The Up-Down

by Barry Gifford

  The room was empty. Pace navigated his way through a disordered jumble of folding chairs and spotted a door off to one side. He went over and knocked on it. The door was opened by a tall, beautiful, beige-colored woman who looked to be in her early thirties. She had long, straight black hair and small grey eyes like scuffed pearls, and she was wearing a red sweatshirt with the word GIVE printed on the front; a large silver cross dangled on a chain hung around her neck. Her eyes met Pace’s and she smiled, revealing several gold-plated teeth.

  “We are those for whom Lazarus rose,” she said. “Next service is at six.”

  “Pardon me for disturbing you,” Pace said, “but my name is Pace Ripley and I’ve come to ask if you are acquainted with the family of Gagool Angola.”

  “Perfume James. I’m the pastor here. All of us in this community are at least aware of one another. What may I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find relatives of this girl—grandparents, perhaps, aunts or uncles, cousins.”

  “Her mother lives on this street.”

  “It’s not Gagool’s mother I want to talk to. Are you familiar with recent events concerning the child?”

  Perfume James studied Pace’s face. They were the same height, six feet even.

  “Would you mind explaining to me the purpose of your inquiry?”

  “I’m the person who found Gagool after she went missing. Actually, she found me; twice, in fact. I was hoping that there might be a family member who could provide a safer and more stable environment for her than she’s had until now. Gagool ran away for what I believe to be a good reason. She’s a bright child in a dangerous situation, and I’m trying to be of help to her.”

  “We are all of us in danger, Mr.—Ripley, is it?”

  Pace nodded.

  “But I understand and sympathize with your concern. However, given the circumstances, despite your good intentions, I doubt that any attempt on your part to make an appeal on the child’s behalf other than through professional channels would be appreciated. This is Bug Town, Mr. Ripley, and we are quite used to dealing with our own. With all due respect, my advice to you is to leave things be, lest you bring upon yourself unforeseen difficulties.”

  “I’ve already experienced one.”

  “All right, then. You’re always welcome here. The Disciples of Lazarus are beyond God and the devil. We are risen for good reason, and, as you know, there are too many unenlightened souls wandering among us who are incapable of being reasonable. Be careful on your way out, the hall is a mess. Our congregation gets enthusiastic, if not downright unruly, sometimes. Coming back from the dead takes a great deal of effort.”

  She closed the door and Pace left the church. The man he assumed to be Bee Sting was seated behind the steering wheel of a dark green, cherried-out 1978 Mercury Monarch parked across the street, its engine idling. The bearded driver made sure Pace noticed him, viciously gunning the Monarch’s motor, expelling acrid plumes of gray-brown smoke from his car’s two sets of double exhaust pipes. After he was certain he’d gotten Pace’s attention, the man drove ever so slowly forward and disappeared around the first corner.

  Pace inspected all four of the Pathfinder’s tires, satisfying himself that each of them was intact before he got in. Coming back from the dead, Perfume James said, takes great effort. Pace did not think he could do it, or even if, at this point, he would want to.

  10

  Pace never did hear from Child Services. Six weeks after he’d brought Gagool Angola to the Bay St. Clement police station, he called the station and asked to speak to the captain who had debriefed him. The captain was off duty and nobody else there knew anything about the case. Pace then called Child Services in Charlotte and asked a woman if she could tell him what determination had been made regarding the child. She asked Pace if he was related to Gagool. He said no, and began to explain his participation in the case, but the woman cut him off and said court decisions concerning juveniles were privileged information restricted to the family, and hung up.

  It bothered Pace not knowing what happened to the girl. He thought about paying a visit to Perfume James, in the hope that the pastor could—or would—satisfy his curiosity; but then there would be the risk of running into Bee Sting, who seemed to be tuned in to his every move. Besides, Perfume James had advised him to let the situation play out without his becoming more involved. She was probably right, Pace thought. What happened to Gagool really was none of his business. It had been a fluke that she’d turned up at his place the first time, and the second time was due only to her not knowing where else to go. Moreover, he had not done Gagool any good, on both occasions having involved the police. Pace felt useless and dissatisfied, and could not shake the feeling.

  He could, however, attend a service at Beyond God and the Devil, and not confront Perfume James directly. After all, she had told Pace that he was welcome, and so he drove over to Bug Town, arriving at the church a few minutes before six that evening. The chairs were properly aligned, all facing toward a small stage. Most were already occupied when Pace came in, and he took a seat at an end of the back row. He was the only white person among the twenty or so people in attendance, and all but two of the congregants, including Pace, were African-American women. Oswaldina Capoverde was not one of them.

  At precisely six o’clock, Perfume James entered from the side room and climbed onto the stage. There was no pulpit and she carried no books or papers. She wore a plain white robe that covered her from neck to toe. Perfume surveyed the audience, seemingly inspecting each of their faces. She gave no special sign of recognition.

  “‘If the dead rise not,’” were her first words, “‘then is Christ not raised.’ After having been forced from the synagogue in Corinth, Paul took shelter in the house of Titus Justus, in close proximity to the temple, and continued to preach, though his assembly was small by comparison. We are alike, then, driven from accepted venues, and, as Lazarus, we are risen, sprung from darkness, freed from the cave where our eyes were bandaged, our hands and feet bound by those whose need engendered our subjugation. We who worship together now shall never again be manipulated into committing vile acts upon ourselves or others. We have seen the light and others see the light in us. Hallelujah!”

  “Hallelujah!” the congregation responded.

  The only man other than Pace among them stood up. He was old, in his eighties, perhaps even older, and he spoke in a trembling but audible voice.

  “Pastor Perfume, the blessing of my blindness has enabled me to see. Can I get a witness?”

  Shouts of “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!” issued forth from the gathering.

  “My many years of drug addiction and the criminal life, even prison, were but instruction. Very soon I will be in that place Lazarus dwelt for four days before Jesus demanded the stone be rolled away. Shall I be risen thereupon to live a better life?”

  “Pray, brother, as shall we, for the resurrection of your soul.”

  Again from the gathering came a chorus of approbation.

  “When I dare to picture that child of fourteen on her knees in alleys and strange rooms, paid and beaten to pleasure men, in wonder I ask, ‘Was that Perfume James?’ And the answer I hear is ‘No!’ Perfume James has risen, she exists beyond God and the devil, as do all of you!”

  There followed for the next two hours or more a spontaneous dialogue between the pastor and her devotees, after which each individual came forward and dropped a few bills or coins into a brass pot that had been placed at the foot of the stage. Perfume James remained standing next to the pot until everyone else, including Pace, had left the building. Outside on the sidewalk, Pace approached several of the women and asked if they had a moment to speak with him, but none of them would. He stood in front of the church and watched the congregants go, the blind octo- or nonagenarian being led away by a woman who appeared to be almost as old
as he. It was very cold and Pace was about to leave when Perfume James stepped out and addressed him.

  “Come back inside, Mr. Ripley, won’t you?”

  Pace turned and followed her. She closed the door behind him and sat down on a chair in the last row, as did he.

  “When I was a child prostitute, one of the men who regularly availed himself of my services was Louis Delahoussaye. He was just another john, of course, but he was never violent or even verbally abusive to me. After his death, his widow found me and told me that Louis had left instructions for her to give me a certain amount of money if I were willing and proved able to change my life. Dalceda Delahoussaye helped me in this difficult endeavor, and it was her late husband’s generous gift that enabled me to eventually purchase this building. This must seem a fantastic story to you, Mr. Ripley, especially that Mrs. Delahoussaye would accommodate Louis’s wishes, but I assure you it’s the truth, and I thought this would interest you.”

  “It most certainly does,” said Pace. “It’s an astonishing story.”

  “I thought to share this information with you in light of your interest in the child. I don’t really know what will happen to her now that she has been returned to the custody of her mother, but she will have to find her own way, which is beyond God’s way, and you must allow her to do so. The authorities have ordered that the man suspected of mistreating the girl not be allowed to live with them, and Child Services will be checking on the situation on a regular basis. I personally have visited the home and have offered to assist Oswaldina, even though she is not one of my parishioners, for the benefit of Gagool, in any manner that may be required. She seems amenable to my offer. So you may rest assured, Mr. Ripley, that some of us here in Bug Town are fulfilling our neighborly responsibilities.”

  Pace just stared at this lovely woman until she stood up and offered him her right hand. He stood and took it with his own.

  “Have you ever been married?” Pace asked.

  “No, have you?”

  “Once, but briefly, a long time ago.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re the first woman I’ve ever met that I believe I could love completely and without reservation.”

  Perfume James flinched for a moment before she smiled and said, “Thank you for the thought, Mr. Ripley. You’d better go now.”

  Walking to his Pathfinder, Pace shuddered. He’d probably made a fool of himself, but he didn’t care. He had spoken from his heart and he felt better for it. In Proverbs, he remembered, it says, “The man that wandereth out of the way of understanding shall remain in the congregation of the dead.” It was good for him to know that he was still alive.

  11

  Pace wondered if Dalceda had ever told Marietta or Lula about Louis Delahoussaye’s pedophiliac dalliances with and subsequent posthumous legacy to Perfume James, or if Dalceda had kept it a secret. If anything, she most likely would have shared this information with his grandmother. Marietta and Dalceda remained the closest of friends throughout their lives, just as his mother and Beany had. Dalceda undoubtedly needed to confide in someone, to unburden herself so as not to be eaten up by the worm in her brain that a terrible secret becomes.

  The fantasy of his being able to have an intimate relationship with Perfume James persisted in Pace’s mind. It was impossible, of course, and not only because he was close to being a half-century older than the pastor. There was her nightmarish past to consider, and now her religious calling. The idea was absurd, but much to his bewilderment Pace continued to agonize over it. He had become spellbound by this extraordinary woman, and he was in dire need of having the spell broken.

  Pace stayed away from Bug Town. His links to both Gagool Angola and Perfume James were at best tenuous and pragmatically unrealistic. It was several days after his last visit to Perfume’s church before Pace was able to resume working on his book. It was while he was writing one afternoon in the cottage when he heard the thunder of Bee Sting’s Mercury Monarch disturb the silence. Leaving the motor running, the big man got out and stood in the driveway, holding an antique double-triggered 20 gauge Hinton shotgun with its twenty-seven inch Damascus barrels pointed directly at Pace’s front door.

  Pace looked out the window and froze, unsure of what to do. He waited and Bee Sting waited. After what seemed an eternity to Pace but was probably no more than two minutes, the big man put up the gun, spat on the ground, got back into his car and rumbled away. Pace sat at his desk, stunned. He was truly amazed that without any bad intentions on his part, his life could suddenly spin so dangerously and bizarrely out of control. Whenever he thought he was inching closer to the center of things, there appeared an intruder to deter or prevent him from moving any further. Perhaps the point was not to move but to remove himself.

  “I’m surely in the way now, Daddy,” Pace said aloud, “aren’t I?”

  12

  Not that he probably needed added incentive, but just exactly what was the bug up Bee Sting’s ass? The fact that Child Services ordered that he not share a household with Gagool and Oswaldina? Did he blame Pace for that? What else would inspire this thug to signify and threaten him? Having already been shotgunned once, Sailor Ripley’s only son vowed to himself that he would not let it happen again. He cleaned and loaded his daddy’s Colt Python and began carrying it with him whenever he left the property, kept it in the top drawer of his desk while he wrote, and on the floor next to his bed while he slept. Pace would have no compunction about taking the oafish Mr. Sting out of the count if need be. He would not initiate a confrontation but neither would he back away from it.

  Pace was amused by this potential High Noon scenario. The image of himself at seventy years old, strapped and determined not to be intimidated by a Bug Town bully, carrying a ludicrous crush on a woman very much younger than himself, a former prostitute turned preacher, was a stretch of imagination Pace doubted even his former employer in the movie business, the director Phil Reãl, who was renowned for his largely incomprehensible but darkly riveting films, such as Mumblemouth and the infamous Cry of the Mute, could feature.

  Pace’s dreams became increasingly confusing. In one, a gigantic spider seized the planet Earth in its eight sticky arms and began eating it, city after city, rotating the globe as he devoured entire countries, causing oceans and lakes and rivers to spill into outer space. In another, just as he was about to make love to a woman, she began to melt, her limbs and head dripping like candle wax until there was nothing for him to hold.

  One afternoon, Pace drove to the ocean and sat in the Pathfinder looking at the water. It was a cold, windy day, and the beach below where he had parked was devoid of people. Then a black dog, a Labrador retriever, came trotting along by itself, dodging waves as he splashed ashore. Pace expected the dog’s keeper to appear, but nobody did. The dog was making great sport timing his movements in order to barely avoid getting wet. That was it, Pace realized, his timing was off. He recalled his brief sojourn in Chicago, sitting on the back porch of his apartment late at night in all kinds of weather, listening to noises made by his neighbors, cats wailing in the alleys, dogs barking, gunshots in the distance. He had felt at peace there for a while both with the world and himself. That was more than ten years ago.

  The black Lab finally tired of his game and ran off in the direction from which he had come. Could a dog discover the Up-Down? The wind picked up, buffeting the Pathfinder. Why not? Pace thought. A dog was a sentient being, just like he was. Pace took the Colt Python out of his coat pocket and laid it down on the passenger seat. A big gust of wind almost lifted the front end of the vehicle. Pace started it up, backed away, and headed for home. Just as he was about to turn off the beach road onto the two-lane to Bay St. Clement, the black dog dashed in front of the Pathfinder. Pace braked just in time to avoid hitting him.

  “Thanks, buddy,” Pace said. “Maybe I’ve got my timing back now.”

  13r />
  Pace had not forgotten about the letter he received from his cousin, Early Ripley. However, the business with the little girl and then Perfume James had occupied most of his thoughts, to say nothing of the belligerent behavior on the part of his unintended adversary, the wolf ticket terrorist, Mr. Bee Sting. At this stage in his life, after the recent series of calamitous events, Pace was in no mood to make new friends. He did not want to appear impolite; nevertheless, Pace filed Early’s letter in a bottom drawer of his desk. For some reason, Pace remembered being in the food line with Sailor at Rocky and Carlo’s restaurant in Chalmette when he was about thirteen, and a refinery worker in his fifties, wearing his oil-stained uniform, standing in line behind them, said to his co-worker son, who was griping about something, “Eddie, I hate to admit it, but the best part of you ran down my leg.”

  It had been a long time since he’d been in New York, though, and Pace was curious to see how the city had changed since he and Rhoda had lived there. Given how unlikely it was that he could kindle a flame with the pastor, plus this stupid vendetta with his Bug Town stalker, Pace began to think about taking a break to revisit the big apple. A few days after he’d almost thrown away Early’s letter, he retrieved it and dropped his cousin a note, saying he was pleased to hear from him, that he was planning a trip to New York, and suggesting that they get together. Early wrote back by return post: “Terrific! You can stay with me if you like. Tell me when you’re coming.” He included his phone number and e-mail address.