Lovesick (25 page)

“I would appreciate that.”

“And I didn't mean anything bad about the Pentecostals earlier. Lord knows I'll be speaking in tongues if it means some extra cash.”

Darlene floated off to place her order, spending the imminent windfall in her mind, Sandra was sure. When she returned with breakfast, she gave Sandra a detailed map to Mt. Pisgah Holiness, and both her name and her daughter's printed in heavy block letters. Sandra chuckled to herself. She liked this deceit. It was easy. And it seemed to suit this new woman she was becoming, this Lucille. She noticed also Darlene had managed to secure two extra slices of bacon for her on the order—
Prime the pump, you greedy hillbilly,
she thought.
Prime the pump.

 

The turnoff was a two-rut road that twisted up the side of the mountain, the kind of road you don't want to meet anyone coming in the opposite direction. Sandra would not have taken it had it not been for the small realtor's sign that had been repainted and stuck into the ground at the entrance:
MT. PISGAH HOLINESS TABERNACLE
and an arrow pointing the way.

Up and up she drove as if ascending into the clouds. The air was thick with the smell of an oncoming storm, and wild azaleas dotted the mountainside with fiery bursts of brilliant orange. Dogwoods hung heavy with blooms. The dense woods and underbrush appeared to her impenetrable, ancient, primordial.

Finally, she reached a clearing where a small-framed building, weather-beaten and in sore need of repainting, stood built up on cinder blocks. There was no steeple, no stained glass—she doubted even if there was electricity or running water. She removed her purse with the gun and the money inside from under her seat and wrapped the strap around her arm. Sandra did not bother to lock her car as she got out and approached the building. When she climbed the steps, she discovered the front door was not fastened, but she did not enter the tabernacle. It was as if there was an invisible line she dared not cross. Standing at the entrance, she noticed folding chairs arranged neatly in rows on either side of the room, creating a center aisle that led to a small lectern. There was an upright piano in the far right corner, and hanging on the back wall was a handmade cross, two rough-hewn tree limbs still covered in bark, lashed together with leather bands. Several milk-glass globes hung on chains from the ceiling. There was power here after all.

“I made that cross myself.”

Sandra jumped as a man walked up the steps behind her. Turning to face him, she recognized him as the man from the TV—Shep's cousin.

“It's made from the trunks of two dogwood trees. Did you ever hear how the dogwood came to look like it does?”

“No,” said Sandra.

The resemblance to Shep was stronger in person. He was almost the same height and weight, though he looked older, more world-weary, and had begun to go slack in the belly some—probably from too much beer. But his hair was dark and shiny like Shep's, combed back like Shep's, and his eyes were just as piercing.

“They say that the dogwood tree used to stand taller and more proud than any oak tree or elm,” he said, “and that when they went to find something to crucify Jesus, they naturally chose the biggest, strongest tree they could think of. Well, the dogwood was so sad that it had been used to kill the Son of God that it shriveled right up and its branches became gnarled like an old woman's hands. And its flowers—that's why each one is in the shape of a cross with a little red stain on the petals—like a drop of blood, to show us that Christ died for our sins.”

“That's a lovely story,” said Sandra.

“Ain't no story,” Shep's cousin said. “It's a fact. Whatch you doin' up here?”

“I was looking for someone. I came because of Shep Waters. He told me this is where he went to church.”

“Shep was my cousin. My name is Claude. Claude Earl Waters.”

“I know,” said Sandra. “I saw you on TV.”

A sly smile slid across Claude's face. “Didja now? Saw me on TV? You ain't from the TV, are you?”

“No,” said Sandra.

“I live just down from here. I was listening to the news when I heard you driving up—they said the police had a suspect. Closing in fast. I thought it might have been another reporter wanting an interview.”

“I'm not a reporter.”

“You look like you could have been on TV, though.”

“No, I have never been on TV. I was a friend of Shep's.” She did not like this man. He frightened her.

“Well, any friend of Shep's . . . as they say. What can I do you for . . .”

“Lucille.”

“That's a purty name. Lucille. Do folks call you Lucy for short? I love Lucy.” He laughed at his joke.

“It's Lucille.”

“Well, Lucy Lucille, what brings you all the way up to the mountaintop? Shep's funeral is down in Sumter.”

“I know.”

“You knew Shep, then?”

“Yes, he helped me through a difficult time.”

“I would've gone to the funeral, but Cousin Shep and I didn't exactly see eye to eye on a lot of things. I don't think anybody will miss me not being there. Why aren't you there?”

“Shep told me about Brother Hiram. He said I should go and see him. That he was a holy man.”

“You're looking for Old Hiram Poole? Shep told you to come and see him?”

“Yes. Did he go to Sumter?”

Claude let out a snort. “Not unless today is Judgment Day and the dead in Christ have risen. Old Hiram has been dead for pretty nigh on six or seven years now.”

Sandra's hopes fell at the news of Hiram's death. And her lie had been a stupid, clumsy one—easily exposed.

“What did you need to see Hiram about any-hoo?”

“I wanted him to help with me with something.”

“I can't imagine Hiram could have helped anybody with much of anything. He lived off by himself, never really took to people, just come down the mountain long enough to sell some home brew or bring his snakes to a meeting. He was dead three weeks before anybody even thought to go looking for him. It might have been longer, but I got a powerful thirst one night and went up to where he lived. Figured it was easier to walk up the mountain drunk than to try and drive down it to town. When I got to Hiram's, there he was sitting at the dinner table, dead as a rock. Had the durn dinner fork still in his hand. But dead just the same.” He paused to let the effect sink in. “Now, you don't look like the type of lady who would drive up here for white lightning. You sure you aren't from the TV.”

“I'm sure,” said Sandra.

“Well, I don't know. You just look awful familiar to me—if you know what I mean.” His smile was like a dirty joke.

Sandra stared at him hard. “I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”

Suddenly the sky opened and the rain poured down on them. Claude pushed opened the door to the church wide for her but seemed to sense her resistance to stepping inside.

“I got my trailer just down yonder,” he said. “If you want to come over, maybe I could help you with whatever Shep sent you to see Hiram about.”

“I don't know.”

“Or you can stand out here and get drowned. Suit yourself.”

“I don't know.”

“What don't you know? What do you think, Miss Lucy, that I am going to take you down to my trailer so I can have my way with you? Well, in case you haven't noticed, we are purty much past hollering distance from anything—if I meant you any harm, I reckon I would have already made that known.”

He walked off down toward a path in the brush. The rain was so heavy he was almost lost to her, even at a short distance. He turned as he reached the edge of the wood and called as he would to a dog or a petulant child. “Come on, now. I'm not going to beg you. But don't you worry, Miss Lucy Lucille, I'll hook you up with whatever you're looking to find. You can count on that.”

Sandra closed the door of the church behind her, then walked into the blinding rain, obediently following Claude Earl into the woods.

 

The trailer was, in fact, a camper, sloped at both ends so the only place you could stand up straight was in the center—the part with the kitchenette and bathroom. In the front section, which was the living/eating area or the rear, which she knew would be Claude's bedroom, it was necessary to stoop to prevent hitting your head. Sandra felt like she was inside an egg.

“Make yourself to home,” said Claude as he cracked open the top to a Bud longneck. The trailer reeked of stale cigarette smoke, moldy food, and alcohol. “Do you want something to drink? Don't got no tea or coffee. Just sodi pop and beer.” He took a swig from his drink and smacked his lips. “Ain't nothing quite so good as the taste of a cold one from a bottle. Never did like drinking beer from a can. Gives it a different taste.”

“I'm fine,” said Sandra.

“Yes, you are that, but do you need anything to drink?” Claude smiled at her, and took another swallow.

“No, thank you,” said Sandra.

“This rain won't last too long,” said Claude, leaning over past her to look out the window. The trailer rocked beneath his weight. “We get a shower most every afternoon. Keeps things cool in the evening.” As he got close, she could tell he had not bathed in days. His clothes smelled musty, rank. He leaned himself up against the counter and propped his boot on the seat opposite her. “So now, I guess we got us some bidness to take care of.”

Sandra held her purse tight against her. She would fight him if he tried to take it. If he attempted to rob or rape her.

“What is it that brought you here, Miss Lucy Belle?”

“I told you Shep sent me to see—”

“And a bigger crock of horseshit I never heard neither! Let's get one thing straight here. You don't want to play coy with me—it's not to your advantage. All it's gonna do is cost you time and piss me off. My motto is, ‘Honesty is always the best policy.' You understand? Now why don't we start again?”

“I don't know.”

“You keep saying that, Miss Lucy Lou. That you don't know. Just what is it you don't fuckin' know?”

Claude was not stupid like the waitress. It would not be easy to deceive him—and if she were caught out again, there could be trouble. She decided to confront him head-on. “I don't know if I can trust you,” she said.

Claude Earl laughed, “And visi versi. For all I know you are just some crazy woman here to do me harm. But I guess them's the breaks. 'Cause I figure we both have something the other one wants. So, I do for you, you do for me.”

“And then I can go. You won't try to stop me?”

“You found me, remember. Why would I want to keep you here, Miss Lucy? I got no reason—unless, of course, I decide to tie you to a tree and cut your titties off so I can keep 'em in the frigerator and watch 'em jiggle on a plate like Jell-O.”

Sandra gasped.

Claude chuckled. “Now, don't get your drawers in a knot. I'm just funning with you. If I want pussy, I don't have to get it at knifepoint, you can best believe that.” He put his hand on his pants leg and pulled his trousers taut, revealing the outline of his penis. “And I don't mean to be disrespectful to you, but you're old enough to be my mamma. Not that she wadn't a good piece of pussy, my mamma.” He stared at her hard, trying to scare her, but Sandra drew strength from it. He was playing a game with her. She couldn't let him roll over her this way. She would not. She had come here for a purpose. She had a mission. She would not be denied.

“Okay, you're right. I do want something from you.”

“That's better.”

“There is a snake.”

“A snake?”

“Yes.” Sandra began to shake. “I think I might have that beer if you don't mind.” Claude finished his with a huge gulp and opened two more. It was cold in her throat, dark and mellow. “I don't quite know where to begin.”

“You said Shep sent you.”

“Shep saved me.”

“Jesus saves,” said Claude. “Moses invests.”

“I can't tell you if you interrupt me. It's hard enough to think as it is in here. It's suffocating. And it stinks. You stink.”

Claude slid open a window set into the door of the camper shell. “I guess pig shit don't smell to a pig,” he said.

“I wasn't trying to be rude,” replied Sandra. “So many things have happened. I haven't slept in over a day. I drove all last night to get here.”

“Where did you come from?”

“That's not important. I came here because God led me to come here. I thought it was to see Hiram.”

“Because he was the one with the snakes.”

“I saw the snake. It knew me.”

“For real? I seen plenty of snakes in my time, but never one who recognized me on sight. How is that possible? Or were you smoking some wacky weed? Tell me the truth now. Don't bullshit a bullshitter.”

Sandra reached for the words that tumbled in her head like socks in a dryer. “My husband died. I served God all my life and then my husband died. It was very unexpected. They told me it was God's will. If that was true, then I thought, what has all this been for? It makes no difference. God is not good.”

Claude lifted his beer as if toasting. “Fuck you, God! Goddamn you to hell. You motherfuckin' bastard.”

“I lost my faith.” She paused. Her voice cracked and she fought back the urge to cry. She would not cry in front of this man. And if he tried to hurt her, she would shoot him. She would take the gun out of her purse and shoot him. She knew she was capable of it. “But then Shep came into my life—and he reminded me of my husband. Not really, but he had an air about him.”