The Bible Salesman (18 page)

“One of the things I was thinking about when we drove away,” said Henry, “is why didn’t we have about thirty FBI agents helping us out, just in case? You know, just go ahead and act like a army instead of a couple of guys. Then I figured maybe . . . I don’t know, why not?”

“This whole operation — the big plan — has to stay so hush-hush a lot of the FBI people don’t even know what’s going on. And when these guys get arrested, people will never know the FBI was even involved.”

“But idn’t this a
different
gang?”

“Listen. They’re interrelated in ways I don’t know about yet. In ways Blinky don’t even know about. This is just like the army. You follow orders.” Clearwater sopped a piece of waffle in syrup. “You don’t ask questions. Somebody up above knows more than you. If they don’t, then you’re in the wrong army. And we’re in the right army. So we just do our job.”

“Is there any chance we could stop in Jeffries for lunch,” said Henry, “or just stop and pick up some fruit?”

“Your fruit stand? Your woman?”

“Yes sir. Right close to the Night’s Rest Motel — just down the road from it — where we stayed. Maybe we could stay there tonight.”

“We’re staying in Brownlee. At the cabin camp.”

“Then maybe we could just stop for an apple or something.”

“We’ll see how we do on time.”

“A grape.”

Clearwater was a little worried about returning to Brownlee — that truck stop and bar. He visualized the man turning away, his feet planted, the movement of his leg as he lay on the ground. But now the car jack was buried, and nobody had seen him. Nobody alive. And nobody could trace a car jack anyway. He remembered the waitress, red-and-gray hair. That’s what got him thinking about getting him some romance. He thought about Caroline’s neck, about her willingness, her weakness, her begging him to promise to never tell Henry.

He thought about Blinky. One time Blinky said that thinking small was one of Clearwater’s problems. Blinky had always been a little too cocky.

Marleen watched as a dump truck pulled in and stopped. It was late Sunday afternoon. Henry had called Friday night and said there was a fifty-fifty chance he might stop by — could she be at the fruit stand even though it was Sunday? She said of course. A car pulled in and stopped beside the dump truck. And . . . it was Henry stepping down from the truck.

She walked out to meet him. They hugged and kissed.

Clearwater stood in front of the Chrysler and called to Henry.

“I’ll be right back,” Henry said to Marleen.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” said Clearwater. “Here are the car keys. You know from the maps how to get to the cabin camp. I’ll take the dump truck. You need to come in the morning. Not before. Stay wherever you want to.” He looked at Marleen, smiled a little. He reached for his billfold. “Here’s a hundred and fifty on the gig, and you’ll get another one-fifty tomorrow. Show up at seven-thirty in the morning. Don’t be late. I’ll be sitting on my porch steps. If you don’t see me, just wait.”

“Okay,” said Henry. “Don’t you want to meet my girlfriend, Marleen?”

“No. I don’t want to meet Marleen. Get your stuff out of the truck. Seven-thirty sharp, now.”

“Yes sir.”

Just after dark that night, when Henry got to the wagon path behind the fruit stand, he stopped, felt in his pockets to see if he’d forgotten anything. He had preventatives, his flashlight, his small flask of whiskey, and the army blanket from the closet shelf at the motel. This was it. His legs felt weak. Besides all else, she was bringing him a poem.

He met her on the path, saw her before she saw him, and stepped behind a tree that stood right up against the path. When she got there, he said in a hard whisper, “Marleen.”

She gave a little startled cry and stepped away from him. She had on a long skirt and a blouse with the shirttail out — he couldn’t tell the color in the moonlight — and a purse on a long strap over her shoulder. He stepped into the path.

“I brought us a blanket,” he said. “It’s a nice night out.”

“I would have dressed up more, but my mama might have thought something. I’ll be glad when you can meet her — and the rest.”

“Me too. Hold my hand.”

Clearwater and Blinky sat on Clearwater’s screened-in porch at the cabin camp. It was dark, about ten minutes until nine. Blinky had time to look over the safe and talk over the next gig: the doctor down in Drain. The next morning he’d drive the truck and safe up to McNeill to get it opened.

A pair of binoculars lay in Blinky’s lap. When Blinky arrived, Clearwater had told him about the woman over in cabin twelve. On the hour she would open her blind and stand there naked.

They waited on the porch in the dark. Blinky lit a cigar, and they talked about the old times and the weather.

“Okay,” said Clearwater. He looked at his watch.

Blinky leaned forward, elbows on knees, pressing the binoculars to his eyes.

Clearwater stood. “It’s about time,” he said. “Like I said, it’ll go pretty fast. I’ll be right back. Just watch, you ain’t going to believe it.”

On his bed was his crowbar.

They walked along the wagon path together until she took him by the hand, glory hallelujah, and led him off the path to a grassy area about the size of a room, on a knoll, with some big rocks around. He spread the blanket and they sat facing each other. She pulled a bottle of mosquito oil and a paperback book from her purse. “I got some mosquito oil here, and I can’t wait to read you this poem,” she said.

“Me either.”

“Okay.” She opened the book and pulled out a piece of paper. “Do you want me to read it? Or do you want to read it with your flashlight?”

“Here.” He handed her the flashlight. “You read it.”

“Here goes,” she said.

If I was the bark upon a tree and you were the wood within, every morning when I woke up, you’d be under my skin.

Or you’re a tree and I’m the grass below, and comes lightning and thunder too; then in the middle of the storm, I’ll be safe under you.

Or if I’m a pea in the soup and you’re the butter bean, then we’ll always be together, even after the pot is clean.

Or if I’m the bottom of the ocean, and you’re the deep blue sea, every morning when I wake up, there you’ll be, on me.

So when we’re apart, I’m a bee without a buzz,

If we take different paths, I’m a peach without the fuzz.

“Gosh,” said Henry. “That’s just like if it was out of a book.”

“It’s a love poem.”

Henry felt his breath almost leave.

“I started it with just the part about the peach fuzz because, you remember, we talked about that, and it kind of wrote itself backwards, and it was like somebody else was writing it, and so, here, it’s a gift.” She handed him the piece of paper.

“I . . . thank you.”

“I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

“I knew I’d see you again.” Henry thought about all those grapes and fronds and things in Song of Solomon, the two Israelites visiting the prostitute. He was okay. Maybe he should . . . He handed her the flask. Without speaking, she took a short drink.

“I’m going to need some of that mosquito oil,” he said.

She reached for the bottle, twisted off the cap.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Alcohol and castor oil. It’s what Grandma always mixed. Are all your grandparents alive?”

“Just two,” said Henry. “Well, one now, that I know about. Maybe three. The other two that I’m not sure about used to live in South Carolina, but I never met them.”

She lightly dabbed oil on her neck, arms, ankles, then leaned over and said, “Here, let’s get you. I’ll do it.” She dabbed his arms and neck, leaned close while she was doing that, and so he found courage to place his hand on her cheek like he’d seen Audie Murphy do, and kiss her on the mouth. Her lips opened readily and she leaned back, pulling him with her. She put her lips to his ear. “Will you be my teddy bear?” she whispered, and laughed her big laugh.

She lay on her back on the army blanket, and he lay on his stomach beside her, his head over hers, kissing her. After a while of that, she pulled her head away from the kiss and put her lips to his ear and with one hand rubbed the back of his neck lightly. She nibbled his earlobe. He turned onto his side, got his hand up under her blouse, moved his hand around behind and found the clasp. She was staying happy. He pinched it like Carson had said. It remained attached. She reached behind and touched it and it sprang loose, and she guided his hand around to the front and onto a big breast and a nipple that was standing up, hard as a marble. And as big, it felt like. He was in the middle of some kind of carnival, some kind of state fair with all the horns blowing and balloons popping and crowds shouting. She was unbuttoning with an urgency.

He placed his mouth on her neck. She gently pushed his head on down toward her breast.

“Bite it,” she said.

“Bite it?”

“It’s okay. I bite it myself.”

“Your neck’s that long?”

“No. My titty’s kind of big.” She laughed her laugh, big and easy, like a waterfall.

“I’ve got a preventative,” he said.

“I broke the goddamned binoculars,” said Clearwater — to himself. Blinky lay on the floor, not moving. He’d had to hit him more than a couple of times, and he didn’t like that. But he could take the rug away. He’d had to move it out there from inside.

“I’m sorry it was so fast,” said Henry. He was looking up into the boughs of a long-leaf pine. He’d just felt the moon speeding up, faster and faster around the earth, until its orbit melted into liquid silver. The heated orbit then collapsed into itself and fell long and slow into an ocean somewhere, and cooled.

“That’s okay.” She was a little out of breath.

She unstraddled, leaned toward him, their lips met, then she sat back up straight.

“I think I can do it again,” he said.

“Oh, I hope so.” She started adjusting her clothes. “Have you ever seen a television?”

“I saw one in Atlanta at Sears and Roebuck. Why?”

“Just something to talk about for a minute. I’ve seen plenty of pictures of them. In magazines. At my sister’s.”

“I love you.”

“Oh, Henry, I love you too. So much. What are we going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Marleen.

“You want to come on up to the motel?”

“Why not?” She laughed. “Henry, you don’t like me less because of this, do you?”

“Less? Lord, no. And listen. I don’t know why I told you that about my heart. My heart’s fine. Do you like me less because I made that up?”

“No. I was planning to ask you about that. You look too healthy to have heart problems.”

“I met this Bible salesman that claimed he had heart problems, but he looked like he did.”

“Are you sure you have to leave in the morning?”

“I’ve got to be at the cabin camp on the Okaloga at seven-thirty, but after next weekend, I’m going to have some time off, I think, and I’m going to buy a ’thirty-nine Ford roadster, and you can look for me to come driving up.”

“I want you to meet my sister,” she said.

“I want you to meet my sister.”

“How far is it from here up to Simmons?” asked Marleen.

“Not that far. A few hours. Maybe nine.”

“Oh, Henry.” She moved into his arms, her head against his shoulder.

At seven-fifteen Monday morning, Henry passed Mrs. Finley and Miss Sarah’s house, just up from the cabin camp. Mrs. Finley was on the porch. He would stop for a few minutes and not be late to meet Clearwater.

Henry stood in the yard and talked to her about the squash she was getting from their garden. Then Mrs. Finley said, “Come on in a minute and see Sarah.”

“I need to get on. I just got a minute.”

“I can feed you a good sausage biscuit.”

Henry opened the screen door for her, and inside, Sarah sat in the living room. She said, “Well, look what the cat drug up.”

“I was just passing by. I ain’t got but a minute. But I can’t pass up a sausage and biscuit.”

“Go on in there and get it.”

While he ate, Mrs. Finley and Miss Sarah escorted him back out onto the porch. “We were worried about you,” said Mrs. Finley, “because a man got shot up at the truck stop that night we got back from Jeffries. We even called the sheriff to be sure it won’t you. It was some poor truck driver from up north. Somebody stole a car jack then shot him. That’s all they could figure out.”

“That’s too bad. I got to run. But I’ll be back before too long when I come through on the way down to see Marleen.”

“That’ll be just fine,” said Mrs. Finley. “You bring her on by here and we’ll feed her something.”

“Keep your nose clean,” said Miss Sarah.

Henry put the gear lever in reverse, raised his arm onto the back of the front seat. He was thinking about that truck driver. There was something that he couldn’t quite put together.

Clearwater sat on the steps at the cabin camp.

The dump truck and the canvas-wrapped safe were securely stored in a warehouse in Brownlee. The warehouse owner, given his remuneration, would be happy to hold on to it for a few days.

The depth of the Okaloga River, in a sharp bend a mile downstream from the cabin camp, was over twenty feet. On the bottom lay ancient potsherds that looked like small rocks to the nonexpert. Rock-sharpening tools from thousands of years earlier were bathed in green scum, the tendrils of which moved in the river current as if alive. Nearby, in the dark gray underwater morning light, lay two forklift pallets, a set of forklift tines, and a sixteen-pound sledge hammer, all secured with heavy logging chain to the ankle of a short naked man.

The riverbank above appeared undisturbed.

Henry pulled up at seven thirty-five.

“You’re late,” said Clearwater.

“I know it. I’m sorry. My breakfast went just a little bit long.”

“Let’s go.”

“The truck is gone already?” asked Henry.

“Blinky took it back.”

“Did you get my cast net out of the floorboard?”

“It’s right here on the porch with my stuff.”

On the road to Drain, Henry wondered if Clearwater would ask him about Marleen, about the night before. He wasn’t sure what he might say. He couldn’t bring it up himself, but he’d have to say something if asked.