Fallen Angels Page 20

  16

  The Yankees win had lifted morale as though every out-of-work Joe had hit the home runs themselves. Majesty ebbed and flowed into every nook and cranny of the country, spilling down into the mousiest holes. Even into Nazareth. Saturday, everyone flooded downtown, anxious to share the united good spirits, and that is how Fern happened to pick up the letter from Charlie.

  Jeb did not know if she had read the sender's name on the smudged corner of the envelope but suspected she had. Informing her that he had a brother Charlie without explaining the difference in last names complicated the plan, so he took the letter from her hand and dropped the idea entirely. He only addressed the matter by thanking her for dropping by the mail, and left it at that. Charlie had scrawled his alias on the front—Philemon Gracie.

  Fern sounded short on breath but euphoric when she showed up on the parsonage porch, Charlie's letter in her hand. “I've never seen so many people out and about town. You'd think a holiday had come the way folks are out milling through all of the stores. Woolworth's is full to capacity. I'll bet Floyd Whittington has to squeeze customers in with a shoehorn. The Honeysacks are sitting in chairs in front of their store with a fruit stand right out on the walk. It's kind of like those outdoor markets in Europe I've heard about.”

  He didn't ask her about Europe. “October brings out the best in people, even when they're dickering over a nickel's worth of beans to save a penny. Maybe the cooler weather does it, or maybe it's just a collective mood.” Jeb did not know if he had used “collective” in the manner he should, but it sounded clever and Fern agreed so quickly he felt all right about it.

  She dug through the beaded handbag until she found a band for her hair. She pulled her hair back away from her face. “I hope you aren't apprehensive about today,” she said.

  “No reason to be, is there?”

  “I keep thinking maybe I'm not the one who should be helping you.” Fern had a stack of books, including one of the oldest dictionaries Jeb had ever seen.

  He liked the thought of it, a woman listening while he talked. She sank back against the sofa and closed her eyes as he read something to her from Pensees. It did not sound as profound as it had the night before. So he pulled out his notes, although he did not want her to look at them. “Nice fellow, Oz. That must stand for Oswald or something.”

  “Oswald Thurman Mills, after his great-grandfather on his daddy's side. Are your children awake? It's so quiet.” She slipped out of her shoes and pushed them next to the sofa.

  “Down by the stream. Catching crawdads or tadpoles. You're right. For once it is quiet.” He liked the way she casually deposited her shoes onto his rug, as though she had just gotten home. Her toes were long, especially the chief toes, which appeared able enough to pick up a pencil.

  “I think we should do this out on the front porch. Sunny but cool. Persimmon in the air.” She left him in the living room as though she fully expected him to follow her.

  Jeb left the copy of Pensees on the sofa arm. He followed her all the way out.

  She must have noticed how he faltered when he picked up the Bible. “How about if I stare down at the porch and you just act as though you're preaching to the woods.” She looked intently at the porch until she realized he had offered no sort of response.

  Jeb asked the first thing that came to him. “Are you and Oz Mills seeing each other?”

  “Not often.”

  “Often as once a year?”

  “Things like that matter to you?” she asked.

  “Of course they don't.”

  “What is your subject matter for tomorrow, if I may ask?”

  “But some things matter, because I don't know this Oz very well. He rolls into town and just expects you to drop everything. I think that seems like a peculiar dating ritual.” Now he felt more clumsy than before, when he wanted to say more. He didn't.

  “That's your subject?”

  “Paul on the isle of Patmos.”

  “So my dating rituals interest you?”

  “I imagine he was lonely.”

  “Paul or Oz?”

  “Oz. That is, Paul. I'd like to get back to the preaching materials,” said Jeb. He had not intended to bring up Oz at all. It was one of those subjects that had buzzed around his thoughts for a few days until it spilled out, as though he had just asked her what she thought about Babe Ruth, but instead asked her, “Is this a serious thing between you and Oz?”

  “I don't know,” she said. “We've never discussed it.”

  Women knew more than they confessed, he felt. But he left the subject alone. “I think there's something to be said about Paul and how God left him to write letters on the isle of Patmos.”

  “What do you want to say about it?” she asked. A bit of something that stirred inside of her sparked when she spoke, shelling him like little bullets. But she stayed to task.

  “If he hadn't been cut off from the rest of the church folks, we would not have his letters or this part of the Bible.” Jeb had not fully developed that thought, but was hoping she would.

  Instead she sat down in the rocker and stared into the trees. “Why don't you just preach? I'm not in the mood to talk, anyway, if you don't mind.”

  Jeb opened the Bible to gather the first thought of the lecture.

  Fern crossed one leg and tapped her foot in the air. The mulish way that she refused to look at him thickened the air so that even the crickets’ pipes were muted.

  Since the last few minutes had plodded ahead unrewardingly, like a badminton contest with no drops, he found her silence agreeable. With at least the quiet in his favor, he read from his notes until a certain comment about Paul caught her attention. “Do you agree with that?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Maybe say that Paul's persecution wound up being enlightenment for the whole world.”

  He cottoned to the word enlightenment. But he would not stoop to ask her to spell it. After he had continued for what felt like another ten minutes, Fern said, “You know, Paul had it in his mind that he would go and preach to certain places. But instead, he spent his last days writing letters. Maybe he didn't even have the assurance that anyone would ever read them. I wonder if he felt like he had failed God?”

  Jeb wished he had said that, or even thought it. But then all of a sudden, he just knew it. He didn't know what to make of it, as though a con like him could get inside the head of Saint Paul or would even want to. Jeb had always run around the tree of his problems and just kept running until he ran out of rope. But he expected that of himself. It came to him that Paul had felt the same way. He wrote down her comment and decided to study on it.

  They continued. When Fern would fall silent for a while he would prompt her until she would pick up where she left off. What she said had plainness but stirred things up inside of him. It felt as though he was eating her little truisms. He finally got up off his rocker and sat down in front of her. “I like listening to you talk.”

  “That's a kind thing to say,” she said.

  “I'm not trying to be kind. Oz, I'll bet he knows all of the kind and right things to say to you. But I could just lay on a bank, listening to the river, your voice, and nothing else.”

  “Could you tell me why you have such an interest in Oz Mills?” she asked.

  “He appeared out of nowhere.”

  “We've known each other for a couple of years.”

  “That's a long time. Seems like he would do something about now, find ways to see you more often.” Jeb leaned against the porch railing. His feet were inches from Fern's elongated toes.

  “You think I should see him more often? Try and deepen things between us?” Fern never lost momentum when Jeb questioned her, a practice that kept knocking him off the fence post.

  “That's not for me to say. Just seems like if he's going to try and keep a girl on a leash—”

  “I'm not on Oz Mills's leash!”

  “So what you're trying to say is that Oz and you are just friends?”

/>   She pulled her bare feet up under the cotton skirt. The fabric enveloped her like a mushroom. “Something like that. You and I, we're friends, aren't we?”

  He did not know how to answer her.

  Angel ran through the house, as though she had come up the back steps, and bolted for the front porch. “Jeb, Jeb!”

  Jeb stood and met her at the door. Her voice sounded like an alarm.

  “What name did she call you?” Fern asked.

  Angel saw Fern and pulled her hands up to her mouth. “Daddy, we saw the deputy coming through the woods, down the road to our place. See, he's coming.”

  Jeb's lips came together, not a smile nor a grimace, just the steady pretense of a man in hiding. “Nothing wrong with that, Angel. You go back inside and check on your brother and sister. Maybe the deputy has news about the truck.”

  Fern's feet dropped onto the porch. She went back inside to look for her shoes.

  Jeb met the officer out on the lawn with a smile as wooden as an Indian nickel. “Afternoon, Deputy. What can I do for you?”

  The deputy did not offer a friendly greeting this time. “I need to discuss something with you, Reverend. Maybe you want to step away from the house, so the kids don't hear.”

  Jeb craned his head to the flank and saw Fern and all three kids staring at them. “You coming to the potluck social, Deputy Maynard?” Jeb asked. “Last chance for potato salad until the spring, I hear.”

  “It's about your truck and a bit of trouble down in Texarkana,” said the deputy.

  Jeb hid his hands in his pockets. His fingers came around a bit of old cork from a bottle of Texarkana home brew. “I don't know anything about Texarkana.”

  “Seems your vehicle was the getaway for a man who bludgeoned a landowner's son to death. You ever heard of a Mr. Leon Hampton, owns a cotton plantation down near the Arkansas-Texas border?”

  “This Hank Hampton, he died?”

  “I thought I said Leon. Appears so. This Jeb Nubey, he's the man they been looking for all these months.” The deputy held up the wanted poster.

  Maynard studied his face. Jeb didn't dare look at Fern, who might have heard Angel call him Jeb. He walked a few paces out and Maynard followed.

  “But you say your truck was stolen outside our town. Not in Texarkana? Do I have your story right, Reverend?”

  “Seems there was a little business one night about my truck.” Jeb steadied his voice. “It was down around Texarkana. Remember when we were slowed up coming here? My truck turned up missing, but I got it back. I thought some boys went joy riding.” His throat felt like something had been tied around it and yanked by the worst knot yet.

  “That is such a relief to hear, Reverend. I'll write this up and get it down to the sheriff in Texarkana.”

  He did not feel relieved but sick to death. “No need to report it. Not any harm done that I can see.”

  “Best to report these details. Keeps us all straight with one another across county lines. I don't see how this has anything to do with the boys on this robbing spree, the ones who done stole your truck. Appears to be a different matter entirely.” He started to turn away, but then threw in, “Many times as you get robbed, I'd say you're too trusting, Parson. Me, I got to figger out some missing pieces. Somehow, I'll study on it Something will come to me. Always does. I cracked a case two years ago that had those Washington swells completely bumfuzzled. I got the nose for these things. My wife tells me that all the time.”

  “Glad to hear that,” said Jeb.

  “Best I can figger, this two-man crime spree across upper Arkansas has me thinking we're closing in on finding your truck. I will let you know as soon as we get these boys nailed. See you in church, maybe. Wife's been after me to go. Food's always a good bait.”

  Jeb watched him go. His chest felt as though an anvil had dropped on him. Hank Hampton was a fool, but Jeb did not want him dead. The sun of noonday drenched him, poured over him through the baring oaks, but he felt a chill. He had to choke back an anxious moan and the urge to run at the same time. He was convinced that all of the sky light over Nazareth pointed into his dirty past. Maynard had braked at the end of the lane when the urge to run after the deputy overtook Jeb. In the dust of the police automobile he imagined running behind the deputy waving his arms, keen on confessing his crime. Angel ran into the dream behind him shrieking and begging him to stop. Then Fern called out his stolen name and it all disappeared. He felt guilty and safe all at once.

  “You scared me today. I never saw you like that before. You came back with trouble all over your face.” Fern had her hand behind her holding open the screen door. “This Hampton must have been a close friend of yours.”

  “He shouldn't have died. I just don't understand why. He was young, kind of stupid, but didn't deserve death,” said Jeb.

  Every wood and town between Texarkana and Little Rock swarmed with cops. But all Jeb could see in his mind's eye was Hank Hampton laying in repose with a lily in his hands. Fern's face blurred and he saw Hank's momma. He covered his face with his hands. “This is a nightmare, that's what!”

  Angel stayed near Jeb, her hand cupped right behind his elbow as though she no longer trusted him to say the right things. “Good night, Miss Coulter. He'll be fine in the morning.”

  Jeb wanted to explain his pain to Fern, but two things barred confession: nothing he could say would be the truth and he could not bear another lie. So he pleaded in his mind, something that sounded like a prayer. A bit of relief. Something along the lines of “Don't strike me down before I make things right.”

  “Walk me out, Reverend?” she asked.

  Jeb told Angel, “Go on and wash up for bed.”

  “I can walk Miss Coulter out,” she said. She squeezed his hand as though she was trying to speak to him in secret codes, and that surprised him. When he looked into her face, she did not look hard or sarcastic but like a teenaged girl groping to find her way. Scared for the first time, it seemed. His past had not threatened her security too much until now.

  “Angel, just go. We'll talk in the morning.” Jeb opened the door for Fern.

  From the front yard, Angel's head could be seen through a window like she had grown a halo. Then the living room went dark.

  Fern had to pull on her sweater. The night air had a hint of cooling. Winter was not far off. Jeb helped her pull the wrap around her shoulders so she could slip her arms into the sleeves. “You're sure you're all right, Reverend?”

  The way she kept patting his arm and telling him how sorry she was that his friend had died comforted him, even though he did not deserve it. “Go get some rest and don't worry about me, Fern. I shouldn't have gotten so torn up like that.”

  “You're up to preaching tomorrow?”

  He had forgotten entirely. Sunday was only a few hours away. Then after that, everything she knew about him could dissolve right in plain sight of her. Maynard's report would be sent out on Monday to the Texarkana law enforcement officials. He thought of that one thing and of Hank Hampton lying in his grave. He lied to Fern once more and told himself it would be the last lie, one more invention. Even in his tone, without any trace of boasting, he said, “You'll like tomorrow's message. Paul on the isle of Patmos. Paul and me, we got things together.” He hoped to make it the last lie.

  He felt her hand brush against his shirt. When he looked down, he saw her hand resting against his chest. “Fern?”

  She lifted her face to him.

  “I need you.” It slipped out. He kissed her but even that felt like a lie. Common sense told him to walk away, slink into the night, be gone by morning. Then out came more confessions to entangle him further. The kind of words a bona fide man of worth should say. But not him. “If you don't need me, I'll settle for this.” He kissed her again and when he did it seemed she needed him back.

  Her touch took him to a place far from deputy warrants and dark Mondays. For an instant, he could see the two of them on a blanket sipping lemonade at Marvelous Crossing. Four
children played around them on the grass making dandelion crowns and soiling the blanket with bare muddy feet.

  Other pleasant things crowded out worry like a happy dose of life with a nice kick to it. October had come with more good than bad and wasn't that something to consider? This time and place he had found on the way to no place in particular had somehow made him better. Maybe he just wanted to be better. He was a literate man, for one. In his arms this night was some lovely thing that smelled like the heavenly hosts and all things honorable. Monday could not send him running away, tail tucked, to a new town to start again. He wouldn't allow it to unravel right in front of him. But guilt got the better of him. Fern should know him and know about him.

  Then she kissed his neck and he died again.

  Tell me, God, this ain't the beginning and dead end of all things good. He could not believe that destined-for-jail Jeb Nubey had come to like the taste of good people and their simple life spread out like a banquet. To see it end made him feel like the kid shown a peek into a kaleidoscope only to have it taken away for good. It should not be so. He pushed Monday away. Something within reach had to make it all true for him—Fern, Church in the Dell, and this man whose shoes he had put on. Hang tomorrow or Monday! Sunday would row pleasant things onto Jeb Nubey's muddy shores—a little sacred music, some community admiration, and the girl. Tomorrow would be his final gift. He thanked God for it.

  “I love Sundays, don't you, Fern?”

  “Philemon, you have to kiss me like that again. It felt like the power of God between us,” she said.

  17

  Jeb slept only until just before dawn. Too soon to know if a miracle would show, but he had asked God for it more than once in the night. God. He had used the name for cheating and getting by. He'd made a money-spinning livelihood of the backstabbing of Christ. Now with nothing to look at but the night, he sidled up to Him like a mad dog begging to be shot.

  He pulled out Charlie's letter to read again. Near dawn, he read the letter stamped with a Texarkana postmark in the paleness of daybreak, no pigment yet of true daylight.