Lightwood

by Steph Post

  The man sitting awkwardly on the folding chair in the Cannon’s garage had said that he had the details about a big deal the Scorpions were going to pull off. They had gotten together enough dough to buy a shipment of cocaine from a source down in Miami and were going to run it up to a contact in Brunswick, Georgia where they could sell it for near triple what they paid for it. The bikers were looking to make a hefty profit, just for making a trip up and down the length of the state.

  “Bout this point I was gonna kick this sorry guy’s ass outta my shop. The last thing I’m looking to do is buy coke from a pack of road rats. I already got that area covered. But then this little peckerwood pulls out the kicker.”

  The man knew exactly when the Scorpions would be in route from Brunswick back to their clubhouse, and that they would have a hundred and fifty thousand dollars riding in their saddlebags. He wanted Sherwood to rob the bikers and was willing to give them twenty percent of the haul for doing the job. Sherwood and Levi had left the man alone in the garage and gone out into the bright sunshine of the gravel lot to confer. Levi made a couple of phone calls and it turned out that someone had heard about a biker gang doing a coke run down to the Everglades, but that they weren’t bringing any product back to sell.

  “I went back inside and shook that man’s gross, sweaty hand. I think he was bout to piss himself the whole time he was sitting there. Probably thought we was gonna pop him or something. What a clown. But I told him we’d do it. Easy money all around, I said.”

  Judah had been listening while Sherwood gave him the details and though he was still wary of him, and still bitter about the last time he had agreed to work with his family, he could feel the familiar rush building up inside him. It wasn’t about the money, it wasn’t even about the excitement; it was about being a Cannon. Judah finally nodded and flicked his cigarette out the window.

  “All right then. That’s the deal, so what’s the plan?”

  Sherwood pulled out his cellphone and dialed a number.

  “The plan is simple. We go pick ourselves up a farm truck.”

  The driving rain slid down the windshield in heavy waves and obscured Judah’s view of the road ahead. The interior of the parked Suburban was stuffy, the air filled with the acrid smell of stale smoke and greasy hamburger take out bags. Levi had cracked the passenger window to let in some air, but the rain was erratic, blowing sideways, and he had to roll it back up. A thin blanket of condensation smeared the inside of the windshield, but Judah made no move to wipe it away. He sat calmly in the driver’s seat with his palms resting on the thighs of his jeans and waited.

  He had sat like this once before, inside a stuffy truck, breathing stale air and staring into the cloud of vapor pressing against the glass. Only his hands had not been open, resting calmly, they had been clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms, and it had not been Levi, restlessly scrolling through his cellphone in the passenger seat, but Ramey, with her legs drawn up to her chest, her chin resting on her knees, staring at him with those unblinking hazel eyes. He had been sixteen, with a bloody lip and a bruised fist of pride squeezing his heart. He hated the world, everything in it, and especially his father.

  They hadn’t spoken much. He had spun out of his family’s driveway in a blind rage, adolescent tears burning behind his eyes, with the intention of driving to the ends of the earth and never looking back. He had slowed only a few miles down the highway when Ramey’s slight form had emerged on the shoulder through the rain. He never asked her where she was walking to or from, but had stopped the truck long enough for her to get in. He had been afraid that she would ask what had happened. Why his lip was bleeding, where he was going, what he was going to do. But she didn’t. She had sat silently in the seat next to him, watching the trees and fallow fields passing by through the window. It had been winter and the rain muted everything around them into smudges of pine green, oak gray and sandy dirt brown. It had been cold and Ramey had pulled her wrists up into the man’s flannel she was wearing against the weather.

  She had finally suggested that they drive out to the boat landing. When they pulled up at the deserted clearing alongside the Sampson River, Judah had turned off the truck and they had sat together listening to the steady rhythm of the rain on the wide, rusted metal roof. She had reached out and taken his hand and it had made all the difference that day.

  Judah and Levi waited for hours. He had his hands crossed on the steering wheel and his forehead resting on the back of his hands when they finally heard the sound. It started out as a dull whine in the distance, but by the time Judah raised his head and began wiping away the film from the windshield it had become a distinct, grinding roar. They leaned forward, peering through the thin veil of trees separating the dirt clearing they were parked in from the main highway. Suddenly, daggers of light broke through the darkness and they watched as the motorcycles, four Harleys, screamed past them in the rain. Levi nodded to Judah and snapped open his phone to make the call. Judah started the engine and slowly crept out onto the highway, keeping the truck’s headlights off. Judah waited until the red taillights of the motorcycles disappeared around the curve ahead and then turned to his brother.

  “Ready?”

  Levi grinned at Judah and pulled the black ski mask down over his face. He snatched the .45 from the floorboard and snapped the slide back. Even in the darkened truck, Judah could see the gleam in Levi’s eyes.

  “Floor it.”

  “WE NEED to talk about the world!”

  Sister Tulah slammed her worn, leather Bible down on the wooden pulpit between a Mason jar half full of strychnine and a squeeze bottle of olive oil. The clear liquid sloshed in the jar as the pulpit shook from the force. Sister Tulah did not notice. She picked the Bible back up and walked to the edge of the slightly raised stage. Her long, navy blue dress came to her ankles, exposing white Reeboks and athletic socks, and the plywood platform creaked as she prowled across it. It was raining outside the Last Steps of Deliverance Church of God, but the real storm was just beginning to rage inside. It was four hours into the second night of the weekend long revival and the Holy Ghost had already come down once. The congregation was galvanized; a charged current seemed to run along the empty rows of backless wooden benches. Everyone was on their feet. They had been clapping and swaying, singing along to the piano player and drummer in the back corner, until Sister Tulah had let her Bible fly out of her hands. The singing had stopped and the movement had ceased. The piano player, a teenage girl with blond hair down to her waist and a bad case of acne, stood up, but the drummer continued, providing a primitive, rhythmic accompaniment to Sister Tulah’s diatribe.

  Sister Tulah looked out over the crowd and focused her eyes on the painting of Jesus on the cross hanging over the heavy wooden doors. A hand lettered banner tacked below the painting proclaimed He Is Always Watching You-a reminder and a threat to the congregation when they exited. Another sign, posted between two windows, the thick glass painted over to keep out prying eyes, made sure everyone knew that This World Is Not Your Home. Sister Tulah waited until she knew the electricity in the room had finally been routed directly to her before she repeated herself.

  “We need to talk about the world.”

  Sister Tulah lowered her voice as she crept along the edge of the stage, making and holding eye contact with her followers standing in the first row.

  “Anybody remember what John said about the world?”

  At the mention of the disciple’s name, a Hallelujah was thrown up from the back of the room. Sister Tulah tapped the back of her closed Bible.

  “John said, Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. Remember that? He said, If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him.”

  Several unintelligible shouts rose up from the crowd. A middle-aged woman put her palm up into the air and nodded her head. Sister Tulah took a few steps backward and looked down at the Bible in her hands for a moment.

  “Did you he
ar that right?”

  She gripped the Bible in one hand and raised it over her head. Her voice was growing louder, filling the room and commanding the attention of everyone in it. No one could keep their eyes from her, not even to look upwards to God.

  “He didn’t say that you could love the world and receive the love of God at the same time.”

  Sister Tulah slammed the Bible back down on the pulpit and left it there as she stalked across the stage.

  “There’s nothing in there about being able to have your cake and eat it too.”

  Another chorus echoed back to her, but Sister Tulah dispensed with the dramatic pauses. She charged ahead now, hurling her words toward the eager, desperate listeners.

  “So, the way I see it, brothers and sisters, the way I see it tonight, is that you’ve got a choice. And it’s not an easy one. You may be standing there, right now, and you’re thinking to yourself, no way Preacher, it’s not a hard choice. I’m standing here in the house of the Lord on a Saturday night. I’ve given myself over to God. I’m safe from those burning flames of Hell. I’m safe from the fiery pit. When the Latter Rain comes, I know I’m going to be standing on Christ’s side of the line. Well, let me tell you something, brothers and sisters, and you better listen good. You are wrong!”

  The congregation erupted with another bout of Hallelujahs as they stamped their feet and clapped their hands. Sister Tulah paused to lick her lips.

  “Now, I know you’ve been sitting in this church these past two days. I know you’ve been singing and sweating and calling out to God and some of you have been filled with the Holy Ghost and some of you have not.”

  Sister Tulah raised her hand to her heaving chest and shook her head.

  “I don’t know how many of you have been out in the world, though. I don’t know how many of you are backslidden. But God does!”

  Sister Tulah came up to the edge of the stage and jabbed her finger into the air. The congregation was quivering before her and many of them had tears in their eyes already. A rail thin old man standing out in the aisle had two rivulets of tears streaming down his cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away.

  “I can tell you that! God knows which ones of you have been to the movie theater and let yourself be decayed by the demonic filth they show on those screens.”

  She lurched across the stage, pointing out into the crowd.

  “God knows which of you girls have given yourself over to vanity by wearing lipstick and reading fashion magazines and assuming the role of the harlot. He knows which of you men have let the devil’s poison pass your lips to pollute your bodies and endanger your families. He knows when you associate with adulterers and fornicators and those who are the sons and daughters of Babylon. He knows!”

  A low susurration was circulating through the church now, responding to Sister Tulah’s every word. Two women in the front row fell to their knees and held their heads in their hands while they rocked back and forth on their heels. Sister Tulah turned her back to the congregation for a moment, gathering her breath, and then whirled around, cracking her arm out like a whip.

  “And when the devil comes! When Satan comes knocking for your soul and his demons are fighting amongst themselves over who has the privilege of ripping you apart and dragging you down into that fiery lake, into that never ending torment filled with searing flames and burning brimstone and misery for all eternity, God is going to know what you’ve done.”

  A haunting, high-pitched wail came from the back of church, and several men fell to their knees and threw their hands up toward the rafters.

  “And he’s going to know if you’ve listened to false prophets or if your heart is pure. He’s going to know if you’ve given into sinful cravings of lust and pride. God is going to know and He’s going to have to make a call on you.”

  Sister Tulah walked back behind the pulpit and gripped the edge of it, leaning over her Bible and letting a note of pity creep along the edge of her booming voice.

  “God is either going to tell Satan and his legions of demons to go ahead and take your soul and drag you down to the agony of the burning pit for all time, or He’s going to keep you for himself and let you be with Him in His everlasting glory.”

  She picked up the Bible and held it over her head, her voice growing louder and louder to compete with the roar building up from the church members before her. An old woman had fallen down at the end of the aisle, her frail body twitching against the rough floorboards and her skeletal hands clawing upwards into the air. Her eyes were glazed and her mouth was open and twisting, uttering nonsensical sounds. Her pale green dress had been flung up above her bony kneecaps and another woman quickly covered her shaking legs with a white sheet.

  “So what is it going to be, brothers and sisters? What is it going to be, saints?”

  Sister Tulah came once more the edge of the platform and stared out at the faces twisting in agony and ecstasy before her. She shook the Bible over her head with one hand and made a fist with the other.

  “What are you going to choose? Do you want to live in the world or do you want to live with God?”

  A fathomless scream pierced the air followed by a strangled babble. The stage vibrated as Sister Tulah stamped her foot.

  “For as it says in the good book, Ye cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of the devil. And remember, the rod of the wicked shall not rest upon the lot of the righteous; lest the righteous put forth their hands to iniquity.”

  The rhythm of the drums had intensified and now the church was continually filled with short, raw barking laughter and long, low wails. A teenage boy banged the back of his head on the wooden bench behind him as he went down, but no one noticed. Sister Tulah raised her voice against the raucous din a final time, sweat beading on her forehead and upper lip as she shouted out the remainder of her sermon.

  “I know where my hands are going, brothers and sisters! They are going up to God! They are going up to Jesus! They are reaching out for the Holy Spirit! Amen, amen, amen!”

  Sister Tulah seized the plastic bottle of olive oil from the pulpit. She squeezed it onto a white square of cloth and then stepped down from the platform, ready to anoint her following.

  The driving rain felt like a dusting of needles against his face and his curly orange hair was plastered uncomfortably against his high forehead, but Jack O’ Lantern Austin was feeling pretty good. With the Scorpions’ colors flying all the way, he had successfully pulled off one of the biggest scores in the motorcycle club’s history and it had gone off without a hitch. In the span of a little over forty eight hours and eleven hundred miles, he had turned fifty thousand dollars into three times that much and was now on his way to restoring the Scorpions’ sullied reputation and reestablishing the outlaw club as a force to be reckoned with.

  Jack O’ Lantern gripped the slick handlebars of his Harley with his wide, scarred hands and lowered his chin down against his collarbone, trying to keep the rain from stinging the raw skin of his neck and dripping down inside his weathered leather vest with the Scorpions’ logo and top and bottom rockers sewn onto the back. He had been wearing his cut for almost twenty years now and wasn’t concerned about the state of the leather, but rather the red rash developing below his armpits. It had been a fantastic run, but they hadn’t stopped for anything except to periodically chow on burgers and snort a bump in truck stop bathrooms, so he was ready to get back to the clubhouse, peel off his stinking, wet clothes and sleep for three days straight. After he hid the money that was bulging inside his Harley’s saddlebags, of course.

  He looked back over his shoulder into Slim Jim, Legs and Tiny’s headlights as they rounded the last curve on County Road 225 before the final long straightaway. He couldn’t see their faces, but he was sure that Slim Jim was riding with his mouth open, despite the rain, because he couldn’t breathe through his broken nose, and that Legs’ long, ratty pony tail was streaming out behind him like a windsock. Jack O’ Lantern’s crew was small, but he was proud of th
em. He twisted his head back around just in time to slam on the brakes and grind his bike to a screeching, sliding halt on the slick asphalt. The other Scorpions pulled their motorcycles up behind him. Jack sat on his bike in the middle of the road and revved the throttle.

  A white farm truck was broken down in the middle of the road lengthwise, blocking it completely. The motorcycles’ headlights reflected on the pale, rusted body and long, extended bed that appeared to be empty behind the wooden rails. The hood was popped up and a man was standing out in the pouring rain with his head and upper body underneath it. Jack O’ Lantern couldn’t see the man’s face and didn’t care to. He sat on his bike in the middle of the road and revved the engine again. The man beneath the hood didn’t look up or make any indication that he had heard the approaching motorcycles. Jack revved his engine once more and then started yelling through the rain.

  “Hey! Asshole! Move it! What is this, a Jiffy Lube out in the middle of the road? Come on!”

  The man didn’t straighten up. From his bent back and slow movements, Jack O’ Lantern could tell that he was old. The man’s tan colored windbreaker and white sneakers gave him away as well. Slim Jim wheeled his bike up next to Jack’s and wiped the rain out his eyes. They watched the old man’s silhouette in their headlights. He didn’t seem to be moving too quickly.

  Slim Jim shielded his eyes and squinted.

  “The hell, Jack? What, is this dude like ninety years old or something? You think he got a hearing problem?”

  Slim Jim stood up off his seat and cupped his hands around his mouth.

  “Hey! Old timer! Move your damn truck off the road! What are you, deaf or something?”

  The old man still didn’t acknowledge them. It looked like he was unscrewing the cap off of something and Jack O’ Lantern shook his head.

  “He can’t be deaf and blind if he’s out here driving. He’s gotta see our lights.”