The Bible Salesman

by Clyde Edgerton

  Then Henry went to work on “have.” He described the differences between a woman having a baby and having a car and having a headache, yet it was all the same word. You could get rid of a car in a minute, but not a headache. And to have a baby meant give birth to. Why give so much work to one little word?

  The DeSoto pulled in — the ladies, back to get him. Henry stood slowly. Marleen stood beside him, leaned into him just enough so that their shoulders touched. He was suffering some now. He thought about Clearwater. They were supposed to meet that night, weren’t they?

  She put her arm behind him, tucked her thumb into the waist of his pants. He felt possessed by bright comfort. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. He placed a hand on her neck and kissed her lips.

  “Oh, Henry,” she said, and placed her ear against his cheek.

  He’d been run over by a moving mountain.

  Back at Mrs. Finley’s, Henry stood in the yard and talked to Mrs. Finley for a while. Miss Sarah had said she had to get ready for bed. They talked about the weather and gardens, and Mrs. Finley invited him to come back anytime.

  Henry walked down to the cabin camps and met Clearwater driving out the long driveway. The hot afternoon sun had dropped into the tops of trees across a wide field. Clearwater’s elbow was propped in the open window. “Sell any Bibles?”

  “I sold a few. Won’t we supposed to meet tonight?”

  “That’s tomorrow night. You couldn’t remember?”

  “Well, no. I was thinking —”

  “I said tomorrow night. Get that fruit stand out of your head. You haven’t been up there, have you?”

  “No. Oh no. I been selling Bibles. Or trying to. Where you going?”

  “I might drink a beer or two over at the truck stop, do some planning. See you later.”

  Henry walked to the bank of the river, sat on the wall. It was not the river it had been yesterday. It was a new river in a new world. His new thoughts and feelings spilled, stumbled, tumbled over each other. He wanted to take Marleen to McGarren Island, to the mountains, show her things. He remembered the old man, the fiddle player, at Indian Springs, up in the mountains, sitting by the spring every day for an hour, playing songs, talking to people who came for water. He’d said the two big invisible life ingredients were hope and fear, and that people took doses of hope from the springs in their jars and jugs and sheepskins. That was when Henry had first arrived up there to sell Bibles, and the fiddler told him all about the history of the springs — the little boy who found it and realized next day that his sore throat was cured by the water, about all the other people cured. He remembered that the fiddle player said he didn’t believe in the water but believed in the hope that it made. He said fear was hope’s brother, that both could do bad and good things to people, just like water and liquor. He’d said water could rot wood and revive plants, and that liquor could rot marriages and revive storytelling. He wore a hat with sweat stains, and his fiddle had a .22 bullet hole in it. Sleeping on a cot in the tool shed behind the Indian Springs Hotel was when Henry got cold and realized he’d come to the mountains too early in the spring, and on leaving, met Clearwater. If he hadn’t met Clearwater, he realized, he wouldn’t have met Marleen.

  Clearwater had decided to take his little pearl-handled .32 pistol with him to the truck stop and bar they’d passed on the way into the cabin camp. The last time he was in a bar alone, he’d needed a pistol and didn’t have it.

  Six or eight tractor-trailers were parked in a large gravel lot near a service station with pumps out front for cars and pumps out back for trucks. Beyond the service station was a bar with a screened-in porch. A sign atop the bar said the supper club. A larger sign out front, beside the highway, said OKALOGA TRUCK STOP AND RESTAURANT, and below that was another sign: ALL YOUR TRUCKING AND STOMACH NEEDS MET HERE.

  The lighting was dim inside the bar. He found a seat at a small table and was approached by an aproned woman with red-and-gray hair. “What can I get for you, honey?” she asked.

  “How about a can of Schlitz.” It had been way too long. She was a little bit old. He would wait until they were up in Swan Island. They’d have those couple of days before picking up the truck and forklift. The boy had asked that they go up a few days early, and that was fine with him.

  He’d brought his folder inside so he could study the plantation safe gig. There were maps and diagrams. Blinky was good about getting topographical maps to him. Clearwater marked a back road alternative, planned, and drank for over an hour. He checked his watch. He could stay and drink a fifth beer or head on home.

  The waitress had disappeared on him, sort of, so he paid for his beers at the register and left through the door but returned and bought four to go.

  He hadn’t driven far when he realized that one of his front tires — felt like the right one — was flat. A wagon trail turned off to the right. He turned in and parked in a clear area far enough back in the woods not to be seen. He opened the trunk and got out the spare tire and rolled it around to the front right tire, which was sure enough flat. He went back to the trunk for the jack. It wasn’t there. He’d never bothered to look — never imagined he’d need to bother to look. For the jack? What the hell? He’d just have to walk back there to that bar and get a jack, and he might as well steal one, because since he had the crowbar in the car, he could take that along and crack open a trunk with it. Any model jack would be okay. He could make it work. He’d mixed and matched before. He got a flashlight from the glove compartment.

  He walked along the road back the way he’d come. Tall pines stood along both sides of the road. No cars coming either way. A bright moon, almost full, cast shadows.

  He saw twinkles of truck-stop lights through the trees. He wondered if maybe the twinkles were blurry because of the beers he’d had. A car approached from ahead, and before it was close, he stepped over the road ditch, knelt, and dropped his head. He remembered the boy’s story about his daddy. No reason to be seen at a time like this. As he squatted he could feel the pistol tight against his butt. He rested both hands on the crowbar as if it were a cane.

  When he rounded the last curve he saw the six or eight tractor-trailer rigs in the large parking lot between him and the truck stop. On his side of the rigs sat a lone automobile. Chevrolet, a ’48, it looked like. He stepped across the ditch and over a low wooden fence and walked up to the back of the car and stood there a minute. He placed the teeth of the crowbar into the lips of the trunk and pried once, got the teeth in further, and with a few quick jerks he had the trunk open. He stood for another moment, not moving, except for his eyes. Then he shined the light in the trunk and found the jack, got it, cut off the flashlight, stuck it in his pocket, eased the trunk lid down, and started back the way he’d come — cradling the jack and crowbar under his arm.

  He heard a big rig truck door open, the closest one. Somebody yelled “Hey,” and he heard a cab door slam. How could that be? He should have checked the cab, should have looked in, knocked on the door. Stupid mistake. Somebody had been asleep in there. He kept walking at a steady pace. The man called “Hey” again. Clearwater didn’t look back. He switched the jack and crowbar from under his right arm to under his left, reached into his back pocket, pulled out the pistol and held it at his belt buckle. It was ready to fire — a bullet already jacked into the chamber. He just wanted to change a tire. Most other cars he’d have left behind. He heard the man running up behind him, breathing hard. He didn’t want any interference — couldn’t afford any. The man had made a huge mistake. Clearwater stopped, then turned around, the pistol just out of sight behind his leg.

  “Where the hell you think you’re going with that?” said the man, glaring in the light of the moon. He grabbed the jack and jerked it to his side, knocking the crowbar to the ground, slapped Clearwater across the face. “You asshole,” the man said.

  He’s not even aware of the crowbar, thought Clearwater. His face stung. Without speaking, he shot the man in the s
tomach. The man grunted, grabbed his stomach, then turned and faced the other way, his feet still planted as they had been, as if he couldn’t start his retreat. Clearwater shot him in the back of the head. He dropped. Clearwater’s upper lip was numb and his chin felt all tingly, not from the slap, but from what he’d just done. The man was facedown and moving a little, but he wouldn’t be moving long, Clearwater figured. He felt for the man’s billfold in the back left pocket, then back right pocket, where he found it. It was thick. He slid it down into his right front pocket. He looked all around to be sure nobody had seen.

  He picked up the jack and trotted down the road until he was sure he was out of the line of sight from the truck stop. There was a good chance the trucks had blocked the sound of the pistol shots from the bar. It was just the little .32. He walked down the wagon path to the Chrysler. He was glad he’d thought to park off the main road. He set up the jack and changed the tire. His hands were shaking a little. He’d wait awhile, get the old tire fixed, and buy a new jack, maybe from a Chrysler dealer. Sometimes the police got lucky in putting two and two together. You couldn’t be too cautious.

  He didn’t like to shoot people, but sometimes it just happened because it was the only way to get through some problem to a place where he had to be. No other way to handle it. Nobody should ever slap anybody like that.

  Henry was awake when Clearwater drove into the cabin camp. He pulled back his window shade and looked. Clearwater opened his trunk, lifted something out — a crowbar? a car jack? — and walked into the woods with it. What was he doing? He lay back down, thought of Marleen, her blond hair, the way it hung around her face.

  Back in his room, Clearwater sat on his bed. Leaving before they were scheduled to leave might look suspicious. No need to run. No way to trace the mess to him. No way at all.

  A drawbridge for automobiles, rather than a single trolley track, now spanned the channel from McNeill to Swan Island. Henry — in the driver’s seat — and Clearwater waited for the drawbridge to lower. As he had driven the Chrysler north from South Carolina, where they’d been working for over a week, Henry told Clearwater about his memories of the trolley, the Electra, the lights, the band, and what he’d heard from his aunt about his uncle’s plan that night long ago. How it had gone bad. Clearwater knew of the Electra and the big bands, of good fishing, of German sub sightings from the island, and had decided to come up a couple of days early — like Henry asked — before picking up the dump truck and forklift for their next gig, in Florida.

  A yacht was moving through the drawbridge gap. Low white clouds scatted along the sky, and a clean salt smell rode the air through the open car windows.

  “That’s something, ain’t it?” said Clearwater. “You could live in a yacht and never come out except for some fun. Hire some people to do everything for you.”

  As they turned right at the big Papa John McNeill mansion on Swan Island, Henry decided he’d better tell Clearwater about Caroline, Carson, and Aunt Dorie. He’d made arrangements, had reserved three rooms at the Deluxe Olympia Hotel, a place Carson told him about on the telephone. It was close to the Electra. A room for Clearwater, a room for Caroline and Aunt Dorie, and a room for him and Carson. But Clearwater didn’t know about all that.

  “Some of my folks might be down here,” said Henry.

  “What?”

  “My sister and cousin and aunt. The ones I’ve told you about.”

  “What do you mean ‘they might be down here’?”

  “I sort of mentioned to them that I was going to be here, and . . . But I didn’t say anything about you.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you check with me? This is not a good idea at all. Goddamn, Dampier.”

  “But we’re not working.”

  “What have you told them about me?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to see them a little bit — and you didn’t want to go through Simmons. So I just kind of set things up. Told them I could get them a room and all. They don’t have to know anything about you. I started not to tell you at all — just . . . I knew you’d be in a different room and —”

  “You can’t hide information from me. This is serious business.” Clearwater felt something slip away from him. But he’d be through with Henry within a couple of weeks. “You go ahead and check in and then I will. I’ll take the car, and I’ll see you Monday morning in front of the hotel. Seven-thirty. I’m going to do a little scouting around.”

  “There’s the Electra right down there. See it? I think that’s it. The hotel is just beyond it. Yeah, that’s it.”

  Henry slowed the car and in a minute stood, holding his suitcase and valise. He could identify the building by its shape — in spite of its having been converted into three distinct places of business: Swan Island Laundry and Dry Cleaning, Bobbins Hardware, and Dance Hall Bar. The hardware store, the one in the middle, looked closed down. A mattress lay on its steps. Plants grew from the gutters.

  Henry walked through the front doorway of the lobby at the Deluxe, carrying his valise and suitcase. The back door was open to the ocean. Caroline sat on a couch reading a magazine. She looked up. He set down his suitcase and valise.

  “Henry! Hey,” she said. She stood, moved to him. “We’ve been missing you.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him tight.

  He hugged her. “I wish I could have come to Simmons, but this ought to be fun.”

  “I know. The beach! Sit down for a minute.”

  “Did you see the Electra?” asked Henry.

  “It’s terrible. It looks run-down.”

  “I never thought about it changing.”

  “Me either.”

  Henry sat in a big chair. He looked around. “This looks like a nice place. Where’s Carson?”

  “He’s swimming and wants you to come out. Thank you for our room. You didn’t have to do that. We could have stayed over in McNeill.”

  “No. I’m glad I can do this. I figured this would be a good time to catch up on things. I’ve got another couple of weeks of pretty regular work, and then I’ll have some time to come home, I think. Let’s go swimming.”

  “Sure. I’ve got to put on my bathing suit. Come on up.”

  “Is Aunt Dorie on the beach?”

  “She couldn’t come. She stepped on a nail this morning, out behind the packing barn. That tall grass out there. But she wants you to come see her if you can. Do you have a car? I never quite figured that out.”

  “I do and I don’t. It’s kind of complicated. I’ll be able to tell you before too long what I’m doing.”

  “It’s not dangerous — or crazy — is it?”

  “Oh no. Not a bit. Did you drive?”

  “Carson drove. He could take you to see Aunt Dorie tomorrow, maybe. Up and back.”

  A short while later, as Clearwater checked in at the desk, he heard Henry talking, coming downstairs into the lobby. He saw him, and . . . and . . . a stunning woman. In her neck and shoulders and face he recognized a proud vulnerability and loveliness that almost called aloud to him. The boy’s sister? In a bathing suit, a big white towel around her waist. He stood staring.

  Caroline noticed the man standing at the registration counter. And then, just as she entered the doorway that led to the beach, she glanced back.

  Clearwater walked over to the door, watched her walk, the light blue sky meeting the darker blue ocean far out ahead of her. He breathed in the clean salt breeze. Another boy, the cousin probably, ran up to Henry and they started talking and laughing. She let the towel drop and ran with the boys toward the ocean.

  Carson and Henry decided to drive up to Simmons right away, see Aunt Dorie, and drive back before bedtime. That way they could then stay for two uninterrupted days at Swan Island. Caroline came out of the water, and as Henry and Carson walked across the sand toward her, they met Clearwater. Henry knew to pretend he didn’t know him, but Clearwater raised his finger, stepped aside, said, “Give me just a minute.”

  Carson walked on ahea
d while Clearwater told Henry he’d changed his mind, there was a better way to proceed under the circumstances, a better way to handle things than trying to avoid each other — especially since they wouldn’t be on call. They could say they were doing secret army work — USAUO, U.S. Army Undercover Operations — related to Russian spies, a problem with Russian submarines hanging around the island. He had some friends working on exactly that. He would handle it all.

  “Can we tell them it’s the FBI?” asked Henry.

  “No. The procedure in a case like this is to say something like I just said, and that’s it. You haven’t told them anything, have you?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Because if you have, this will get really confusing.”

  “I haven’t told them anything.”

  “The less said, the better. Introduce us, let me talk, and then we can all relax.”

  Caroline, sitting on the quilt she’d brought from home, saw Henry, Carson, and the man approaching. She pulled the towel over her legs. The man wore pleated pants, suspenders, a blue tie and white shirt. He reminded her of somebody, but she couldn’t place who. Clark Gable?

  Where the gearshift came up out of the floorboard of the black ’39 Plymouth was a hole that you could see through. Carson drove and Henry sat in the passenger seat. Simmons printing, simmons, n.c., 4-0948 was printed on the front door. The car belonged to Carson’s boss. In the backseat sat two cardboard boxes holding seven hundred bumper stickers.

  “Why can’t you talk about it?” asked Carson.

  “I just can’t. I just can’t. Before too long I can, probably. In a couple of weeks. It’s a lot of stuff, boy. It —”

  “That guy looked pretty neat, and it must be good money — you staying in a hotel and all. Do you and him use a gun or anything?”

  “Not yet. I mean, I probably could, though. I can’t talk about it now. Tell me some more about these bumper stamps.”