The Bastard Hand

by Heath Lowrance

  Before I’d even glanced at the menu, the waitress appeared at my table with coffee. She was pretty in that way that so many of the women I’d seen in the South were, a kind of flippant girl-next-door, with some hard edges. Her nametag read “Hi I’m” and underneath in hurried cursive “Gloria”.

  I ordered biscuits and sausage gravy with scrambled eggs. Just saying the words made my stomach grumble. Gloria said, “That’ll be right up, sugar,” and flitted off behind the counter, where the cook cooked and never looked up.

  I sipped at my coffee and thought about the last few days. Weird, the way things had happened. Since I’d left the institution in Washington behind, I’d had my share of close calls and run-ins with all sorts of people and things, but nothing really compared to the turmoil that started in Memphis. I’d done more in three days than most reprobates do in a lifetime.

  But Garrity was all I could think of. Jathed Garrity. Kimberly Garrity, his mother. I had assumed at first that she was his wife or lover or something, the inscription had seemed so intimate. The words that flowed in a fine womanly script on the inside front cover, interrupted only by the strange hole that pierced the Bible all the way through. . . .

  All the way through. Like a bullet hole.

  I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t notice the waitress returning until she placed my breakfast in front of me. Refilling my coffee cup, she said, “Enjoy, sugar. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  I dug in, trying not to wolf it down too fast. The kid outside started in on his own version of “Whiter Shade of Pale”.

  The old man at the bar had been talking and flirting with the other waitress, but suddenly he stopped in mid-sentence and said, “Well, lookee here! Look who’s coming.”

  Everyone within hearing distance of the old man, including me, looked out the window. A steel-gray Jaguar X-JS was just pulling up to the curb in front of the diner. The kid playing guitar stopped the tune he was doing and launched immediately into a sweet rendition of The Ink Spots “If I Didn’t Care”.

  Someone in the booth next to mine said, “Oh, man. Here we go.”

  My waitress, Gloria, said, “Now you boys behave, you hear me?”

  The old man said, “How she can show her face . . . ?”

  I watched as the Jag’s door opened and a pair of impressive legs slid out. She stepped out of the car and paused there, looking through a pair of dark sunglasses at the faces on the other side of the diner window. Her mouth twisted uncertainly for a moment then hardened into a grimace. She walked toward the newsstand by the diner’s front window, leaving her car door open, nodding to the singing kid.

  Blonde hair pulled back from her face, with only a few careful strands gleaming reddish-gold along her neck. The mouth, grim and tight as it was, full and red. She wore a simple flower-print dress, cinched at the waist, and a pair of sensible brown shoes. Bare arms, gleaming gold in the sun like her hair, and the only adornment I spotted was a large silver ring on her left index finger.

  The diner had gone silent, watching her as she slipped some coins into the newsstand and took a paper. She let the metal door slam and stood there perusing the front page.

  The black kid was the only one who didn’t stare. He played and sang his song, doing it quite beautifully, his eyes on the sidewalk in front of him.

  The old man said, “I’d like to go out there and give her a piece of my mind.”

  Gloria said, “You mind yourself, Baker. She ain’t hurting nobody. She’s just getting a newspaper.”

  “Lookit her. Just standing there, flaunting away.” He shook his head. “No shame, I tell you.”

  The other waitress said, “Hush, now. Have some more coffee.”

  At last, the woman folded the paper under her arm and walked away. She stopped to drop several bills into the kid’s case, then slid back into her car. Before closing the door behind her, she made a staged gesture of checking her make-up in the rear-view mirror. Then she slammed the door shut and edged away from the curb. She made a sharp U-turn and rode off in the direction she’d come from.

  The kid outside stopped singing. He kneeled down next to his case and began counting money.

  There was a feeling in the diner, as if a huge breath had been let out. Folks started returning to their meals. The old man turned back around on his stool, shaking his head and sipping coffee.

  I sat there, my breakfast growing cold. After a moment, Gloria came back to my table with a coffee refill. Holding out my cup, which was still pretty full, I said, “What was the deal with that woman just now? She sure caused a ruckus.”

  Gloria dropped a splash into my cup, said, “You’re Mr. Wesley, ain’t you? Came with the new reverend? Well, you being at the church and all, I reckon you’ll meet her soon enough. That’s Elise Garrity. Her brother used to be the pastor over there, until he just dropped outta sight about a year ago. No one knows what happened to him, but some folks got some strong ideas.” She glanced sharply at the old man, who’d been listening to our conversation.

  Standing up, the old man said, “I’d keep away from her if I was you, young man. She’s bad news.”

  “Please, Baker. You been going on about her, and there ain’t a thing—”

  He cut her off, “Just think about it. A pretty young thing like her? Driving around in her fancy car with her butlers and maids and whatnot. And her preacher brother dropping out of sight? Something about it just ain’t right.”

  “Stop it, Baker.”

  Baker tossed his money on the counter, headed for the door. “Some folks wouldn’t know the truth if it up and bit ’em on the ass.”

  He left, and the diner grew considerably more sedate. Gloria and the other waitress went on about their business, taking orders and serving coffee, and I sat there staring out the window. The rest of my breakfast sat congealing, but my appetite was gone.

  Go back to the church, I told myself. Get your stuff. Get the fuck out. Go to Florida, find a ramshackle little hut by the sea and live out the rest of your life in quiet destitution. It’s the only way.

  But I kept thinking about Jathed Garrity, and all the questions. I kept thinking about his Bible in my bag, the bullet-like hole that ran straight through it. And I thought about Elise Garrity, his sister. I thought . . . well, I thought a lot of things about her.

  I thought enough things that I knew I had to stay in Cuba Landing. I couldn’t leave, could I?

  Not when the prospects were beginning to look so intriguing.

  I bought some new clothes at the men’s clothing store on Antigone Avenue. At the office supply shop next door to it, I bought an expensive pen because the lady seemed so desperate to make a sale.

  Right outside her shop, I nearly ran into the kid who’d been playing guitar in front of the diner. He loped along, swinging his case obliviously, and veered around me with barely a nod. I watched him walk away, suddenly curious about him, but I caught myself before the curiosity could bloom into obsession. I walked off in the other direction.

  After that I made my way back to Main and spent an hour browsing through the bookshop. I bought a few paperbacks.

  But those books would have to wait until I finished the Old Testament in Jathod’s holey Holy Bible. With that thought in mind, I walked back to the church. The Reverend was still gone, and I started to wonder where he’d run off. I set my new books up on my windowsill, admired them for a few minutes, then retrieved Jathed’s Bible and set off for the park.

  Mid-day by that time, and the park empty except for a few joggers and an occasional stray animal. I found a bench under the shadow of the statue, and began reading Exodus.

  It turned out to be far more interesting than Genesis. Yahweh still remained a psychopath like in the first book, slaughtering folks by the thousands for the least little indiscretions, but by the end He’d at least made a covenant with the people who worshipped Him that He’d try to be a nicer guy if they would try not to be so unruly.

  By the time I fini
shed Exodus it was pushing six o’clock. I closed up the Bible, rubbed my eyes. The statue’s shadow was now on the other side, and the sun posed in front of me. I walked back to the church.

  I found the Reverend downstairs in his new office, his feet up on the desk, and a big cigar hanging out the corner of his mouth. He grinned around it, “Well, now! Where you been, ol’ son?”

  “Wandering around. What have you been doing?”

  “Little a’ this, little a’ that. Wanna cigar?” He grabbed a box of them off his desk and shoved them at me. I took one, and he lit it for me with my own lighter. How he’d gotten hold of my lighter I didn’t know, but it wasn’t important. He said, “Only ten bucks for a whole box a’ these suckers down at that general store. You make it down there today?”

  “No,” I said, puffing smoke.

  “You really oughta. Some good deals.” Then, “Well, tonight’s the big night, eh? Gonna meet all the important folks in town, do a little . . . what do those business bastards call it? A little net-working.”

  I sat down on the beat-up sofa on the other side of the room, said, “I get the feeling everyone’s really anxious to meet you. It’s almost like they’re starving for your attention. Co-dependant, as the pop psychologists say.”

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with being co-dependant on the Lord. I met a lotta folks myself today, and the only thing I could figure out for sure is that every one of ’em needs a little bit of the Good Word.”

  He paced across the room and stared out the window at the street below. Hands clasped behind his back, cigar working overtime in his mouth.

  I smiled. “Are you actually nervous, Rev?”

  He shook his head. “Naw. It would be mighty nice to have a little nip before folks start rolling in, though. I can see right now that this is gonna be a problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well . . .” He moved away from the window, sat back down at his desk. “It’s like I told you the other day—folks sometimes got a real narrow perception ’bout things. And they especially think that a preacher ain’t supposed to have any vices.” He paused, took his cigar out of his mouth long enough to stare at the rising plumes of smoke. “That puts me in an awkward position. I have to go along with the stupid horseshit, or else ain’t nobody gonna listen to a dang thing I say. Any drinking I do is gonna have to be done in private, and God knows what I’m gonna do for woman-flesh.”

  “Seems to me you’re going to have to lay off the tail-chasing for awhile.”

  He shrugged. “We’ll see which way the wind blows.”

  “You’re going to get yourself in a shitload of trouble.”

  He looked at me. “Charlie, I woulda thought you’d know by now that trouble’s my middle name. Ain’t been a man born yet who can slick his way out of a situation better than I can.

  “But . . .” he added, “the booze thing is another matter entirely.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t worked out an angle on that one yet.”

  He laughed, tapped his skull with a long forefinger. “The ol’ brain is always working, Charlie. I spent a goodly part of the day setting the details up. It’s still a little shaky, but I’m close to getting it squared away.”

  I said, “Don’t tell me. Those moonshiners, the Aarons brothers.”

  He slapped his thigh. “Give the man a cigar—another cigar, I mean!”

  He’d had gone up to Moker’s Hill early that morning to introduce himself, he told me, and, after being greeted by the ugly end of a shotgun, he managed to ingratiate himself with the surly brothers.

  “Stupid as bricks, both of ’em, but you ain’t never seen a more devout pair of idjits. ’Course you understand, I don’t hold ignorance against nobody. Folks gotta start somewhere, and dumb as a pile a’ coon shit is pretty much how all of us begin. But these boys . . . we’re talking a whole new realm of stupid here, Charlie. They thought Pontius Pilate was the airline captain that flew Jesus to Heaven. They thought E Pluribus Unum was Commie talk for ‘this here’s a buck’. Really stupid, if you get my meaning—”

  “I understand.”

  “We talked for a good two hours, though, praising Jesus and everything that sounded like him. They got a real nice cross in their shed, a big ol’ sucker, almost as nice as the one here. Kinda strange, really. That’s where they make their whiskey, with the still right in the same room as the cross, like it’s some kinda altar or something. In a way, it is—to their way of thinking. You really gotta see it to understand.”

  “And . . . ?” I prodded.

  “And they told me to come on back to their place tonight, after we have that dinner here. They don’t normally sell to anyone here in town, like Oldfield said, but I think I clicked with them. We’ll see what happens.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, Rev. Sounds kinda dangerous to me. Those guys are obviously a little unstable.”

  “A little! Charlie, they’re crazier than a couple of horny mountain goats. That don’t bother me none. You gotta learn to use people’s craziness, son. That’s what it’s all about.” He lowered his voice slightly, as if about to impart some sage bit of advice. “Every single person in the world is a little bit off, y’ know, in one way or another. Everyone’s got their own secret little sickness that they nurture and care for. The wise man moves through the world, spotting the craziness and embracing it. It can work for you, if you know how to pull it out.”

  I puffed my cigar, looked away from him. For a moment, just for a moment, I thought about bringing it up, the Garrity Bible, addressing the big Why that burned at my brain. But, no sooner were the words on the tip of my tongue then some inner instinct shoved them back down my throat.

  “I’ll go with you tonight, then. No sense in you hiking out there by yourself.”

  He smiled. “I appreciate that, Charlie. I really do. You’re a real friend to me.”

  Someone pounded urgently on the back door upstairs.

  The Reverend jumped in his chair, nearly dropped his cigar. He said, “That’ll be the first of ’em, I reckon. Do me a favor, Charlie, go up and let ’em in. I’m gonna pretty myself up real quick.”

  I looked at my watch. “Aren’t they a little early?”

  “It’s the Ladies Club. They’re getting everything together.” He dashed off to the bathroom.

  I hurriedly got undressed and pulled a pair of pants and a shirt out of my bag of new cloths. By the time they knocked again I was tucking my shirt in and putting a knot in my ugly new tie and trudging upstairs to answer the door at the same time.

  Five middle-aged women in old-fashioned dresses and straw hats with flowers in them greeted me. A rush of “Hell-oo”s and “How are you, young man?”s and they all poured into the church carrying bowls of potato salad and tins of homemade cookies and a pot of chicken and dumplings.

  They all immediately headed downstairs, as familiar with the church as they were with their own kitchens, talking loudly and excitedly. Slightly stunned, I followed them down, offering to carry something for someone. They wouldn’t hear of it, so I stood back and watched.

  I was able to gather in those first few seconds that they were the committee of the Ladies Club, in charge of organizing all the get-togethers and responsible for beautifying the park and Main Street. Mrs. Hadley, Mrs. Edels, Mrs. Rutherford . . . the other two names I didn’t catch. They whirlwinded into the basement kitchen, grabbing plates and silverware I didn’t even know we had yet, storing things in the refrigerator, turning on the oven to heat up the food. One of them, Mrs. Edels I think, asked me my name. Before I could answer she said, “And just where is this wonderful new reverend we’ve heard so much about?”

  “I’m Charlie,” I said, still catching up. “Reverend Childe will be right out. He’s looking forward—”

  Mrs. Rutherford, opening the tin of cookies and spreading them on a serving plate, said, “That’s just fine, Mr . . . what did you say your name was?”

  “Charlie. The Reverend will—” />
  “Are you in town with the Reverend Childe?”

  “Yes. I’m his—”

  “And what do you do, Mr. Charlie?” Mrs. Hadley asked, shoving the chicken and dumplings into the oven.

  “I’m the Reverend’s assistant,” I said.

  “Oh.” They all looked at me at once, faces long and blank. I knew what they were thinking, and I wondered how long it would take for the rumors about the Reverend and me to spread across the town.

  Right on cue, they all stopped looking at me and went back to their work, chattering amongst themselves and making occasional comments directed at me, just so I wouldn’t feel left out.

  “Not much time before the first folks start coming in, Elaine—better hurry.”

  “I’m afraid I may have made a mess of these dumplings. Last time they were too dry, you know.”

  “Oh, Marilyn, stop—your dumplings are always perfect, dear, you know that.”

  “I should’ve made more cookies, I don’t know what I was thinking. Mr. Grunfeld always eats them all up before anyone else can have any.”

  “Mr. Charlie, be a dear and set up the big table, would you?”

  Mrs. Rutherford pointed to the far end of the kitchen, where the big table was folded up against the wall. I managed to heft it an inch off the floor, and half-carried, half-dragged it out into the hall. The moment I was out of their sight, I could hear their conversation drop off into whispers.

  I sighed, toyed with the idea of taking off for the evening, leaving the Reverend to fend for himself, but that wouldn’t do. If I were going to spend any amount of time in Cuba Landing I’d have to deal with things like this.