Days of Little Texas

by R. A. Nelson

  “Maybelline Petty, from Pulaski, Tennessee. Giles County,” Sugar Tom goes on. “Sweet as a picture and had a beautiful singing voice, too.”

  “Pulaski, home of the Ku Klux Klan,” Certain Certain says. “They still hold their big parade up that way every year? What’s it down to now, about eight folks?”

  “My Pulaski angel wasn’t caught up in any of that mess, praise Jesus,” Sugar Tom says.

  “When was this?” I say.

  Sugar Tom takes a bite and chews thoughtfully. “Well, let’s see … long about 1937—no, 1938. I was just about your age. She started showing up wherever I preached. Nobody thought twice about it—I kind of liked it, to tell you the Lord’s own truth … she was that sweet.”

  “Was she your girlfriend?” I say, smiling.

  Sugar Tom points a pickle at his temple. “Just listen. One day—long about Easter time—after the service, Maybelline came backstage, asking me to pray with her. Nobody else was there. She said she had a secret, and I was the only one she could tell. Well. I must admit, Ronald Earl, I was pleased. No, proud. Proud that such a girl would come to me to unburden herself. I was happy. More than happy to listen to her. She leaned in close—I can smell her dress to this day!—and she reached into her snap purse and took out this little pistol. Put it right against my chest.”

  “Lord,” I say. “What did you do?”

  “That’s when she told me. Put her pink little bow of a mouth to my ear and whispered it. The gun still stuck in my ribs. She told me she had discovered I was the Antichrist, and it was her mission as a born-again Christian to kill me in order to fulfill the biblical prophecy for the end-times. Make way for the Second Coming of our Lord and Savior.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She pulled the trigger and shot me stone-cold dead.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true. That little pistol went off—it sounded like a thunderclap in my ears—I felt the bullet go in, come out the other side. Maybelline threw the pistol down and ran. Then I died.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, sir, I did. For nine whole minutes. I could hear the world around me, see faces, hear people speaking, but I wasn’t connected to any of it, Ronald Earl. It had no meaning for me anymore. I was dead.”

  “But—”

  “That’s when I had my vision,” Sugar Tom says.

  “Oh Lord,” Certain Certain says. He tosses the last of his sandwich in the bushes and walks over to help Miss Wanda Joy.

  “Never mind him,” Sugar Tom goes on. “I could see it, Ronald Earl. This short little fence—it couldn’t have been more than twenty or thirty feet long. Just setting all by itself in this open, rolling country. Nothing but grassy little hills for miles in every direction. The loneliness! I can’t tell you. That fence so downright tiny in the face of all those open spaces. No reason for it being there at all. Somebody had the nerve, no, the faith to build it. For what, I do not know. But there it stood. No road. No house or tree or even stone. Only grass and hills. It was South Dakota. That’s where I had gone to, South Dakota. I knew it.”

  He takes a long drink of sweet tea, his neck moving.

  “That’s when I saw Him.”

  “Him?”

  “Him. Our Lord and Redeemer. He started out on the horizon, just the ittiest bitty little dot, just a-wiggling this way and that. I took a set and watched Him come, what seemed like all day. It felt like it was hours afore I even knew He was a man. Then I commenced to feel afraid.”

  “Why?”

  “Let me tell you something. There is a thing about living this life, Ronald Earl. You make mistakes. We all make mistakes. We try our best to walk in His footsteps, but we are so given to temptation, to fear. But I believe it’s the things you don’t do that get you wrapped around the axle. Are you understanding me?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s not that big of a thing to live a life without harming others,” Sugar Tom says, eyes sad. “You just hang back, stay out of trouble. It’s not that hard. But here is what is hard: doing what you know needs doing. Truly helping your fellow man. Loving thy neighbor as thyself is a messy, hard thing to do.”

  A red-tailed hawk lights on a sycamore at the edge of the woods. We watch it cleaning its feathers.

  “You want to know why I was so afraid?” Sugar Tom says. “Because I knew He could see inside me. I knew He could see all the things I didn’t do to help other people. All the ways I could have helped and didn’t. That was it. I knew He would see that, and it raised the hackles on me, I’ll tell you. It was my shame, Ronald Earl. That was what was at the bottom of my fear—I knew that He loved me. His love is unconditional. Complete. Perfect. But don’t you see, that just makes it so difficult to be in His presence. We are not worthy, you understand me?”

  I nod.

  “The closer He got, the more I felt it—the total incompleteness of my soul, what I was lacking.”

  “But what’d He look like?” I say.

  “Not like what you’d think,” he says. “You know what the paintings are like, blue-eyed, long hair and a beard? His hair was short and curly, dark. Eyes very dark. Never saw eyes like that before. He knew, Ronald Earl. There was no bluffing Him, no deceiving Him. I felt like that fence. Do you know what I mean by that? There was no denying what I was. How alone I would be without Him. The only thing that was going to come out of my mouth was the Lord’s own truth.”

  “Didn’t He ever speak?”

  “Indeed He did. He said this: ‘Love.’ That was it. Just ‘Love.’ Then He was gone. Ascended straight to heaven on clouds of glory. Amen.”

  Sugar Tom runs his fingers through his thin hair and slumps back in his seat, eyes closed. A breeze from the lake plays over us.

  “You said that girl shot you, you died,” I say.

  His eyes pop open. “My Pulaski angel.”

  “So what happened to her?”

  He thinks about it. “They caught Maybelline at the Woolworth’s in Nashville, Tennessee. Sitting at the counter drinking a cherry slush and reading a McCall’s magazine.”

  “But you—”

  “I came back. I still have the scar to show for it.” He taps himself. “Right next to my breastbone.”

  “But—in your vision—what did Jesus mean? What did He mean when He said ‘Love’?”

  Sugar Tom smiles. “That’s easy, Ronald Earl. Love. You understand? He meant it as a verb.”

  Miss Wanda Joy hurries over.

  “Tee just heard on NOAA weather radio that lightning has been reported less than ten miles away. We need to be heading back.”

  We pack up and walk down to the dock. As Tee Barlow eases the pontoon boat into the channel, the wind kicks up, slinging the top branches around, and shadows are filling the woods. Certain Certain is right—I don’t ever want to be left alone on Devil Hill ’mongst those crumbling columns, with night and a storm coming on.

  Back at the house Sugar Tom settles in for a nap. Tee Barlow, Certain Certain, and Miss Wanda Joy set up shop in the dining room, sipping coffee and making plans while rain spatters the windows.

  I head upstairs, but just as I’m hauling out my whittling, a knock comes. Faye is smiling in my doorway.

  “Hi. I was wondering if you might be interested in seeing our attic? I want to bring some things down and hoped you wouldn’t mind helping me.”

  The attic door is around back of the kitchen. The steps are steep. I’m surprised how bright it is when we step through the little door at the top. Big dormer windows, six to a side, jut out from the sloping ceiling. I take a look through one and can see the storm making the lake wrinkle.

  “I sure wouldn’t want to get caught up here in a tornado,” Faye says.

  “It feels safe enough,” I say. All that stone and heavy wood. “Besides, I like being up so high. Watching the clouds scoot around. It makes me feel like we are sailing.”

  The attic is full of old furniture, boxes of clothes, Christmas decorations. Craggy old j
unk nobody could care a lick for, making me wonder is this an excuse for Faye Barlow to tell me something?

  “This is where the ghost made its first appearance,” Faye says, breaking into my thoughts like a mind reader. “Over by that door.” She points at a little door set low in the wall. “That leads under the eaves.”

  “What did it look like?” I say.

  Faye settles back on her rear, holding her knees. “Oh, I don’t know. You’ve probably seen the pictures: a blob of light. An indistinct outline of a girl. That kind of thing.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Oh, no. It was described as more of a momentary thing. My nephew was up here looking for the croquet set and saw her. He said the figure was just there a second or two, all in white, shimmering. Then she was gone.”

  “Faye.” I kneel beside her, touching her on the elbow. “I get the feeling there’s something you’ve been wanting to tell me?”

  She cuts her eyes away and picks up a doll with hair made from pieces of cloth. She touches the doll to her mouth and turns to look at me again.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Little Texas … do you like being a preacher?”

  I pull my arm back. “Sugar Tom says I was born to it.”

  “I believe you were.” She brings the doll up again, almost kissing it this time. “But do you like it? Is it something you want to do for the rest of your life?”

  “Well…”

  “I’ll never forget the first time I saw you … it was in Tupelo, Mississippi. Tee had taken me there to see the birthplace of Elvis. It’s just this rickety little frame house, can you believe that? We happened on your revival completely by accident. My, but I was enthralled. The way you laid your hands on that old man, helping him to stand up from that chair …” She licks her lips. “It took my breath away. I think I kind of— well, fell in love that night. You truly have a gift.”

  Nobody has ever talked to me this way before.

  “Thank you, I’m—”

  Faye drops the rag doll and takes my face in her small hands.

  “So you must know how much it means when I say this—I don’t want you to preach on Sunday. Not on that island. I can’t bear for anything to happen to you. I just can’t.”

  She lets go of my face and puts her fingers up to her eyes. I place my hand on her shoulder on instinct.

  “Faye—are you all right?”

  She pulls her fingers down, eyes full.

  “I’ll—I’ll be okay. You have to forgive me, Little Texas—”

  “Please, just call me Ronald Earl.”

  “All right, Ronald Earl. Just please think about what I said. I wish I could tell you where this feeling is coming from, but all I know is it’s getting worse and worse. I just can’t— can’t—please—just—just hold me.”

  Faye takes me in her arms, pressing her big bosom against me. I can feel her shaking. When she finally lets go, she sweeps her red eyes around the attic as if somebody was looking. I help her to stand.

  “I’m so sorry about this,” she says.

  “It’s all right,” I say.

  “I suppose we need to be heading on down now. There’s nothing I really wanted from up here. Just the chance to talk in private.”

  We walk back to the stairs together. “Wait,” Faye says as I put my hand on the doorknob. “Tee … he doesn’t understand things like feelings. You know?”

  She looks at me a long time, not speaking. Then she leans forward on her tippy toes and touches her lips to my jaw.

  “Come on,” she says, pulling the door open. “And please, not a word to Tee.”

  I let myself up to bed early. Will she come again?

  What does she want from me?

  Certain Certain pokes his head in to check on me. I tell him I’m all right.

  The second he leaves, I wish he were still there. I don’t like the shadows in the room. I try reading the scriptures by the lamplight to pass the time, but here’s a secret most preachers won’t tell you: a lot of the Good Book is kind of a grind. Did Paul have a girlfriend? Bet you five dollars he didn’t. Bet you ten dollars he wished he had.

  I set out my whittling things and work awhile, collecting the shavings on my lap. A queen is not the hardest piece to do—not much different than a bishop—but I don’t have another piece of ash this long, so I need to be—

  A scratchy noise. It’s coming from the ceiling.

  I lay back, listening to the skittering, following it with my eyes.

  There is a piece of scripture in a part of the Bible that nobody ever preaches from, on account of it’s lustful and full of wicked thoughts about men and women in love. It’s called the Song of Solomon. I’ve been reading it a bunch lately. Ever since—well, ever since my dreaming trouble started. Here is my favorite part, from canticle eight, verse six:

  “Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death.”

  I think about her, saying this verse over and over in my head. Then add one of my own:

  Dear heavenly Father, please release Lucy from whatever force is keeping her bound up with evil. Take her to your heavenly bosom and comfort her and her loved ones. In the name of Jesus, whose love is strong as death, set her free….

  I pray the prayer for Lucy over and over, maybe a hundred times. Finally I’m slipping into a dream, feeling the blackness come.

  But wait. There’s something in here with me.

  I put my hands out, reaching toward the blackness, just like I did before. I start pushing against it, pushing and ripping till I can see through to the light on the other side.

  And she is there.

  Gliding up to me, eyes shining, blue dress so flimsy I can practically see clean through it. Can see her shape, the curve of her small bosoms, her hips. Can I touch her right through that dress?

  I put my hand out, feel the silky material—Lucy is barefoot now—my hand trails down, feels the smoothness of her arm, then her leg. And next thing I know, I pull her to me. I’m holding her. It’s heaven. Heaven. Holding her sweet, beautiful—

  The blackness comes again, and she is ripped away from me. And Lucy is running now.

  I start to run after her. I can see her blue dress flying up ahead. Something is chasing her. I see it as nothing big, a dark shape at first. As I get closer, I can see its back is humped over, and it has ropy muscles like the branches of a big oak. Its skin is a scuddy red color, like blood mixed with dirt.

  It’s catching up to her.

  I can’t let it catch her, I can’t. It will take her straight down to hell. I put on a burst, get up close, and fling myself at the thing’s shoulders. I grab ahold of it, wrap my arms round its neck, lugging against it, my feet off the ground, making it carry my weight. Its skin is pus-sticky, and hot steam is coming off its giant bald head. Its ears are nothing but holes. It stinks like rotting meat.

  It’s too big, too strong. It keeps chasing, still gaining on Lucy. Reaching out its claws for her.

  I start screaming the prayer. “In the name of Jesus, set her free. Set her free. Set her free….”

  I spring up hard in bed, my whole body gone cold, breath coming ragged. I can still feel the creature’s shoulders, can still see the look of terror on Lucy’s face as it tore into her flesh … so real.

  The bedroom door—it’s open.

  The lamps flicker in the hall.

  Something bumps my arm.

  Lucy. Sitting right next to me in bed. Staring at me with eyes like powdered glass. The door slaps shut.

  I half scream and throw myself out of bed. Scuttle to the door backward on my hands and heels. I get up and get my hand on the crystal doorknob, twisting it back and forth.

  I’m locked in.

  My whittling knife is on the floor; it must’ve still been on my lap when I fell asleep. I snatch it up and hold it out in front of me, pointing the blade at her. She sits on the edge of the bed, so high up her sneakers are dangling. If she makes one move, if she st
arts toward me, I—

  Something creaks behind me. The big door is swinging open again, and the long hallway beckons like an escape hatch to another world. I start for it—

  “Stay.”

  I wheel around looking at Lucy. Still sitting there on the bed, but her mouth is open. Did she really just…?

  “Wait.”

  I straighten up a little from my crouch, but my heart hasn’t slowed down a lick. I’m standing there in nothing but my drawers. I’ve still got the whittling knife out in front of me, thumb on the fat part of the blade.

  “Come on,” she says. “Put that stupid thing away.”

  My hand tightens on the knife.

  “I didn’t come here to hurt you. Please put it away.”

  I hesitate, considering. The door is still open. I can still leave in a hurry if I need to. I fold the knife up, stick it in the waistband of my drawers. Show her my empty hands.

  The smallest little grin pulls up both sides of Lucy’s lips.

  “Did you really think you could hurt me with that?” she says.

  A ghost. I’m talking to a ghost. “I can’t—I can’t believe this,” I say. “Any of it. I can’t even believe I’m talking to you.”

  “Okay, then don’t. But it won’t change the fact I’m sitting right here on your bed. What’s your name?”

  “What? They call me Little Tex—”

  “What’s your name?” she says again. “Your real name.”

  “Oh. Oh. Ronald Earl Pettway.” My voice is so quiet, I wonder if she can even hear it.

  “Oh man. That’s too bad,” Lucy says. “Ronald Earl Pettway. It sounds like somebody who would shoot his uncle at a picnic. But I’ll get used to it. How old are you, Ronald Earl?”

  “Me? I’m sixteen this month—but…”

  I’m the one should be asking questions.

  “Wow, sixteeeeeen,” Lucy says, drawing it out like it’s a magic number or something. Is she making fun of me? It’s hard looking into her eyes, talking like this—they are too … shattered is the only word I can think of.