Elvis wakes late to the smell of oatmeal and the sound of his father singing. Since he got the job driving a delivery truck for L. P. McCarty’s, Vernon often sings around the house when he’s home. This morning’s rendition of ‘Corinne, Corinna’ is especially joyful. Vernon’s job keeps him away for days at a time. Elvis wonders what his father sees when he’s alone out there, on the road. It must feel like freedom, driving for hundreds of miles, counting off the towns, perhaps stopping at some restaurant for a Pepsi and a sandwich, thinking only of the road ahead. He can hardly believe his father gets paid for such a thing.
Elvis jumps from his bed, because it’s Saturday, which means he can go to Tupelo town with Mama to look in the windows of Reed’s at the clothes and Este’s at the jewellery. Perhaps they will even stop by TKE’s for some pie.
After he’s fed Mama’s beloved White Leghorns and collected their eggs, he rushes back into the house, where his daddy is now seated at the table, drinking coffee.
‘Hello, son.’ Seeing his father’s warm smile, Elvis succumbs to his embrace. There’s a smell of oil and leather, and the salt-sweat of Vernon’s skin.
‘Still skinny,’ says Vernon, turning him round for an examination. ‘You been feeding this boy, Glad?’
‘Night and day,’ sings Gladys.
‘Missed you, boy.’
‘I missed you too, Daddy.’
Which is true, although sometimes Elvis prays his daddy won’t come home before Saturday morning, so he can stay longer in his mama’s arms.
Gladys touches Elvis’s head. ‘I’ll fix you some of them eggs, baby.’
His father pulls out a chair for him, and Elvis sits.
‘I’ll take some eggs, too, Glad,’ says Vernon, blowing on his steaming coffee. ‘Got me some big plans today. Me and Elvis are going hunting.’
Elvis’s stomach clenches. What about Reed’s? What about that pie? Although he’s shown him how to kill doves and squirrels with his slingshot, his daddy has never taken him on an actual hunting trip. Vernon isn’t keen on shooting. If he has to do something with his hands, he’d rather tinker with an engine or make something from wood. He never tires of describing his plans to build a house for them, soon. Somewhere better than this duplex.
Gladys scrapes her spatula around the skillet. ‘I planned to take Elvis to town.’
‘He ain’t going to town. He’s going hunting with his daddy. Ain’t that right, son?’
Gladys puts down a plate of eggs, cooked to rock-hard perfection.
Elvis gazes at his mother, willing her to change his daddy’s plans.
‘Ain’t that right?’ Vernon says, and he mouths something Elvis cannot read.
‘I guess …’ says Elvis, pushing a fork into his food.
‘Don’t go letting him shoot rabbits. You know he’s tender-hearted,’ says Gladys.
Vernon only laughs and winks at Elvis. ‘We won’t shoot no rabbits. I promise.’
By the time they have walked down Reese Street and headed up the track, it’s past ten. It’s April, and everything is newly green. The light leaking through the poplar leaves is becoming brighter. The mockingbirds are singing with all their might. His father leads him confidently through the brush, striking the ground with a stick to ward off snakes. Vernon has a spring not just in his step, but in his whole body as he strides along with a hand on his son’s shoulder. But Elvis cannot stop thinking of Reed’s window. They have a fancy cowboy shirt, which he’d been hoping to get another look at. It would be something just to go in and touch that shirt. He imagines it would feel cool and smooth, like the sides of Mama’s best china cup, and soft, too, like her skin.
His father has brought his old leather bag, presumably with his catapult inside, and has his shotgun slung across his shoulder. The grey metal of the gun’s snout chimes against the rivets in the bag, keeping time as they walk. Instead of thinking of shirts and pieces of pie, Elvis tries to concentrate on this sound.
It is not that he doesn’t want to shoot. When Odell, his friend from church, let him take a shot with his BB gun, Elvis had enjoyed crawling on his belly through the dirt and getting the rabbit in his sights. But he’d found the quiet waiting impossible to endure. He’d tried to let himself become like a stone, as Odell advised. But who would want to be like a stone? When everything else was moving – the grass, the trees, the sky, the birds, the insects, his heartbeat, his breath – why should he remain still? Why play dead when you are alive? What a waste of energy. What a waste of time.
Mama says good things come to those who wait, but he doesn’t see that. If you wait, you may as well be asleep.
His father leads him on until they hit the edge of Mud Creek, where men come not to hunt, but to bathe. Elvis has heard the shrieks of joy echoing from this place on hot summer afternoons.
The bathing hole is overhung on three sides by weeping trees. Men and boys fish here for catfish, perch and bass, but this morning Elvis and his father are alone. They stand on the bank, which shelves steeply into the water, looking across to the red mud of the opposite shore.
‘I guess you can figure why I brought you here,’ says Vernon.
Elvis knows well enough, but he shakes his head.
‘You know men come here to wash, and to swim sometimes?’
‘Mama says never to come here for that.’
Vernon looks off into the trees. ‘She does. The thing you gotta understand, though, is that all men and boys come here, and all mamas tell them not to. But the mamas know they’re gonna. And they don’t mind one whit.’
Elvis frowns.
‘What I mean is, what your mama don’t know, won’t hurt her.’
‘You saying we got to lie to Mama?’
‘Ain’t lying, as such. More protecting her.’
Elvis licks his lower lip. ‘But she says it’s dangerous.’
‘Sure, there’s the odd snake, and them catfish can get pretty big and kinda cross sometimes—’
‘What about the boy who drowned?’
Vernon raises his eyebrows. ‘That boy lost his wits, is all. Long as you keep your head, you’ll be OK.’
There’s a pause.
‘What if she finds out?’
Vernon removes his gun from his shoulder. ‘You gotta learn, son, that there’s two worlds. The woman’s world, and the man’s world. And this here is part of the man’s world. Women ain’t got jackshit to do with it.’
As his father begins to unbuckle his belt, Elvis can see that he has little choice but to brave the water. He turns hot, then cold, at the thought. He has never liked being naked in front of others. Even with his mama, he will cover himself with his hands when he’s getting in or out of his nightshirt.
‘Why don’t we go cross yonder?’ asks Elvis, pointing towards the other side, where the shore shelves more gently.
‘Better just to jump straight in deep,’ says Vernon.
Elvis can smell the water: cold, muddy, alive. And the gum trees, too, with their gluey punch.
‘But the catfish …’
Vernon drops his pants. ‘They ain’t gonna bother us.’
‘Odell got his finger bit. It went right to the bone. He reckoned that thing was more cat than fish.’
‘Get your clothes off, son. We’re going in.’
Vernon stands before him, naked from the waist down. He never removes his shirt in front of anybody. Once Elvis had tried to lift it when they were roughhousing, and his father had cuffed him round the head. Gladys explained, later, that Daddy’s back was marked, badly. It was an ugly thing that he didn’t want Elvis to see, and it had happened when he went away that time, which is how she now refers to Vernon’s spell in the pen.
Elvis looks into his daddy’s light blue eyes. They are dancing.
‘You chicken, boy?’
‘No.’
‘You ain’t afraid of them snakes, are you?’
Elvis peers at the fat pink end of his father’s penis, poking from beneath his shirt.
‘Naw.’
‘All you gotta do is jump up and yell, “Here comes Elvis!” Those snakes’ll be good as gone.’
Elvis laughs, a little.
‘So go on, then,’ says Vernon. ‘Get ’em off.’
Elvis unbuttons his shirt and pushes down his pants and undershorts. He wonders if this would feel better if Magdalene Morgan were watching him. Sometimes, in church, he catches her eyes resting on his face, as if she’s searching for something there, and it gives him a huge jolt of pleasure to be looked at in that way.
Then he sees something copper-coloured moving in the trees on the other side of the water. Squinting, he realises this is the hair of Noreen Fishbourne, the fourteen-year-old girl whose breasts push against the front of her too-small pinafore. Odell says that Noreen is fast, and most probably will have a baby soon, the way she carries on. Many people in his church believe Noreen to be possessed by a demon.
Elvis stands frozen with shock, unable even to cover himself with his hands, as Noreen, aware that she’s been caught, places a finger on her lips and fixes him with a stare. There is a long moment during which neither of them seems to breathe. She keeps staring at him so strong it makes the pit of his gut contract and release as if he were hungry. Then, just as Vernon twists round to see what has caught his son’s eye, Noreen slips away into the brush.
‘Yeeeeeeeee-hah!’
Vernon jumps into the water, knees tucked to his chest, sending splashes up Elvis’s body and ripples across the creek.
Elvis stands dumbly, waiting for his father to emerge, wondering what to do when he does. He cannot tell Vernon about Noreen; he doesn’t care that she would get in trouble, but he can’t face admitting that she’s seen him, naked as Adam. Perhaps her demon has seen him, too.
He considers gathering his clothes and running after her.
Then a few bubbles break the surface, but Vernon does not appear. He’s been down there a while now. Elvis inches to the water’s edge. Holding his hands to his groin, he leans over, peering into the cloudy pool. His whole body feels burned by the air. He thinks he might explode with shame.
‘Daddy?’
His father could be down there, bitten by a deadly cottonmouth, his lungs fighting the muddy water. And it would be Elvis’s fault, because Noreen looked at him.
‘Daddy!’
The water parts and Vernon emerges, face blood red, eyes streaked with mud, teeth shining white. He lets out a great shout: the long, loud sound of the still living.
Elvis is so relieved that he leaps into the creek. The water takes his body, right up to his shoulders.
Vernon gives another whoop. ‘There you go, boy! You in deep now!’
And he is. It’s cold and silty, and there is something touching his foot that feels like a branch, or maybe a snake. He swallows, shudders, and concentrates on moving through the water to reach his father’s outstretched hands.
‘Easy, now,’ says Vernon.
Elvis wades further in, then, alarmed at the way the mud is dragging his feet from him, panics and almost goes under. The water jumps to his chin and he gets a tangy mouthful, but he is caught by Vernon, who scoops him to the safety of his chest.
They bob together, Elvis gasping and trying to smile.
‘It’s OK, son.’
Elvis wipes the silt from his eyes and takes a deep breath.
‘I’m gonna tell you something. And you must never tell this to your mama. Understood?’
Elvis can only blink, and scan the bank for a glimpse of Noreen’s red hair.
‘Fact is, I never learned to swim. But that don’t stop me enjoying this creek. You can go under like that, and the water brings you right back up again, long as your feet find the bottom. Understand?’
Elvis shakes his head.
‘If you can pretend to swim, then it’s like you really can.’
‘You just pretend?’
‘Hell, yeah. Sometimes I almost convince myself, I’m so good at it.’
At this, Elvis laughs.
‘Morning, Vernon.’
Elvis whips his head around. Removing his shoes on the bank is Roy Martin, who owns the grocery store on Lake Street. Elvis glances back at his daddy, unsure if it’s all right for another man to be here, and wondering if Mr Martin has seen Noreen. But his daddy is smiling determinedly.
‘Morning, Roy. Great day for it.’
Mr Martin tugs his shirt from his head. He is a large man, and although he is much older than Vernon, his shoulders are packed with muscle and his neck is thick. He pushes down his pants and undershorts in one sweep and stands, stretching his naked body towards the sky.
Taking hold of Elvis’s chin, Vernon twists his head around. ‘Quit staring,’ he hisses. In a louder voice he calls, ‘Just showing the boy the ropes.’
‘’Bout time, ain’t it,’ states Mr Martin.
‘Woulda had him down a year ago. But you know Glad.’
There’s no reply.
Elvis wonders if Mr Martin will notice that his daddy is still wearing his shirt, and that it’s wet through and light brown from the creek water. He’s aware that his father is sometimes awkward in the company of other men. Vernon’s own father, JD, hasn’t visited since that time after Vernon got back from the pen. Mama has warned Elvis that it is their job to protect Daddy from the other townsfolk, who just don’t understand what he’s been through.
Vernon tries again. ‘That woman is awful tender-hearted when it comes to her son.’
Elvis watches his daddy’s hopeful face as he waits for Mr Martin’s response. But nothing comes.
There’s a lot of splashing, and from the way the water is rocking around them, Elvis guesses that Mr Martin is now submerged.
Vernon’s face falls. ‘Maybe we better haul on out,’ he mutters.
Suddenly it seems very important to Elvis that they stay in the water.
‘Spin me round first!’ he says.
Vernon hesitates, glancing towards Mr Martin.
‘Daddy, spin me round! Please!’
Vernon rearranges his hands beneath Elvis’s armpits and looks him in the eye. ‘A spin you want, is it?’
‘Yeah!’
‘You asked for it, boy.’
Gripping him hard, his daddy lifts him so his feet no longer touch the bottom and whirls him in a circle. Then he does it again, faster. The water rushes over Elvis’s legs, both soft and urgent. The sunshine warms his naked shoulders. Elvis lets out a hoot, and his daddy joins in, still whirling him in the water, until they’re spinning so fast and whooping so loud that Elvis doesn’t know who is keeping who afloat or where the bottom of the creek has gone. There is just the water, holding them both.
It makes him think of what Brother Mansell says in church about being open to the glory of God, and he is about to shout it out loud, to lift his face to the sun and yell, ‘Glory!’ when he remembers that Mama isn’t here, and doesn’t even know what he is doing, and Noreen has seen his peter. He wriggles from his father’s clasp, and almost goes under again.
Vernon finds him and lifts him once more. ‘You gotta stop doing that,’ he says. ‘You gotta work on pretending.’
Elvis coughs out a mouthful of gritty water and rests his head on his daddy’s shoulder. Together, they watch the ripples they’ve made run all the way to where Mr Martin stands, looking off towards the trees.
* * *
Grandma Minnie Mae has told him: love’ll hit you like a carny truck. When it comes it looks all fancy and colourful and like life itself. But then it just drives on, and you got to keep up, and sometimes ain’t nothing you can do but hang on the back and get dragged through the dirt.
Although he has noticed Magdalene Morgan at school and in church before, Elvis doesn’t even begin to feel the carny truck until she sings.
Brother Gains Mansell, an uncle of Gladys’s, introduces her at the Wednesday evening service, telling the congregation that Magdalene has been practising a solo of ‘The Old Rugged Cross’.
Elvis stretches his neck to get a clear view as she walks out wearing a pink dress with a white collar, her head held high. He’s sung in church as long as he can recall, but never alone in front of everybody, though he’s imagined what it would be like many times. Not for one minute did he think this girl would beat him to it.
Magdalene stands before the congregation, her whipped-up black hair surrounding her face like a dark cloud. Her cheeks are pale saucers, perfectly round. She holds her hands together tightly, and without waiting for Brother Mansell to count her in, she begins.
‘On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross …’
Brother Mansell rushes to catch up on the piano, and the congregation smile indulgently as Magdalene’s voice drifts over the pews. Everyone, even Magdalene, is slightly unsure where this voice is headed.
‘I will cling to the old rugged cross, and exchange it one day for a crown …’
Elvis smiles to himself: he could do better. She’s pretty good, but his voice is stronger and more beautiful than hers. Grandma Minnie Mae weeps when he sings ‘Danny Boy’.
As she reaches the second verse, though, Magdalene’s singing grows more confident, and he finds himself imagining joining in. Together, they could fill the room. His sound could sweeten hers. He would tell her to take her cue from him, and her pretty mouth would open at his command.
By the end of the song, he has decided that they will sing together, and that perhaps he will fall in love with Magdalene Morgan. Maybe then he can forget the feeling of Noreen’s stare. Whenever he passes Noreen in the street, she doesn’t smile or blush or turn her head like other girls. She looks him right in the eye, as if daring him to speak.
That night, he hopes he will dream of Magdalene. But it’s Noreen who comes to him. In the dream, he’s pushing her down into the creek. As he watches her hair turn dark in the muddy water, he feels relief, because now she won’t be able to look at him. But when he wakes, he is hotter than hell, and the blood throbs in every part of his body.
That Sunday, there’s a dinner at Brother Mansell’s comfortable five-roomed house. Gladys has baked a caramel cake to add to a table already overflowing with the congregation’s best offerings: fried pies, chicken and dumplings, stuffed eggs, apple cobblers, potato salads, fried catfish, bean pots, cornbread. There’s real coffee, too, and bottles of Big Orange and root beer for the children. The guests spill out onto the porch and the backyard. The other boys from church – Jack, Odell, Kenneth – run off to climb the oak tree while their parents stand and admire Brother Mansell’s fiery azaleas.
Elvis has already made up his mind to talk to Magdalene, but first he takes a plate and loads it with chicken and dumplings and collard greens and cornbread. Sunday dinners at the preacher’s house are no time to lose your appetite: the food is free. Gladys often points out that Brother Mansell is family, so they should make the most of his kindness, and not feel shy about helping themselves to a second plate.
After consuming one plateful of chicken Elvis resists going back for another and, leaving his parents in the house, slips out into the yard to look for Magdalene.
He doesn’t have to go far. She’s sitting on a ground rug by the fence, concentrating on peeling an orange. Before he can let himself think better of it, Elvis marches right up to her and announces, not as enthusiastically as he’d hoped, ‘I liked your singing.’
She glances at him and nods, then gets back to work on the fruit, pressing her thumb into the skin and releasing a spray of moisture into the air. It smells clean and sweet; nothing like the orange Kool-Aid his mother fixes for a treat sometimes. First wrenching the whole thing apart, Magdalene loosens a segment. She waves it in the air, and, assuming she is offering it to him, Elvis holds out his palm.
Her eyes meet his, then she pops the orange into her mouth and chews, her gaze sliding to the side.
‘I guess everybody’s been saying you’re good,’ he says.
She swallows. ‘Nuh-uh.’
‘Well,’ he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets, ‘you are. I wasn’t sure, at first. But then you really got it.’
She does not look pleased, but it seems to him that her eyes don’t often tell the truth, which he finds interesting. When he’s caught her staring at him in church, her expression can shift from boredom to interest in a heartbeat. He can always tell what his mama is thinking, and most often Grandma Minnie Mae too; but this girl’s thoughts are a mystery to him.
‘You wanna go walking?’ she asks.
‘When?’
‘How about Saturday? You can take me to the hatchery. Probably warm enough now.’
The hatchery is where courting couples go for picnics and kissing. There are plenty of low trees and hidden nooks there, and there is no way Mama will allow it. He calculates, though, that she will probably be distracted enough for the next half-hour or so not to notice his absence.
‘How about right now?’
She stands. ‘OK,’ she says, taking his hand and planting what’s left of the orange in his palm.
Elvis looks down at the fruit.
Magdalene puts her hands on her hips. ‘You wanted it, didn’t you?’
He peels off one sticky segment and gives the remaining orange back to her. ‘It’s yours, Magdalene,’ he says. ‘I want you to have it.’
It amazes him that it’s so easy to escape the preacher’s garden and walk away from his family and the members of his church. He and Magdalene simply stroll out, side by side, in silence. Everybody is too busy eating and gossiping to notice.
Once they’re on Kelly Street, Magdalene wipes her hands down her front, and he has to stop himself from advising her not to dirty her Sunday clothes. She’s wearing a light blue dress with an embroidered trim all along its edge. It’s too big for her – probably it was once her sister’s – but still he feels proud to be walking with a girl who looks so good. Not that there is anybody around to see them; most folks are at the church dinner. The porch swings hang empty, and the streets are silent on this spring afternoon.
She takes confident strides and walks a little away from him, as if to avoid physical contact, even of the accidental kind.
He must ask her about the singing, but every time he thinks he’s going to say something, the words go dry in his mouth.
‘Your mama’s real nice,’ she says. ‘You’re lucky. My mama don’t even notice where I’m at, half the time.’
‘Mama frets too much,’ he says, unable to hide the pride in his voice.
They’re going uphill, and the houses have all but disappeared. On reaching the gum trees of the Old Saltillo Road, Elvis considers showing Magdalene the house where he was born and Jesse died. He can see the two-roomed shack, just a little way along the road. Every time they pass it, his mama points it out, telling him the story of his birth, and how his daddy saw a blue light in the sky that night, and saying it’s a shame the folks who live there now don’t keep it nicer.
Elvis decides he won’t mention his dead brother to Magdalene. Not yet, anyhow. He should get back to the preacher’s house. Mama will be worried.
But first he must ask his question.
He takes hold of her arm, stopping her in her tracks.
‘We oughta sing together,’ he says.
‘Say what?’ she asks, casting a curious look at his hand on her light blue sleeve.
He holds on. ‘We oughta sing together.’
‘How come?’
‘You sing good. I sing good. Why wouldn’t we?’
‘Well,’ she says, slowly, ‘I ain’t at all sure what my daddy would say, for one.’
‘Why?’
‘Cause you are a boy, Elvis. And I am a girl. Or ain’t you noticed?’
‘But – but I’m clean! And it’d be in church …’
She looks again at his hand. He is about to remove it from her sleeve when she touches his fingers. ‘My daddy might think you’re in love with me, or something,’ she says, quietly.
‘Why would he think that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She looks at him very intently, as if he should know the answer.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘maybe I am.’
This seems to be the right answer, because she pushes her fingers through his, and he feels her warmth go all the way up his arm and down his spine.
‘I could talk to him, I guess,’ she adds.
He swallows. ‘That’d be real good.’
As they stride back into Brother Mansell’s yard, Gladys is nowhere to be seen. Jack and Odell and Kenneth are running around the bottom of the oak, pretending to shoot a possum. Mrs Clarke and Mr Harris and Mrs Stephens are standing by the chicken house watching the boys, but there is no Gladys.
Elvis pushes past the smaller kids and crashes into the house. Is she wandering the streets, hollering and crying his name? If she is, everyone will know his shame, both at having wronged her and at the intensity of her love.
Brother Mansell is leaning on the mantel, talking to Bobby Green. Unable to hear his mother’s voice, or even his father’s, Elvis stands in the centre of the room, sweating.
‘Son,’ says the preacher, placing a hand on his shoulder, ‘if you’re looking for your folks, your father went home a while ago, but your mother’s in the kitchen, I believe.’
Elvis charges from the room.
In the kitchen, sitting quietly at the table while Mr Miller stands above her, is his mama. Her hands are spread wide on the lacy cloth.
She doesn’t return his gaze, because she is waiting for Mr Miller to conclude his story, seemingly entranced by what’s coming from his mouth. It’s something about the success of his hogs this year. She smiles and nods, her cheeks and chin shining.
‘There you are,’ says Magdalene, who has caught up with him. ‘What you up to, running in like a scalded haint?’
Grabbing Magdalene’s hand, he says, ‘Mama!’
It takes Gladys a moment to tear her eyes from Mr Miller, who hasn’t quite finished his tale. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘hello, Elvis. You having a good time?’
He grips Magdalene’s hand tighter and swings it to and fro triumphantly, hoping his mama will register what is going on.
‘Hello, Magdalene,’ she says, turning her gleaming eyes on the girl.
Mr Miller looks at the two of them, his bushy eyebrows raised. ‘You kids lovebirds now, huh? That it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ says Elvis, firmly.
Magdalene lets out a small gasp.
‘Girl don’t look too sure about it, though!’ says Mr Miller.
‘We are,’ says Elvis. ‘Ain’t we, Magdalene?’
‘Guess so,’ says Magdalene.
‘Ain’t that sweet?’ says Mr Miller.
Gladys crosses her arms. Maybe she will jump up and force Elvis home. Or call Magdalene an ugly name.
Instead, she leans towards the girl. ‘You two oughta sing together in church. Don’t you agree, Mr Miller?’
‘Lord, yes! Just think of it: East Tupelo’s lovebirds and songbirds! Now, wouldn’t that be fine?’
Gladys nods at her son. ‘Real fine.’
‘I already told her that, Mama!’
Gladys gives a tiny smile. ‘I reckoned you might have, son.’
It is late afternoon, before the Wednesday evening service, and Magdalene has come to Elvis’s house to sing. It’s raining, but there’s no wind, so they sit on the porch. Gladys leaves a pitcher of iced tea and some crackers on a tray, then disappears into the house, letting the screen slam behind her.
Elvis looks at the dripping oaks across the street and says, ‘We can’t sing here.’
‘Why not?’ Magdalene asks. She’s already helped herself to a drink and a cracker.
‘The noise.’
‘What noise?’ says Magdalene, through a mouthful of crumbs.
Elvis points upwards. Water patters unevenly on the roof.
‘The rain.’
She gulps down the remains of the cracker and then hides a smile behind her hand. ‘Elvis,’ she says, ‘ain’t nobody gonna hear us, anyhow.’
‘Mama will,’ he says. Because he knows she will be listening intently, even as she scrubs the stove.
Magdalene pats the wooden chair beside her. ‘Come on over here,’ she says.
He sighs. ‘It won’t work,’ he says. But he sits, anyway.
Magdalene rearranges her skirt over her knees and wraps her cardigan tightly around her. Her cloud of hair looks smaller today. She smells faintly of bacon grease, and also of something sweet, like beer.
Then, without warning, she turns to face him and starts singing ‘Joshua Fit the Battle’.
For the first moments, he can do nothing but be almost painfully aware of her physical presence. Her breath touches his face as she lets out the notes. A warm droplet of her spit lands on his hand, and he wipes it, hurriedly, on his pants. Her perfect cheeks become filled with strong colour. But all he can see written on her face is effort, which he knows is wrong. Elvis has studied the best singers at church, and they all shut their eyes and contort their faces only when they reach the best parts, and even then they wear a look not of effort, exactly. It’s more like real intensity. It seems to him that this must be the way to let the Spirit in. Brother Mansell often says it. Let God in. Put your own self to one side, and make space for the Holy Spirit!
Wanting to show Magdalene how it should be done, Elvis tries it now. Closing his eyes, he sings, ‘You may talk about your men of Gideon’ and pretends he’s at the front of the church, with the whole congregation watching his expressive yet mysterious face, witnessing him letting God in.
As he sings, he doesn’t swoon, or see the blinding light of the Holy Spirit. What he experiences is intense concentration on hitting the notes. It feels comfortable, and happy, and right. It feels easeful.
He also forgets all about Magdalene. When he opens his eyes, close to the end of the song, he’s almost surprised to see her there, smiling at him.
The rain falls harder, hammering on the porch roof, bouncing off the steps, forming brown puddles in the road. Wet chickens squawk and retreat beneath the house. But Elvis and Magdalene keep singing. When they make a particularly good noise together, Magdalene puts a hand on Elvis’s knee and keeps it there. He closes his eyes again, and finds himself pretending the hand is Noreen Fishbourne’s.
* * *
The travelling preacher is a skinny man with a nose shaped like a turnip. He stalks the aisle of the Assembly of God church, the light coming through the altar window making his shoes gleam. Every Sunday morning Mama buffs the family shoes as best she can, but Preacher Brown’s shoes are something else. They are black, without any discernible laces, and they shine like glass. They make Elvis think of Cinderella’s slippers. Gorgeous, painful, improbable.
The room falls silent. People cease their fanning, despite the humidity in the small wooden building. The preacher takes his time, allowing the congregation to get a good look at him. He runs a hand along the polished pews as he walks, his fingers catching the sleeves of several women’s blouses, the click of his shoes resounding on the swept boards. At the front of the church, he stops but does not look at anybody. Not yet. Instead he takes a seat to the side, first brushing it with a crisp handkerchief, so he can watch Brother Mansell open the service.
The congregation shift and settle.
For weeks, everybody has been talking of Preacher Brown’s visit. Elvis has heard his mama whispering to her friends Faye Harris and Novie Clark that Noreen Fishbourne will finally be free of her demon. For didn’t Preacher Brown deliver little Frank last time? He may be a small-bodied man, but he has the biggest spirit in Lee County. Miss Novie said she saw a strange green ball of light shoot down the aisle, right out the door. And hasn’t little Frank been an angel ever since?
The church is busier than Elvis has ever seen it: anybody who hasn’t found a seat is standing at the back. Magdalene Morgan, who has held his hand every day after school all semester and sometimes goes to the front of the church to sing with him, is sitting in the row behind, but her attention is all on the preacher.
Elvis scans the room for Noreen and spots her red hair easily. It has been parted precisely down the middle like a split loaf; the two sides are plaited and pinned tightly around her ears.
Brother Mansell starts by welcoming them on this special day, and leading them in ‘Leaning on the Everlasting Arms’. They stand and sway, and Elvis tries to lose himself in the song, but he cannot stop gazing at the back of Noreen’s head. Perhaps that red hair will catch fire when she is delivered. Maybe blood and flames and pillars of smoke will rise from her, just like it says in the Bible. That would teach her to go sneaking up on naked boys. His mama says redheads have hot blood, and this shows itself in their hair. No wonder Noreen’s parents can’t control the girl. It must’ve been easy for the devil to take hold.
There are only two testimonials today. Billy Clarke stands and says he has quit taking tobacco. Vona Newell has, with God’s help, persuaded her youngest and most difficult child to stop spilling his milk. Everybody claps. Brother Mansell congratulates them both and calls for more. There’s a shuffling of feet. Many congregation members focus on the ceiling or the floor, eager to get past the testimonials.
Brother Mansell mops his brow and finally introduces Preacher Brown.
There’s a round of applause, together with loud shouts of ‘Hallelujah!’ Elvis finds himself jumping to his feet with his mama and yelling, ‘Praise!’ She turns to him and beams, and he claps louder.
Preacher Brown stands and looks directly at the congregation. Every face in the church is lifted towards him, and he seems to spend five minutes just making sure he has seen everybody, and everybody has seen him. Then, slowly, he raises both hands and hangs his head.
He starts low.
‘Brothers and sisters. I know there’s not one among you here today who is without sin.’ His voice is soft and fluid as he lifts his heels and stretches his hands higher. ‘But I’m asking you now, who here is ready to be saved?’
A murmur ripples round the room.
Preacher Brown snaps his head up. His eyes are as bright as his shoes.
‘Because you’d better be ready. You may be thinking, “Tomorrow I’ll begin living a holy life.”’ He strides back and forth along the front of the church, his voice hushed. ‘“Tomorrow I’ll pray to the Lord Jesus. Tomorrow I’ll help my neighbour. Tomorrow I won’t take that liquor.” ’ He stops and looks at Annabelle Wiston in the front row. ‘“Tomorrow I’ll wipe that paint from my face.” ’
Miss Wiston gasps audibly, and has to be consoled by her sister.
Preacher Brown points a finger at the crowd. ‘I’m here to tell you, tomorrow ain’t soon enough!’
‘Tell it!’ somebody says.
‘Tomorrow ain’t no time! You gotta be ready today! And not just today, but right now!’
A few ‘Amen’s rise into the sticky air.
Preacher Brown removes his jacket and lays it carefully on his chair, revealing its delicate pink lining. Carefully, he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt to reveal the thick hair on his forearms, and an enormous gold watch. He reaches for the ceiling and says in a quiet voice, ‘Are you ready, brothers and sisters?’
‘Yes, Lord!’
‘I said, are you ready?’
Elvis sneaks a look at his mama. Patches of her cream blouse have stuck to her back, revealing the outline of the various and unfathomable straps and clasps of her underclothes. He clutches her hand, wanting to distract her from what he suspects she will do next, but she gives him only a brief glance before returning all her attention to the preacher.
‘Then I say to you, as Mark said, “In God’s name I will drive out demons!”’
It won’t be long before his mama will start: the sweat patches and the visible underwear are a sure sign. Elvis chews his nails and tells himself it will be over soon. There is no need for him to shake, or cry. His daddy has often told him there is no need for any of that stuff, because he has nothing to shake or cry about.
‘I will drive out demons and let God’s light in!’
Sure enough, as Preacher Brown talks, Gladys leans forward, gripping the pew and closing her eyes, to receive the Spirit. Then the sound comes from her. It is pitched somewhere between a moan of terror and a recitation of a multiplication table. It has the regularity of something learned, and yet it is completely without sense.
Vernon looks on, unconcerned. They have both witnessed it before. Elvis bites his thumb, hard.
‘For did not Mark say that the Christians would grasp snakes with their bare hands?’
Gladys rocks back and forth and it is all Elvis can do not to grab his mama and yank her back into her seat. He tries again to grasp her hand and make her still, but her fingers slip from his.
Preacher Brown is advancing down the aisle. As he passes, men and women emulate his mother, clutching whatever is nearest to them – pews, prayer books, children’s heads – and chanting their strange language. They whisper and grunt. Some collapse to their knees, or are caught in the arms of their neighbours.
To Elvis’s relief, Gladys slides back into her seat, but still her mouth moves and the sounds come out. He touches her damp shoulder. When she doesn’t respond, he takes her face in his hands and whispers in her ear, ‘Mama, Mama, Mama!’
‘Let her be,’ hisses Vernon.
‘Now,’ says Preacher Brown, who has reached the front of the church once more. ‘Who among you requires deliverance from evil?’
Gladys ceases her noise, and opens her eyes. They are brilliant with tears, and he is flooded with relief. It is the happiest she has looked for many months, and, more importantly, she is seeing him once again.
Preacher Brown is beckoning the congregation forth. ‘All those who seek freedom from demons, come on up.’
People clamber from their pews to form a line long enough to reach the door. At the front is Noreen, flanked by her parents. Preacher Brown, who isn’t much taller than the girl, squares up to her but addresses Noreen’s father.
‘Brother,’ he says, ‘is this your daughter?’
‘Yes, sir.’
There is a pause as Preacher Brown looks the girl over. Fans click in the thick air. A ripe, sweet smell of overheated bodies and warm wood fills the church.
‘And does your daughter have the Devil in her?’
‘Noreen has had the Devil ever since she was but eight years old, sir.’
‘And how does this evil spirit manifest itself, brother?’
‘She won’t abide by no rules at all. Not mine, not the church’s. She runs around like a fully grown girl. Makes her mama and me ashamed.’
‘Noreen, is this the truth?’
The girl bows her head.
‘I see the Demon has your tongue.’
‘He surely does, sir,’ says Noreen’s father. ‘He has every part of this girl—’
‘Noreen, do you want to be saved?’ asks Preacher Brown.
The girl does not look up.
‘Noreen. I ask you. Do you desire to be saved today?’
‘She wants it so bad, sir!’ says her father.
‘I am going to order this Demon out of you,’ says the preacher. ‘It will be hard, but it will be worth it. For when this Demon sees God’s light, he will fly out the door, and you will be filled with the spirit of Jesus.’
Elvis and Gladys look towards the door. Right at the top, there is a crack large enough for a small bird to fly through.
The preacher takes the girl’s shoulders and spins her round to face the congregation. Her freckled chin quivers. It’s rare for a girl this young to be delivered, and Elvis glances at his daddy, thinking perhaps he will run to the front and put a stop to it. Vernon wasn’t Assembly of God until he met Gladys, and although he’s been saved, he often misses services. He’s also told Elvis that he doesn’t believe in evil spirits. Once, when they were walking through Priceville cemetery at dusk, Elvis had hidden his face in his father’s shirt, scared of the shadows. Vernon had informed him confidently that there was no such thing as ghosts, demons or spirits. It was real people who could hurt you, he said; his advice was to fear the living, not the dead.
But now Vernon stares straight ahead, riveted.
The preacher lays his hands on Noreen’s head. ‘Brothers,’ he says, ‘I need some volunteers here.’
Mr Martin, Mr Newgate and Mr Miller rush to the front.
Noreen lets out a yelp as Mr Martin grabs her shoulders. Kneeling before her, Mr Newgate clasps her wrists in his hands, and Mr Miller stands behind to take hold of her waist. Preacher Brown spreads his fingers wide and presses them along her white parting.
‘I must warn each and every one of you in this room to keep your eyes good and closed now. For if you look at this Demon, it will see a way into your soul.’
Noreen has turned pale. Gladys puts her arm around Elvis and draws him to her. ‘Shut your eyes, baby,’ she whispers. ‘The men will put things right. It’s a happy day.’
He half-closes his eyelids, and through the slit he sees Noreen squirm and gasp as the men tighten their hold.
‘If she struggles,’ says Preacher Brown, ‘remember it is the Demon fighting the Holy Spirit, and you must hold her tighter.’
They do so, and Noreen hollers loud enough to make Elvis’s skin rise.
Gladys puts a hand over his eyes, and he smells the greasy animal-scent of her lanolin cream.
Then all he knows are the sounds. ‘BE GONE!’ shouts Preacher Brown. ‘FEEL THE MIGHT OF THE LORD! LEAVE THIS HELPLESS CHILD! LET HER BECOME PURE AGAIN!’
And her shoes scrabbling on the wooden floor. And men grunting. And something ripping.
He gnaws on his fingers, desperately trying to find enough nail to get a good bite.
The wordless language comes again from somebody’s mouth – not his mother’s.
And Noreen keeps on screaming. It is now a high, almost triumphant, scream. It rips around the church so wildly that a few children begin to weep in fear. And at this moment Elvis tastes his own blood and believes the Demon is truly in Noreen. This sound must come from the Devil. He thinks of his dream of holding her in the water, and wonders if it was God’s way of telling him that Noreen needed to be cleansed.
‘WE WILL NOT GIVE IN, DEMON!’ shouts Preacher Brown. ‘WE WILL DEFEAT YOU WITH THE POWER OF THE HOLY SPIRIT!’
The congregation pray. But Noreen – or perhaps the Demon – is still screaming. There is an almighty whack, which could be her foot kicking the floorboards. Or somebody hitting the ground.
‘IN GOD’S NAME I DRIVE YOU OUT!’
The preacher is hoarse now.
‘OUT, I SAY! OUT!’
Then the scream falters. And there’s quiet.
When Elvis opens his eyes, Noreen lies limp in her father’s arms, her face slack. Elvis cannot stop looking at Preacher Brown, whose scant hair is now sticking up from his head as if he’s been hit by a lightning bolt. His damp shirt is creased, and his collar has come undone, revealing a neck shining with sweat. He plants himself in front of Noreen, spreading his legs and his arms wide.
‘She is saved!’ he says, lifting his hands.
‘Saved!’ everybody, including Elvis, chants.
Preacher Brown sweeps an arm over the crowd and points to the ceiling. ‘Thank you, Sweet Jesus!’
‘Hallelujah!’ cries Gladys.
The preacher shakes his head, as if in disbelief at his own powers. Then he gestures for quiet. He starts to pray. ‘Blessed Father, we thank You for Your grace …’
The congregation close their eyes and follow his words. Elvis sneaks a look around the room at the bowed heads. He senses that, right now, everyone in the church would do anything this man asked.
Then the preacher catches Elvis’s eye. Elvis starts, alarmed, but before he can look away, the preacher smiles widely, right at him. ‘Praise the Lord!’ he says.
‘Praise the Lord!’ shouts Elvis, in response, and Preacher Brown nods.
‘Take her home, brother. Today the Demon was no match for the Holy Spirit!’
As Noreen’s father carries her down the aisle, women touch the ripped hem of her pinafore and gasp, ‘Glory!’ Noreen’s hair has burst from its pins and it springs from her head like flames. Seeing her limp, helpless body, Elvis wants to slap her face to waken her. He wants her, he realises, to fix him with that look again.
But she does not. He is free to look at her face, now, for as long as he likes.
The preacher checks his gold watch. ‘Who is next?’ he asks.
Afterwards, on the walk to Brother Mansell’s house for refreshments, everything goes a little wonky. The gum trees along the road seem to bend with the midsummer heat, their thick leaves gathering dust, and the sun seems to have got right inside Elvis’s skull. His mama walks ahead with the rest of the congregation. The occasional ‘Amen!’ or ‘Glory!’ still rises from the crowd, and the women’s voices chatter and swoop around him like birds. Keeping his head down, Elvis tries to catch up with the others, but his legs feel strangely heavy, as though the road is sticking to his feet. It’s been hours since he had anything to drink, and his tongue feels as dry as a scrap of old newspaper. He tells himself that he just has to make it to Brother Mansell’s, where there will be iced water. It is less than half a mile away, though it seems as distant as the moon.
To ease his journey, Elvis imagines, as he often does, Jesse walking beside him. His brother is nimble, and better at getting along this hot dirt. He doesn’t fuss about the flies or the dust or the stray dog who sometimes sleeps in the road. Nothing ever makes Jesse afraid, and nothing can slow him down. As he skips along, he giggles and swings his arms.
In an effort to distract his brother, Elvis tries talking to him, saying, You know, Jesse, Mama says I’m a miracle.
And Jesse’s voice comes right back. Huh! Wouldn’t be no you without me, boy.
Jesse is older by only a matter of minutes. Yet here he is, talking as if he is grown, and knows things other boys do not.
It does not seem strange to Elvis that Jesse has chosen, for the first time, to make himself heard. Not compared to the way the road is warping before him, or the way his body feels so loose with heat that it might come apart.
You see what happened with Noreen? Elvis asks.
Kinda fun, wasn’t it?
It was God’s work.
Looked like Preacher Brown’s work to me.
They have reached Brother Mansell’s house, and the congregation have gathered in the shade of the wide porch. Elvis takes the steps one at a time. They seem to wobble beneath his feet. Once he’s at the top, he stops, and immediately becomes bathed in so much sweat that he can taste it.
‘Elvis?’ His mama looms up. ‘You feeling all right?’
Elvis opens his mouth to reply, but his heart seems to be there instead of his tongue, and his lips won’t move. Everything is pulsing, and he has no breath. Then his limbs go liquid, and the daylight disappears.
When he comes to, he is lying on the cool wooden floor of the living room, next to the piano. His mama is kneeling beside him, squeezing his hand to her bosom, and Preacher Brown is behind her saying, ‘Child’s all right. Just overwhelmed by the Spirit. Sometimes it’s like that, when God melts your heart.’
Elvis’s eyes hurt.
Jesse, he whispers. Now I know.
Know what, boy?
I know God.
Say what?
He blinks and sees that Preacher Brown is praying now, and the rest of the congregation are joining him in an ecstatic hum.
You crazy, says Jesse.
I’m saved, says Elvis.