“Now, Hélène…”
“When would you wish to leave?”
He thought a moment. “Could we leave at once?”
“Je serai devant votre maison dans cinq minutes!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll be there in five minutes, Father. Five minutes!”
“Thank you!” he said. But Hélène had already hung up.
Uncle Billy Watson stood before the mirrored door of the bathroom medicine cabinet and spoke aloud to his image.
“Wellsir, this feller got a parrot f’r ’is birthday, don’t you know.”
He glanced at the almanac he was holding, but his trembling hand caused the words to dance a jig. It was enough to give a man a headache, trying to read words that bounced around like a monkey on a mule.
“Hold still!” he commanded. He was surprised to see that his hand obeyed him. He adjusted his glasses, held the almanac closer to the light above the cabinet, and squinted at the next line.
“Hit was a full-growed parrot an’ come with a mean attitude an’ a manner of talkin’ that was scand’lous. Seem like ever’ other word or two would near about kink a man’s hair.
“Course, th’ feller tried t’ change things, don’t you know, he was all th’ time sayin’ polite words, playin’ soft music on th’ radio, anything he could think of t’ try an’ set a good example, but they wouldn’t nothin’ work.”
Uncle Billy laid the almanac on the tank of the commode, squeezed his eyes shut, and repeated by memory what he’d just read aloud. He figured he’d done that part pretty good; he picked up the almanac and adjusted his glasses, which were taped across the nose bridge where, several months ago, they had broken in two.
“One day he got s’ mad, he took ’at ol’ bird an’ shook it ’til its beak rattled. Boys, ’at fired th’ parrot up, he went t’ cussin’ th’ feller ever’ whichaway, sayin’ worser things than he’d been a-sayin’.”
“Wellsir, th’ feller grabbed ‘at bird up an’ stuck it in th’ freezer an’ slammed th’ door. Yessir! Heard it a-squawkin,’ a-kickin’, a-screamin’, an’ I don’ know what all. Then it got real still in there.
“Feller was scared he’d lost ’is parrot, so he opened th’ freezer door, and dadjing if th’ parrot didn’t step out nice as you please, said, ‘I’m mighty sorry if I offended you with my language an’ all, an’ I ask y’r forgiveness, don’t you know. I’ll sure try to correct my actions from here on out.’
“Th’ feller was about t’ ask what caused such a big change when th’ parrot said, ‘About that chicken in there—may I ask what’n th’ world it done?’”
By johnny, that ought to work if he practiced it enough times. He just hoped it would make the preacher laugh, that was the main thing. He’d never seen a man look so low, like he could crawl under a snake’s belly wearing a top hat. He’d give a dollar bill to say this joke to Rose Watson, to get somebody else’s opinion, but Rose never laughed at his jokes, nossir, never did.
He noted that his right hand had begun to tremble again. He stuck it in his pocket and walked into the hall with his cane in the other hand, singing under his breath. It was the song his mother had taught him as a boy; he often mumbled or sang a few words of “Redwing” when he was happy.
Driving with Hélène Pringle made flying with Omer Cunningham resemble an Altar Guild tea party.
He shut his eyes, unable to look. Hélène was proceeding down the winding mountain road like a ball from a cannon. If his blood had been as turgid as a river bottom these past weeks, it was now pumping like oil through a derrick. To make things worse, Hélène seemed incapable of driving and speaking English at the same time. Worse still, she was precisely the height of Sadie Baxter and could barely see over the steering wheel.
“I do love these mountain roads, they make me feel so free! Je n’ai jamais de la vie été plus heureuse nulle part ailleurs que je ne le suis ici dans ces montagnes. I presume that’s true for you, also, as you’ve chosen to live here so many years. Ça par exemple! Regardez les nuages audessus de ce pic là!”
“Hélène,” he croaked, “could you slow down? Just a mite?” He emphasized mite, as he certainly didn’t want to offend.
“Of course, Father, but my speedometer reads only fifty-five.”
“Better take your car in and let Harley have a look, I think we’re doing…seventy.” Eighty was more like it, but he didn’t want to push.
“Seventy? But this car has never done seventy.”
He shut his eyes and prayed.
“What’s he look like?” asked the pharmacist.
Father Tim reached for his wallet as Hélène explained.
“Tall, very thin. Freckles. Red hair. Quite…dirty.”
“Here,” said Father Tim, holding out a photo of Dooley. “Something like this.”
The pharmacist looked disapproving. “You must be talkin’ about Sammy Barlowe. We’ve caught him tryin’ to stuff his britches with candy, but nobody’s ever actually found anything on ’im.”
Father Tim’s heart pounded. He looked around for a chair, someplace to sit for a moment…. “Where does he live?”
“God only knows. Someplace with his old man, who’s the worst drunk you’ll ever run into. Why would you be looking for this boy? I see you’re clergy.”
“Yes, well, he’s…” Father Tim paused a moment. “He’s family.”
The pharmacist raised his eyebrows.
“You could ask at the pool hall. Go down to the corner, cross the street, an’ it’s on your left.”
They bolted from the drugstore, the bell jangling on the door, and went at a trot to the corner, where they waited for the light.
His breath came quickly; his head felt lighter than air. “Hélène, this could be a dead end. But you need to know how terribly, terribly important it is for us to do…what we’re doing. Do you pray?”
“I’ve just begun!” she said, thrilled that this might somehow make things more convenient for him.
“Pray, then. You may have found Dooley’s kid brother.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh!” she said, breathless. “Oh!”
“That definitely ain’t Sammy Barlowe,” said the pool hall owner. He took a long drag on the last of his cigarette, dropped it to the cement floor, and stepped on it. “This boy looks like he’s livin’ high on th’ hog.” He exhaled a considerable fume of smoke.
“Right. What I’m saying is, does Sammy look like this boy? Is there a strong resemblance?”
“Oh, yeah. I’d say so. What you need to know for?”
“I’d like to contact him.”
“Has he come into big money?” The man cackled. Two other men halted their pool game and listened to the conversation.
“Nothing like that. Perhaps you can tell us where he lives.”
“I cain’t tell you that.”
“Why not?” He hadn’t careened down the mountain with Hélène Pringle, risking life and limb, to be put off so easily.
“Because it ain’t nobody’s business, is why not.”
“I’m family,” he said, as if that would change everything.
The man smirked. “You’re a preacher.”
“Preachers have families!” said Hélène, indignant.
“You might as well go on, I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’.” The man walked across the room, entered a door marked Office, and slammed it behind him.
A radio played, drifting randomly between two country stations.
One of the pool players walked over and held out his hand. “How bad you want t’ know where Sammy lives at?”
“Real bad,” said Father Tim.
“Pink Shuford.”
“Pink,” said Father Tim, shaking hands. “Tim Kavanagh. And this is Miss Pringle.”
Hélène put her hands behind her back. “Bonjour.” Father Tim thought he heard a tremor in her voice.
“Named after m’ great-granpaw, Pinckney.”
“A fine old southern na
me.”
“This here’s Skin Head Bug Eye Snaggle Tooth Austin, you can call ’im Bug f’r short.”
Father Tim nodded toward Bug, who blinked but didn’t return the nod.
“You ever shoot any pool?” asked Pink Shuford. His left arm was tattooed with a snake coiled from wrist to elbow.
“Once or twice. I’d appreciate knowing where we can find Sammy.”
Pink walked back to the table, hunkered over it with the stick, and made a shot. The balls clicked together and rolled apart. The seven ball dropped into the corner pocket.
“I reckon you ain’t played enough pool to recognize that as a mighty fine shot.”
“No, I haven’t,” said Father Tim.
“Seven in th’ corner pocket. Most places, I could’ve won cash money on that shot.”
“What will it take for you to tell us where to find Sammy?”
“Well, let’s see.” Pink scratched his head and gazed at the ceiling.
“Let me just see, now.” The odor of stale tobacco and sour beer permeated the room; a ceiling fan oscillated over their heads.
Pink Shuford looked at Father Tim and suddenly grinned. “How about…”
Bug’s cue ball scratched in the side pocket. Pink eyed the table, chalked his cue, bent over the rail, and returned the shot. “Eight ball in the corner pocket, eat y’r heart out,” said Pink. Bug uttered a curse.
“Now,” said Pink, “back to business. How about fifty bucks?”
Father Tim took out his wallet and examined the billfold. Twenty, thirty, thirty-five, -six, -seven, -eight…He felt a trickle of sweat along his spine. This whole scenario exuded a palpable darkness; he wanted out of here. Hélène was already backing toward the door.
“Thirty-eight,” said Father Tim.
“Deal.” Pink crossed to him quickly and took the money. He stuffed it in his jeans pocket. “Follow me an’ Bug. I’m in th’ blue Chevy truck out front.”
“Perhaps you could just give us directions.”
“You ain’t goin’ t’ find it without help.”
There was no turning back. “We’re parked in front of the drugstore.”
“A gray Dodge sedan,” said Hélène, the quaver still in her voice.
“How far do you think it might be to…where we’re going?”
Pink Shuford pulled a Lucky Strike from a package in his shirt pocket. “Maybe ten, twelve miles.” He lit the cigarette with a match, inhaled deeply, and grinned at Hélène. “I hope you got good shocks, lady.”
Father Tim managed to beat her to the car and, racing to the driver’s side, gripped the door handle. “I’ll be glad to drive!”
“Oh, no, Father! There’s something wrong with the brakes, I have to tap them just so or…”
“Or…what?”
“Or they don’t work very well. You just get in and relax and leave the driving to me!”
Relax? Relax? He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow, then got in, sat down and crossed himself. Surround us with Your loving care, he prayed silently. Protect us from every danger; and bring us in safety to our journey’s end; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.
Hélène started the car with a roar. “I’m so glad you’re praying,” she said happily.
The pickup truck didn’t appear to slow down for the bend in the road. Hélène gunned the motor and they careened after it.
“Mon Dieu!” gasped Hélèn. “What haste they make. Our own speed is fifty.”
Sixty! he thought, paralyzed with dread. But why worry? Didn’t he believe God had a time for everybody? If so, so be it; he was ready. It’s just that there were other ways he’d rather go Home, like in his sleep, with a smile on his face….
He had an awful and hankering thirst. It had come upon him suddenly as they pulled away from the curb in Holding. Not only had he left the house without a bottle of water, he realized he’d utterly forgotten his morning insulin shot.
Hélène’s face looked considerably pinched, not to mention white as a sheet, as his mother would have said.
“Are you…all right?”
“It is a very uncomfortable thing to talk about, Father….”
“You can talk about it to me.”
He watched her struggle with some deep truth. “I would hope to be delicate, but you see…”
They hauled around another curve, and were now barreling down a steep grade on a gravel road, enveloped in a flume of dust kicked up by the truck.
“…I desperately need to…to…find a powder room!”
He thought she might burst into tears of humiliation.
“And I need to find water!” he said, equally urgent.
It didn’t look hopeful. No, indeed, they were in the piney woods with no habitation in sight. In truth, he hoped they didn’t meet another vehicle, as the road was fit for the passage of one car only. What had he gotten them into? He felt a sudden responsibility for Hélène Pringle, an innocent bystander. They passed a deserted house trailer.
“There’s something else I should tell you,” she said. “Something far worse.”
“What’s that?”
“Our petrol gauge reads half full, but the gauge doesn’t work properly. There’s really less than a quarter of a tank.”
“Aha.”
“We left in such haste that I forgot to look until now, but I’m sure we have enough to get back to town….” her voice trailed away thinly.
Lord, have mercy…. “I’m sure,” he said, coughing from the dust seeping into the car.
“J’en suis désolée, mon père! Pardonnez-moi. J’espère que je ne nous ai pas attiré des ennuis.”
He had no idea what she was saying, but her distress was evident.
“We can turn around and go back!” he exclaimed, thinking to console her.
“Non, non! We must not do that! This is very crucial to your happiness, to dear Dooley’s happiness! We must press on and take our chances.” She turned to look at him, beseeching. “You pray, Father, and I’ll drive!”
The road was a washboard; he thought his insides might be rearranged in some unrecognizable way, his liver where a kidney had been, his heart in his throat….
They followed the blue truck, making a hard left turn onto an unmarked dirt road scarred with potholes; he heard the exhaust pipe scrape over one rock, then another. This was hardly better than a dry creek bed.
He realized, suddenly, that the truck had disappeared.
“Where did they get to?”
“I don’t know,” she said, bewildered. “But we’ll catch them!”
He clapped a hand over his eyes and held on for dear life.
He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but minutes later he was greatly relieved to find that the truck had, indeed, disappeared.
Hélène slowed down and stopped for a moment, shaken. He had the odd feeling they’d gotten off light with a thirty-eight-dollar joyride.
The fatigue was like nothing he’d ever experienced; it was all the exhaustion and despair of the last weeks rolled into a single agony. He supposed he’d have to turn himself in to an institution of some sort; he could not be trusted to care for himself. Perhaps there was a kind of death wish in him that he’d never routed out, that he’d held back from God and never let Him touch.
On their way home, they had stopped to go to the rest room, get gas, and take nourishment. He sat in the car at the service station like an invalid, while Hélène pumped gas, bought drinks and two bags of Fritos, and ministered to his pathetic needs. It was desperately humiliating, but he could do nothing about it. As they sped up the mountain, he guzzled bottled water and feebly consumed the Fritos.
He came into his kitchen, out of breath and dazed, and reached for the countertop of the island. As the wave of fatigue rolled over him, he felt like a sinking swimmer whose foot had just touched an undertow. He inhaled deeply and shook his head, panicked; then it passed and he was safe again, holding on to the countertop and looking into the eyes of his dog.
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He let Barnabas into the yard without a leash, something he rarely did, and thanked God that his faithful companion obeyed his master’s every command.
Now he could administer his evening shot and drag himself to bed—that’s all he wanted, nothing more: nothing.
He was sleeping when the phone rang; he fumbled it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Ah, Timothy, so glad you’re there, it’s Edith.”
Edith! Was this a dream?
“When we spoke last evening, I said I ought to thank you, and then, silly me, I forgot to actually do it! So, thank you, Timothy, thank you. God uses everything for good, don’t you think? But I mustn’t keep you. Blessings to you and Cynthia and that dear boy you took in. Toodles!”
He was dumbfounded all over again, but more than that, he felt molested, plain and simple. Why would Edith Mallory never leave him alone? Why did she endlessly insinuate herself into his life? He hated this business of phoning him up like some old school chum, and fervently hoped it would never happen again. Perhaps it wouldn’t; she had thanked him, after all, for whatever aberrant reason she might have had, and that should be enough.
He hoped to God it would be enough.
The talk with Cynthia hadn’t gone well; she’d heard his fatigue and wanted to know everything, but he’d been afraid to tell her everything.
He knew that hiding the raw details from his wife, or any wife, did not bode well for future outcomes. But he couldn’t explain it all; it was too exhausting, too complicated, too…he thought the whole afternoon vaguely dreamlike, as if it had never happened. He’d been to another world with the intent of accomplishing a grand mission, and had come home humbled and defeated. Why even speak of it?
At the foot of the bed, Barnabas scratched furiously, causing the mattress to throb like a great, arhythmic heartbeat.
Still awake at three in the morning, Father Tim lay in the dark room and looked out the window to darkness. The heavens were over-cast, obscuring a nearly full moon, and the street lamp had been knocked winding two weeks ago by a careless driver.