Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  “Two or three. A slip-and-fall, some baby stuff. But nothing with you.”

  “Nothing with me?” Joel demanded.

  “Absolutely not. I swear. On my mother’s grave, I swear. May God strike me dead if I’m lying.”

  “He probably doesn’t want to waste the bullet,” Joel said. “You’re not worth it.”

  “That’s why you turned on us, isn’t it? You think we somehow hosed you first.”

  “Explain this, Edmund.” Joel rested the paddle on his shoulder, transferred most of his weight to one leg. “How does a spoiled, undisciplined, seventeen-year-old girl develop a sophisticated insurance scam that has her using my pubic hair as the coup de graĉe? She thought of that by herself? Didn’t get any advice from, say, a professional con man like Edmund Brooks?”

  “Pubic hair? Wait . . . Huh. So . . . So you didn’t screw her?” Edmund asked.

  “No. I didn’t.” Joel was defensive, his voice not as fevered as it had been.

  “You didn’t?”

  “I didn’t have sex with the girl. Not then, not ever. She lied.” He paused. “Well, basically she lied. There’s no chance my pubic hair was on her because of sex.” His mood was closer to normal, cooling and receding.

  “I always thought you did—I was just tryin’ to stick up for you and pretend otherwise. I didn’t think less of you for it. Everybody has errors, back-slides. Damn, Joel.” His expression was stoic, his hands in his hip pockets. “My oh my.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  “You pled guilty, didn’t fight, didn’t ever deny it,” Edmund said.

  “It’s complicated and none of your business. But I’m not divulging anything you don’t already know, huh?”

  “I thought you done it,” he muttered, plopping to the ground beside his belt and billfold. “Never saw it coming.” He laughed, a vacant, mournful clucking that the stream instantly swept away. “Sure didn’t.” He stared up at Joel. “Go ahead if you like. Beat the hell out of me. I deserve it.”

  “So you admit it? You gave her the con?”

  “You could say I did,” he said, the words dismal.

  “Could say?” Joel asked.

  “Yeah.” He kicked at the rocks and bumped a piece of wood with his toe. “We’ve all been had, Preacher. In the worst way. It’s my scam all right, my best one ever. But I sure didn’t sic her on you or tell her to use it.” He shut his eyes and pressed his head into his knees, and Joel had no doubt he was miserable, truly suffering. He said some more, but his mouth was against the cloth of his pants, and the river overrode his voice, drowning the words.

  Joel went closer and strained to hear. “Edmund?” he said, standing above him.

  He didn’t answer.

  “You okay?” Joel asked.

  “I’m so sorry, Joel. We shoulda known better.”

  Joel sat at his feet. “Should have known what?”

  “My fault,” he said. “Fucked us all.”

  “Tell me,” Joel said. He could smell the damp, fertile river soil underneath the stones.

  “See, me and Sa’ad carried her to Vegas and showed her the ropes. Christy. She asked us about our biggest project, the best we’d ever done. Sa’ad’s sister—sweet girl, name of Joyce, two kids—was working for a big car dealership in Atlanta and her boss kept hittin’ on her, wouldn’t leave it alone. So we’re at Rosewood Grille and showin’ off for Christy, and we tell her how we solved the problem and made money to boot.”

  “Sa’ad’s sister cried rape and just happened to have the boss’s pubic hair.” Joel unconsciously touched his lips with his three middle fingers. “Lord in heaven,” he said.

  “Our biggest score. Joyce grabbed some fuzz from the old guy’s john and ran screamin’ to the police. We got half a million and a new Infiniti. And hell, we simply helped the truth along. The old fart was on her like glue—we didn’t create nothing that wasn’t already present.”

  “And you told Christy?” Joel asked.

  “Sure did. Sa’ad and me and Dom Perignon. Who would’ve thought?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Little bitch decided to go into business on her own. She didn’t really tell you I was in on the play, did she?”

  Joel gazed at the river before answering, saw a lone heron and, farther upstream, a group of mergansers hastening across a sandbar. He summoned Christy’s face into his mind, recalled her answers at Mac and Maggie’s, recollected how she’d spellbound him with “maybes” and prismatic qualifications and denials so intentionally flimsy they were tantamount to affirmations, how he was convinced he knew the truth even before he asked the questions. “Well, maybe I’m saying Edmund was sorta involved,” she’d said, sitting in the restaurant’s parking lot and belching beer, and that was everything he’d required, a doubtful equivocation that he’d foolishly fashioned into a rock-ribbed given. “She told me what I wanted to hear,” Joel said, gathering a gray-green stone and flinging it into the Blackfoot.

  “ ’Cause I never, ever would’ve done anything to you. You’re my friend, Joel. You were a great minister, the gold standard. And you buried my dad, rode to Maine round-trip with me and conducted a beautiful service for him. I was tryin’ to help by offering you a piece of the sag—to this day, I don’t think I’m doin’ wrong. How much is a person’s leg worth? Huh? They ain’t paid me enough yet. All I wanted to do was help you. I never tried to screw you or pull you into somethin’ wrong.”

  “ ‘And a little child shall lead them . . .’ Remember that scripture, Edmund?” Joel sent another stone into the river. He saw the splash but couldn’t hear the sound.

  Edmund nodded. “Sorta. But I hope this ain’t the same little child.”

  “No, I suppose not. It was the first thing that came into my mind.” Joel peered at a section of water violently cleaved by a boulder. White chop roiled and gurgled at the boulder’s beakish point. “She’s more like the daughter of Herodias, the girl child who danced for Herod and got John the Baptist’s head as her payment. Herod was the tetrarch of Galilee, remember? I did a sermon on him. Two, in fact. He was so taken by her, he promised her anything in his kingdom. And here we are, two grown men—me a minister—blinded and led astray by a snot-nosed kid.”

  “Well, at least we didn’t kill no one,” Edmund offered. “And everybody makes mistakes.”

  Joel grunted. He popped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “What a dunce I’ve been.”

  “You wouldn’t have gone against us if you’d known the truth, would you?” Edmund asked.

  “No. I would’ve taken my lumps and kept my mouth shut.”

  “Damn straight you would’ve,” Edmund declared. “You’re no snitch. You’ve got more character than that.”

  “I’m not certain how much character I have.”

  “This is some crazy shit, like the Marx Brothers or I Love Lucy when a person misunderstands one teeny fact and everything snowballs and builds on a wrong idea.”

  “I’m as much to blame as you are, Edmund,” Joel said. “Me and my assumptions.” He chuckled, then laughed, then barreled into an ungainly howl. “I screwed Sa’ad for no reason,” he remarked after composing himself. “Thought I was in charge and doing big things, tried to put the Lord on terms. What an idiot.”

  “You believe me, don’t you? Believe she did the insurance project by herself?”

  “Yes,” Joel said. “And you have every right to be upset with me. I’m sorry I doubted you. It seemed logical, seemed . . .” He gestured with his hands, didn’t finish the defense.

  “I’ve had a sour stretch, I can’t deny that,” Edmund said ruefully. “And Sa’ad, well, Sa’ad’s mad as a wet hornet.”

  “Has he implicated you?”

  “Gosh no. He hasn’t and he won’t. But I’m out of commission these days. Coverin’ my tracks, lyin’ low, flyin’ under the radar. You’ve put me in a helluva bind,” Edmund said, sounding rankled for the first time.

  “Can you survive? Moneywise, I mean?”


  “I’ve been workin’ the sag for twenty years. I got enough salted away to be okay—you had to know sooner or later the gig would expire. But I didn’t plan on havin’ to live on the lam and wear fake mustaches and find a home in Tijuana. Lot of what comes next depends on you.”

  “Apparently, the authorities are primarily interested in Sa’ad and the jewelry and the painting; you’re second tier. They had me try to call you when we couldn’t rope Sa’ad, but that was it. And since Sa’ad discovered me with a wire, I’m off the team. I’m done.”

  “So you ain’t after me? You’re not planning to punch my ticket at Sa’ad’s trial or keep workin’ with the police?”

  “No,” Joel quickly answered. “I would have an hour ago, but not now.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Who could find you anyway? No one even knows your real name.”

  “I don’t need people huntin’ for me, stirring the pot. The FBI or state police could make it damn rough if they put their minds to it.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. Like I said, I’m through, and I don’t think they’re too interested in you anyway. Sa’ad’s the catch—you and I are the tadpoles.”

  “I sure hope so. Man, I do. And I’m sure grateful to hear you don’t have an axe to grind with me.”

  “May I ask you something, Edmund?”

  “Let ’er rip,” he replied, his voice tinged with relief, his posture gaining vigor. “I’m all ears.”

  “This probably seems like a small concern, but I wondered . . . wondered about leaving Roanoke, at the store . . . those kids selling doughnuts. Did you clip them?”

  “Well, yeah, uh, I did. Hell, Joel, the sag in an enterprise such as that would take your breath. Major profit and cushion built into every box. They’ve got no more than a buck invested and they’re sellin’ ’em at four, and the damn school’s already takin’ my tax dollars and I don’t have kids and—”

  Joel spoke before he finished. “Enough already. You don’t have to justify it to me. I simply wanted to know.”

  “Fair game, definitely sag,” Edmund added, his voice barely above the river’s flow.

  “One other question—your tie. The tie you wore the last day I preached. Remember?” Another boat was in view. Two anglers were unfurling casts, and a guide was rowing them to one of Joel’s favorite riffles, an extended seam that widened into a pocket of placid water beside a shady bank.

  Edmund was studying the boat and the fishermen. “Tie? You’re referrin’ to a necktie?”

  “Yes,” Joel said.

  “Why’s that important?”

  “Do you remember the tie?” Joel asked. He scooted forward, felt the stones stab his butt and thighs. “The color? Did you do that on purpose?”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ve lost me again.”

  “Red,” Joel said, and he could see the hue in his mind’s eye, joining Edmund to the church’s carpeted floor. “Identical to the rug, the exact same color. Like some dandy flourish, coordinating your clothes to match the sanctuary.”

  Edmund pondered the question. “Red tie?”

  “Yeah. You were sitting in your usual spot. It was uncanny, and I have this ingrained image of you I’ll never forget. I was struggling, reeling, trying to make it through the service, and I’ll never forget looking at you and seeing this red bond between you and the floor.”

  “Must’ve been someone else,” Edmund said without inflection.

  “No, it was you. You and a red tie. I’m positive.”

  “Not possible, Joel. You must be mistaken. I don’t own anything red, especially a tie. It’s a jinxed color for me. Haven’t worn red in years—lost ten grand in Atlantic City playin’ blackjack, and that cured me. I wear green and silver, the color of money. But nothing red—no ties, shirts, coats, pants, underwear, hats, nothing. It’s cursed for me.”

  “I wasn’t hallucinating, Edmund. I saw what I saw.”

  “You must’ve been stressed or confused me with another member. Maybe Oliver Rakes—he’s a sharp dresser, and he sat in my pew.”

  One of the men in the boat had hooked a trout, and the guide was waiting with a long-handled net.

  “It was you,” Joel insisted.

  “Impossible. But I don’t want to argue with you. Who cares, huh? It doesn’t make any difference, does it? Could have been an optical illusion, too, with all the stained glass in those windows. Why’re you so agitated about what color tie I happened to wear? You’re sure askin’ me a bunch of bizarre questions.”

  “You’re one hundred percent, absolutely certain it wasn’t red?” Joel asked.

  “Goodness sakes, Joel,” he laughed, “how many ways can I say it? I haven’t worn a red tie since Reagan was president, okay?”

  “It . . . It was for me, wasn’t it?” he said, more to himself than Edmund. “The Lord was calling His shot, tipping His hand in advance so I’d know when the dust cleared that He authored this.” Joel leapt to his feet. “Ha. Darn. I’ll be darned.” He felt queasy and ecstatic and his stomach was pulsating. “Now I see.”

  “I reckon the tension had to be nearly unbearable,” Edmund said, remaining a beat behind. “Someone in that situation, your eyes could play tricks on you. Or your memory could fail. We’re talkin’ . . . my goodness, we’re dealing with a tie I wore months and months ago. I sure as heck can’t remember it.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Joel said. “I didn’t have any idea at the time why it was significant, and I wasn’t supposed to.”

  “You goin’ to share the secret with me, Joel, or leave me in the cold?”

  “Edmund, there’s an artisan’s accomplishment in our intersection and our resolution, an astounding glory. This was my trip, my journey, and the Lord snared you with red bonds and marked you early on so there’d be no mistaking His intent when everything was said and done. You were His instrument. This all happened through you, and I know that—now— because I literally saw the church take hold of you.”

  “Sounds to me like a polite way of sayin’ I’m the one who dragged you into this mess. And, hey, red might be someone else’s callin’ card.”

  “It’s all in how you read it, Edmund, and what you do when your time comes.”

  “I suppose you know better than me what you saw.”

  “Remarkable. And I’ve lived to tell the tale, huh? It was the premium package, too. Platinum, A-1. I sinned and suffered and caved in, lost patience and faith the first time I was truly challenged, resorted to graft and gypping insurance companies, sank deeper into the pit when matters got worse, lied and connived and claimed it as heaven-sent, questioned the validity of my beliefs when I didn’t discover instant responses to my prayers, tried to manage the Lord’s shop and usurp His prerogatives, and wound up ineffectual and dumbfounded, like a pygmy attempting to solve the sun. I was so distant from influencing events it’s ridiculous. What a marvelous, unbelievable display I’ve witnessed.”

  Edmund stood and jammed the tail and sides of his shirt into his pants. “What are you saying? Ain’t any good whatsoever I can find in you goin’ to jail and me tiptoeing on eggshells, worried the police are on my butt and my projects shelved forever.”

  “Are you a fisherman, Edmund?” Joel asked, his face inspired by the realization, his hands active and darting with useless bustle.

  “No, I’ve wet a line before, but none of this stuff. I fish with worms and a spinning reel. Why’re you changing the subject?”

  Joel grinned. “Today you’re a fisherman. The trip’s on me, on the house. I’ll row you over some spectacular water, teach you to cast and we’ll catch trout, have the float of a lifetime.”

  “You and me?” Edmund asked. “Go fishin’?”

  “Exactly. You’ll enjoy it. We’ll wait for your brother to get back and let him know, so he won’t be worried.”

  Edmund bent down for his belt and wallet. “If you want to, I don’t see why not.” He threaded the belt through its loops and buckled it at the second notch on t
he leather. “And me and you, we’re straight, right? Whatever else, we’re on the same page? You’ll let me be?”

  “What name was the reservation in?” Joel asked. “Beeler, wasn’t it?”

  “At the outfitter’s?”

  “Yes,” Joel said.

  “Yeah, George Beeler.”

  “Well, Mr. Beeler, as far as I’m concerned, everything is sealed and understood. Edmund Brooks is a million miles away, an old friend I haven’t seen in a coon’s age and will never see again.”

  “Amen to that,” Edmund said.

  Joel’s disposition was so upbeat in the weeks prior to his September surrender that Sophie twice inquired if he was going bonkers and told him his humming and singing and cheerful “good mornings” were creepy, the kind of graveyard whistling that precedes a nervous breakdown or the casual massacre of innocents at a rural post office. He’d been lark-happy since he’d arrived home from fishing with Edmund Brooks and informed her of Christy’s artifice, how she’d snookered two confidence men and a college-educated pastor. He gave Sarah plenty of notice and told her the absolute truth about his circumstances, thanked her for her generosity and apologized for his advances and improper interest in a married lady. At the conclusion of his final shift, she told him he’d been a capable employee and she’d enjoyed meeting him, remarking as she presented his wages that he’d be eligible for rehire if he needed a job. Before he could leave, Frankie enticed him into the kitchen, everyone shouted “surprise,” the chef unveiled a farewell cake and Joel kicked around for another hour while the staff drank beer, munched cake and cracked raunchy jokes about prison sodomites.

  He couldn’t help but cry when he put Baker in bed the night before his departure, and once he started bawling the boy did, too. They were reciting their prayers, knees and toes on the floor, elbows denting the mattress, chins tucked, and the child asked God to take care of Uncle Joel and thanked Jesus for the fishing pole and sled and promised to obey his mother. He’d scratched his face on a briar and his pajama bottoms were too snug and he had a cowlick that no amount of water or hair tonic could tame, and as soon as he concluded his childishly stilted version of the Lord’s Prayer, the tears rolled.