"I suppose. Keep missing somebody, that's all." Then I said, thinking out loud, "It's like the more excited I get about something the more I'm dooming it to fail."
"Sorry."
"It's fine. I should've waited to check. I didn't mean to make you feel weird. It's this girl—woman—I met this week." I watched the winter-weary landscape drift by. Fields that looked old, houses that looked even older. White mountains with a dusting of naked trees. With just a bit less color it would've been a black and white photo. Little by little the land became more familiar.
"Should've known it was woman troubles." She said it with excessive exasperation, mocking me.
I tried to laugh. "Are you making fun of me?"
"You think?" She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and went on, "I'm sure you have drawers overflowing with panties the ladies throw at the stage. We saw you guys play down at Mon Brewing a few times. Way to keep the Nineties alive."
"Ouch. Who pissed in your Cheerios?"
"You did. There are guys up here who would play you into a hole, but nobody's ever going to hear them because they aren't as pretty as you." She kept looking into her side-view mirror. At the speedometer. Anything to keep her eyes from drifting to the right.
I kept my mouth shut for a long time. Plenty of silent miles slipped by. I should've been okay to let it go. But that wasn't what happened. "You know, I work hard for what little I have. And I'm not about to apologize for growing up in town instead of out in the boonies. So don't give me what for like you know what you're talking about."
"Don't be mad. I'm just playing." She turned on the radio, flipped through the static, then slid a CD in. "You're an easier target than I thought you'd be. I thought city kids had street smarts."
She looked at me, her blue eyes pleading, then smiling. "When I first got to Morgantown you played at the Nickel all the time. My friend, Chelsea, thought I had a thing for you. I always told her that you'd probably be arrogant. And I was right."
"Lovely." We came past the waterslide at Marilla, all frozen and quiet. It felt good to be home.
"You guys playing there this week? Maybe I'll bring Chelsea down to meet you. Now that we've bonded and all."
"The band's done. Finito. I'm a solo act now."
"That's too bad. Well, if you ever get the itch to hang out with amateurs we're up at the coffee shop a few times a week."
"Starbucks?"
"You would think that. No, I prefer to patronize local businesses instead of filling fat corporate coffers. Mountaineer Doughnuts, up on Spruce."
"How high and mighty. But Mountaineer Doughnuts is hardly a coffee shop. A couple of gay guys putting in a stage and hiring baristas doesn't make it a coffee shop."
"Touché. Maybe there's a little more to you than I figured, Preston Black."
"That maybe Chelsea was right?"
"Never. I'd throw my panties at Pauly."
"Jesus."
"Where can I drop you off?"
"Mountaineer Doughnuts is fine."
"Okay. I made a mixtape for you."
"You serious? It'd been years since anybody made me a mixtape, and this weekend I get two."
"Well, a CD. Just some stuff you may have never heard. Sara Watkins, Yonder Mountain String Band, Uncle Earl." She handed it to me with an apologetic smile.
"Thanks a lot. I'll listen to it today." I got my stuff from the back seat.
"Yeah, right." Katy tooted as she drove away.
I stood on the corner waiting for whatever would happen next. Walnut Street looked a lot different today than it did Friday night on my drunken stroll up High. The sidewalk felt a little slippy, so I shuffled my feet, my Tele acting like a counterweight to all of the material Jamie had loaded me down with.
I thought about heading straight to Dani's, but remembered she said she'd be up at the library. Pauly's message that he'd be on the road for a few days reminded me I had the apartment to myself. My stomach growled. The easiest thing would be to take it into the diner to see mom. But she'd know I hadn't been talking to Pauly and ask a lot of questions and tell me how sin makes us a prisoner of Satan and all that. Seemed like a lot of trouble for a cheeseburger.
Pauly had parked the Jeep on the side. Even though I knew he wasn't home I crept up the steps anyway. My shoes thudded against the bare wooden stairs. The click of the old deadbolt echoed through the naked hall. On the day we moved in, August had warmed the wood floor, so the whole place smelled like curry and cloves from the Indian restaurant below, and sweet, a lot like Isaac's. Like an attic full of everything you ever loved. The drafty window at the end of the hall let winter blow right in. Winter killed that smell.
The lights were off, the TV asleep. The heat hadn't been run in a while. The sink stunk like dirty dishes, and the pizza box from the other night sat in the trash with my half of the pizza still in it.
I tapped open the door to his room with my foot. A pair of shirts hung over the closet door still wrapped in dry-cleaning bags. The embroidery on the patch above the pocket said 'Paul'. He had a picture of the three of us tucked into the mirror above the dresser. Paul and Stu and me at the Fayette County Fair. We thought we were on our way to a record deal and a big tour. Like driving up to Pennsylvania for a show was a big deal.
The fridge was empty. Not only was he still on the wagon, maybe he'd started a hunger strike too. In the freezer a container of halupki waited like that baby mammoth they found—encased in ice, furry. Somehow we could never get fifty bucks together for a microwave. Always had money for Jack, though. Maybe when we're dead and gone somebody'll take a DNA sample from the halupki and try to clone it.
The second-best cure for hunger was sleep, so I headed back to my room. Pauly had cleaned out the Jeep. He'd made a big pile of my gear right in the middle of my floor. My Fender Twin, a Marshall half stack, two Chico San milk crates full of pedals and processors, cables, an EMG 81 I'd put into the Strat that I sold to get the Twin. Looking at that pile felt like looking at a museum exhibit.
Tomorrow I'm selling it all.
These things were no longer essential to the way I made music. Stuff came and went. I sold my Strat for a ring. An opal. I'd never seen an item depreciate so fast. A nine hundred dollar guitar bought a five hundred dollar ring which apparently wasn't worth the hand that had given it to her.
I sold my first car to pay a fine. Ironically, without the car I wouldn't have incurred the fine. And without the car the six month driver's license suspension didn't matter.
But all the effects pedals and amps and guitars were small potatoes. I sold my soul to play covers in a bar band. Might never get that back.
I undressed and kicked all my dirty clothes into a pile by the closet. I pulled Jamie's CDs from the bag, dropped one into my player and tried to fall asleep to the sound of fiddles speaking in tongues, their accents choked with mountain laurel and pine trees.
The fiddle buzzed like hornets in a soup can. A dissonant man's voice sang, "Preston Black couldn't eat and he couldn't drink. Preston Black couldn't eat and he couldn't drink. But he'd sit at the table all the same, waiting for handouts from wherever they came. Preston Black couldn't eat and he couldn't drink."
That first verse could've been about anybody else in West Virginia. I got all that stuff about metaphorical hunger. Like, maybe I hungered for affection, or I thirsted for spirituality or whatever. But the first verse didn't sell me on the song. Jamie must've felt the same way, because when Earl sang it back in the fire hall Jamie didn't pay it much mind. But by the time Earl finished the second verse, Jamie looked at me like he he'd just seen Elvis.
Another instrument came in on the second verse. Maybe a banjo. Not a crisp, hard banjo, like the one Bela Fleck played. I could almost hear fingernails grazing the head.
"He'd hide in bed 'til the morning came, but the devil'd find him just the same. Preston Black couldn't sleep the whole night through."
I hit REPEAT and let it play over and over. After a few more listens I stopp
ed hearing my name just at the beginning of each verse; I heard it in every malnourished note.
Almost like the devil himself was singing about me.
I hurried and pulled the glass door shut behind me but still managed to let a little winter into the vestibule. Red offertory candles shivered in the cold air. For a second I stood next to the holy water, wondering whether or not I should bless myself. Figuring it couldn't hurt I dipped my fingers then made the Sign of the Cross. "In the name of the Father, of the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen."
Up front a small group of women prayed their rosaries. My grandmother used to be one of them. Their murmurs unsettled me when I was little, like they were saying something secretive and magical. When my grandmother died I stopped coming to mass, like maybe it wasn't so magical after all. The smell of the candles and the Stations of the Cross didn't mean as much to me now. The old church, pretty much unchanged since my thirteenth birthday, didn't seem to have the soul it used to. I learned to sing here.
Some people think talking about souls is old-fashioned, but that was the one thing I clung to after I stopped coming back. The idea of a part of us that lives on after we die took away my fear and made the future seem a lot less scary. Like, even if Heaven or Hell didn't exist, I could buy into the idea of our soul being absorbed by the energy of the universe. As much as I liked to think I'd outgrown that superstition, I figured I wouldn't be here if there wasn't still some part of me hanging on to it.
I slid into the pew without genuflecting. I didn't kneel and pray, and retrospectively got a little angry for crossing myself when I came in. Tried to tell myself it was just habit. Two people waited ahead of me for the confessional. The stained glass windows sparkled like fireworks. The low sun turned the tired window into neon emeralds and rubies. Cinema from a less-sophisticated time. If I looked long enough I could almost see Mary turn to me and smile. She watched over me while I waited. As soon as I went into the confessional she'd go back to looking at her newborn.
When my turn in the confessional came I got butterflies. After I pulled the door shut, in the dark, I said, "Hello?" I figured it didn't matter who spoke first, since I didn't actually come to confess.
On the other side of the screen the priest shifted.
"Father, I haven't been in here since—" I tried to think of a way to say it that sounded less like a lie. "I haven't been to confession since my confirmation. Sorry if I forgot how it goes."
When he spoke I realized the voice didn't belong to Father Turek. "That's not the best opening, but now you can just tell me why you're here."
"Why I'm here?"
"You know, the whole 'forgive me Father, for I have sinned' spiel."
I stared into the screen, trying to get a feel for the man on the other side. "Well, the thing is I'm not actually here to confess."
He said, "So you've been living without sin?"
"Ha. No, not exactly. But—and I know this sounds crazy—but I think I might actually have a bigger problem."
"Don't be so sure of forgiveness that you add sin to sin." His tone reverted, like he'd reminded himself of the serious business taking place in here.
For a while I didn't know what he was talking about, so I didn't say anything. But the darkness made the time pass like melting ice. Enough time to make me believe I'd made a mistake. "Sorry, man. I'm going to roll. I'm probably not supposed to be here for this kind of thing."
The priest slid the screen open. "Wait." He sat hunched over like he was three sizes too big for the small bench. The robe he wore looked funny because he was so young. "This isn't the appropriate place for a discussion, but we can talk in the office. You came for a reason, right?"
I didn't say anything.
"As soon as I'm done hearing confessions we can talk, okay? Promise me you won't leave?" He used his youth pastor voice.
"I'll wait." I opened the door and went back into the church. But before I could sit he opened the door a hair.
"Were you the last?" He peeked through the small opening. The only other people were in the first few pews.
"Looks like it," I said, waiting to see what he wanted me to do.
He stepped out of the confessional and stretched. He had to be seven feet tall.
"Jeez," I said, a syllable shy of Jesus. "Basketball?"
"I'm Father James," he said with a smile and a handshake. "Center at St. Vincent's in Latrobe."
I shook my head.
"What? Mr. Rogers' hometown?" He walked toward the stairs behind the altar. "Rolling Rock?"
"Yeah, Rolling Rock. That's right," I replied, wondering how a guy not much older than me could go the rest of his life without ever making love again.
"It's this way." He ran his thumbs along the outer edges of his purple stole.
"I remember. I served as an altar boy here back in the day."
"For Father Anthony?" He nodded toward the women in the second pew. They were all deep in prayer. None noticed when he passed.
"No. Father Turek. I didn't last very long." Father James's height made me feel like I was ten years old again. We went around the altar and down the stairs to the basement. He asked me to wait in a wooden school chair at the old teacher's desk in the basement office. Returning to a scene that hadn't changed in seventeen years had the same effect as a time machine. I hated to admit it, but being in that building calmed me.
Father James returned. "Something to drink? I have pop or tea."
"Tea sounds good." I took my coat off and laid it over my arm.
He filled an old teapot with water from a big plastic water cooler and placed it on a hot plate. "So, what could be a bigger problem than leaving the church? You may not like my tone, but I believe it's best to get to the point in situations like this."
"It's not the tone that bothers me. It's the way you talk to me like I'm in sixth grade. But I came to you for help, so I'm willing to put up with it."
He smiled and lowered his eyes. "You're right. I apologize. Usually I'm dealing with frustrated freshmen asking me to justify premarital sex and birth control. It's just an old routine."
He opened a cupboard and took out two mugs. "Cream or sugar? And it's skim milk, not cream. Don't know if that changes anything."
"Just a little sugar. Thanks."
He stood by the hot plate, waiting for the water to boil. He folded his arms and said, "So what's on your mind?"
Realizing that saying it would make it real, I took a breath and started with the record and my dad and how those lead to the song which scared me because of the way it hit a little too close to home, especially the whole part about not having a mom or dad and not sleeping the whole night through. And then I added real quick at the end a few lines about how I didn't really believe it, but I kind of did and I didn't know which was real or if my mind just played tricks. I finished up by rambling about evil, hoping he'd get the gist of what I was saying without actually making me say it. I said, "I want to know about evil. Like the devil from the Bible. Like, does evil exist or do we imagine it?"
The tea pot hissed, but the priest grabbed it off of the burner before it could scream. Steam rose from the cups and the priest tugged on the teabag strings to jumpstart the brewing process. He put a towel over the kettle, set a kitchen timer for four minutes and brought the mugs over to the desk. Instead of sitting across from me he sat in the other wooden school chair. He spoke well-chosen words. "St Augustine said, 'I sought the source of evil, and I found no explanation.'"
I nodded appreciatively. "Maybe I should've been more specific. It's my fault for not wanting to embarrass myself. I was more interested in hearing about the devil. Specifically."
Without taking the same thoughtful pause he'd taken before, he said, "Evil is a very active presence, not just the absence of good. Evil infiltrates us, perverts our way of thinking. Sin pushes us away from God. That's when evil attacks." The timer went off and he removed the tea bags from the cups. "God is the source of all life, and sin cuts us off from God. Sin cuts of
f our source of life."
"Sorry." I held my hand up just short of waving him off. "It's hard for me to say this without sounding stupid. But I really wanted to know more about Satan I guess. Like, is he real? Does the church think he's real? Can he possess us? Can we lose our souls to the devil? Make deals with the devil and all that? Specifically, does the devil exist? Is he on Earth now? Right now? I guess that's specifically what I'm asking."
He blew into his tea. His reply took a long time to get to me. "Saint Paul said the Devil was 'the god of this world' and Christians don't have to be concerned about just one, but many devils."
He leaned forward, clasping his hands and resting his elbows on his knees. "The Devil was there for mankind's original sin, and the Devil knows how to work his way into our hearts through temptation, through our libidos, our urges and wants. When we get jealous of somebody. When you see a young lady and think about hopping into bed with her before you wonder what her name is. Any of the dark thoughts we have before drifting off to sleep. When we get drunk and say crude things about other people, we are widening cracks that lets the Devil in. We can defend ourselves by arming ourselves against sin. Grace and innocence make us powerful. Jesus teaches fasting and prayer as a way to protect ourselves from the Devil's methods. 'Be not overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.'"
I pushed my tea away and stood up. "Thanks a lot. I appreciate your time. I know that you have more important things you could be doing right now."
I buttoned my coat. "You know, I have no problem with good and evil and sin and all that. I know what you're saying. But fasting and praying won't change the record and the dreams. I don't need to know about penance and original sin. I need to know what I can do about this devil thing."
Father James didn't try to convince me to return to my seat. As I tightened my scarf he said, "In the desert Jesus kept Satan at bay by totally adhering to his Father's plan of salvation."
"So you don't really know?"
"Church doctrine is cloudy. Almost like it's hidden in the same darkness that hides the Devil himself."
The Devil and Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey) Page 10
