Heaven's Crooked Finger

by Hank Early

  “You ain’t got nothing to say?” he said in a low, contained rumble.

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, don’t that beat all.”

  “Don’t what beat all?”

  He scowled at me, and for a moment, I was sure he was going to slap the side of my face that the snake hadn’t bitten. Or maybe he’d slap the side with the snakebite. He certainly didn’t seem aware of my pain, the close call I’d had with death.

  “The Lord give you a second chance, and you ain’t got nothing to say?”

  I just looked at him.

  He stood up and turned his back to me. Then with a movement so sudden it made me jump, he reared his leg back and kicked the hell out of the first pew. There was a loud thud and the sound of wood splintering. He looked down at me and shook his head before grunting and kicking it again. This time, his boot went through the pew clean and came free on the other side.

  Billy Thrash started from the back of the sanctuary, but Daddy shouted him down. “Stay there, Billy. I need to be alone with him. I want him to look me in the eye”—he spun around, dropped to one knee, leaned forward, and spat the next words into my face—“and tell me he is going to turn his back on God after what he done for him.”

  His vitriol surprised me. Despite all his talk of sin and damnation, Daddy had rarely seemed so furious.

  “Daddy . . .” I said.

  “Don’t you ‘Daddy’ me, boy. You better talk to God.”

  “What?”

  “God brought you back from the dead, son. You know how many people lay prostrate praying for you? Do you know?”

  “Wasn’t anybody here when I woke up but Lester,” I said.

  He slapped me. He hit my good cheek, but that didn’t make it any better. My head snapped back, and I started crying. He grabbed my shoulders and picked me up. He faced me, squeezing my chin with one hand, his other wrapped so tightly around my arm, it went instantly numb.

  Something hit me then. It hit me hard. Something I’d never expected, but when it came, it felt like it made sense, like it fit. It was an interior righteousness; it fairly bloomed inside my body and pushed against my pores, and I felt like I might burst with it. I’ve spent most of my life trying to find that same righteousness again. It was a kind of faith, really, the kind of faith strong enough to look evil in the eye and speak the truth.

  “God didn’t save me,” I said. “I just lived. I could have just as easily died. Just like Aida did.”

  The next blow knocked me down.

  I hit the hardwood floor, completely missing the mattress.

  “You don’t never disrespect her name like that again,” he said, “or I will make you pay, by God.”

  I just stared at him from where I lay. I refused to break eye contact with the man I both loved and loathed in equal measure. I knew if I looked away first, it would signal something—it would mean something irrevocable had happened inside me, something that would taint the rest of my days. I would be a coward in my own eyes and not just his.

  He seemed to sense this and bore his awful gaze into me. His lips quivered with rage, and his eyes seemed to grow rounder and bigger as a single vein pulsed just to the right of his temple.

  “I hate you,” I said. There was no heat in the words. No anger. They were matter of fact, and that was how he knew I spoke the truth.

  “The only thing I can figure,” he said, letting his voice drop back into neutral, back to the slow purr that had seduced so many good folks in these mountains over the years, “is that God left you alive to make a point. He wanted everybody who ever met you to see what sin does to a person. He wanted everybody in these mountains to be able to point to a living embodiment of what it means to be damned.”

  He turned to walk away. My whole body let go into deep, rib-rattling sobs. He stopped upon hearing my cries. I watched as his body tensed and he rolled his neck. Then all at once, he spun around. I opened my mouth to say something—I have no idea what—but I never got a word out.

  His big boot came crashing into my face, and I was knocked right back to the place I’d spent the last five days: darkness.

  8

  Mary tossed back the rest of her shine and met my eyes. “You burned it? Are you shitting me?” We’d moved back to the kitchen and were talking in hushed whispers for fear of disturbing Granny.

  “No. I didn’t want to see it again.”

  “See it?”

  “It wasn’t a letter. Not really.”

  “What was it?”

  “A photograph.”

  “Of who?”

  I poured her some more moonshine. “You might need another drink.”

  “I’m fine. Tell me.”

  I decided to tell her as little as possible. This woman didn’t deserve to have the pain of my past inflicted upon her.

  “It was my father.”

  “Your father? Didn’t he die a few months back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Up in the mountains. The crows got to him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

  I waved her off. “Granny really didn’t tell you very much about me, did she?”

  Mary shrugged and brushed back a pile of her brown hair. She was the kind of woman who could drive a perceptive man crazy. The little things all added up to something special—the light freckles, her honey-colored skin, the small gestures she made that were at once efficient and completely feminine. I made myself look away from her.

  “Let’s just say me and my father had our issues. Anyway, on this photo, the time stamp was about a month after they found his body.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No, which is why I wanted to talk to McCauley and tell him to leave me out of his crazy fantasy. My father had a strange effect on a lot of people. Bryant McCauley was just one of the more extreme cases.”

  “And there was nothing else? Just the photo?”

  “He sent a note too. I burned it as well.”

  She laughed and leaned back in her chair.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.” But she was still laughing. It wasn’t cruel, at least not purposefully, but it dug into me nevertheless.

  “No, you’re laughing. What’s funny?”

  “It’s just, I thought you were a detective.”

  “I am a detective.”

  “Fine. I’m sure you’re a good one too. But it was a mistake to burn the stuff. I’ve been working on that case for two weeks, and I’ve got nothing. Can you recall what the note said?”

  I swallowed, deeply displeased with how the trip was going. I’d promised myself I’d speak with McCauley and get the hell out of town, a plan that seemed more unlikely by the minute.

  “Something about him needing my help. He said he’d lost my father, and he needed my help finding him again. Something like that.”

  Mary considered this. “Doesn’t help us much, does it?”

  “Us?”

  “Aren’t we both looking for Bryant McCauley?”

  “No. I was looking for him. My flight leaves at four tomorrow afternoon.”

  Mary drank some more of her shine and passed the jug to me. I didn’t bother pouring, drinking straight from the jug instead.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll go ahead and ask.”

  “Ask?”

  “Yeah. I was hoping you wouldn’t make me, that we could, you know, just sort of mutually agree and avoid the awkward conversation, but . . .”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about you hanging around and helping me track down Bryant McCauley.”

  “Don’t you have a partner or something?”

  “Nope. I’m a transfer, and not just any transfer. My chief in Atlanta nearly had to call in every favor he had to get me here. It still wasn’t enough. Wasn’t until one of the other deputies went AWOL that Shaw finally relented. All of that would be bad enough for getting along wi
th my new colleagues, but there’s more. See, if you haven’t noticed, my skin is a little too brown for these parts, and I’ll be perfectly honest with you, Sheriff Shaw is a racist prick.”

  I covered my mouth to keep from laughing. It didn’t work.

  “What?”

  “It’s just that . . . well, it’s funny on a lot of levels.”

  “I hope one of those levels isn’t the ‘racism is funny’ level.”

  “No, racism is definitely not funny. It’s just Shaw. He’s always been an asshole. I laugh because I agree wholeheartedly.”

  She eyed me with something between impatience and outright disdain. “I don’t see how that’s funny.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “Anyway, as I was saying, I’m not exactly Ms. Popularity at the sheriff’s office these days. I could request some support on this one, but it would only make me look weak. Shaw says he gave me the case because McCauley was a fool. Said he should be easy enough to track down.”

  “But he hasn’t been,” I said.

  “Right. And I figured . . . well, you know these people. You’re not an outsider. You’re—”

  “Let me stop you there,” I said. “I’m something worse than an outsider—I’m a pariah.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Granny said—” She stopped.

  “What? What did Granny say?”

  “Never mind. Can I grab the couch? I don’t think I’m in any condition to drive.”

  “Sure, but I want to know what Granny said.”

  She shook her head, but maybe the alcohol hit her because a minute later, she said, “Granny said you were a good kid, but she worried about you. She said she feared you might be damaged.”

  “Damaged, huh?”

  “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “I’m sorry. Listen, it was unfair of me to try to pressure you to stay. You have your own life now. It was kind of you to come.” She stood and leaned over to kiss my forehead. It was just a friendly peck, but I had to resist the urge to try to turn it into something more.

  “Good night, Earl. I’m glad I got to meet you. I appreciate you coming.”

  I watched her head into the den and collapse on the couch. I turned back to the bottle, lifting it to feel how much was left inside. Plenty, I decided, and took another swig. I stood and eased into the den. Mary was already asleep. I found a light blanket on the back of Granny’s old chair and spread it over her. Then I went back for the moonshine and settled down in the chair to try to drink myself to sleep.

  9

  I woke from a deep, dreamless sleep when I heard a dog barking outside. There was an intense moment of dislocation in which I thought I was in North Carolina and then I thought I was in my boyhood bedroom before finally realizing I was at Granny’s.

  I rose and tried to make it over to the window. I tripped over one of my own boots and banged my knee on the coffee table. Mary groaned in her sleep but didn’t wake up. I made it to the window and saw the storm coming on hard and fast. Lightning struck the top of Possible Mountain. The night went electric white, and I saw the figure of a man standing a few yards away from Mary’s truck. I jumped back, wishing I’d brought my .45 with me, but I’d seen no reason to bring it on such a short trip.

  The dog started barking again, and I wondered why I was the only one awake. I waited by the window, but I couldn’t see anything in the gloom. Lightning flickered in the yard. I braced for anything, but this time there was nothing out of the ordinary. I must have imagined the figure the first time.

  The barking was coming from the other side of my rental. I swung the door open and felt the rain blowing slantwise across the yard. I stepped off the stoop and whistled sharply.

  The dog whined softly at the sound and then began to growl. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to see it backed against the rear tire of the rental. It swatted at something with a big paw before lurching back with a whimper.

  Moving as quietly as I could, I went around to the back of Granny’s house and found a spade hung under the eaves. I took it down and weighed it in my hands.

  The dog whined again. I moved faster, knowing my time was limited.

  I slowed my pace as I neared the truck. Another spark of lightning showed me what was menacing the dog—a rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike. The dog was large, but I knew it wouldn’t be any match for the snake.

  I lurched forward with everything I had, bringing the spade over my head and down, driving it into the snake with all my momentum. The spade split the serpent cleanly in two. The dog jumped away, cowering beneath the rental. I reached for it. It snapped at me, and I jerked back my hand, thankful its teeth had done little more than graze the skin between my thumb and forefinger.

  I made a low clucking sound and came at the big dog more slowly this time, letting him smell me. He growled at first but didn’t snap. I got a hand on his fur and stroked him slowly for a long time. Behind me, the snake’s body continued to writhe in its death throes. I kept petting the dog, murmuring softly until I sensed him relax. I pulled his body from beneath the truck and carried him inside.

  I laid him on the kitchen table to inspect him. His torso and legs looked good. I ran my hands along either flank, and he looked up at me, meeting my eyes. That was when I saw it.

  The snake had bitten him on the side of his face.

  I felt panic surge through me. I didn’t know what to do, how to react. But before I could botch it up, I heard Granny’s calm voice. “There he is. The pup been running around my house for days.”

  “Pup?”

  She nodded. “What happened?”

  “Rattlesnake.”

  Granny pulled herself into the kitchen, grasping the kitchen counter to keep her balance. She reached the table and examined the bite. “We don’t have long,” she said. “Get me a syringe from over by the stove. Fill it with moonshine for me.”

  I did as she said, thankful for this amazing woman who had never met a situation she couldn’t handle.

  “Now some gauze and tape. Over in the drawer. There. Scissors too.” I fetched the other supplies and watched as she worked, first cleaning the bite, then covering it with a compress.

  The dog—the puppy—was clearly some sort of mongrel. It had short light-gray hair and a muscular body. Its large head and eyes seemed friendly and calm—or maybe it was just the shock. I guessed it had some mastiff in it, but the sharply pointed ears made me think German shepherd.

  “He’s been coming ’round for a few days,” Granny said. “I don’t think he’s more than a few months old. Gonna be a big one.”

  “Is he going to make it?” I asked.

  “I got a feeling he will,” she said, stroking his midsection with one of her gnarled yet somehow expert hands. “You made it, didn’t you? Besides, I don’t think he got much of the venom. Sometimes snakes do that. Bite dry or nearly dry.”

  I touched the scar on my face, my hand moving there almost unconsciously.

  “This dog here,” she said. “He’s yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “That’s right. No denying it. He’s your mirror image.” She reached up and touched the right side of my face and then nodded to the gauze just below the dog’s left eye.

  “I can’t have a dog,” I said. “I’m going back to North Carolina tomorrow.”

  “Now why would you do a thing like that?”

  “There’s nothing for me here, Granny. Except you.”

  “Not true. Your kin is here, and whether you like them or not, you can’t ignore them. That church your daddy started is still going strong. Your brother is preacher now. You knew that, right?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Well, that’s your family.”

  There was an awkward silence in which her last sentence seemed to take on layers of unexpected meaning. Your family. Was she suggesting I was somehow responsible for their behavior?

  “When’s the last time
you’ve talked to any of them?”

  I sat down. The dog was breathing heavily now, sleeping.

  “I talked to my cousin, Burt, when Daddy died.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about your brother?”

  I felt myself flushing red. As much as I loved Granny, she could be infuriating sometimes, especially when she refused to stop pressing certain buttons.

  “No.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifty.”

  She whistled. “Where do the years go?”

  “Good question.”

  She adjusted the gauze over the bite and pulled up one of the dog’s eyelids for a quick check.

  “You know,” she said, “you may not get another chance.”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

  “There’s no harm in reaching out.”

  “What’s this?”

  I turned and saw Mary. Her hair was wild, and her eyes were half shut, but somehow she was still attractive.

  “This big guy got bit by a snake,” I said.

  “Just like his master,” Granny said, grinning.

  Mary looked confused, and I touched my face again. “I was bit when I was a teenager. But the dog isn’t mine.”

  “Sure he is,” Granny said. “Now I’m going to leave him to your care. He’ll sleep for a bit, but watch him. If he shows signs of distress, wake me up. I gotta get some sleep.”

  “I’ll help you, Granny,” Mary said and took her arm, guiding her back to the bedroom. I was left alone with the dog—my dog—in the kitchen. Thunder boomed out over the valley, and the dog whimpered. I pulled up a chair and laid a hand over his belly to let him know I was there.

  I thought about what Granny had said. You may not get another chance.

  I didn’t go back to sleep the rest of the night.

  10

  The next morning, the dog was sleeping well, and I moved him to the den and let him sprawl out on the floor. Mary stirred and asked if Granny was up yet.