For a second I thought he might cry. Then his face hardened and he looked away.
I leaned forward. I felt electric, like the battery in A.P.’s Chevrolet. “The man said you were good. He called you God’s trumpet.”
“Blasphemy,” Daddy growled.
“Is it true?” asked Arnie. “What Nate heard? Mama, is it true?”
Mama was gazing at Daddy. She didn’t speak or move. She was a tuning fork, picking up Daddy’s moods and vibrating with them. Thinking back, it had always been like that.
I told him, “The man thought I was you. He said we looked just alike.”
Daddy just sat there.
“I love music,” I said. “So did you. What happened?”
Something in his eyes told me he had gone back. He was there, in a time before I was born, remembering what it had been like. I thought I might see happiness or pride. What I saw was pain.
Next to me, Sue Dean shifted in her chair. I had told her about my family, and now she was seeing it close up.
“Music is beautiful,” I said.
He muttered, “You’re stubborn. You always were.”
“It’s not a sin,” I told him.
He turned his gaze on me. His face was pale, drained of life. The look he gave me was so cold that it burned.
“You’re not welcome here.”
“Wilvur!” said Mama.
She took Daddy’s hand, and he pulled away.
“You can finish your supper,” he told me. “You can spend the night. But tomorrow morning, you need to go.”
Daddy got up, placed his napkin on the table, and walked out of the room.
***
I had trouble sleeping. I kept thinking about Daddy on that stage, singing. Daddy in the tent, preaching. Daddy gripping my head, praying. Daddy kissing me good night.
When I was little, before the tent or the snake, sometimes I’d have nightmares. If they were especially bad, I would tiptoe from my room, out the back door, and across the backyard to the shed. I’d tinker in the moonlight, fiddling with Daddy’s tools. It made me feel better.
I got up, pulled on a bathrobe, and went down the hall past Arnie’s room, past the room where Sue Dean was sleeping. I pushed open the back door.
The night was warm. The stars glittered. They had traveled with me along the rails and had followed me home. They seemed like friends, but they were as cold and stark as the look Daddy had given me.
I was halfway to the shed when I heard a voice. It was familiar but different, like a favorite portrait that’s been gripped in a fist, then used for a different purpose—to swat a child or kill a spider.
The voice was angry. It was rough and tortured. It had power. It wasn’t a trumpet. It was more like a drum or a thunder clap.
Daddy was singing.
Oh Death,
I prayed you wouldn’t call so soon.
I glimpse a face in the dark’ning sky,
A twisted grin, an eyeless eye,
A bony hand of purest white,
Who goes there in the black of night?
Do you not know? Well, listen then.
’Tis I who conquer sons of men,
And no one from my curse is free.
My name is Death, and time serves me.
I hone the blade. I plunge the knife.
I seize the thing you call your life.
I fire the gun. My aim is true.
Prepare yourself. I come for you.
Oh Death,
I prayed you wouldn’t call so soon.
I stood in the doorway of the shed, watching. I thought of the people in the graveyard across the street. They’d struggled, and death had won. Daddy was still fighting, but barely.
He finished, lowered his head, and stood there for a long time. He was crying.
I didn’t know him. Until I left home, I’d been with him nearly every day of my life, but the man standing in the shed was a stranger. I thought of all that I’d missed because of it. There’s a well deep inside of us. The water churns. Sometimes it’s clear and cold. Other times it’s muddy. It has a taste that only we know. I think Daddy’s well was deeper than most. I wondered what was at the bottom.
I must have moved, because he looked up and saw me.
“Get out,” he said.
“No.”
“You don’t belong here.”
“I’m your son. A man thought I was you.”
“I tried to teach you,” he said. “I never knew if I was getting through.”
“The good things did.”
His face filled with pain. “Music?”
“It’s important, Daddy. It’s beautiful. I believe in it.”
“Believe in God,” he said.
“Maybe it is God.”
He flinched. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s as close to God as we get. You used to think so, didn’t you?”
“I was young.”
“I heard you just now,” I said. “You still believe it.”
He sighed. “Twelve years. That’s how long it’s been.”
“Since you sang?”
“Since everything.”
There was a worktable off to one side of the room. Daddy’s toolbox was on top of it. Beside that was Beelzebub’s cage, empty now. Next to the table were a couple of stools. Daddy shuffled over and sat down on one. I took a seat next to him.
He stared. I wondered what he saw.
Finally, he said, “She was so pretty.”
“Sister?” I asked.
It was the subject he always returned to. I guess she was always there, just below the surface.
He nodded. “I used to hold her and rock her to sleep.”
“I barely remember her.”
“Her hair was curly. Her eyes were bright. She had a dimple by the corner of her mouth. But she got sick.”
“Typhoid fever,” I said.
“That’s right.”
He took a deep, ragged breath. I could tell it hurt, like he was breathing fire.
“I was gone,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He spit out the words. “I was out of town. I was playing music.”
The world stopped. A door opened just a crack. I didn’t dare touch it for fear it would swing shut.
He said, “I had a band—guitar, fiddle, mandolin, bass. I played the banjo and sang. We lived in North Carolina but traveled all over. Did picnics, festivals, weddings. White, black, you name it.”
“Did you play at Kingsport?”
“Many times. By the time Sister came along, I’d been singing for years. Started when I was your age, like the man said.”
He looked away, and I could tell he was back there. “I married your mama after high school. Kept singing. Sister came along. Kept singing. Sister got sick—fever, pain, a bad cough. Kept singing.
“The band was booked at a county fair in Raleigh that weekend. I could have stayed home with Sister, but I didn’t. I wanted to play music. I loved it. I loved it too much.
“We played so well at the fair. I sang better than ever. When I got home, Sister was dead. They said before she passed, she was asking for me. But I wasn’t there. I left her because of music. And I knew right then, the only thing that could keep me from my daughter was the devil. Satan did it. It was his music. So I put down my banjo and never played it again. I dedicated my voice to God—not to sing, but to preach.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” I asked.
“You didn’t need to know.”
“Yes, I did.” Listening to him sing had made me ache. “You shouldn’t have kept it from us.”
“I was afraid to tell you, because I thought you might take up music. I guess I was right.”
I looked back at where he had stood a few moments before, calling out to death, ripping the scab off an old wound.
I asked, “What was that you were singing?”
“They say it’s a folk song.”
“It scared me.”
“I think it rose up straight out of the earth. Like a corpse. Like bones when they’ve been picked clean.”
I shivered. I didn’t much remember Sister, but it hurt to think of her lying in the ground.
I took the photo from my wallet and set it on the bench. Sister was with us, or at least her grave was.
“I went there,” I said. “To Deep Gap. To the cemetery. I have the memory. I don’t need the picture anymore.”
Daddy picked up the photo and ran his fingers across it.
“She’s in heaven now,” he said.
“You believe that?”
“With all my heart.”
He had to believe. Maybe I did too. But my idea of heaven was different from his.
“What about me?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“You did all this for Sister. Gave up music. Started the church. What about me?”
He stared at me like I was speaking another language.
“Sister’s gone,” I said. “But she’s not the only one.”
He shook his head. “What do you mean?”
“I left too. I’m leaving again.”
Feelings rolled around inside of me. I tried to put them into words. “You spent all those years thinking about Sister. Feeling guilty. Taking the blame. But you know what? She’s not coming back. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true.”
He hunched over, hugging himself, like he was in pain.
“There was nothing you could do for her,” I said. “But I’m still here. So is Arnie. Stop thinking about Sister and worry about us.”
Daddy looked up, startled. “Worry?”
“I was miserable. So I left. You ran me out of town. And Arnie? You drove him to that snake. He’s sick. He needs you.”
Daddy gaped at me. For all the times he had talked to God, he had never heard that. He was shocked to hear it, and I guess I was too. A minute before, I had been angry. Now I just felt sad.
“Daddy, I know it’s hard. She was your angel. She was your favorite.”
“That’s not true.”
“You know it is. You showed it every day.”
“I love all my children,” he said.
“Then do something.”
“She was so precious.”
“All of us are. Isn’t that what Jesus said?”
The night settled in around us. Crickets chirped. In science class, Mr. Wafford had told us that crickets chirp by rubbing their wings together. If they could play music, surely we could too.
“So,” I said, “now what do we do?”
“Pray. Preach.”
“Sing,” I said.