by Joan Hess
Brother Verber applied lipstick, then stepped back to admire the overall effect in the bathroom mirror. He wasn’t any Marilyn Monroe or Dorothy Lamour, but no one would accuse him of being as ugly as a mud fence stuck with tadpoles. He adjusted the wig so the one side partially covered his eye à la Veronica Lake, pursed his lips, and gave hisself a sultry look.
Even though he’d drawn the blinds, he stopped in the hallway and peered around the corner to make sure there was no way imaginable anyone could see into the living room. Folks wouldn’t understand, he told hisself as he wobbled across the carpet. They’d go leaping to the wrong conclusion—that he, spiritual leader of the community and a card-carryin’ Republican, was putting on women’s clothes for a sinful reason. Before he could explain, he’d be hearing snide insinuations about how he’d become a homosexual. Why, didn’t he know better than any of them what feisty ol’ Paul had written to the Romans on account of their propensity for graven images?
Brother Verber clutched the back of a chair, pretending it was his pulpit, and held up a finger to hold the attention of his illusive congregation. “‘For this cause God gave them up into vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature; and likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another.’”
After giving them a minute to think this over, he sat down and pulled off the high-heeled shoes to massage his feet. “I am dressed this way,” he continued, “because Jesus may want me to go out again in a disguise. He may want me to spy on fornicating devil worshipers. To do that, I’m gonna have to be able to sneak up on them without letting them know who it is. I’m trying on different costumes for Jesus, brothers and sisters.”
“Bur, you’re acting crazy,” Ruby Bee said, forcing herself not to stare openly at the shotgun in case he’d forgotten that it was right there in his lap. She and Estelle were on the sofa, and there wasn’t much chance either of them could lunge across the room and grab the shotgun without getting plugged. “We all understand how upset you are about Norma Kay, but that doesn’t give you the right to treat us like this.”
He glanced at her, then resumed his study of the shotgun. “I already told you to shut up, Ruby Bee. I didn’t take any sass from my players, and I ain’t gonna take any from you, either.”
“Now, Bur,” Estelle said, “why don’t you let Ruby Bee finish fixing you a nourishing omelet? You’ll feel a lot better with something in your stomach.”
“Good idea. Go get me a beer, and don’t pull any tricks. If I hear the back door open, I’ll splatter Ruby Bee across the wall. I never did care for the wallpaper, but Norma Kay picked it out after she moved here.”
Estelle skittered into the kitchen. Ruby Bee sucked in a breath and let it out only when Estelle returned with a beer in her hand. “Didn’t Norma Kay live in Topeka?” she asked to distract him.
“Yeah, she was the basketball coach.”
“Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?” said Estelle, smiling real nicely at him.
He opened the beer and took a swallow. “It wasn’t much of a coincidence. I took the team to a tournament there. The girls’ teams weren’t playing, so Norma Kay was running the hospitality room for the coaches and referees.”
Ruby Bee managed a smile. “Really?”
“Did you think we met while being abducted by aliens?” he said irritably. “After the game, I asked her if she wanted to go for coffee and we got to know each other. I saw her again at another tournament—it doesn’t matter where—and we had dinner. Then all the trouble started. She used to call me and whimper like a baby, and I even drove up there twice to try to help out. When she got fired, I asked her if she wanted to get married.”
“How romantic,” Estelle gushed. “I’ll bet she was swept off her feet when you came riding up like a knight in white armor.” She was dying to ask for details, but it was too risky.
“It wasn’t romantic,” Bur said, giving her a sour look. “I was a widower. The house is plenty big for two people, and I don’t like cleanin’ or having to cook for myself. I’d already started thinking about retiring, but I wasn’t sure I could get by on a pension and a check from the government. Norma Kay could have worked another twenty years.”
Ruby Bee nodded. “Then it worked out for both of you. There you were, needing a wife, and there Norma Kay was, in all that trouble. I don’t believe you told us what caused it.”
He lifted the shotgun so it was pointing at her face. “I don’t believe I did. Would you care to tell me why it’s any of your damn business?” He ran his free hand through his hair. “I don’t even know why you’re here, unless you came to snoop around like you think you’re amateur detectives. Were you going to search through Norma Kay’s drawers while I sat here eating a goddamn omelet?”
The two Nancy Drews earnestly shook their heads.
“It’s not as if he’s totally without common sense,” Mrs. Twayblade told the more reliable aide. “Mrs. Teasel’s unauthorized stroll was one thing; she might have ended up out on some lonely road with no idea where she was. Petrol Buchanon knew exactly what he was doing last night when it was time to come back here in the van. He slipped away into the crowd and is most likely at some relative’s house, chortling about how clever he is. You can’t turn around in this county without bumping into a Buchanon.”
“Is Diesel still up on Cotter’s Ridge?” asked the aide.
“I do not keep track of their antics unless they are residents in this facility. The day Diesel moves in will coincide with the day I apply for a position elsewhere, preferably in another state. My point is that it would be premature to raise an alarm about Petrol. People will get the impression that security is lax.”
The aide knew what was expected of her. “I, like, totally agree, Miz Twayblade. Petrol can take care of himself. It’s not like it’s cold outside, or even raining. He’ll come crawling back real soon, all sorry for causing you to worry.”
“I just finished explaining why there is no reason to worry,” Mrs. Twayblade said, glaring at the aide.
“Gosh, no.”
15
I was sitting on a bench when Chastity came from behind the curtain. She didn’t seem all that excited to see me, but she boosted herself onto the edge of the stage, caught the tip of her ponytail and wound it around her finger, and offered me a patronizing smile. “Malachi says I have to talk to you to save him from being made an object of mockery on the local news. I guess the fact that my sister was murdered doesn’t bother you. What do you want to know?”
“When you stole Seraphina’s driver’s license,” I said.
“Who says I did?”
“I know you stole it to attempt to get an abortion without parental consent.” Or at least I thought I knew, but this was not the time for irresolution.
She turned so pale that I was afraid she was going to pass out and do a Humpty-Dumpty number off the stage. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men being occupied elsewhere (meaning Jeeps and deputies), I stood up in case I needed to break her fall. She held up a hand. After a couple of deep breaths that were almost shudders, she said, “I’m just kinda surprised you know about that.”
“Well, I do, but it’s not a big-time felony and I won’t follow up on it. There’s no need to panic. Tell me the truth—okay?”
“While Seraphina was singing, I slipped into the RV and took the license and cash out of her purse. I didn’t think she’d notice until—until it was too late. After a show, Malachi was always as randy as a tomcat, and they’d go into the bedroom and carry on for hours. There was no way I could keep from hearing them. God, it was so disgusting. All that piety in public and then acting like animals in private.”
I did not want details. “But Seraphina did notice it was missing, didn’t she?”
Chastity had overcome her initial shock and was back to being surly and resentful. “She didn’t say anything about the license—just a piddly fifty d
ollars. It wasn’t like it was the grocery money for the rest of the month. What set her off was that I was going to use it for an abortion. She was so mad she chewed me out for a solid hour, and she was still laying on a guilt trip when I jumped out of the car and ran into the RV. When I heard her car door slam, I locked myself in the bathroom. I was real relieved when I came out a few minutes later and saw her car was gone.”
Some veiled emotion crossed her face, but she looked down before I could even speculate as to its meaning.
I offered an easy question to calm her down. “Where did the majority of this take place?”
“In the parking lot of that supermarket down the road from the Dairee Dee-Lishus, but she didn’t let up while she drove back here, either. I’ve never heard so much yammering in my life. ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ ‘Be fruitful and multiply.’ ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ Before Seraphina hooked up with Malachi, she sure as hell wasn’t any naive virgin.” Her eyes brimmed with tears, and her voice lost its belligerence. “Her name used to be Sandra. Mostly she worked as a waitress, but sometimes she got a job as an office temp or nursery school aide. She’d call me at the foster homes to see how I was doing, and once in a while I’d stay with her for a weekend. We’d eat pizza, do our hair funny, paint our nails, and talk all night. She wasn’t so goody-goody then, but we always went to church Sunday mornings.”
I let her sniffle while I thought over what she’d said. “She discovered the money was missing. If I had been in her position, I’d have assumed you were going to run away. Did you tell her you wanted to get an abortion?”
Chastity shook her head. “She knew about it when she made me get in the car. She was more upset about that than she was about me being pregnant, and she kept insisting Malachi would force Joey to marry me so the baby would be legitimate. Her brilliant idea was that Joey and I would live in some crummy apartment. He could get a glamorous job washing cars or working in a fast-food joint, and I’d stay in school until the baby came. She and Malachi would subsidize us to the overwhelmingly generous tune of five hundred a month. Heaven on earth, huh?”
“Did she tell you that she fired Joey?”
“Yeah, he wasn’t going to be associated with Hope Is Here ever again. She used to drive Thomas crazy by firing the dumb jerks who showed up for work with whiskey on their breath or bragged too loudly about picking up women in bars. Thomas would have to go rushing down to the employment office to replace them. The ones who kept their jobs were smart enough to pretend they were God-fearing Christians whenever she was around.”
“But she knew about the abortion,” I said, mostly to myself. “After basketball practice one day last week, you asked Darla Jean about clinics. Did you ask anyone else?”
“Nobody, and Darla Jean swore she didn’t say anything to Coach Grapper.”
I almost toppled off the bench. “Norma Kay Grapper knew about it, too? Did she tell you that?”
“It was in the note she sent to Malachi. Darla Jean showed it to me, then crossed her heart and swore she didn’t tell her. That’s when I decided I’d better get the driver’s license right away and see if I could get a ride into Farberville after the show. I figured I could find a place to sleep and get an abortion first thing in the morning before they could stop me. I was trying to talk one of the boys into taking me when Seraphina drove up.”
I had an idea, albeit a murky one. “You didn’t have any luck yesterday morning, did you?”
“I tried four places, but none of them fell for it. The photograph was too distinctive, too beautiful. One of the nurses said she was gonna call Seraphina and tell her I had her ID. I was terrified the bitch recognized the name, but all she did was copy down the address in Little Rock.”
“So you turned around and pulled that stunt with Cory Jenks so he might be led to believe he was the father. What about Joey? The last time I saw you and him together, you were acting as though you were infatuated.”
Chastity hopped off the stage and brushed the seat of her shorts. “I don’t think he’s the type to live in an apartment and work at a gas station to support a baby and me.”
“Once paternity’s established, he has an obligation.”
“It might be hard to collect child support from someone living on Venice Beach,” she said. She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and sauntered up the aisle.
I amended my list of things to do when I had time. Darla Jean McIlhaney was a contender for the number one spot. We needed a little work in the realm of telling “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”
Hey, I never said I was an atheist. That was Millicent McIlhaney.
Look how her daughter turned out.
“It’s tied again,” Bur said, “and there are seven seconds left on the clock when the referee calls an intentional foul. I yell at the kid to get his ass to the sideline, and I’m bawling him out for being so goddamn fuckin’ obvious, when the referee orders me to shut up. What was I supposed to do—send the kid a picture postcard telling him that he’d blown the championship?”
Ruby Bee had dozed off during the lengthy and mostly incomprehensible narrative, but she jerked up her head and said, “You’re absolutely right, Bur.” She poked Estelle, who was snoring next to her, but it would have taken a jackhammer to do much good.
Bur snorted. “So their guy makes the free throws, and we’re down by two. I send in this kid that could make field goals from the middle of the court when his testosterone was up. They put on a full-court press. We can’t get the ball in, so we call a time-out with the clock still at seven. The crowd’s screaming so loud I can hardly make myself heard.”
Ruby Bee drifted off, aware that Bur was rambling on but unable to keep her eyes open. He didn’t seem to care that his captive audience was comatose, and she surely didn’t care about the 1981 state basketball tournament.
When I emerged from the tent, I saw what appeared to be a small-scale press conference taking place. Malachi stood on the top step of the makeshift porch, his white suit reminiscent of the old-fashioned evangelists he seemed to scorn. Below him were a couple of reporters with notebooks and tape recorders, and the dreaded cameraman from one of the local television stations.
“Seraphina was an angel,” Malachi was saying, his expression befitting a bereaved widower. “She was the light of my life, and I was proud to see her light shine on others as well. Her childhood was filled with hardship and misfortune. When I first met her, she was sitting alone in a bus station, with all her possessions in one small suitcase. But even though her clothes were dirty and her shoes were worn, I could see the purity in her heart. I sat beside her and pressed what money I had into her limp hand. She looked at me with a smile so radiant that it brought tears to my eyes. You remember what the apostle Paul wrote to the Hebrews, don’t you? ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’”
“Are there any leads on her murder?” asked one of the reporters.
“I am here to bring redemption to skeptics and disbelievers, and prosperity to struggling Christians. So urgent is my mission that I cannot allow worldly matters to distract me. I know that Seraphina would want me to continue despite my heartache.”
“So you don’t know anything,” the reporter said as he closed his notebook. His colleagues did the same, while the cameraman turned and panned the tent.
I ducked back inside and waited until they were gone. When I emerged, Malachi was still on the porch, watching them drive away and looking pleased with himself.
“That went well, didn’t it?” he said. “If we make the six o’clock news, we’ll have a full house again tonight.”
“If I don’t close you down, that is.”
“Oh, dear, Miss Hanks, do you remain perturbed? I instructed Chastity to answer all your questions in a forthright manner. She has nothing to hide. We’re here only to celebrate the glories of God by bringing wealth and happiness to
the citizens of Stump County.” Grinning, he rubbed his hands together. “This very night more than a thousand of them will lift up their eyes and thank Jesus for healing the lame and making the blind to see.”
“Let’s talk about that,” I said. “These miracles of yours are beginning to border on quackery. Unless you’ve got a medical degree tucked away in your Bible, you’d better stick to selling seeds. I already told you about the woman who was convinced she could drive without her glasses and had an accident. You told a local girl that she no longer has diabetes. You’d better pray nothing bad happens to her, because if it does, I’m holding you responsible, Mr. Hope.”
“The responsibility lies with a higher power, and you may have a hard time convicting Jesus of a felony. Now I think I’d better prepare for the service. Will we have the honor of your company again tonight?”
“I’m not finished yet. There’s the small matter of the note you gave me yesterday. I guess someone must have performed a miracle on it, too. Jesus changed water into wine. Did he also change the wording on the note?”
I enjoyed watching his expression erode. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I gave you the note that was delivered to me. Have you bothered to test the typewriter in Norma Kay’s office to see if it was used?”
“It was typed on Norma Kay’s typewriter, but it’s not what she wrote. She overheard a conversation in the locker room during which Chastity asked one of the local girls about abortion possibilities. Norma Kay was real touchy about that, as you must have known from the letters she wrote about the unpleasantness in Topeka ten years ago. You remember, don’t you?”
“I receive thousands of letters, and I don’t read every one. I certainly don’t commit them to memory.”
