November Mourns Page 8

  “So am I,” Shad said, letting the lie ease out as if it might bring them closer together.

  Dudlow let loose with a moist chortling, and Shad got the feeling that the man was somehow trying to patronize him. He wondered if the preacher showing up the way he did was a coincidence or had a greater design to it.

  “Not so anyone would notice, Shad Jenkins. You’re remarkably fit, I can see. More so than when you left us, I’d venture.”

  He stood there with an expectant air, as if he might want to get into it, ask some questions, find out if Shad had been anybody’s bitch. Dudlow clapped his gloves together and began to jitter his way toward bad taste subjects, but then finally thought better of it.

  “See, it’s her boysenberry that keeps me awake at night.”

  “That so?”

  “And I can’t just have one piece either, I have to finish the whole thing off or she’d realize I was pilfering. I have to hide the paper plates at the bottom of the trash so she doesn’t learn I’m off her vegetable platters.”

  Were they really talking about pies? “Mrs. Swoozie’s baked goods are the best in the county.”

  “You’re so right about that! And who can resist? I can’t. If only I had more gumption!” His rotund torso wobbled and shook on those legs as if it might snap loose and roll free.

  “We all have our temptations,” Shad said.

  “So true. So human of us. It’s a divine test. We’re fated to quarrel with our flaws.”

  Would the preacher mention Becka? Was this commentary on sins leading to drugs or Jake Hapgood?

  Shad glanced at his feet and saw he was still standing on the graves. Could that be what caused the preacher’s unease? He stepped away and Lament crept up from behind Mama’s headstone, yawned, and sat at Shad’s side.

  “A fine looking hound pup!” Dudlow said, smiling so vacantly that Shad could almost see through his head.

  “Yes.”

  “A terrific dog, that boy there!”

  You cut slack where you could, and when you couldn’t give any more you stood and waited. The warden used to play this kind of game, staring at you dead-eyed and talking in circles, imposing himself on the cons until they shrank away. Shad crossed his arms over his chest and kindly regarded Dudlow, unwilling to speak of legumes or cakes or puppies any more.

  Dudlow sensed the change and went back to sucking the corners of his mustache for a minute. He toyed with his scarf, and said, “I thought I should visit Megan’s resting place.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “She was such a nice girl with a bright future. Very special. Such a loss.”

  “Yes.”

  “I spend several mornings a week down at the village cemetery, cleaning up the graves, saying prayers. But I like to make the effort to attend those who aren’t buried on consecrated ground as well.”

  So that was it.

  The things you could get hung up on.

  Dudlow scanned the trees. “Lovely area. I hope your father finds some solace here.”

  “I don’t think he does.”

  “That saddens me.”

  “Me too.”

  The preacher shrugged at that, and the ends of his lengthy scarf flapped against his boot laces. The chill breeze thickened around them. Shad let it at his hackles because he was still cooling down, while Dudlow clapped his hands trying to get some blood circulating. The solid whump of his gloves echoed across the embankment.

  “I didn’t merely come up here to pay my respects to your sister. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Sure. About what?”

  “To offer counsel, if you need it. I’ve dealt with ex-convicts in my parish before. The stigma they face, the prejudice and bias. Often there are great difficulties in readjusting to normal life again.”

  Only someone who’d never been inside would put it like that. Shad tried not to smile but wasn’t sure if he managed to keep from showing teeth. Prison had its own methodical regularity, an even keel and conformity that made a lot more sense when you got right down to it. You didn’t trust anyone. You kept out of the action as much as possible. It simplified life, made some things easier.

  But the minute your time was up and you grabbed the next bus south, the sudden illusion of normality grew so oppressive that it could drive you crazy trying to wrap your mind around it.

  “Thanks,” Shad said.

  “In the event you ever wish to talk to someone. If you ever need to unburden yourself over what you may have had to do to survive . . . and, ah, what might have been done to you, please let me know. I’m always willing to listen.”

  Here was another one who thought you did nothing behind bars except pull a train or get locked in the hot box for mouthing off. The preacher was eager for someone else’s perversions. Like his own wife’s wouldn’t be enough.

  “I appreciate it,” Shad said.

  That did the trick and Dudlow started to relax some, having offered his hand in friendship and spiritual consultation. He could get back to his boysenberry and jackoff thoughts now with a clear conscience. Good, whatever it took.

  They stood like that for a while, listening to oak boles moaning, watching the skinks racing through a nearby clump of birch.

  “She came to see me. Your sister. Just before—”

  Shad tensed so abruptly that his elbows cracked. He really had to do something about this loss of cool. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I was out and Becka said that Megan stopped by. I called around at your father’s house but no one answered.”

  “When was this?”

  “Three days before she . . . well . . .” Dudlow’s voice cracked and a plaintive note chimed weakly. “. . . before God summoned her back to heaven.”

  Even he couldn’t say that kind of shit with a completely straight face.

  Toeing the dirt of Megan’s grave as if making airholes for her, Shad asked, “Had she ever visited you at home before?”

  “Only if it involved the Youth Ministry, and then she was usually with the rest of the group.”

  “She ever appear troubled to you?”

  “How so?”

  Sometimes you had to draw a picture. “That’s what I’m asking.”

  Thinking about it for a second, Dudlow brought the big hard glove up to his face but couldn’t work the fingers well enough to pinch his chin. “No, not after that difficulty between you and that Hester boy.”

  “Was there anyone she would have talked with? Somebody she was close to in the group?”

  “She was friendly with Glide Luvell, but that girl had nothing to do with the ministry.”

  “How about besides her?”

  “I believe Callie Anson.”

  “She kin to Luppy?”

  “His wife.”

  See that, the things you miss when you’re away from home.

  Edging about on the heel of his boot, Dudlow looked over his shoulder in the direction of Luppy Joe Anson’s place, maybe four miles east into the back roads where the moonrunners raced. A variety of expressions crossed his face. “She’s seventeen, and they’ve been married for six months or so. Their love appears genuine enough, though I admit that if I had my druthers I’d request the juveniles of our community wait a bit longer before they made such important vows.”

  “I wasn’t judging,” Shad said.

  “No, but perhaps I do in a fashion. It’s so difficult for the children to stay young in a place like Moon Run Hollow.”

  “Or anywhere.”

  “So I hear tell. You’ve learned that firsthand, haven’t you?”

  Normal life on the outside.

  Lament started scratching at the damp earth, sniffing as if he was tracking quail in the weeds. A whine escaped his throat and he flicked his heavy tail once. The hound dog stared at Shad with a solemn intensity, took a few loping steps around Mama’s headstone, then sat in the dirt. Smoke wreathed Shad’s face and it took him a second to realize the preacher was leaning in closer, his breath f
rozen on the air.

  “Well, I’d best be off. Welcome home, Shad Jenkins.”

  “One more minute. What’s a member of the Youth Ministry do?”

  “Oh,” Dudlow said, beaming, glad to talk about good and godly works. “Visits with our neighbors.”

  Shad knew that was usually a euphemism for knocking on doors and handing out pamphlets. “Anything else?”

  “Helps with the elderly. Cooks food for those families who’ve fallen on hard times.”

  It sounded clichéd and a little forced, but Shad let it roll for now. “You let them go out in the hollow alone? Teenage girls? Into those hills?”

  “The volunteers always go in groups of two or three.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Sometimes more,” Dudlow said, on the defensive and gesturing vaguely with his hands. “We want to make our brethren feel embraced, but I’m not a naive man. I take my responsibilities in safeguarding my congregation very seriously.”

  With blackness creeping up to ply the back of his skull, Shad forced himself to see it.

  Mags.

  There she was. Seventeen years old, lovely and grinning, holding a Bible and some photocopied literature, maybe with donation envelopes or a mason jar for collections. Stepping up onto a shaky porch and knocking as the paint chips flaked around her shoulders, waiting patiently while some bitter, lonely wife-beating prick roused himself from a drunken stupor in front of the TV set. The game was over and he’d lost another twenty bucks on a bad defensive line. A bellyful of bile and three aching teeth. Got up with his belt unbuckled, only one sock on, kicked empty beer cans aside, and came to the door with the sunlight slashing his brain into juicy, throbbing slices. Just as Mags’s shadow lengthened to cover his stubbled face, the beautiful smile something he’d rarely seen before—hadn’t seen in years—while her gentle, buoyant voice asked for charity and offered an inviting hand. Talking about kindness, crafts shows, and church bake sales while his T-shirt, gummy with liquor and drool, slowly dried and stuck to his graying chest. His tattoos stretched and dull, the flesh pink as a sow’s ass. Suddenly feeling fat and old and weak, unbearably needy, glaring at her legs in the golden afternoon. Watching the swell of her young breasts, the blond down and freckles at the base of her throat. Asking her inside with the promise of a few dollar bills on his dresser. Want some lemonade?

  Shad looked into Dudlow’s face and the preacher said, “Merciful Jesus.” He took a step back, tottered in a chuckhole and nearly fell over. “Lord a’mighty.”

  “What?”

  “Your eyes. So full of fury.”

  “You expect something else from a man who’s just lost kin?”

  “You’re primed and set to go off, Shad Jenkins. I can see it.” Wrapping the edges of his scarf in his fists, beginning to slip away. Scampering happily because murder was sort of pervy. “Who are you planning to kill? Who are you taking with you to hell?”

  “I just want to find out what happened to my sister.”

  Dudlow paced backwards another few feet, as if he might turn and bolt on a dead run for his microbus. “She went to sleep. It happens. Not often, praise Jesus, but it does. That’s the way of God.”

  “That’s not good enough for me.”

  It made Dudlow look around for help, even glancing at Lament, hoping the dog would understand and agree. He let out a sorrowful breath but his eyes were gleaming. “The more’s the pity.”

  “Maybe so. We all have our course.”

  “Come see me, if you need to talk. Before you . . . well, if you’d like to chat.”

  “Sure.”

  Preacher Dudlow trundled off so quickly that the orange flaps over his ears popped up as he made his way down the incline back to his vehicle. Pa’s pickup still hadn’t returned.

  Lament shook himself, cocked his head. Shad went and plucked dying wildflowers from the thickets, putting half on Mama’s grave, the rest on Megan’s.

  The hollow was getting on his nerves. He still had a few questions he wanted to ask. As soon as he had some answers, he’d drive up Gospel Trail, see if he could find whatever it was that had been thinking on him so decidedly.

  Maybe Dudlow was right. Shad might have to kill some folks before this was all over, and take them along to oblivion.

  Chapter Eight

  THE BLOOD DREAMS RETURNED, SANGUINE and burning.

  He used to have them a lot in the joint. He’d wake up and find himself standing naked at the bars, the entire cellblock awake but quiet, everybody staring into the dimness. Even the Aryans and the homeboys didn’t say a word. Jeffie O’Rourke would have his face buried in his pillow, shrunken back into the corner of his bunk and pretending to be asleep.

  Shad never found out what he said or did while sleepwalking. No one would ever tell him, and they’d give him a wide berth for a while. The Muslims kept trying to convert him even though he was white, saying that Mohammed and Allah had plans for him.

  So, it was happening again.

  He blinked and realized he was in Mrs. Rhyerson’s backyard, looking up at the brightening sky. Maybe 5:00 A.M. from the purple hue of dawn, with the sound of the Freightliners barreling down the highway humming through the thickets.

  He waited to see if he was out here for a reason. He was freezing, wearing only sweatpants and a T-shirt. The wind filled the trees overhead, and the ash and the oaks shrugged, leaves wafting against his knees. It kept him turning, facing one way, then another, the breeze shaking the brush. His hands were open at his sides, slightly raised, palms out. Knees bent, ready to run or jump. It was the most prepared you could be when you didn’t know from which direction they’d be coming.

  If someone wanted him, he was here. He was still being looked over, contemplated, deliberated on. He could feel a certain anxiety in the night but couldn’t be sure if it was his own.

  Shad had an urge to talk but checked himself. The more of your voice you gave away, the more power you consigned to your foe. Imagine the seventy-year-old woman clambering out of bed, stomping down the stairway, swinging through the kitchen and slamming open the screen door, holding an iron skillet.

  Like he didn’t have enough on his mind.

  His feet were numb and his skin crawled with gooseflesh. He backed up, step by step, wondering if it would compel the hills to make a move.

  Perhaps it had. Shad wanted to go back inside but suddenly grew immensely tired. A peculiar weakness trailed through his limbs. He stooped and sat under a spruce, and when he felt strong enough, he stood and started back to the house. He was almost at the door before he realized he’d left his body behind.

  He headed back to the tree and his mother and the devil were waiting for him, both out of breath.

  “Shad?”

  Mama began calling to him again, like he wasn’t there, or she wasn’t. What would happen if he didn’t answer? Did he have a choice? Would she finally leave?

  Beside her stood Ashtoreth, evolved from the ancient Phoenician mother goddess of fertility Astarte, who in his male incarnation is a teacher of sciences and keeper of past and future secrets. A grand duke of hell that commands forty legions, one of the supreme demons.

  Ashtoreth smiled affectionately through terrible scars covering his face. It took Shad a second to remember where he’d seen the devil before.

  Tattooed at the base of Glide Luvell’s back.

  “Well now,” Shad said.

  Mama groped blindly for him. The red devil moved from her and crouched before Shad’s body, which was still beneath the tree, breathing into his face and whispering something in his ear. Ashtoreth stared up almost contritely as Shad approached, quickly finished whatever he’d been saying, and stood.

  The devil, dressed in the warden’s finest suit, stepped forward and straightened the knot of his silk tie. Shad thought he should grab for his mother and get it over with now. Wake up, turn aside, and get the blood out of his belly.

  Ashtoreth’s voice was his father’s voice. “She wants to giv
e you a warning.”

  “She always does.”

  “You need to listen.”

  “No, I’m not so sure that I do.”

  But this was another of his faults. Holding out hope that the ghost of the mother he’d never met might actually be searching him, loving him in her own grotesque way. You never got free of your mama.

  She drifted out there in the brush, tangling in the camphor laurel, the maple, and catclaw briars. Slowly she became aware of him standing there and looked over, held one hand out to the devil, the other toward Shad. He rubbed the creases in his forehead and sighed. She stared beyond him, and said, “Son?”

  “I’m here, Mama.”

  “Son?”

  “I’m right next to you. I’m always next to you.”

  “Shad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, hello.”

  “Hello, Mama.”

  Ashtoreth said, “Come closer. She wants you to come closer.”

  “Quiet, you.”

  Glide Luvell’s devil revealed disappointment in his expression. “Believe me, you want to hear what I have to say.”

  “That right?”

  The bizarre knowledge flooded him again, everything sharp and sensible as if he’d read it off a page many times before.

  Instigator of demonic possession, most notably in the case of the Loudun nuns of France in the sixteenth century, who accused Father Urbain Grandier of unholy and perverse acts. After severe torture, Grandier scrawled a confession with his broken hands and was burned at the stake for consorting with Satan.

  So, Shad thought, this is the guidance I get.

  Ma smiled sadly, as if she too wanted this all to end as quickly as possible. Clutching for him so he’d wake up, get on with his life, and let her go back to the grave. She appeared even less interested in him this time than a few nights ago.

  “Shad? You listen, son. You listen to me.”

  “Shh, Mama, I want to talk to your companion now.”

  “Son? I need to tell you . . . stay off the road.” Confusion twisted and contorted her features as she moved off in the wrong direction trying to find him.

  He figured what the hell, grabbed Ashtoreth by the warden’s tie, and yanked him forward. “You got something that might actually help me or not?”