The Bastard Hand

by Heath Lowrance

  “He went away to seminary when he was twenty-five, came back two years later, and within a year he was the minister at the church. He’d always had a religious streak, but seminary helped him refine it, helped him find a little inner peace. The whole town just adored him. And despite all that, there are some folks in town who won’t extend that love to anyone else.” She rattled ice cubes around in her glass. Almost empty again. She glanced up at me.

  “You know what?” she said. “I don’t really care. I’m done with it. If Mother doesn’t pull through, I’m going to sell this old place and move the hell away.”

  “Really?” I said. “That’s too bad.”

  “Why? There’s nothing here for me.”

  “You’re the only friend I’ve made here. It would be a shame to lose you.”

  She cocked her head. “You’re going to be staying here for awhile, are you?”

  “No immediate plans to go anywhere.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “Well, maybe I’ll stay a little while longer too, then.”

  We stared at each other for a moment, smiling. Then we drained our glasses.

  The conversation never did get around to that so-called job opening. We talked about people in Cuba Landing, and we talked about Reverend Childe, and Forrey and Oldfield and Mayor Ishy. She had high opinions of the latter three, and thought the Reverend seemed like a decent enough man who would do a fine job there at the church. We talked about Seattle—she’d never been there. I told her pleasant lies about the city. I didn’t tell her about the hospital.

  We’d already brought the bottle of vodka and a pail of ice over to the coffee table in front of the sofa and were hitting it hard, using less and less tonic with each drink, and knew we could always blame our loose tongues on the booze. Elise was about to fall into another morose fugue, when she caught herself and lightened up the mood by saying, “Well, one thing has remained constant over the last few years.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My lack of . . . well. A sex life.”

  I pretended to choke on my drink, and she started laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what made me say that. I really shouldn’t have.”

  I wiped vodka off my chin and said, “That bad, huh?” thinking about goddamn time.

  She flipped her hand back and forth in the air in a “so-so” gesture. “I was seeing someone shortly before Jathed disappeared. Just some vacant-eyed pretty boy up in Holly Springs. Not much to offer other than a warm body, and even that wasn’t so great. Toward the end, I’d be lucky to see some action every couple months.”

  The vodka was definitely taking its toll on her. She said, “Not very lady-like of me. Talking about sex. What must you think?”

  I didn’t know what to think, but I said, “Every couple months isn’t bad.”

  “It’s not? Why, Charlie? How long has it been for you?”

  “Since I had sex? Does it count if I was the only one there at the time?”

  She slid down in her chair, said, “Well, I don’t know. I guess it depends on how you define sex, doesn’t it?”

  “I define it loosely. Saves me a lot of embarrassment.”

  “Now, Charlie, I thought the Catholics considered masturbation a sin.”

  “I think they do. Ideally, sex is only for procreation. But don’t the Baptists feel the same way?”

  She shook her head. “No. The Baptists believe it’s okay to have sex, as long as you don’t enjoy it. Anything fun is sinful, which makes perfect sense. It’s like that old joke: why don’t Baptists make love standing up?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because it’s too much like dancing.”

  That time I really did choke on my drink, and Elise laughed so hard that tears streamed down her cheeks.

  I guess that would’ve been the right time to put some moves on her—after all she’d been the one who brought up the subject. But I didn’t. We let the sexual tension buzz between us like electric wires and I saw the first inklings of her old self make a comeback.

  Sometime around three in the morning, we finally exhausted the vodka supply and the conversation snagged on its first lull. I saw Elise stifle a weary yawn, and realized it was time to go.

  Pushing myself off the sofa, which felt like it had molded to the contours of my ass, I said, “Well, I guess I should get on home.”

  She stretched expansively, arching her slim back against the chair. “Ah! I suppose I am a little beat.”

  Louis and Stella had long since retired for the evening, so Elise saw me to the door. On the porch, with the night wind tugging at the vines along the sides of the house and sweeping gently over the grass, she took my hand and said, “I had fun tonight, Charlie. It was good to just talk to someone for a change.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Next time we’ll have to talk about that job.”

  “Gee, I forgot about that. You didn’t even fill out an application, did you?”

  “Nope. Too bad. I had my pencil sharpened and everything.”

  “That was bad, Charlie.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Listen . . .” she said. “If you can . . . well, I don’t want to be pushy, but if you have the time, why don’t you come by again tomorrow night? After Reverend Childe’s sermon?”

  “You mean tonight?”

  “I guess it would be tonight.”

  I squeezed her hand, started to accept the invitation, but then I remembered the deal in Memphis. “Uh, actually . . . I sort of have plans, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Oh,” she said, and I saw the disappointment flicker through her eyes.

  “Reverend Childe needs some help after everyone leaves,” I said. “I promised him I’d be there. But what about Thursday night?”

  “Oh, sure. If you can make it, I mean. If you have things to do—”

  “Thursday night,” I said, smiling and taking her other hand. “I’ll be here.”

  She smiled up at me, and I almost did it, I almost kissed her. But common sense prevailed at the last second and I let go of her hands and said, “Goodnight, Elise.”

  Still smiling, her voice gentle, she said, “Goodnight, Charlie.”

  The lights were on in the church proper when I came in. I locked the back door behind me, called, “Reverend?”

  No answer. I eased into the room, called again.

  “Right here,” the Reverend said. He stood behind the podium, in front of the great crucifix, facing out over the empty pews. He looked at me when I came in.

  “Hey,” I said. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Where have you been?”

  “What, just now?”

  He pounded on the podium, “Where the fuck have you been, Charlie!”

  He stared at me, fire burning in his pupils, teeth clenched.

  I said, “I went to Memphis today, like I told you. Then I—”

  He pointed a finger at me, cut me off. “You been out all night. You been out all night with that Garrity slut, haven’t you?”

  His voice echoed through the church. I stood there, too staggered to respond, and he nodded, said, “I thought so.”

  Then he stepped down away from the podium, brushed past me, and stomped off upstairs.

  Even from down in the church, I could hear his door slam.

  I went to bed and lay awake for a long time wondering what the hell happened. Jealous? Was he jealous of me? Or, even weirder, jealous of Elise? I lay there and grew almost as angry as he’d been. I stared at my ceiling and rehearsed all the things I should’ve said to him, clever, devastating things that would’ve shut him up but quick but that I’d been too stunned to think of.

  In the morning, I woke up angry. He wasn’t in his room, and I figured he was probably downstairs putting the finishing touches on tonight’s sermon. I took a shower and got dressed, shoved Jathed’s Bible under my jacket and went down to the diner for breakfast.

  The exact same set of people—Gloria and the other waitress, the silent
short order cook, the surly old bastard at the bar, and a scattering of other patrons. Gloria smiled when I came in.

  “Well, hey there, Charlie! How’d the reception go t’other night?”

  I told her it went well, thanks, and could I have a cup of coffee, please. She said, “Sure thing.” I slid into the booth by the door and watched her.

  She noticed my roving eyes and flushed slightly while she took my order. I worked on making my smile totally innocent and kept my eyes on her face.

  Gloria went off with my order and I smoked my first cigarette of the day and drank my coffee and gazed out the window. Business as usual on Main. Folks (most of them not exactly happy-looking, but almost all of them oozing a kind of contented deliriousness) drifted by on this or that errand.

  A strange image occurred to me. All those people, flitting by the window, up and down the street, in and out of shops, were like a shooting gallery—cardboard pieces moving in front of a stationary background. The ones that moved lazily, taking their time, were all easy to hit for fast points, but some of them were quick, skirting past the vision before you could even aim. If you got a few of them, you’d really rack up the score.

  A shooting gallery. A little shooting gallery designed by Norman Rockwell. I smiled. Norman Rockwell joins the NRA and puts his talent to good use. Only the titles of his works would have to be changed, maybe something like, “Dad Takes One In The Chest” or “Junior Loses His Head”. Maybe “Trip To The Morgue”.

  I laughed, getting caught up in the image. For the first time in a couple of days, my hands started to ache.

  Then I noticed a few eyes shifting in my direction. I hid my hands under the table and pulled myself together.

  Jesus. It had almost happened again. A few days since I’d been anywhere near a spell, and this one just crept up on me out of nowhere.

  Reverend Childe’s fault. The bastard made me angry, and the anger had nestled in my gut and grew fat while I slept. I couldn’t let myself get angry, and I couldn’t let myself get paranoid or emotionally drained.

  When Gloria brought my food to the table, I ate silently, concentrating on each bite until all the disordered thoughts had evaporated. By the time I’d finished and was sipping at my third cup of coffee, I felt calmer and more reasonable.

  Sometime while I was eating, the Guitar Kid had appeared outside. He sat on the sidewalk strumming his guitar and singing, case open in front of him. Quickly, I paid my bill, left an overly generous tip, and went out to talk to him.

  He didn’t acknowledge my presence. I stood in front of him, waiting patiently for him to finish the song. He didn’t look up at me.

  I tossed a dollar into his case. He still didn’t acknowledge me.

  When he finished the song, I said, “Morning, kid. How you feelin’ today?”

  He didn’t answer. Adjusting the tuning on his guitar, he immediately went into a rendition of Little Red Rooster.

  I spoke louder to be heard over his voice. “I say, how you doin’? Everything all right?”

  He pointedly ignored me, sang even louder.

  I watched him for a moment, then tossed another dollar in his case and went on my way. Being ignored tweaked at the anger I’d been trying to suppress, so I let it go. If the kid didn’t want to talk to me, he didn’t want to talk to me.

  But I made up my mind then that I would find out what his deal was, what was up with the white kid at his home, even if I had to shake it out of him.

  I went to the park after that and found my favorite spot on the bench under the statue. Making sure no one was around, I pulled out Jathed’s Bible and turned to my goal book of the day, Leviticus. Thankfully, it was shorter than the first two books.

  The Jews were still in the desert, at Mount Sinai, passing some time in a huge encampment that I couldn’t help picturing as looking something like films I’d seen of Woodstock. The Lord decreed that Moses’s brother, Aaron, should build a temple to house the ark, and instructed that no one but Aaron and his offspring would be allowed into the temple’s inner sanctum, which didn’t seem exactly fair, but what do I know?

  Most of the book was about the fine print, really. The details—which, I was learning, people love.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting there on the bench and mulling it over. It meant many things—including the fact that the Reverend was only half-crazy.

  By five-thirty, I figured it was safe to head back to the church. I didn’t want to talk to the Reverend, even to hear an apology, and I was sure he’d be busy getting ready for his first congregation by the time I got there.

  I was partly right. When I arrived there were already a few cars in the lot, and a handful of people had grouped together on the front steps, chatting and shaking hands and admiring each other’s finery. I took a few moments to be friendly with the early arrivals, making sure to hide my Bible, then went inside. A gang of little kids played hide-and-seek around the pews, and old people were scattered here and there, waiting patiently to hear the sermon. At the organ, a young man with intensely serious features ran over a few mellow scales.

  The Reverend stood near the back, talking to a black-haired woman in a too-tight pink dress and a string of pearls around her neck. He saw me, motioned for me to come over. I pretended not to notice, started to go back out the front door, but he called, “Charlie, can you come back here a minute?”

  I couldn’t ignore him, not in front of all those people, so I grudgingly made my way down the aisle and stopped in front of him. With a hand on the woman’s shoulder, he said, “Charlie, this is Jeannie Angel. Miss Jeannie, this here is Charlie, my assistant.”

  She offered me her small, plump hand and I took it, said, “Pleasure,” and the Reverend said, “Miss Jeannie is Mayor Ishy’s personal secretary.”

  “Yes,” she said, in an open and friendly tone that seemed somewhat forced. “I was just telling Reverend Childe here that Mr. Mayor should be on his way right now. He got held up in his office today—you know, getting his campaign ready.”

  The Reverend said, “Hard at work on the election trail, huh?”

  She rolled her eyes, bemused. “The election’s still two months away, but you wouldn’t know it to talk to him! He has big plans, I can tell you that.”

  I said, “Who’s running against him?”

  “Well . . . no one yet. That I know of, anyway. But someone will spring up at the last minute, even though it won’t do any good—Bishop’s been the mayor for the last nine years, and the people know him and trust him.”

  Just like Mayor Ishy’s “casual” conversation Monday night, his secretary’s words seemed rehearsed—or maybe I was just overly cynical about politics.

  The Reverend said, “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. This town would be hard-pressed to find a better man for the job. And there ain’t no contender with a finer-looking secretary than ol’ Bishop.”

  “Oh. Well . . .” Jeannie Angel smiled nervously, touched at her hair. “Thank you, Reverend. That’s . . . that’s so kind of you.”

  I frowned, still amazed at his bravado even after everything I’d seen him do. Apparently, he’d decided to seduce the mayor’s secretary next.

  But he put the rest of his seduction agenda on hold for a moment, said to me, “Listen, Charlie, I really need to talk to you before the sermon. Miss Jeannie Angel, will you excuse us for just a minute?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. And please, Reverend, call me Jeannie. None of that ‘Miss’ stuff.”

  He grinned at her. “Jeannie. Thank you.”

  Her cheeks suddenly red, she hurried off and perched daintily in the front row. He watched her, grinning, and she waved at him with her fingers and grinned back.

  When he turned his attention to me, I said, “What do you want?”

  “Aw, Charlie, don’t be sore. I’m sorry about last night.”

  “What the hell got into you?”

  He showed me the palms of his hands. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. Charlie, the
re was just no excuse for the way I talked to you, and I’d give anything if I could go back and erase it. I reckon I’d just had a long day, working on the sermon, and I was plumb frazzled out.”

  “Frazzled out.”

  “Charlie, you have to believe me. I’m just as sorry as I can be. You know what it was? I’d been alone all day long, just slaving over my desk, and I reckon I was looking forward to seeing you and relaxing a little bit over a couple glasses. And when you didn’t show, I started getting irritable. I mean, I didn’t know you were gonna go visit Miss Garrity, did I? And by the time you showed up, I was just plain bored and ornery.”

  “Ornery?” I said.

  “I was a complete and total bastard. Don’t take this the wrong way—I ain’t a homo or nothing like that—but I reckon I was kinda jealous. I lashed out at you.”

  I said, “Jealous? What the hell could you be jealous about? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Again, you’re absolutely right. Weren’t no call for it. Elise Garrity is just as fine a woman as ever lived, and I’m shamed that I said such things about her.”

  Well, with an apology like that, how could I not forgive him? I’d known, of course, that he’d be able to talk his way out of it; that’s why I hadn’t wanted to speak to him. But now that it was out in the open and he’d said his piece, I had to concede.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Forgiven?”

  “Forgiven.”

  “Well, all right!” He slapped me on the shoulder, said, “Thanks, Charlie. I just can’t stand to have you mad at me.”

  Despite her half-promise to the Reverend, Elise didn’t show up at the sermon that night. I could hardly blame her. The news about her mother would only renew the vicious gossip about her and make the whole evening torturous.

  But by seven o’clock, it seemed like Elise was the only person not at the Cuba Landing Freewill Baptist Church. Mayor Ishy showed up with his wife, took a seat in the front pew next to Jeannie Angel. Captain Forrey and Officer Oldfield were there, sitting with their respective families. Mrs. Edels, Mrs. Hadley, and the other members of the Church Ladies Club were in attendance, gathered near the front where they could be seen in all their devout glory.