Summer of the Redeemers

by Carolyn Haines

  “You’ve got to ease up a little,” Mama Betts said softly. “Bekkah’s thirteen now. Won’t be long before …”

  The slam of the screen door drowned out the last of it, and I went out to the old live oak tree and sat down on one of the big roots. Arly and I had played there as little children, building dirt roads and making secret caves and towns in the root structure. Fancy in-town yards always had grass growing around all the trees. Our side yard, where the oak, magnolia and cedar trees were, was raked up neat and clean, a brown dirt in contrast to the red ribbon of Kali Oka that ran only fifty yards in front of the house.

  For the past thirteen years, Kali Oka had been my road, my territory, my place. I’d ridden the entire fifteen-mile length of it, from where it joined Highway 364 to where it dead-ended in the church cemetery just past Cry Baby Creek. I knew the ditches and the fields and the berry patches and plum trees all along its banks. The property lines were common knowledge. The fact that Marvin Shoals slapped his wife, Connie, around on weekends when he was drinking and that Carrie Sue Parker’s third baby died from an RH factor were part of the road. I could read the signs of past and present just the same way I could tell which animals had journeyed down Kali Oka during the night by the evidence they left. I could even tail Arly to wherever he was hiding out by the bicycle tire tracks in the dirt.

  Kali Oka was the world. It had always been plenty for me, until this summer.

  Black army ants marched along the roots of the old oak. They didn’t bite, so no one seemed inclined to bother them. Besides, Daddy said it was “instructional” to watch them. All they did was work. One ambitious yeoman had a piece of grit or stale bread twice as big as he was, and he was truckin’ it along the tree roots making for home. The moral Arly and I were supposed to pick up on was that work and discipline were good things.

  I put a stick down across the ant’s path, hoping to add a bit of adventure to his life. He never faltered, just climbed over. I was considering an aerial attack to take the ant’s goody when I heard the sound of a car coming down the road. One thing about Kali Oka, there wasn’t a prayer that a robber could come down the road and get away. Everyone on the road watched like hawks whenever a car or truck came along. We knew who owned what car, and when a strange one entered the road, all alerts were given.

  This didn’t sound like anybody’s car I knew. It took a few seconds of listening to realize it was more than one vehicle, and it was something big. Like the school bus coming every morning to get me and Arly. Except this bus was coming fast.

  The screen door banged, and Mama and Mama Betts walked out onto the porch. They looked like they needed some air and an end to whatever conversation they’d been having. Both were flushed, and there was that wary distance, only inches but so telling, that indicated there’d been words between them.

  When the first bus came into view, we each stood in our places, watching. It was a rickety old bus, yellow but faded. The spot where the school’s name should have been was painted over, and the words Blood of the redeemer had been hand-lettered on. It ended with a cross dripping blood. Up above the name were gray faces at dirty windows. Women and children, mostly. A few hollow-faced men. They stared at us. Sort of the way Arly and I would stare at cows in a field. Not with much thought about it at all. The idea entered my head that maybe they were some kind of prisoners. Like those people on trains in World War II who were being taken off to gas chambers. These folks looked about that happy. Before I even knew I was doing it, I was standing at the outside screen door, close to Mama and Mama Betts.

  The second bus rolled by, then the third, the fourth, the fifth. The sixth bus came along in a great cloud of dust.

  “Locusts,” Mama Betts said mostly under the breath.

  We couldn’t see the faces in the last bus’ windows, but we could make out that Blood of the Redeemer name. Then the blood-dripping cross, leaning just a little bit to the right, as if someone hadn’t set it up properly.

  “Carrie Sue said her husband heard it in Jexville that someone had bought that church property.” Mama Betts wiped her hands on her apron.

  “The summer was going along too peacefully.” Mama pushed her glasses up her nose.

  “I’m going over to Alice’s.” I wanted to know if she’d seen the buses and what she thought about it.

  “Be back in an hour,” Mama said. “And take Picket with you.”

  Picket was a part collie, part shepherd mix who would take anybody’s head off who came within ten feet of me. I didn’t bother to point out that I never went anywhere without Picket. She was my closest friend, after Alice Waltman.

  “Don’t make me come over there after you,” Mama called as I walked around to the back for my bike. It was only a short ride through the pecan orchard and a brief stretch of woods. If I’d had to go the road, it would have taken longer, and been a lot hotter baking on the red clay.

  We didn’t farm our property like most of the others. We had the pecan orchard and some woods, and that was it. Daddy said he’d live on the land, but he wouldn’t work it. Not that he didn’t like the idea, but he was never home and he killed everything he planted. Besides, he said the wild things needed a place to hide out. Every time they tried to walk across an open stretch of ground, some jackass blew them to bits. At least they could hide in our woods and be safe. He said every living thing needed a sanctuary.

  I loved the woods. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to talk with Alice, I’d have stopped to play at the spring where we made wishes and confessed our deepest secrets. But the six buses loaded with churchers was burning a hole in my mouth. I had to talk.

  Our land bordered the Waltmans, which was little more than a scraggly acre, mostly dirt with a weedy garden. Alice was sitting in a swing made from a two-by-eight and chains. She was holding Maebelle in her arms, singing softly.

  Since her back was turned to the woods, it was the perfect opportunity for a sneak attack, but I was afraid she’d scream and drop the baby. Maebelle VanCamp hadn’t been unexpected, but she was something Alice and I couldn’t help but resent. In the hierarchy of Waltmans, Alice was born fifth, and at the age of thirteen, she was considered old enough for permanent child care. Maebelle VanCamp was Alice’s total responsibility. Mrs. Waltman was already pregnant again, and the children younger than Alice had been assigned to some of the older kids for care. At least Maebelle was an infant and couldn’t listen in on our private conversations the way some of the other children did.

  Kali Oka was only a rock’s throw from the Waltmans’ front door, so I knew Alice must have seen the buses.

  “Let’s ride down to the end of the road.” I grabbed the bottom of the swing and gave her and little Maebelle a push.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Alice asked, indicating her sister.

  “We could leave her in the woods.”

  Alice laughed. “Yeah, and she’d choke or some critter would drag her off. Then I’d be in trouble.” “Might be no one would notice.”

  We both laughed. It was a joke between us, the idea that there were so many Waltmans one missing wouldn’t matter.

  “You think those folks are gonna live down at the old Lifers’ church?” Alice asked. She shook her head to thwart a pesky gnat that was determined to get near her eyes. Strawberry blond bangs bobbed on her freckled nose.

  “Looks that way. Carrie Sue’s husband heard in Jexville that they’d bought the property. Mama Betts said so today.”

  Alice nodded. “Folks ain’t gonna like it. Not a bit. Not after those last church people who lived down there.”

  “Think they’ll have another commune?” I was proud of the word that made everybody so upset.

  “What’s that?”

  “Where they all live together, like a tribe or something.”

  The idea struck Alice as too stupid for words. “None of them must have nine brothers and sisters, or they wouldn’t want to be a tribe.”

  “We could put the baby in my bicycle bask
et.”

  Alice pushed the swing slightly with her toes. Maebelle VanCamp slept on, her rosebud face turned to Alice’s flat chest.

  “You know why Mama named her VanCamp?” Alice asked.

  I had my theories. Brighton was my middle name, sort of a family tradition, as Mama Betts said, but she snorted when she said it so I couldn’t tell if she was fibbing or not. “She liked the name?”

  “The whole time she was pregnant with Maebelle, she craved VanCamp’s pork and beans. She couldn’t think of anything else, so when they asked her for the baby’s name, that was the first thing she came up with. Daddy made her put the Maebelle first.”

  “It sounds like something out of a history book.”

  “I hope she’s not thinking about a loaf of bread when the next one comes. Can you imagine a kid sister named Sunbeam?”

  “Or Clay!” I was laughing.

  “Clay! That’s a California name. What’s Clay got to do with anything?”

  Her laughter had disturbed the baby. Maebelle’s solid brown eyes turned toward me, and she stared as if she, too, were waiting for an answer.

  “Mama Betts said that some of the black women eat clay from Chalk Gully when they get pregnant. She said it was like some kind of awful craving, and that the doctors try to keep them from doing it because it sucks the blood out of the babies, or something like that.”

  Alice’s laughter was dead. “That’s terrible, Bekkah. Why do they eat it if it sucks the blood out of their babies?”

  “They can’t help themselves. They’ve just got to have it.”

  “If this next one is a boy, I won’t let Mama name it Clay. That’s a promise.”

  “Maebelle’s awake. Get your bicycle and let’s ride down the road.” I took a couple of steps toward the woods where Picket and my bike were waiting.

  Alice cut a look over her shoulder. There was no sign of her mother’s face at the window. “You’ll ride real slow and be careful.” She hefted the baby in her arms to calculate her weight and how much she’d bounce in the basket.

  “Real slow and we’ll come straight back. Mama said I had to be home in an hour. You can stay for supper at our house, and that way your mama won’t think to wonder where we’ve been. Mama Betts is making one of her strawberry pies.”

  “Okay.” She handed me the baby while she slipped around the corner of the house to get her bike. She was back in a minute, pushing the bike while I carried the baby into the woods. “I shouldn’t do this …”

  “I’ve got to see what those Redeemer folks are doing down there. They might be getting ready to worship—” I stopped. Alice could get funny about religious things at times. I didn’t want to scare her out of riding down to Cry Baby Creek to check out the church folks.

  “Worship what?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  I got my bike and made a comfortable little nest for Maebelle in the front basket. It was a deep basket and there was no chance she’d fall out. The only concern was that the road got a little rough in places, but I could get off and push the bike and she’d be none the worse for it.

  Picket was right beside us as we rode through the woods, cut behind my house and finally pulled out onto Kali Oka about half a mile from our driveway. Alice and I shared a look of excitement. We were both dying to see what the new residents on Kali Oka were going to do.

  Three

  THE bridge over Cry Baby Creek is wooden. The creek itself is only about twelve feet wide with amber shallows and a few deep pools. There are places where logs have jammed and the water flows over the top with the sound of a mountain stream.

  Old and dilapidated, the bridge is dangerous. Since it only leads to the church property and that’s been vacant for the last ten years, no one worries much about it. Vines growing over the side of it made a good place to hide for me and Alice and Maebelle. The baby was sleeping soundly as we crouched down by the bank and peered through the honeysuckles.

  The buses were all parked side by side to the left of the old parsonage. The church folks, seemingly mostly grown-ups, were milling about the grounds, staring up at the sky or into the trees, looking everywhere but at each other. No one seemed to be in charge.

  Undisguised by the dirty bus windows they were even scarier than I first thought. Especially the children our age. They reminded me of winter trees, still and solemn and asleep, as if their faces and minds were dormant and waiting for spring. I could not imagine those children playing football or hide-and-seek. I hadn’t caught a glimpse of the really young children yet.

  “Creepy,” Alice whispered.

  “Zombies.”

  “I wonder what they’re going to do down here at the end of this road.”

  I couldn’t imagine; but then I did, fevered images of singing and chanting and snakes. Embellished by my imagination, the churchers were frightening—and compelling. “Wonder if those kids are going to school with us? Mama Betts said no one in Mississippi had to go to school. She said we were one of the only states without mandatory attendance.”

  Alice jiggled the baby as she leaned on one elbow and held her with the other arm. “Not likely. The old church set up their own school, or at least that’s what Mama remembers. She’d never just come out and say it, but I heard her whispering with old Mrs. Shoals that the people from that Life church sold their babies for money.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The girls who had the babies were almost slaves.”

  “Selling babies?” It was an incredible idea. Who would buy one?

  “Yeah, like puppies or horses. Girls in the church would have a baby, and then they’d sell it to someone who couldn’t have one.” Alice tickled Maebelle and was rewarded with a few healthy kicks and a lopsided grin. “I’d like to sell a few of ours.”

  “Alice!” I wasn’t really shocked ‘cause I knew she was just talking. “Look.” Several of the men had gotten together and were talking and pointing around the church grounds. It wasn’t clear what they were saying, but words like nursery and housing and duties were part of it. They called one of the women over, and she nodded her head and then went into the old parsonage.

  “They’re acting like they don’t know what to do.”

  Several of the men walked over to the buses and began to unload suitcases from the back.

  “They’re going to stay here.” Alice inched up the bank for a better view. “They’re going to all sleep in the church.”

  She was right. The men were moving the suitcases into the sanctuary. There was only the church building and the parsonage. By my guess there must have been fifty or sixty families. As the men worked, the women began to form a line. The lack of laughter or conversation made it eerie.

  “Let’s get out of here before they see us.” Alice inched down the bank toward the creek. Maebelle shifted in her arms and let out a small cry.

  The closest group of Redeemers turned our way. I was still at the edge of the creek, buried in honeysuckle, I hoped. I waved Alice back into the protection of the vines in case anyone came over to look.

  Maebelle gave another gurgle. Sweat trickled down my cheek. A middle-aged woman and two girls were looking our way. The woman stepped forward, her eyes scanning. The first sign of life shifted across the faces of the girls. One had long brown hair that hung, uncurled, down her back. The mother wore hers up, sort of like some of the high school girls did, but the effect was completely different.

  Her eyes locked on me and I stopped breathing. She turned, called something over her shoulder, and one of the men started walking toward her.

  “Run!” I tore free of the honeysuckle and slipped down the bank of the creek. Alice came out from under the bridge, and together we waded the shallow water, not concerned for our shoes, only worried about our lives.

  “Run, Alice!” I climbed the opposite bank in front of her so I could help with the baby. Maebelle let out a terrible cry as if we were snatching her bald-headed.

  “Hey! You!” the man called.


  “Run!” I cried. I had Maebelle in my arms and sprinted toward the edge of the woods where we’d left the bicycles. Alice was behind me, dragging in air.

  A brown and white streak erupted out of the woods, headed straight for the bridge over the creek and the tall, thin man who was coming for us.

  “Picket!” I thrust Maebelle into Alice’s arms and turned back toward the church. The man had stopped on the bridge, his face contorted with fury as Picket squared off at him, her hackles raised and her teeth bared. If he made another move toward us, she’d latch onto his leg. Instead of staring at the dog, the man was looking at Alice and Maebelle.

  “Picket! Come here!”

  She ignored me, her focus never shifting from the man. She could sense his rage as easily as I could see it written on his features. There was no way she was going to relax her guard. Several other men had clumped together, and a teenage boy ran into the church and returned with a gun. He handed it to one of the men.

  “Picket!” I could hear the fear in my own voice. They meant to shoot her.

  “Bekkah!” Alice grabbed my arm as I brushed past her, running toward the bridge. “Bekkah, don’t!”

  My fingers found the collar in Picket’s thick fur, and I pulled her back with me. Toenails screeching in the wood of the bridge, Picket was rigid, and a fierce growl erupted from her teeth. At the edge of the bridge I looked up at the man. There was a terrible smile on his face.

  “That’s a dead dog,” he said softly. The man with the rifle cocked it and aimed.

  Picket weighed nearly fifty pounds, but at that moment it didn’t matter. I gathered her in my arms and fled.

  “This here’s private property,” the man called after us. “Come here again, and you’ll be sorry. We’ll get the sheriff on you and that cur!”

  Maebelle’s descent into the basket was less than tender. Alice held my bike for me and then got hers. The man was sauntering across the bridge as we pedaled furiously away, Picket at our side.

  “Whose baby is that anyway?” the man called. “That ain’t no way to treat a young’un.”