Lightwood

by Steph Post

  “He got out.”

  “So you come to my door hunting him? I ain’t laid eyes on Judah in years.”

  Levi frowned at her. He was stubborn, but not stupid. He stepped closer and looked down at her.

  “If you see him, you tell him Sherwood needs to talk to him. Now.”

  Ramey returned the look.

  “If I see him.”

  “Girl, you better be listening to me.”

  Ramey didn’t blink.

  “I said, if I see him.”

  She shut the door and twisted the deadbolt. Ramey ran her hand through her hair, snagging her fingers. She expected Judah to be out of bed when she swung open the bedroom door and wasn’t surprised to see him fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. She stood in the doorway and clenched her jaw as she watched him zip up his jeans.

  “You heard?”

  Judah sat down on the edge of the disheveled bed and laced his boots. He didn’t look at her.

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t go.”

  Judah paused when he set his foot back on the ground and looked up at Ramey. The tone of her voice told him that she knew he was going to leave no matter what she said, but underneath that resignation was a veiled entreaty. He stood up and shook out the cuffs of his jeans.

  “I need to get this over with.”

  She jammed her hands into her back pockets and rocked on the heels of her bare feet.

  “You been home less than a day.”

  Judah felt in his pockets for his wallet and grabbed his cigarettes and lighter off the bureau underneath the window. The intense morning light was glowing through the translucent plastic blinds. Judah brusquely rubbed his face and didn’t bother with his hair. He turned back to Ramey and set his hands on her shoulders. She raised her head to look at him and he kissed her quickly.

  “And in that less than a day, I went from being completely alone, almost not existing, to finding my best friend waiting for me, to finally having the courage to open my eyes and see who and what my best friend really was.”

  Ramey continued to look at him with ambivalence. She didn’t take her hands out of her pockets and she swayed slightly when he pulled her to him and touched his forehead to hers.

  “And is. I meant every word I said last night, Ramey. Every word. And I mean it still. Okay?”

  She nodded, but he was already letting her go. He walked past her and she waited for the sound of the front door to open and close. She stood underneath the humming ceiling fan in the steadily warming room and imagined she could still smell him, could still feel his presence beside her. But she knew she was alone.

  SISTER TULAH looked up from her biscuits slathered in gravy to find her nephew standing in the open doorway, watching her. Waiting for her to acknowledge his presence would probably be a more accurate description, though. No one watched Sister Tulah. They glared at her, cowered before her, spun their eyes in wild fear at the heavy thud of her footsteps approaching, but they did not watch her. She was the watcher and Bradford County and its inhabitants stood by silently and waited for her verdict.

  Sister Tulah picked up a thin paper napkin and shredded it between her greasy fingers. Then she picked up another, folded it and pressed it slowly to her mouth. She performed the action over and over until she was satisfied that Brother Felton’s bad knees were beginning to ache and his wide, doughy legs were trembling. Tulah pulled the ragged paper away from her face to reveal thin pink lips, much too small for the breadth of her face. She clutched the sticky napkin in both hands and finally spoke.

  “Yes?”

  Brother Felton leaned on the doorjamb to help support himself and eyed the spread before his aunt. Two Styrofoam take-out containers from Jimmy Boy’s were popped open on the cluttered desk in front of her. One contained the half-eaten carcass of a fried chicken breast, along with a puddle of stewed okra and tomatoes and a deformed mound of crusty macaroni and cheese. The other box corralled what was left of three biscuits drowning in thick, gray gravy. He was about to start slobbering where he stood, but it was easier to look at the food than at his aunt. Even though the overhead fluorescent tubes in the tiny office were dim, bathing the cramped space with the same flat, aseptic light normally found in used car dealerships, Tulah’s eyes were terrifying. Colorless, nearly translucent, save for pinpoint pupils as black and dead as a shark’s, Sister Tulah’s eyes could reach inside a man’s chest and twist his soul, all without ever blinking.

  Felton watched a fat black fly circle the food and then land on the back of Sister Tulah’s hand. She didn’t flinch.

  “Well, it’s just that it’s been five hours now.”

  Sister Tulah picked up the plastic fork she had dropped into the gravy and poked around the swamp of biscuit mush, the fly still clinging to her hand. She located the piece she wanted and began to carve into it.

  “And?”

  Brother Felton tugged on the sweaty waistband of his maroon suit pants. He wished he could loosen his belt another notch, but it was already straining at the last hole.

  “Well, it’s starting to really heat up in there.”

  “When the devil begins to leach his way out of men’s hearts, the air surrounding the men must surely bear the consequences.”

  Felton licked his dry lips and yanked a stained white handkerchief out of his pocket. He wiped his high forehead and then patted down the fringe of dark brown hair crowning the back of his skull. He blew his nose on the handkerchief and wadded it back up in his pocket.

  “Yes, that’s surely true.”

  “Then why are you bothering me?”

  Sister Tulah reached for the thirty-two ounce Styrofoam cup of sweet tea on the edge of the desk. She slurped through the straw and fixed her pale eyes on him. He cleared his throat and tried again.

  “They were saying in the newspaper this morning that this was going to be the hottest day of the year so far.”

  “Do you think God reads the newspaper?”

  Brother Felton averted his gaze and glanced out of the small, square window that looked out onto the dirt parking lot. The Buicks and Fords glittered in the beating sun and he wondered what the temperature was in the shade.

  “I don’t know. I know better than to presume what God does.”

  Silence filled the room like hot air expanding inside a balloon. Sister Tulah picked up the remains of the chicken breast, but then dropped it back down in the container with disgust. She leaned her great bulk back in the squeaking office chair and rested her forearms on the desk in front of her.

  “What exactly is it you want, Brother Felton?”

  Felton would have taken a step forward, but he needed to keep his hand on the doorframe to hold himself up.

  “As I said, the doors have been locked for five hours now. Two of the boys have relieved themselves in the corner and Sister Nessie fainted. She’s eight months pregnant, you know. It’s probably not good for her to still be in there. I mean, with a baby on the way and all.”

  Sister Tulah spread her thick fingers over the scattered piles of grease-spotted paperwork.

  “Bleach and an afternoon nap. What else?”

  Felton swallowed; his tongue was beginning to swell up inside his mouth.

  “No one has been filled with the Holy Spirit since ten thirty. Everyone seems to be in the same state since you left. Except now I can’t even get them to sing. I think that maybe the Spirit has moved on for the day.”

  Brother Felton was beginning to feel dizzy, so he spoke faster.

  “It has been a blessed day, Sister Tulah. Brother Mark finally repented and atoned for attacking his wife at the Easter picnic and Sister Sipsy has repented and atoned again for watching those late-night cable television shows. The collection has been bountiful today. Perhaps it is time to let everyone have a break.”

  Tulah eyed her sniveling nephew, but did not speak.

  “Or maybe, if you believe there is still more good work to be done, we could bring out the box fans? Perhaps the Sp
irit will fill the congregation again once they have cooled off some.”

  Sister Tulah lifted her heavy arm from the desk and flicked the fly from the stringy dregs of okra. In the other container, the gravy was beginning to coagulate. Tulah looked at her food and frowned.

  “Has everyone repented?”

  Felton stood up straighter and wheezed.

  “Not everyone, but most.”

  “Has Brother Jacob repented for the treacherous lies he dared to utter against this church?”

  “Not yet. Though perhaps if he had another week to think on his sins. Another week to come to his senses and revel in the Lord’s blessed light and the gift of his forgiveness. He might even be persuaded to submit a larger reparation to the church.”

  Sister Tulah seemed to consider this for a moment, as she closed and fastened the lids on the take out boxes, but then shook her head.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  A line of sweat ran down the side of Felton’s face, but he didn’t bother taking his handkerchief out again.

  “No. Today is the day of his salvation. It must happen today or it will never happen. Brother Jacob must admit his guilt. When he is ready to do so, come get me so that I may guide him in deciding just how much his sin has cost him. He must demonstrate to the church that God is merciful enough to forgive all trespasses as long as they are sincere.”

  Sister Tulah waved her hand in dismissal.

  “Until then, the fans stay in the storage room and the doors remained locked. You know what to do, Brother Felton. So do it.”

  “Yes, Sister Tulah.”

  Felton backed out of the room and disappeared down the hallway. Sister Tulah grunted and slid open the metal desk drawer at her side. She pulled out a bag of Cheesy Puffs and ripped it open. She could wait all day if she needed to.

  Judah hadn’t expected the town of Silas to change since the last time he had visited his family, and it hadn’t. It hadn’t changed since the last time he’d lived there, since high school, since kindergarten, since he’d been born. The graffiti spray-painted on the sides of buildings had become more intricate and there were now five stoplights instead of two cutting across the lazy expanse of Central Street, but like many other small, purposeless, rural towns, Silas had ceased evolving back in the late 1960s. Instead of developing, it had curled its tail up inside its shell and let the moss grow and the cracks form. Silas was the type of town that would only be useful when the zombie apocalypse hit and the survivors needed an abandoned Save-A-Lot to loot and empty store fronts to hide in. And a Mr. Omelet, of course.

  Judah pushed open the glass front door and was relieved to find the diner mostly empty. By ten there would be standing room only at the front of the restaurant and six to a booth in the back. Right now, though, the freckled teenager behind the hostess stand was bored and didn’t bother looking up from her pink, rhinestone-studded cellphone.

  “How many?”

  Judah ignored her and scanned the narrow restaurant. The bar facing the open kitchen was empty save for an old woman carefully guiding a shaking spoonful of grits to her mouth. A young couple with a listless baby in a highchair sat at one of the square tables running down the length of the room. He couldn’t see the occupants of the vinyl booths in the dim light at the back of the diner, but he noticed the trail of smoke rising from one of them. There was no smoking in restaurants in Florida any longer. Judah figured it had to be him.

  “I’m meeting someone here. I’ll just go on back.”

  The girl shrugged and set her phone down long enough to hand him a sticky plastic menu and a roll of silverware. Judah slowly walked to the back of the restaurant and slid into the seat across from his father.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Sherwood grinned.

  “You got here sooner than I thought you would. Don’t tell me that Barrow girl turned you out already.”

  Judah tossed the menu and silverware down and ran his hands through his hair. He eyed the white ceramic mug of coffee on the table.

  “Well, I was hoping to get this over with as soon as possible.”

  Sherwood stubbed his cigarette out in the runny yellow goo from a plate of fried eggs over easy.

  “That’s not very hospitable.”

  Judah rested his forearms on the hard edge of the table and leaned forward.

  “What do you want, Sherwood?”

  “Welcome home, son.”

  Sherwood laughed and Judah knew this was going to take a while. He leaned out into the aisle and waved at an older waitress meandering his way with a pot of coffee. Satisfied that at least some sort of relief was on its way, Judah turned back around to his father.

  Sherwood Cannon was a big man, in every sense of the word. He had a good three inches on Judah and at least an extra hundred pounds. His hands were wide, his forearms thick and his chest broad beneath the sandbag of weight that had wrapped itself around him at the onset of late middle age. His hair was colorless and limp, but he still wore it long, tied back in a thin, stringy tail that hung between the mounds of his shoulders. A matching scraggly mustache hid yellowed and broken teeth, but his eyes were the best distraction from his lack of oral hygiene. They were piercing blue and set oddly deep for a face so large. Red, burst capillaries clustered on Sherwood’s bulbous nose and sunburned cheeks and, though he couldn’t see it from the angle he was sitting, Judah knew that there was long, thin scar running past Sherwood’s left ear, from the edge of his jaw up to his now receding hairline.

  The waitress slopped an oily cup of coffee down in front of Judah and didn’t wait to see if he wanted to order. Judah was reminded that there were two types of people in Silas: those that wanted members of the Cannon family in their establishments and those that didn’t. This waitress obviously fell into the latter camp. Judah hoped another girl would come by who felt differently. He could feel his stomach starting to chew on itself and was hoping for some toast and eggs.

  Judah took a sip of the burned coffee and felt a layer of skin rip from his tongue as he swallowed the scalding liquid. He didn’t make a face. Judah liked the intense feeling of a small burn; it woke him up and cleared his head. He continued to drink, rolling the coffee around in his mouth each time before slowly swallowing, while he waited for his father to say something else. Sherwood had his eyes on the other side of the diner, fixed to the back end of a waitress built like a Mack truck. Judah knew this game. Sherwood had been the last one to say something, welcoming Judah home, and now he would wait, and make Judah as uncomfortable as possible, until his comment was acknowledged. Another of the tiny power struggles that Sherwood engaged in throughout the day, almost as if by compulsion. The stubbornness of Sherwood was staggering. Judah had once sat next to him in a Ford cab for five hours without saying a word, as they played out the classic struggle of father and son in a silent rage. Right now, Judah had no intention of spending more than twenty necessary minutes with Sherwood. He had things to do. He wasn’t exactly sure what they were, but they were there. He had a life to rebuild.

  “So, nice job picking me up from Starke. Real nice homecoming, you know, walking and hitching rides from soccer moms all the way here.”

  Sherwood slowly dragged his eyes away from the waitress.

  “Well, shit happens. I had things going on yesterday.”

  Judah reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes as he rolled his eyes.

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Sherwood grunted and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Ain’t all about you, boy. Besides, what happened to Cassie?”

  Judah held the box between his thumb and forefinger and shook it. Sounded like only one left.

  “I told you a while back over the phone, me and her are through.”

  “She mean it this time?”

  “I guess so. I mean it, at any rate.”

  Their waitress stalked past the table and Sherwood grabbed the hem of her denim skirt. She turned around, but h
er face remained expressionless. Sherwood gestured at the remains of his own breakfast and then raised his eyebrows in the direction of his son. Judah fumbled for the plastic menu on the table in front of him, but the waitress just nodded and rolled her eyes before continuing down the aisle. Judah hoped that meant she was putting in an order. Maybe bringing out more coffee as well. Though the way Sherwood leered at every female body with an apron and “Hi, My Name Is” button, Judah wondered if he would ever be able to get a meal sitting across from him. It seemed as if every step he took in Silas, every motion he made, every hour that went by, reminded him of why he had left in the first place. Except, maybe, waking up next to Ramey.

  Sherwood leaned back against the sticky vinyl booth and spread his hands wide on the table, satisfied.

  “Good. Never liked that skirt in the first place. Always walking around with a look on her mug like she smelled trash. Course, maybe that’s cause she was spending all that time with you.”

  Sherwood smirked, but Judah didn’t respond to the joke. He flipped open the top of the cigarette pack. Yep, only one left.

  “Still woulda been nice if someone had been there to give me a ride.”

  Judah could hear the hollowness in his voice even as he said it. He didn’t know why he felt the need to bring this up. Sherwood could care less, and frankly, Judah hadn’t been expecting anyone in his family to be there when he got out. He probably would have been furious if they had. He had wanted to walk out of prison a free man, and that meant free from Sherwood as well. But then why had he come back to Silas? Judah didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. Except that he wanted some eggs. And a warm up on his coffee. And for his lighter to catch a spark.

  “Oh, quit your damn bellyaching. It ain’t like it’s the first time you got outta jail. What, you want us to throw you a party or something? Invite Houdini the Clown so he can make some balloon animals for you?”

  Judah ignored that last part and reached across the table for Sherwood’s Zippo.

  “Jail, no. Prison, after being in for three years, yes.”