could find, lost again to Deuce Gibbons when six of his gang jumped me all at once, and drove back to the parsonage in the DUKW to ice my head.
Next Sunday I preached from the next chapter in Genesis, chapter 3. There, the devil deceived Adam and Eve. The folks ate from the tree they wasn’t supposed to, and God banished them from the garden of Eden. That made me a mite angry, it did. Maybe if it wasn’t for them, we’d all still be back where we belonged, back where things made sense. My sermon was a whopping fifteen minutes long. Sheriff actually gave me a grin when it was over. None of the men showed up still, but I didn’t expect them to yet seeing as I hadn’t beat any in a fight. Oh sure, if I picked them off one by one, I could take out a whole roomful no problem, but I knew I needed to beat their leader first. If he wasn’t won over, then the rest of the fellas might well come once or twice, but they’d still follow their leader back to their old ways. No, it would take me beating Deuce Gibbons man to man. Get the leader, the rest will follow.
That Sunday night, Bobbie took the evening service out of kindness for me, I gathered, which gave me some more time to think. Then on Wednesday I met with Bobbie again. This time she brought a hunk of cheddar cheese along with four biscuits. She ate one and quoted her latest poem. I ate three, and we outlined my next sermon and I practiced it again in front of the woodpile. I wanted to preach again on Genesis chapter 3, since I didn’t get too far in the chapter last time, so this sermon was about the curse that was laid out against mankind after the fall. Thorns and thistles grew, making the man need to work hard his whole life. Well, I could understand that. Then the woman would have pains in childbearing, too. I’d never seen a woman give birth, but I’d heard it described as a whale of a cursed time.
The one hopeful note in all that cursing was something Bobbie pointed out to me in the chapter, for I wouldn’t have grasped its importance if I’d simply been sailing through the text by myself. The thought sprang from the fifteenth verse: something about a future fight between the devil and the woman’s offspring. The devil would strike the child’s heel, and okay, so he’d be wounded. But that little tyke would really be a fighter, he would, and he’d end up crushing the head of that snake, the devil. In the end, good would triumph over evil, and I liked the sound of that.
Friday night I returned to the tavern. I never did quite savvy who owned the bar, but the fellas behind the counter didn’t seem to mind the fighting much. They may have been hired hands themselves, merely looking for a good show, or perhaps they
had such a powerful love of fighting themselves that they considered all the broken chairs and glassware and such to be a small price to pay for all the fun. This time while I was whaling away against Deuce, somebody clocked me with a chair from behind. It’s mighty hard to fight a whole room of fellas, I thought, when you’ve got a bright red bull’s-eye painted on your back. I drove back to the parsonage and flopped on the front floor feeling blood-spattered and defeated.
Sunday my sermon lasted a whole twenty minutes. I found I had more to say now, more of substance anyway. I was getting more comfortable with being up in front of folks, speaking in public like that. Oh, I had no problem telling a squad of soldiers to dig a foxhole, set up their mortars, and establish a machine-gun field of fire, but speaking to church folks was different. More people were coming—and they were listening more intently, too. It was mostly all women in the congregation still, though a few old farmers and oil men started coming along with their wives.
I took the Sunday evening service for the first time and spoke out of the book of John. In the beginning was something called the Word. I gathered that Word was Jesus. Bible said he was with God and was God. Well, that was something to think about.
Tuesday I met with the deacons, Wednesday I met with Bobbie again, Thursday night I met with the youth for the first time. Emma Hackathorn’s oldest two children came, as did one other fella who introduced himself only as Mike and said he didn’t like me much and was only there because his parents made him come. Also showing up was a highly opinionated red-haired girl by the name of Martie who asked a lot of hard questions I had no idea how to answer.
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