The Cockroaches of Stay More (15 page)

Every loafer laughed fit to bust a gut, and complimented O.D. that that was the best ’un they ever heard, and challenged Squire Hank to tell a better one, and Squire was jist hitching himself up to do it, when they noticed that one of the loafers, who hadn’t laughed, was coughing pretty bad. They looked at the loafer and discovered that he wasn’t a loafer after all, at least not a regular one, but the preacher himself! Brother Chid Tichborne had climbed the porch unnoticed and moved in amongst them.

O.D. apologized, “Heck, Preacher, I wudn’t never of tole such a brash tale iffen I’d knowed ye was
listenin
.”

Tolbert Duckworth put in, “Yeah, Preacher, and I shore didn’t mean to laugh, neither. Why, I thought that there was the
nastiest
story ever I heared. Phew!”

Fent Chism put in, “Yeah, and this is the Lord’s Day, and all. We ort to be ashamed, tellin dirty tales on the Lord’s Day.”

“Wal, boys,” said Brother Chid. “I hope I don’t never hear of none you’uns stealin the Lord’s rubber bands.”

“Hit was jist a story-tale,” O.D. protested. “Wudn’t never nothin ever really happent lak thet, nohow.”

“Naw,” said Elbert Kimber. “Wunst she had been fucked with the tickler size, that was all she could take!”

Everybody laughed again, except the preacher, who frowned at Elbert’s language. Everybody stopped laughing abruptly, and studied the preacher’s frown, and waited for him to say something else. But Brother Tichborne only looked properly pious and disapproving.

Finally Doc Swain himself had the boldness to ask, “Wal, Reverend, what brings you to my place tonight?” This was a fine question to ask, because it reminded the preacher that he wasn’t a regular member of the Loafer’s Court.

At least half of the loafers, Chid had mentally counted, were Crustians, and members of his congregation. Tolbert Duckworth was even an elder in the church, and Fent Chism was a deacon. It was to these good Crustians rather than to Doc that Chid addressed his next words, “Brethren, the Lord moves in mysterious ways. Though He giveth thee the bread of life, He also planneth to taketh it away from thee.”

“Amen,” said Tolbert Duckworth.

“Praise His name,” said Fent Chism.

“And as ye may know,” Chid announced, “tonight we are havin the prayer meetin and worship service right at the Lord’s gitalongs, with Him awake and all, and ready to cast judgment upon us.”

“Amen,” said Fent Chism, and “Praise His name,” said Tolbert Duckworth.

“No doubt He will rapture right and left,” Chid observed. “No doubt a many and a many of us will know Rapture. Amen. Praise His name. And et cetera. But fellers—” Chid paused for dramatic effect, changing his tone and his tune “—I am here to tell ye the news that the Lord is fixin to try to move into Partheeny!” Chid glanced at Squire Hank to see his reaction, but the Squire remained expressionless. The others, however, stared open-mouthed at the minister, and then at one another, and then at Squire Hank, to see what
he
would say.

Squire Hank squinted at Chid and asked, “How do ye know?”

How could Chid tell them? He had preached at them every Sunday, and sometimes on Wednesday night prayer meeting too,
never
to touch the Lord, never even to think about going near His Person, and here he had been up underside the Lord’s shirt collar himself, and that was how he knew that the Lord had written a letter to the Woman of Parthenon, in which He had hinted, or actually requested—well, to be honest, begged—to be allowed to move His “things,” including His self, into Parthenon.

“I have done seen a letter,” Chid revealed. “I caint quote you His exact words, but He more or less informed Her that it was his intention to abandon Holy House and move into Partheeny.”

Again all the loafers looked at Squire Hank for his comment, and finally the Squire declared, “I misdoubt that She would ever think of allowin Him to move in on Her.”

“Maybe She invited Him, who knows?” suggested Tolbert Duckworth.

“Yeah,” Chid allowed. “One way or th’other, He jist might do it, and then what would we do? Maybe we had better be ready to move out, ourselfs.”

“Or maybe,” Squire Hank said, “all of you’uns ought to be prayin to yore Lord to stay put.”

“Good idee, Squar!” said Fent Chism. “Yeah, Brother Tichborne, maybe tonight at the prayer meetin when we’re all assembled right there at the Lord’s gitalongs, maybe we had ort to pray to Him and beg Him not to leave Holy House.”

“That’s what we ort!” agreed Elder Duckworth.

But Chid said, “Naw. It wouldn’t do no good to beseech the Lord in that wise. Maybe the one we ort to beseech is Squire Hank, right here. Maybe we ort to be askin Squire Hank if he would ever let every last blessit one of us move into Partheeny when the Lord does.”

All eyes and sniffwhips were upon Squire Hank. He ruminated. He spat. He frowned a bit. He ruminated some more. Then a trace of a smile crept upon the corner of his face, and he said, “Why don’t you’uns ask
Her
that?”

“Speak of the Mockroach!” exclaimed Mont Dinsmore, who was sitting on the north edge of the crowd nearest that direction, and suddenly thrashed his sniffwhips. He exclaimed, “Hey, fellers, lookee who’s a-comin yonder!”

Every one turned and tuned their sniffwhips, and beheld the approach of none other than the subject of discussion, the Woman Herself. The great circular beam of Her flashlight preceded Her, but only briefly did the flashlight illuminate the front of Doc Swain’s clinic, and it did not shine upon the porch floor where the mob of loafers crouched. The Woman was strolling slowly down one rut of the Roamin Road. No one could ever remember having seen Her on this part of the Road before, approaching Holy House. Hardly was She out of sight when all the roosterroaches began a busy prattling amongst themselves.

“Wal strike me blind!” Tolbert Duckworth said. “If that aint the—!”

“Maybe She’s a-gorn to visit Him!” Fent Chism voiced the thoughts of several.

“What’re we a-waitin fer?” Chid Tichborne said. “Let’s go see!”

At that moment a girl roosterroach came running down the Road, following in the steps of the Woman, but scrambling as fast as her gitalongs would carry her. When she came within sight and sniff of the Loafer’s Court, she stopped, pausing for breath and to cast an anxious glance at all the loafers.

“Morsel, gal,” called Doc Swain. “What’s the rush?”

The girl looked from one to another of the loafers. She was panting. “Howdy, sirs, and morsels to y’uns,” she said timidly, between wheezes.

“Somethin chasin ye?” Doc Swain asked. “Have you seen the White Mouse?”

The girl looked over her shoulder, and appeared uncertain. “Yessir, I think there’s some kind of booger a-follerin me,” she declared.

The loafers laughed, and one of them teased, “Was it white? What color was it?”

But the girl did not answer. Taking a deep breath, she resumed her journey, as fast as she could skitter.

“Now who-all was
thet
?” asked a loafer.

“I do believe that was little ole Tish Dingletoon, Jack Dingletoon’s biggest gal,” declared another.

Another loafer asked, “Did ye hear that ole Jack has done went and westered off?”

“Yeah, him and Josie both, together,” said another.

“Maybe she’s jist a-lookin for to find them,” suggested still another.

“Wal, fellers, that’s sorrowful news,” commented Brother Chid Tichborne, “and I don’t know about you’uns, but me, I’m gonna git right back to Holy House and see what’s up.” He straightened his gitalongs and rose up from the porch floor. He paused to see if any other loafer would budge, but the others remained crouched. “Wal?” he said. “Aint none of you’uns interested in goin with me?”

Tolbert Duckworth asked Doc Swain, “Hey, Doc, what you aimin to do?”

“Me?” Doc said. “Why, I don’t rightly know. How about you, Squire Hank?”

“Wal…” said Squire Hank, but showed no sign of budging from his crouch. Everyone watched him closely for a sign of a budge, and then they watched Doc Swain for a sign of a budge. Squire Hank spat, and said, “I thought maybe that booger she was afeared of might jist be my boy Sam, but it don’t look like he’s a-follerin her. Don’t look like
any
boogers a-follerin her.”

Chid Tichborne said, “Wal, I don’t know about the rest of you boogers, but
I
aim to foller her.” He took another couple of steps toward the edge of the porch, but there was no sign of a budge from any of the others.

Finally Doc Swain remarked, “Jist think, fellers. This might could be the only chance we ever have in our lifetimes to see Her speak to Him, or vice versa.” Doc creakingly rose up from his crouch and stood upon his still-remaining three gitalongs, wobbling unsteadily, and moved over beside Chid.

Squire Hank said, “Could be She’s jist going to tell Him to stay away from Her.” He too rose up, stretched, and prepared to go. With the Squire leading, all of the assembled loafers decamped from Doc’s porch and ambled off down Roamin Road in the direction of the Woman’s flashlight, now just a pinpoint of light nearly a furlong away, rapidly merging with the light coming from a window of Holy House.

Chapter sixteen

B
ut the Woman did not climb the porch of Holy House. The Roamin Road skirts within sniffing distance of the porch, but the Woman stayed on the Road, and Tish stayed on Her heels, or close behind, almost to the edge of Banty Creek, where a small dirt road led from Carlott to the old low-water cement bridge over the stream and provided the Lord’s vehicle with access to the outside world. It also provided access for the mail vehicle from the outside world to stop at the Lord’s mailbox, which was a piece of metal junk, a World War ii cartridge case mounted upon a pole stuck in the ground amid brambles and brush. Here the mail carrier, driving out of Jasper, the county seat eighty furlongs to the north, stopped every morning to leave a copy of the
Arkansas Gazette
(daily), the Newton County
Times
(Thursdays), the
New York Review of Books
(biweekly),
Arkansas Times
(monthly),
Audubon
(bimonthly), and
Poetry
, the
Southern Review
,
Poetry Northwest
, and
PMLA
(all quarterly), and various circulars, fliers, handouts, and other promotional material and appeals from purchasers of mailing lists for “literate middleclass natureloving bookreading forties white males.” The only exercise the Lord was ever known to take, apart from the late-afternoon inspection of the weeds in His Garden, was to walk from Holy House to His Holy Mailbox, a distance of maybe half a furlong. Very rarely did He get a letter.

The Woman found the cartridge case with Her flashlight, opened its lid, and dropped the letter into it. “There,” Tish heard Her say to Herself, “I hope the mailman doesn’t think it’s an outgoing letter.” Tish wondered what an outgoing letter was; one that was friendly and sociable?

The Woman did not pause before turning around, and Tish had to leap to get out of the way of Her footsteps as the Woman began retracing Her path. She walked faster on the return journey, and Tish did not even try to keep up with Her.

The loafers saw Her coming back. They were nearly abreast of Holy House, wherein their families were doing whatever they could to entertain themselves through the night, when one of the loafers shouted, “Yonder She comes back again!” and another bellowed, “Let’s us git off the Road!” and all of them scrambled to get out of Her way. One of them, Luke Whitter, was a step too late, and was ground into the earth by the Woman’s shoe. Doc Swain rushed to check him over, but Luke was pretty thoroughly squashed, and was groaning his last. There was nothing Doc could do.

“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,” said Chid Tichborne. “Our Joshua Crust saith, ‘Be thou faithful unto west, and I will give thee a crown of life.’” And he made a mental note to remember to include Luke Whitter’s name among the several obituaries he would have to deliver tonight at the services.

“Amen,” said the Crustian loafers, and turned Luke’s carcass over into the belly-up position and covered it with blades of grass.

“Wal,” observed Doc, “hit don’t look like the Womarn was aimin to visit Holy House after all.”

Mont Dinsmore announced, “Yonder comes that gal again.”

Tish wanted to enter the forest of weeds to avoid walking through the mob of loafers, but the scent of west coming from Luke’s carcass frightened her, and she passed onward among the roosterroaches.

“That booger still after ye?” Doc Swain asked her.

“Nossir,” she said, smiling, “I reckon he drowned in Banty Creek.”

“You aint a-follerin that Womarn, air ye?” he asked. Tish nodded her head. “Where’d She go? What’s She up to?”

“She jist went to mail a letter,” Tish said. “She mailed a letter to the Lord, and put it in His box.”

Brother Chid Tichborne solemnly declared, “I shore wush they was some way we could find out what-all that letter says in it.”

But not even the most irreverent among them was in the mood for going to the Lord’s Holy Mailbox and attempting to tamper with His mail. Most of them still remembered the story of a family of Ledbetters who had gone to the cartridge case one night, dined on the gray flocking that stuffed the lining of a Jiffy bookmailing bag, and were sound asleep when the Lord surprised them there the next day, and swatted them all west with a rolled-up
Gazette
.

Instead of venturing onward to the mailbox, the mob of loafers entered Holy House, not through the same hole but through several. At a respectful distance, Tish followed. If nothing else, she could satisfy her curiosity about the interior of Holy House. She might even get some information about her missing parents. She kept as close as she could to Squire Hank, as if she might need his protection, and sure enough, just as she entered the loafing room she was accosted by a large lady roosterroach who challenged her territorial rights.

“Jist who d’ye think you
air
?” demanded Mrs. Kimber.