by Martin Clark
Joel sat at the foot of Baker’s bed, and the little boy cried in the fashion that little boys of tender years cry, the sobs and wails unabated and made more poignant because he had an intuitive sense of what was happening but couldn’t completely understand it, couldn’t fathom why his bear of an uncle was weeping with him. Sophie had explained that Joel was going to Arizona to satisfy a debt, to work sort of, and he’d be returning to their house for the summer, before he was even missed. They’d agreed not to bring the boy to the penitentiary, but Joel would write and mail him knickknacks and phone whenever the opportunity arose. “It won’t be like your dad,” Joel promised him, broaching this subject for the first time ever. “I’m not leaving for good.”
“Cross your heart?” Baker whimpered.
“Cross my heart,” Joel replied, attending to the boy’s wet cheeks with the knuckle side of a gentle hand.
The morning of his turn-in, Joel and Sophie traveled to High Pines to visit their mother. They didn’t speak during the entire trip, kept to themselves but were at ease with the quiet, had no need to talk for the sake of talking. Joel wasn’t sure what he wanted for his mom, whether her life was worthwhile or simply a painful bog, but he desperately hoped she wouldn’t die while he was in prison. They ate breakfast with her in the communal dining area, and she called Joel “Sheldon”—a reference that baffled both her children—and devoured a second serving of bacon and scrambled eggs. She raided the Smucker’s jelly containers from her table and the adjacent table, smuggled eleven foil squares—predominantly strawberry— to her room and added them to her supply of sugar packets, salt, straws and paper napkins. They made conversation for ten minutes, and she put on her Christmas Stetson as they were leaving and in a lucid interval told Joel she loved him and the hat was a treasure for her.
Sophie turned glum and dejected as they drove home, remarking that it was difficult to be party to such pervasive sadness—a mother whose mind had decayed beyond any hope of reclamation, a beloved brother headed to a federal penitentiary, a son abandoned by his own father. Joel did what he could to console her, reminding her of Raleigh and her talents as an essayist and her dedication to Baker, mentioning how noble she’d been in spite of the hardships and inequities she’d seen.
“I’m heartbroken things didn’t go better for you, Joel,” she said. “I know you must be disappointed. You’re at zero again: no job, no money and nine months in jail. And I’ve been a bitch sometimes, especially at the beginning.”
“Oh no,” he protested. “I’m not dismayed or unhappy, not in the least. Don’t be concerned about me. I’m a million times better than I was a year ago, and you’ve been a wonderful sister. We’ve all been improved, and I’m where I need to be. I’m a rich man, Sophie, wealthy in the sense I’ve always desired to be.”
“Well, I am worried about you,” she said. She quit watching the interstate and stared at him. “I am, despite the fact you’ve had this wacko, sunny bearing and perma-smile for the last two months.” She returned her attention to the road. “You’ve been acting like a Stepford wife. Or like the friggin’ pod people have captured you.”
“Listen. I didn’t want to say a lot till it was time for me to go, but this experience has been a cure for me. An antidote. I truly am content. I feel grounded and at peace, okay?”
“Joel, you’re going to jail. Today. For the second time. You’re penniless. You’re divorced. You’ll need to enlighten me as to why you’re so chipper.”
“Two reasons. First, before I came here, before the trouble with Christy and Sa’ad and Edmund, I spent year after year after year in this vacuum of a world where I had not one adversity, not a single assault on my religion. My faith was like a hothouse flower or a laboratory invention that busted the first time it was hit by a strong wind. Now it’s galvanized, reinforced, a shield that will hold no matter what. I’m secure because I’ve been walked through the valley, not because I’ve done an exegesis on the Book of Nahum or touched the parchment pages of some original manuscript or been paid a salary to do a minstrel show every Sunday. Can you imagine what an asset that is? How relieved I am?”
“So if I rob a liquor store, I’ll become wise? I can grow secure in my view of the universe by pulling moronic stunts like fondling a juvenile girl from my church?”
“Everyone’s different, Sophie. I was an economics professor who’d never dug a ditch, a musician who’d invested decades in reading scores and never sung a song. It was a harrowing ride, I made every bad choice imaginable and I’m paying a price, but, hey, now I know. I’d hoped to avoid prison, but that’s part of the calculus.”
They were at the secondary route that led to her house, a tar-and-gravel road in ill repair. She slowed and activated the blinker, lifted from the gas. “You made several poor choices, but you’re human, Joel. We have frailties— you, me and the guy next door, and we do dumbass things and hopefully learn a lesson. What does that prove? You were in a pinch, desperate, and you clawed and fought and did what you could. You’ve touched the hot stove and been burned, and you’re smarter for it. So? You’re still broke, your wife left you and you don’t have jack to show for your sojourn in Missoula other than a fresh conviction. This is the wellspring of your happiness?”
He chuckled. As Sophie was accelerating onto the two-lane road, he saw a deer lope across a field and traverse a knoll. “Here’s the other thing I’ve learned. Look at how these various people, events and results were orchestrated. I’ve discovered the Lord doesn’t need lackeys, lieutenants, minions, representatives and envoys to carry His water and discharge His affairs. You even told me as much, months ago. From the prologue with Christy at Roanoke First Baptist to my curtain call with Edmund on the Blackfoot, I’ve been so far behind the curve it’s pathetic. Funny, actually. We’re oriented with our noses pressed into this intricate mosaic, so close we fog the tiles, and we’re aware of a square or two but have no idea as to what the whole display looks like. My attempts to deliver punishment and fine-tune justice were about as significant as the doodles of a preschooler or the downstroke of a gnat’s wing.”
“It’s nice to have all these abstract notions, and I’m sure you’ll receive the Moses suite in the mansion with many rooms, but what are you planning to do come June and everything you own is in a green trash bag and you’re waiting for the Greyhound, ten bucks and a pen pal’s address in your pocket?”
“Don’t you see? How perfect it is? I’m getting another chance, a do-over. And to answer your question, I’m planning to let others manage the sag and the secular world, and I’m going to remain anchored to my beliefs and manage Joel King. I’m wiser these days, Sophie, a better person. This has been a grown man’s coming-of-age story. Remember Saul on the road to Damascus, or Oedipus, how he lost his vision but became insightful? I might even go into the ministry again—I’ve got a story to tell, and I’ve earned my stripes. I believe I could bring something to the table. It’ll be a different table, I imagine, no more retirement packages and cushy parsonages, but there’s a slot for me somewhere.”
“Yeah, well, remember all the dumbass rock stars and actors who pop up on talk shows and say they’ve learned their lesson and done their three weeks at Betty Ford and they’re sorry because they’ve been so selfish and self-destructive? The audience applauds and the celeb eats humble pie, and then six months later it’s the same old tune and they’re back on the TV sofa and they say this time they’ve really learned their lesson, and on and on it goes. Sound familiar? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve seen the light and been converted and gotten it together—for sure—at least two or three times since Christmas.”
The Volvo hit a pothole, and Joel felt the suspension dip. “I don’t blame you for doubting me,” he said. “I can’t honestly promise it’s going to be smooth sailing. But I’m positive I’ve seen the Lord’s hand move in my life, and I have a good idea what He expects of me from here on out. When it comes right down to it, that’s about all a person can ask for, especial
ly if you’re a Baptist preacher.”
A prison van was scheduled to collect Joel in Helena, and he and Sophie resisted leaving home until the last moment. He’d tidied his basement quarters, washed sheets and towels and cleaned underneath the bed with a dust mop. Baker was at school and would be spending the night with Raleigh and his son, and Joel left a chartreuse Rooster Tail spinner for his nephew’s new fishing rod, placed the lure on the boy’s nightstand along with a note carefully printed in block letters. He wrote that he loved Baker very much, penning the “very” double the size of the other words.
He’d saved four hundred and nine dollars in cash. He kept a hundred for the prison canteen and left the rest for his sister; he deposited it in the flour canister, planning to alert her later, after he was incarcerated and she couldn’t refuse him. He’d replaced the rotten cold-water hose on the washer, inspected the locks and dead bolts since Sophie would frequently be by herself, packed his Bible and a few necessities in a duffel bag and put his key on the antique dresser. The lone key lying on a slab of polished cherry was the last image he would recall from the basement.
They drove out of Missoula at evening’s cusp, bound for Helena. Joel was behind the wheel and Sophie rode with her seat reclined and her eyes closed, talking every so often so Joel would know she was awake. They ate a ninety-minute meal of chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and garden tomatoes at a mom-and-pop diner and stopped three times for candy and sodas. When they arrived at the Helena jail, a federal van was waiting, and the two of them didn’t fuss or fall emotional when Joel circled around to the Volvo’s passenger door and opened it.
They held each other and broke the embrace with pats and rubs, and a tear wandered from Sophie’s eye, but the scene wasn’t dramatic or overwrought, probably appeared restrained to the corrections officer watching from the mesh-windowed van. Joel marched to the van, into the night and low-beams until he became indistinct to his sister, and he stopped and talked to a man in a uniform who’d alighted from the vehicle. The man gestured apologetically, and he clicked cuffs to Joel’s wrists and a chain to the cuffs, and the spectacle caused Sophie to grieve, to loosen her grip on the shifter and slump in the seat.
The first glimmer came right then, as she considered Joel and his shackles, and she immediately knew what was in store for her, heard the breeze grow to wind, smelled the rain and saw distant, intermittent flashes that were skimming the hillcrests and playing cat and mouse in the sky. She knew a storm was being ushered into Helena, a whopper if the verve and breadth of its first flickers were any indication.
It was late in the season for such an outburst, and it was arriving, strangely enough, from the east. She was surprised and would have to drive fast, ignoring the speed limit, to keep the turmoil behind her. It was in the ephemeral, muted light of this approaching weather that she viewed her brother’s face as the officer assisted him into the van, and she saw him—the lightning almost a strobe—as preternaturally calm and serene, his metamorphosis so fierce he was difficult to recognize, a man formed and reformed. She cranked the engine, there was another burst of illumination, and Joel glanced at her and the car. His features came and vanished, but his deliverance was obvious and undeniable even in the transient light, and she was at that instant convinced, believed in the truth of his contentment and that his coffers were full of the coin he most desired. “Okay,” she said, despite his not being able to hear her. “Goodbye.”
The storm never caught her, and Tut woke her early in an empty house, he and his hen and their chicks waiting for their buddy Joel to scatter a scoop of cracked corn and pour them fresh water. That evening, she and Raleigh were treating the kids to the county fair, and Uncle Joel had advised Baker he was indeed old enough to ride the Octopus, but as exciting as that prospect was, the boy had declared he wasn’t budging until he’d heard from Joel, would sleep by the phone if that’s what it took. The call came at six-thirty, was the first of many over the next nine months, and after hanging up, Baker looked at his mom and Raleigh and said, “We can go now.” He stuck his unopened fishing lure into the pocket of his jean jacket and ran to the car, didn’t bother to latch the door behind him.
Christy and her boyfriend, Gates, had been flushed from Montego Bay when her berserk, obsessed father discovered where she was residing, and a black man in a droopy seersucker suit and Panama hat appeared at her bungalow and announced he was Bill Darden’s agent, forced a cell phone on her and connected her to her father’s office. Initially, her dad was nice and conciliatory, promising her a condo, a minimum-wage allowance, a new car and a platinum card if she’d come home, but she wouldn’t go along, and he railed and seethed and threatened her with fantastic bullshit he could never bring to pass. “Have me arrested for what?” she mocked him after he’d resorted to that outlandish threat.
So they’d departed Jamaica and sampled Aruba and Saint John’s and ultimately docked in Freeport because Gates had a cousin from Florida who could visit them in the Bahamas and because they loved seeing other Americans and eating the fries at McDonald’s. They would smoke dope and lounge around Count Basie Square, entertaining themselves with the weigh-ins from the wahoo tournaments and the bartenders machete-splitting coconuts for piña coladas. They’d chat with college kids and secretaries from Cleveland and sunburned men on golf vacations, and they felt happy and hip, ninety-mile expatriates, took to calling themselves Jake and Lady Brett although they both knew better and it was just for sport. Christy was bright enough to realize she’d eventually become bored, but she hadn’t yet; she was loving their footloose junket, and she and Gates had suffered only two squabbles, neither of which amounted to much.
On the first evening Joel King sat in his Arizona prison cell, reading his Bible and highlighting scripture for the sermons he’d be obligated to preach upon his release, Christy, Gates, and their drug dealer Gregory were at a deserted stretch of Xanadu Beach. They weren’t in sight of the trinket huts, T-shirt vendors and hair braiders, had taken their pot and their cooler of beer to a patch of sand well removed from the mainstream. The sunset was remarkable—that’s why they’d come—and they passed a joint and drank without any more of a plan than to do precisely what they were doing. The sky to their left was majestic, the colors drenching the horizon and partly merging into the ocean, and Gates was gripping Christy’s hand, swigging beer. It required nearly half an hour, but the hues, no matter what shade, eventually turned to red, a bold, striking crimson that subsumed the world and rendered them speechless.
“I’ve never seen a sunset like that,” Gregory finally said. “Never in my life.”
“Cool, man,” Gates mumbled, stoned and amazed. “So damn red.”
“Remember the saying?” Gregory asked. “ ‘Red sky at night, sailors delight; red sky in morning, sailors take warning’?”
“Shit, Greg, we’re landlocked folks—we wouldn’t be too versed in nautical stuff,” Gates replied.
“I’ve heard my father chant it a hundred times,” Christy said. “He has a boat and fancies himself a captain. I can never, like, keep straight which sky is good and which is bad.”
“We need to eat,” Gates remarked. “Did you bring any cash, Christy?”
She didn’t answer. She was stuck on the image of the commanding sky, not listening to him. “Do you think I should give some of my money to the church like I promised Mr. Hanes I would?” she blurted, ricocheting from thought to thought.
“We’ve been through that before,” Gates said. “It’s your freakin’ money but, I mean, why would you? The whole religion thing’s nothing but bullshit. You’d be payin’ money to people like the guy who hit on you. What brought that up?”
“I don’t know. It, like, just surfaced all of a sudden. Weird.”
“That kind of money’d pay for a lot of good drugs and partyin’,” Gates said. “Or a nice boat. And you can always make a contribution to a real charity, like an orphanage or the food bank.”
The Atlantic was blank now, a monolit
h of somber green with occasional breaks of white surf along the reefs, and the sky was no longer so regal and extraordinary.
“Screw it,” she said. “You’re right. They’d probably just waste it.” And having said that, suddenly she grew paranoid—must’ve smoked too much pot, she assumed—and she noticed Gates was totally stoned, close to zoning out. She glanced at Gregory and realized she didn’t care for the way he’d been eyeballing her lately, brushing against her and stopping by without being invited, and she was sure he’d seen her changing clothes, shimmying from her shorts and wiggling into a bathing suit. The wind blew in from the sea, aggravating the sand and scrawny pine trees behind them, and Christy felt a chill climb her backbone, sinking in until she couldn’t help but shiver.
acknowledgments
So many good people helped me with this book and also my first one. Joe Regal is the best literary agent on the planet, part Henry Kissinger, part Max Perkins, and has never failed to do right by me. Gary Fisketjon is a stone-solid genius who lives up to his billing, and his edits made every single line of this novel better—thanks. A big tip of the hat, once again, to Captain Frank Beverly, Charles F. Wright and the incomparable S. Edward “Smilin’ Ed” Flanagan. Eddie and Nancy Turner have never let me down, no matter what, and I know that’ll never change. I’m grateful to my minister David “Bucky” Hunsicker and his wife, Matilda, for their friendship and help with the first drafts of my manuscript. And my gratitude to: Gabrielle Brooks for her Herculean efforts and good nature; my buddy Renee Louis; Edd Martin (who spent as much time on Many Aspects as I did); big brother Dave Melesco; my boss, David “Hollywood” Williams; Reverend George Goodman; Robert Earl Keen and Bill Whitbeck; General, Danny and especially Ken Knox; Kelly and Beth; Daniel Wallace; John Boy, Billy and Jackie (the fuel for this book was JB&B Grillin’ Sauce and House of Raeford chicken); Charles “The Baron” Aaron; Skip Burpeau; Barnie Day; Rob McFarland; FBI Agent Lynne Chaffinch; Federal Marshal Albert Smith; Chris Corbett; Bess Reed; Len and Nancy Wood; RAMA; and, most of all, to Deana G. Heath, who read and read and read, took care of me and always looked like a million bucks—I couldn’t have done this without you. Finally, like my protagonist, I believe in both the Old Testament and the literal truth of the Gospels, and I thank the Lord for His blessings, forbearance and patience.
