Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  Joel turned through the sheets, saw numbered paragraphs and a big, gaudy lawyer’s scrawl at the bottom of the last page. He folded the papers twice and stuck them in his hip pocket. “Not quite the fresh beginning I’d imagined, huh?”

  “Hang in there, Joel. The worst’s behind you.” Will tipped his hat. “Sorry I was the one bringin’ the bad news. Just doin’ my job. Hope you understand.”

  “Certainly,” Joel said. He gave Will a thin, weary smile. “Of course I understand.”

  “Okay then. You take care now.” Will had started off when the radio on his wide, polished belt announced, “Dispatch to fifty-two,” the voice a woman’s, the words surrounded by cracks and static. He hesitated and then lifted the radio to his mouth. The radio’s clip snapped when he pulled it from his side, metal sprung against metal. “Fifty-two. Go ahead.”

  Joel was rooted to the cement, deflated, the little surge of spirit his release had provided completely gone.

  Edmund touched his arm, nudging him up the street. “Don’t let it ruin your day, Joel. You’re better off without a wife who won’t stick with you through hard times.”

  “That’s kind of distorting things,” Joel said. “I suppose I knew this was coming, but—”

  “Preacher, can you hold on a sec?” Will was fitting the radio back onto his belt.

  “Wait here?” Joel peered at the policeman. “What for?” He made a beseeching sweep with his hands and raised his eyebrows.

  “I need you to wait with me for another second or two.”

  “What the hell is it now?” Edmund demanded.

  “Just some more papers. No big problem.” Will’s voice gathered an edge.

  “I can’t see any reason he has to stay here if he doesn’t want to.” Edmund folded his arms across his chest. “In fact, we’re about to leave town.”

  The policeman stiffened, took up the slack in his neck and shoulders. “Sir, this is between me and Mr. King, so you may want to keep out of it.”

  “Keep out of what? I was simply asking a question.”

  “No sir. You didn’t ask me any question. You directed profanity at me when I attempted to address the subject here about my radio dispatch.”

  Edmund shook his head and tightened his face, drew his eyes small and stern. “Pardon me? First, I merely asked a question. Second, I did not direct anything at you. Third, there’s no need for you to start in with the Dragnet and Starsky and Hutch routine. ‘Subject’ and ‘radio dispatch’ probably scare the pants off the teenage smokers and skateboarders at the mall, but I ain’t real impressed by it.”

  “Maybe you’d be impressed by an obstruction of justice charge.”

  “What? You are kidding, I assume.”

  “You heard me. You say one more word to impede me and I’ll have to place you in custody, sir. This is your final warning.”

  Edmund tossed his head back and belly-laughed, a big roar full of swagger. He stretched his arms straight out in front of him, turned down his palms. “ ‘One more word to impede me.’ ” He recited the phrase snidely, mocking the officer. “There—I said it. So go on and call the paddy wagon. You’ll love doin’ security on the graveyard shift at the sewing plant, and I need a new Cadillac and a bigger diamond.” Edmund’s hands were still in front of him, and he wiggled his middle finger. The stone in his ring captured the light and fired off a quick, flashing arc.

  Joel wasn’t sure how things had been pushed this far. He’d missed a few sentences at the start, had been concerned about the divorce suit in his pocket and befuddled by the policeman chasing after him when he thought he was rid of that part of his life. He knew Edmund was taking his side, determined the police and their papers and their walkie-talkies would not get the better of either of them. Edmund was scowling at the jailer, still standing with his arms extended, diamond-Frankenstein waiting for the cuffs.

  “Will, what is it you need?” Joel asked in a soft voice. “Let’s not make this a hardship for anyone.” He put his hand on one of Edmund’s perpendicular arms and pushed it down. Edmund lowered the other limb by himself.

  “Dispatch says there’s another bunch of papers I have to serve on you,” Will said. He remained locked onto Edmund, didn’t look at Joel when he spoke.

  “More papers? What kind of papers? About the divorce? I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure, but they’re on the way. That’s all I wanted to tell you. Of course, your friend wants to get himself arrested over somethin’ that basic.”

  Will and Edmund were still facing each other, both of them tense and raw. “I think, Officer, that you’re the one who went to full-blown fury when—”

  “We’ll wait right here,” Joel interrupted. “No problem. Hey, how much worse can this batch be than the ones I just got?”

  “I never said we wouldn’t stay. We never even got to that point. Certainly I want to do what’s right.” Edmund’s words had a jot of disdain in them—probably not enough, Joel decided, to register on the jailer.

  “Exactly,” Joel agreed.

  “Thanks, Joel,” Will said. “I ’preciate it.” He relaxed and finally ended his stare-down with Edmund.

  Another policeman arrived with a second set of papers and gave them to Joel. The new cop stood beside Will while Joel read the latest pleadings from the court system.

  “What is it now?” Edmund asked. “They leave somethin’ out of the divorce?”

  “No.”

  “So what’s goin’ on?”

  “Well . . .” Joel paused to skim the pages again. “Well, it looks like Christy has decided to sue me for, uh, what happened.”

  Will stared at his feet for an instant, then raised up. “I got to be movin’ on. Sorry, Preacher. And good luck. I mean it.” He motioned to the other officer, a flabby man who’d just lit a cigarette. “Let’s go, Pete.” Will touched the brim of his police hat but didn’t doff it. “See you later.”

  “Thanks, Will.” Joel’s arms were limp, the insides of his biceps resting against his ribs, the lawsuit barely hanging in his hand.

  “Let me take a look, Joel,” Edmund said. “I mean, if you don’t mind.”

  Joel lifted the papers a few inches, left them swinging from his fingers. “See for yourself.”

  Edmund took the stapled sheets and held them in front of his face. He moved his head back and forth and read some of the lines aloud, slurred through several sections with legal terms, and impatiently said “Yeah, yeah, yeah” when he hit a bog on the second page. He flipped to the last paragraph, and his eyes popped. “Shit, Joel—sorry, sorry to say that—I mean, this thing is for five million dollars.”

  “That part I understood.” He managed a faint grin. He saw a man toss the sidewalk bum some change.

  “ ‘Sexual assault’ . . . ‘intentional infliction of emotional harm . . .’ ” Edmund was examining the suit papers again. “ ‘Two million dollars for compensatory damages, plus punitive damages in the amount of three million dollars . . .’ ” He shot Joel an amazed look. “This is unbelievable.”

  Joel sighed. “How many times can I get punished for the same mistake? I’ve been hauled into court, done my jail sentence, had my life ruined at age forty-two, asked to be forgiven and tried to clear the slate. Isn’t there double jeopardy or something? Do they get to pound me till I die?”

  “Right. Exactly. That has to be right. They can’t keep draggin’ this up forever.” Edmund returned the papers to Joel. “Enough’s enough.”

  “I don’t have squat, Edmund. Nothing. We lived in the church’s parsonage, and I signed over our sliver of savings to my wife months ago. I’ve got a thousand dollars in a short-term CD and some knickknacks and books in a friend’s attic. I used my last hundred dollars to fund my canteen account at the jail and spent every dime of it.”

  “Look, you definitely need a lawyer. I don’t think this is legal.”

  “I’m not going to fight it. And I’m sure not planning to contest the divorce.”

  Other th
an the panhandler, there was suddenly and inexplicably only a single pedestrian in sight, a man with a cane crossing the street at a corner. Joel watched him hobble along the pavement, saw the colors in the traffic lights, the white letters in the WALK sign, the plate-glass windows in a line of shops and storefronts. He and Edmund were alone, standing in a section of the city everyone else had abandoned for an instant, the sounds of cars and people’s comings and goings two or three streets over, walled off by solid rows of brick buildings.

  “You can’t just ignore this,” Edmund encouraged Joel. “You’d never get out from under five million dollars if they score that kinda money against you.” Edmund waved his hands, became more animated. “Listen, if it’s money for a lawyer that’s the problem, I can help with finances. And I can hook you up with one of the best cape-and-hat guys in the business. He—”

  “Cape-and-hat guys?” Joel cocked his head. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “It’s what I call lawyers, ’cause lawyers are vampires and vampires wear those long capes and weird hats. At least the old ones did, the black-and-white ones like Bela whatshisname. Cape-and-hat guys. I know a bunch of ’em, given that I’m in a high-risk profession.”

  “Why should I fight any of it, Edmund? Why? My wife’s entitled to ask for a divorce. I still love her and I wish she wouldn’t, but I can see her side of things. It breaks my heart, but I don’t know how to change her mind. As for the money Christy’s demanding—good luck. I don’t have anything and probably never will, and I certainly haven’t done a whole lot that’s affected her life one way or the other. But it’s not worth the battle. I mean—and I’m not trying to be critical—the whole church is familiar with her background and problems, and our little episode doesn’t amount to a fly on an elephant’s butt.”

  Edmund chuckled. “ ‘A fly on an elephant’s butt . . .’ I like that. And it’s the stone truth. Having sex with you was probably—well, sorry, you know what I’m sayin’. I wasn’t suggesting you did somethin’ wrong.”

  “I know.”

  Edmund gave Joel a square look. “Listen, I got a fine cape-and-hat I want you to talk to when we get to Vegas. I’m already scheduled to see him anyway. It won’t cost you nothin’, and I’ll feel better about it. Just let him go over all this and see what he thinks. Can’t hurt, right? Let’s be sure we know everything there is to know. Half the time it seems to me they make up this law rigmarole as they go along.”

  Joel shrugged. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to think about it.”

  On their way out of town, Joel asked Edmund to stop at a strip-mall Kmart. It was still early, only a few minutes after ten, and the store was just stirring to life. A group of kids was set up near the business’s entrance, selling green-and-white boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts from a card table. A slipshod, poster-board sign with glue-and-glitter letters was taped to the front of the table, the glitter so lean and off-center in spots that it was impossible to miss the black Magic Marker skeleton underneath. Two girls and two boys, probably juniors or seniors in high school, were pushing the doughnuts to raise money for the marching band. The girls were giggly and the boy sitting behind a poorly organized money box had his hat turned backward and was wearing sunglasses and an earring.

  Edmund looked at the kids, then at Joel. “Go on in. I’m going to investigate a little nourishment.”

  “I like the chocolate-covereds if they have them,” Joel said.

  “I’ll take care of it, Preacher.” Edmund gave him a thumbs-up.

  Joel walked into the store and searched the toiletries aisle for in-house brands and odd lots, and he found a table stacked with discounted clothes, priced for clearance because of some irregularity or obvious flaw. He selected a three-pack of underwear, two shirts, walking shorts and a pair of long pants with a blue stain on the crotch, a baseball hat, deodorant and a cheap razor. His wife had shipped all his belongings to his sister’s in Missoula, this about two months into his incarceration. She hadn’t visited him a single time and had written only twice, first to ask where he wanted his things sent, once more to inquire where he kept the keys for the backyard shed.

  He didn’t blame her for shunning him and continued to write every week. Sometimes his letters were personal and filled with reminiscences and retellings of things they’d done and seen, sometimes he wrote about how he passed the time in jail, and occasionally he broached the subject of his mistakes and explained how much he loved her and his hope that they might reconcile. For their anniversary he’d arranged for her to receive lilies and a chocolate assortment, had exhausted the last of his canteen account and gone without Nabs, chips and Dr Peppers for the final sixty days of his jail stint. She was aware he was willing to commit to anything that would result in his restoration, but she wouldn’t lower the bridge to the citadel. Touching the wad of legal papers on his hip, he thought it remarkable that his failings could be distilled into such prim cant and carried around in his pocket.

  There was no line at the register, and he walked out of the store with a few items in a flimsy plastic bag, starting over, about to ride across the country, disconnected in every possible fashion. He saw Edmund at the doughnut stand, planted in front of the table, pointing at the cash tray. The hat-and-earring boy and the two girls seemed agitated, all of them refusing to look at Edmund, and the other boy had moved several feet away from his friends.

  “That twenty was already in the box, sir,” the taller of the girls said. She stepped hard on the word “sir.”

  “I gave you a twenty,” Edmund said calmly, “and there it is. The Krispy Kremes cost four dollars, so you owe me sixteen bucks. Now—you’re simply going to have to give it to me. Otherwise, I’ll complain to the security force here, have them shut you down and request they report you to the police.”

  “You can’t do that,” the hat-and-earring boy said, but there wasn’t much conviction in his voice. It squeaked and fluttered on the last word.

  Edmund laughed. “Why can’t I? Don’t you kids have an adult nearby, someone in charge?”

  “Mr. Walters had to run back to the school.”

  “Well then, ladies and gentlemen, it’s your decision. I’m not going to stand here all year and argue with you.” Edmund leaned forward over the table. He was a good three or four inches beyond six feet, a year or so away from fifty.

  “Just give him the money, Harold,” the shorter girl said. “Even though I know he’s wrong.”

  Edmund held out his hand, and Harold gave him a ten, a five, and a single. Edmund laid the dollar on the table and put the other bills in his wallet. “No hard feelings, guys. Hope you raise plenty of money. Keep the extra buck.”

  The boy smirked at Edmund. “Wow, thanks. That really makes our day. A whole dollar.”

  Edmund grunted and tilted his head, stared down at the kids and boxes and money. He picked up the dollar again, suspended it between himself and the students for an instant, then reached into his rear pocket for his billfold. “Smart mouth means no tip.” He glanced at Joel. “Ah. My minister, children. The Reverend King. I guess it’s time to go.” Edmund tucked the dollar inside his wallet and strode off, Joel a few paces behind him.

  “What was that about?” Joel asked once he caught up.

  “Darn kids made a mistake with my change,” Edmund replied.

  They climbed into Edmund’s white Cadillac, and he cranked the engine. Strangely, though, he kept them sitting there, didn’t make any effort to leave the parking area. The air-conditioning came on in a burst, but there was almost no noise, only a flurry of air around Joel’s face. Edmund flipped open the box and speared a doughnut with his index finger. “Help yourself,” he offered.

  “Thanks.” Joel adjusted the vent and reached for the box.

  “Nothin’ in the world better than a fresh doughnut. I remember my mom would heat ’em up and feed ’em to us for breakfast, along with a big glass of sweet milk.”

  “Thanks for getting them.” Joel took a bite. “I ho
pe chocolate is okay with you.”

  “Chocolate’s fine.” Edmund used his free hand to reposition his seat and operate the outside mirror controls before continuing. “Joel, I need to talk to you about somethin’, somethin’ important. I want to lay my cards on the table now, quick as I can. And I don’t want you to think I’m twistin’ your arm or tryin’ to take advantage of you.” Edmund’s voice was a mix of accents and rhythms, a peculiar amalgam of tongues: there were a number of flat, sparse pronunciations that seemed to come from the country’s center as well as periodic lush southern vowels and an occasional pinched syllable that sliced a word short.

  “What is it?” Joel swallowed his food.

  “I have a proposal for you, an offer. I figure you’re up against it right now, and this is a way to make a little money. I guess you need to get on your feet, right?” Edmund put the last piece of his Krispy Kreme in his mouth. He talked while he was chewing. “But I don’t want you to feel trapped or beholden to me. Pressured. I’m not about to get halfway to Vegas and then spring somethin’ on you, okay?”

  “Sure. What’s on your mind? My sister says she probably can locate a job for me, but it’s going to be tough.”

  “It will be tough, Joel. No matter how hard you try, people are goin’ to turn you down and look at you sideways. A man with a record has to be twice as good and three times as honest.”

  “It goes without saying I’d be grateful for anything you can do. You’ve already been a huge help—giving me a ride, stopping by the jail, keeping in touch.” Joel looked at the box in the center of the seat, thought about eating another doughnut.

  “Have another.” Edmund grinned and motioned toward the box. “Well, let me do the preliminaries. See, I haven’t ever traveled with a preacher before, haven’t spent much time with somebody like you. I try to watch how I act, but I’m far from being a perfect man. To tell the truth—”

  “No one’s perfect, Edmund. We’re all sinners, all less than God’s ideal.” The lines came instinctively, without thinking, the result of seventeen years in the ministry. “I mean, don’t worry about it.” Joel looked Edmund in the eye. “Heck, I’m the one with the criminal record.”