by Louis Bayard
She was scooping her hand through my hair, even though I’d been telling her I was too old.
“We’re gonna put that name on a banner,” she said. “Fly it every Thanksgiving and Christmas and Fourth of July.”
We never made us a banner—Mama weren’t much for sewing—but the name stuck. Say we’d had a good week at the station. Well, then, Mama would set down the ledger and declare, “Sun shines bright on the Gas Station Pagans.” Or when Janey and Earle took too long getting on their clothes of a winter morning, she’d holler, “Get it in gear, you Gas Station Pagans!”
I started using the name myself before long, then Earle. I knew it had settled in for good when I heard Janey telling one of her schoolmates, “We ain’t allowed in church no more on account of we’re pagans. The gas station kind.” To my ear, Gas Station Pagan sounded just as good as Pentecostal or Baptist, and we could sleep in of a Sunday.
’Course ours was not a denomination recognized in Walnut Ridge, and that’s why the idea of us heading to church—any church—struck Janey as a great amusement. But sitting there at the breakfast table with Hiram Watts, I didn’t see the point in going into it.
“We ain’t much for churchgoing,” I said.
“Thank Christ,” he said. “Ten hours of hellfire is more than I could stomach.”
Janey and Earle stared at him without a word. Then Earle said, “There’s another can of nectar syrup on the shelf.”
Here’s where I should say that Mama did for a time consider attending Calvary Episcopal. ’Cause they’re done in an hour and a half, Melia, and they don’t look all beaten about the head and neck. They look like they went for a nice stroll.
Which is just how Chester Gallagher looked later that morning when he come walking back down Main Street in his one blue blazer. Like he’d met his maker, and it’d all gone down nice. But my eyes kept snagging on the two freakish stone children who sat in the Gallaghers’ front yard.
“You reckon them kids is gonna come alive some night, Chester? Kill you in your sleep?”
“I’ve had worse clients,” he said.
“Don’t see Mina nowhere. She must not be feeling holy.”
“Guess it’s never occurred to you to call her Mrs. Gallagher. As it happens, she’s got a headache.”
“Mrs. Gallagher has got it rough.”
“Let’s go round back,” he said.
It was the first time I’d been in his office. I was expecting lots of diplomas on the walls, but he had only the two—both from the University of Virginia—and you barely noticed them between the moth-eaten deer heads. I set on his cane-bottom chair and twisted the gooseneck lamp till it was pointing at the ceiling.
“This father of yours,” said Chester. “Just dropped from the sky, did he?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s mighty convenient.”
“The Lord is able.”
“Melia…”
“It happens all the time, don’t it? Families coming together again.”
Chester leaned back on his chair casters. Used his hands to make a fort around his nose.
“I don’t even know where to begin, Melia. This fella could have a criminal record. He could cut your throats while you’re sleeping. I mean, what do you even know about him?”
“All I know is he can’t pour hisself a damn cup of coffee.”
“Then how’re you going to pass him off as your father?”
“Oh.” I flapped my hands at him. “He’s just gotta stand and be counted.”
Chester shook his head. “Sometimes you really are a child.”
“Then show me what I’m missing here.”
“How about this? When they come calling—and they will—they’re going to need proof that he’s who you say he is. At the very least, they’re going to demand a birth certificate.”
“I don’t even know where my birth certificate is. Truly.”
“It’s in my safe.”
I confess this caught me unawares.
“Your mama left it in my safekeeping, Melia. And you should know that, under the category of Father, it very clearly says Un. Known.”
“Well, there you are.”
“No, not there you are. If he’s unknown, he could be anybody. Which means you’ll need some other proof that this particular fellow—what’s his name again?”
“Hiram Watts.”
“That he’s your real daddy. Absent said proof, you’ve got no legal case.”
“And they got nothing to say he ain’t.”
Chester made a noose of his tie.
“Listen,” I said, “we just gotta come up with some story is all. Tell ’em the birth certificate got lost.”
“It won’t stay lost. If they don’t find it in my safe, they’ll find one someplace else. All it takes is someone making inquiries.”
“And who’s gonna care enough?” Then I thought of Harley Blevins. “Know what, Chester? I ain’t got time for speculation. I got affairs to run. Talkin’ of. We’d be most tickled if you’d come out to the house tonight. We’re holding a wake for Mama.”
His throat give a swallow. “I’ll be there.”
“Wake starts at six, you be there at five.”
“Why so early?”
“We need clothes.”
Chapter
SEVEN
That very afternoon, I sent Janey into town to spread word.
“You only gotta knock at the three houses,” I said. “Mrs. Hicks. Mrs. Buckner. Minnie-Cora Harper.”
“Why them?”
“’Cause they’re the three noisiest jays this town has got. Give ’em ten minutes, and they’ll spread it to the hills.”
“What should I say, Melia?”
“Our mama has passed on.”
“Passed on.”
“Our family—now be sure you say family…”
“Family.”
“… would be most pleased to have you at her wake.”
“Wake.”
“Tonight at six. Don’t be late.”
“Tonight at six don’t be late.”
“Now, remember, they’re gonna try and hug you and cry and slobber on you. You don’t let ’em, you keep movin’.”
“I should wear black,” said Janey.
“Well, you ain’t got but the one dress, and it’s dove gray, or was.”
But Janey’s got a bear trap of a mind, so she kept looking for something black—rooting, rooting—till in the back of Service Bay B, behind a stack of secondhand Lee tires, she found an old tarp that was not so far off of black, owing to the things it had soaked up. She wrapped that thing round her, and when I let her off at the north end of First Street, she went forth like Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, tarp trailing after. Wasn’t a soul didn’t turn and watch that girl pass by.
She still had it on when she come walking back.
“They was weeping in my hair, Melia. Nearly took the curl out.”
By then I’d already swept the house as clean as I was able. Earle, he’d gone to his Great Heap o’ Treasure and found some beaten-up brass candlesticks, and I dug up some candles from the root cellar, and we covered our dining table with a bedsheet of Mama’s. It had roses of Sharon on it and no obvious stains.
“Don’t it look nice,” I said.
“Says you,” said Earle.
Chester came at five prompt, carrying in his arms a white shirt and duck trousers and a green herringbone tweed vest. “Can’t promise any of it will match,” he said. “Or even fit. Now where is the gentleman in question?”
Well, if you’re looking for a sign, here’s one. In that same instant, Hiram Watts come through the front door. Looking like it was his own wake.
“My.” Chester give a low whistle. “He’s a skinny one. Good thing I brought a belt.”
“Take him back to his room,” I said. “And don’t hurry dressing him.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning don’t come back till I tell you.”
&n
bsp; “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Converse.”
“That’s going to cost you extra,” he muttered. Next second, a professional smile pushed through his lips. “Well, hey now, Mr. Watts! What a pleasure meeting you. Name’s Gallagher, put ’er there.…”
To my vast surprise, Mina Gallagher come walking through the door a minute later. Blinking in her black wool.
“Very sorry,” she said, thrusting out a mess of hothouse lilies.
I didn’t know what to do with them—there weren’t a vase in the whole damned house—and things was deeply awkward till Mina said, “Maybe I could arrange them.”
She grabbed an old iron pot off the kitchen rack and threw the lilies in it, then threw in some of the cowslips Janey had picked the day before. By the time she was done, it was like flower stew. She set it down in the middle of the dining table, then went and set in the rocker by the hearth.
“Are folks bringing pie?” asked Janey.
“Certainly,” I said.
But the first to show up was Maggie McGuilkin, and all she brought was her crucifix. It pulsed in her hand like a vole’s heart. Lizabeth Shafer held her crucifix straight out in front of her, Gwendolyn Davenport let hers dangle to her waist from a chain of dried berries. Frances Bean forgot her crucifix, so she said “Lord have mercy” three times under her breath.
They brought fear in their hearts, these Christian ladies. Probably expecting to find Old Scratch himself dozing by the fireplace, his cloven hoof a-twitching. Failing to find said devil, they grew no easier in mind. Cast trembling looks, mouthed questions at one another. Finally Mrs. Buckner, who was the boldest of ’em, said, “Melia, honey, where is she?”
“Who?”
“Your mama. Is she … I mean…” She cut her chin toward Mama’s bedroom.
“Hell, no,” I said. “She’s in the ground.”
Well, you’ll learn this. If you’re gonna throw a wake, make sure you got a body on the premises. Someone they can sit and stare at and weep over and shoo the flies away from and say, “My, don’t she look natural?”’Cause if you don’t give ’em a body, they wander round your drafty old shotgun shack, telling you how homey it is and saying things like “She’s gone to her reward” and “She’s in His loving care” and not believing a word of it and wondering why no one brought pie.
After a time, I went to Mama’s room and closed the curtain after me and laid on her mattress.
“Melia?” Janey was peering round the curtain. “Mrs. Goolsby brought applesauce cake.”
The cake brought with it Pastor Goolsby.
“Lord,” he said, standing in our doorway. “Whither thou goest I shall go.”
He didn’t pull out no crucifix, but I could see those smoky eyes of his hunting for a Bible or a hymnal or one of those old magazine cutouts of Jesus with the beauty-parlor hair.
“Now, see here, Melia. Between you and me and the Lord, was your mama properly funeralized?”
“’Course she was.”
“I mean with a man of God in attendance.”
“God was there, Preacher.”
I reckon I didn’t put him at peace, ’cause, before another minute was out, he’d laid hands on Janey’s head and attempted to do the same with Earle, who suggested he reconsider.
Minnie-Cora’s current beau brought a mandolin, and now that folks were realizing no hymns was in the offing, Minnie-Cora told him to play “Barbara Allen,” and she sang along in her quavery voice. Jesus, but that song has a lot of verses. I never knew. The rose was just growing up from Sweet William’s grave when the door to the house opened and in walked Dudley Blevins, wearing knickers darned at the knees.
“Here,” he said, pushing some bearded irises at me.
“Throw ’em in the pot,” I said.
But Mina Gallagher—like a servant answering a bell only she could hear—rose from her rocker and snatched those irises before he could take another step.
“Terrible thing,” said Dudley.
“Much obliged.”
“I mean I’m sorry.”
“Well, okay, then.”
We stood there awhile, listening to Minnie-Cora sing “Mid the Green Fields of Virginny.”
“Ain’t never seen you in a dress before,” said Dudley.
“Why in hell would you?”
Even to my ear, that sounded harsh. So I said, “Glad you don’t got to wear that stupid uniform.”
“You and me both,” he said.
“Where’s your uncle got to?”
“He’s coming.”
“Planning a big entrance, is he?”
“Something like that.”
Sure enough, Minnie-Cora had just finished off “Black Jack Davis” when the door breathed open and Harley Blevins’s silver hair flashed out of the night. Was the only part of him that could’ve flashed. He was wearing a black serge coat and pants. Black leather gloves. He took off his black hat and bowed his head, then swung his way right into the room. Went to each Walnut Ridge lady in turn and squeezed her one hand between his two. He knew their husbands’ names, their kids’ names, the names of their dogs and mules, and if there’d been a baby, he’d have kissed it.
“Now who made this here applesauce cake? ’Cause I do not believe I have tasted such opulence in my life. Mrs. Goolsby, this your doing? That’s what comes of being married to a man of God. No, I ain’t jesting. But don’t you go telling my wife what I said, ’cause bless her, she does consider herself a baker, but this here cake. Say now, Preacher Goolsby, I don’t like to step on a man’s toes, but I was wondering if I might offer a brief word on behalf of the departed.”
“Go right ahead, Brother Harley.”
“Why, thank you.” He placed his hat against his chest. “Brothers and sisters. I mean to tell you. The late Brenda Hoyle—why, she was something else.”
“Amen,” whispered Janey.
“First time I ever met her, I said, ‘How’s a little bitty thing like you gonna run this service station all by yourself?’ And she said, ‘With my little bitty hands, that’s how.’ Yes, sir, she had gumption. How many times did I query myself why such a radiant thing should be spending down her days in hardship and toil? Smearing herself with dirt and lubricant when she could be casting her beauteous face upon some deserving husband?
“Well, she went her own way, God bless her. Cut her own switchbacks up the mountainside of life. And while she and I may have had our disagreements about the direction of the petroleum industry and the vis-à-vis relationships of Standard Oil and the independent proprietor, never once did our disagreements hamper my deep esteem for her. Nor did I waste a second wishing her anything but the best in her pursuits.
“And now, my dear friends, the Lord has seen fit to bring our sister Brenda home. And I hereby call unto Him—that’s right, Sister Doris, let’s us hold hands and pray that our Gracious Creator will take pity on these here lambs that Brenda done left behind. Lord, shine Your loving eye upon Melia and Earle and Janey. Let them not be tossed to the pit of lions after all the grievous suffering that has been laid upon them, and grant that, in these lean times, they may find the family and home they got comin’ to ’em. Grant that when they look back upon this benighted place, with its sign near ready to come off and its substandard pumps, they may feel no bitterness nor gnashing of teeth. Only joy in the light of your eternal goodness. In Jesus’s name, amen.”
“Amen,” whispered Janey.
For the first time that night, the women of Walnut Ridge were beaming.
And who was I to ply my tongue against that of Harley Blevins? I’m the sort that’d sooner die than speak in public, but through a crack in the front door, I saw Chester’s face. And then his thumb, pointing up. So I swallowed once, twice, and I climbed on the dining table and cleared my throat loud as I could.
“Evening, folks.…”
But they kept buzzing amongst themselves.
“Evening!”
A slow swivel of hea
ds my way.
“I was just—well, first of all, hey there. Y’all know who I am, so—so I wanted to—to thank Mr. Blevins there for his kind words. They was right kind. I also wanted—I wanted y’all to know that God is great.”
“’Course He is,” said Preacher Goolsby.
“I repeat, God is great. ’Cause He has answered our prayers.”
Harley Blevins’s eyes widened a grain.
“Yes, indeed,” I said. “The Lord has seen fit to bless us with a miracle.”
I waited.
“A miracle!” I said louder.
Through the door shuffled Hiram Watts. If he’d’ve been Herbert Hoover, he could not have terrified those Walnut Ridge women more. They fell back, clutching each other.
As for Hiram, he looked nearly as feared. I took him by the sleeve, led him to the center of the gathering.
“Y’all, I want you to meet Mr. Hiram Watts. Our daddy.”
Had I to do it again, I’d have made sure his clothes fit. The stuff Chester brought was too big in some places, too small in others. He looked like he was being stretched and shrunk right before our eyes.
“Pleased to meet you,” he whispered.
A deep silence fell across the room. Then, from out the quiet, came the tinkling voice of Frances Bean.
“Likewise.”
(I will always think kindly on Frances Bean.)
“Reckon you can imagine how joyous it is to be reunited,” I said. “A family once more, under the same roof. Carrying on Mama’s wishes and dreams.”
More quiet.
“What I mean is I hope you’ll find it in your hearts to be glad for us.”
“’Course we are,” said Mrs. McGuilkin, rallying.
“It’s a little sudden is all,” said Mrs. Davenport. “We didn’t know nothin’ about no daddy.”
“He’s been on the road a lot,” said Janey. “And he’s been on trains.”
“Lordy,” said Harley Blevins. “Let me be the first to shake this feller’s hand. Give Uncle Harley a shake, will you? There you go, that’s the—oh, Jesus, I didn’t hurt your hand, did I? Folks tell me I got a strong grip. Hiram, you an outlander? From the three or four words I heard so far, I figured you for an outlander.”
