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Toad worried. When she worried, she sweated. When she sweated, she felt sticky, clammy, and stinky. When she felt sticky, clammy, and stinky, she couldn’t sleep at night. And when she couldn’t sleep at night, she felt down in the dumps. Finally, when she felt down in the dumps, she worried even more about everything and everybody.
In the midafternoon, Toad sat rocking in the shade of her front porch. She drank lemonade by the pitcher and sweated it back out almost as fast. Dixie was sprawled flat on her side, panting. The glare of sunshine rippled off asphalt streets and black shingle rooftops, so that it looked like everything melted upwards. Every so often, a cicada siren loud enough to scare birds out of trees blasted apart the sleepy languor of the day. A mosquito landed on Toad’s forearm but didn’t bite, it just danced around on her skin for a few seconds, then buzzed away. Was something wrong with her blood?
Zeke was giving Toad plenty to worry about. Over the years, she’d gotten so used to his constant bellyaching about various ailments—from his bunions to bloody stools to hair falling out—that she didn’t even hear him anymore. She would always answer, “So go to the doctor already,” which he refused to do because he seemed to believe an undiagnosed disease couldn’t harm him. Whatever.
Lately, though, Zeke had been having sharp pains in his lower side, which he described as having an ice pick jammed up his asshole. He hardly took a breath that didn’t end with “owwww” when he exhaled. Toad knew it must be serious when Zeke consented to see the doctor. As it turned out, he had kidney stones.
But that wasn’t what worried Toad the most about Zeke. Having pebbles in a major internal organ wasn’t a good thing, but from what she’d read on the internet, they’d squeeze their way out of him, eventually. Worse than that, Toad worried that lately Zeke had been spending nearly every waking moment drinking Iron City beer and whiskey with cranberry juice shots at the Drink Here Tavern. He said that the needed to stay hydrated, but in doing so he was getting pickled. Furthermore, he was paying for his drinks on credit in anticipation of the profits they’d realize when Dixie had her puppies. At the rate he was going, Dixie would have to drop a litter of twenty to pay for all his boozing.
Toad had been so worried and desperate about Zeke’s drinking that she sent Boog to try to talk some sense into him. “Won’t you please do that much for your mama?” she begged him.
“Roger that,” he said to her, which she presumed was military talk for yes.
That was a big mistake. Instead of bringing Zeke home, Boog pulled up a stool and drank along with him. Boog had always been a sturdy drinker, able to quaff enormous quantities and still walk a more-or-less straight line. Among the Galoots, that practically qualified him as a teetotaler. So, Toad at least expected Boog to stay sober enough to see that Zeke got home. Instead, she had to fetch Zeke passed out at closing time, while Boog was nowhere to be found.
Toad also worried about Boog. Something had been off about him ever since he got back from Afro-ganny-stand—Toad could barely name it, much less understand what in the hell a kid from Coon Creek was doing there, fighting a war that nobody knew how or when to end. On the day when Boog came home, Darlene tied a gigantic yellow ribbon around the trunk of the red oak tree in their front yard. His family and friends all turned out to thank him for his service. He let them buy him drinks, and some more drinks. In a matter of weeks, though, he’d exhausted their goodwill. Folks found that just one false word and he would get mad and break something; just mentioning the Cincinnati Reds pissed him off so much he pushed over a pinball machine. As much as Darlene defended him, she, too, became afraid of his temper. Nobody knew exactly what he did to make her finally leave him, but it must’ve been pretty awful because, on her way out the door, she screamed, “I’ll keep praying for you, but so far as I’m concerned, you can rot in hell!”
Toad wiped sweat from her face with a bandana. There may have been a tear or two mixed in with the moisture.
Oh well, she mused, at least Boog had a job, which was more than most of the men in Coon Creek could say. Still, she wasn’t wild about his being a “tattoo artist.” Back in her day, the only people with tattoos were sailors, bikers, and homosexuals... in various combinations. Now regular people got themselves permanently branded with all sorts of vulgar and freaky designs. Boog himself had a tattoo of an AK-47 on his upper arm; written in blocky letters beneath it was Any Questions?
She didn’t know what it meant and was afraid to ask.
Even little Justin, that sweet kid who used to pick dandelion bouquets for his Meemaw, was now fourteen years old and begging Boog to give him his first tattoo. Thank God that Darlene was dead set against it—she insisted that Boog could not put one drop of ink on his body until he turned eighteen. Boog went out of his way to provoke Darlene by saying, “If I did it, it’d be in some place where you’d never see.”
On top of all those worries, her most persistent was for Mazie, up there in the urban jungle of Columbus all by herself, beyond her mother’s care and protection. The metropolis had been the ruin of many a young person, and Toad could scarcely imagine the kinds of vices and perils present in daily city life. And Mazie didn’t always use the common sense she was born with, so she was extra vulnerable. The least she could do was call once in a while, but she was always so freakin’ busy.
Dixie, lying flat on her side with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, emitted an airy sound that Toad had never heard from her before. It was part whimper, part belch, with a little bit of a sigh mixed in.
“You okay there, Dixie?” Toad asked.
Dixie blinked and lifted her head. Her eyes looked tired and oozed gooey stuff from their corners.
“Poor dear,” Toad said. She rocked forward so that she could reach the crop of Dixie’s back and began rubbing gently. Dixie wagged her stubby tail to acknowledge the attention, but still seemed woozy.
“I know just how you feel. Morning sickness ain’t no picnic,” Toad commiserated.
Last but not least of all, Toad worried about Dixie. Her three long walks a day all around the town were down to one to the corner and back in the morning. Toad had a hard time getting her up onto her feet. Just about the only thing that made her happy was going for a car ride. She’d stick her head out the window with her face in the wind, mouth open and ears flapping, and she’d paw at the back of the driver’s seat, as if giving directions. She seemed to know where she wanted to go. Toad wished she could talk and tell her what was wrong.
Toad rocked all the way back in her chair and said aloud, “Dang all these problems. It feels like being scared and confused and bothered all at once and in slow motion.”
“The whole barn is done painted, Mr. Slocum,” Justin reported. “Do yah’ll got any more work what I can do?”
Boog Tuttle’s kid was so industrious it made Burl tired just keeping him busy. Justin’s energy and initiative were commendable, especially given that, in his family, he had only bad examples and dysfunctional role models to guide him. Burl considered himself a positive influence in the kid’s life, which was why he didn’t want to discourage his ambition. As a purely business proposal, though, their payment arrangement didn’t make much sense. Burl’s product was worth more on the open market than any amount of unskilled labor that Justin could perform. Boog was getting a great deal and was probably too stupid to realize it.
“I don’t know....”
“I could clean out the chicken coop. Ain’t done that since last year.”
Burl was sitting on a sofa, with his feet propped on a footstool. He pushed aside an empty pizza box and patted the cushion next to him. “Slow down a few ticks, kid.”
“I dunno.” Justin fidgeted and dug his hands deep into his pockets. “My dad says that if I work more harder, he’ll give me a free tattoo.”
Burl lifted the top off a cooler on the floor next to him. “Want a beer?”
“Hot dog, I sure do!” Justin blurted out.
Burl pulled a can of beer from the cooler and handed it to Justin, who looked at him and made an are you sure? expression before accepting it with both hands. He held it at eye level in front of him, letting cold moisture drip down his hands.
“To open it, pull on that tab,” Boog explained, pantomiming to demonstrate the proper method.
Justin cracked the pull tab on the can. He stuck out his tongue and licked around the opening, then tilted the can upside down and gulped three rapid swallows, until the fourth made it just halfway down his throat before getting stuck, reversing course and coming back out of his nose and mouth in an explosive spray.
“Careful, kid. It takes practice to chug a beer.”
Justin coughed and coughed, finally catching his breath. “Whoo boy, that’s really good,” he said.
“You drink your beer like you do everything else, in a hurry.”
“I cain’t stand still doing nothing, not never.”
“Drinking will cure you of that, eventually. Patience comes to those who wait.” To demonstrate his point, Burl finished his beer, rubbed his gut, and belched the ABCs up to H.
“That’s freakin’ amazing.”
“You’ve got gumption, kid.”
“I do? Really? What’s that?”
“But it’s only useful if you have direction, too. From where I sit, that’s what’s most lacking in this town. For years and years, folks saw only one direction, the same one that their daddies and granddaddies followed. They griped and groused all the time about their lot in life, but at the same time they were damn proud of who they were and what they did. The path was clear, from cradle to grave, and it defined what it meant to be from Coon Creek. But if you look in just one direction, you have no choice but to follow it, straight over a cliff if that’s where it leads.”
While Burl spoke, Justin bounced his head often to indicate that he listened—whether he understood was another matter.
“How old are you, kid?”
“Fourteen and a half.”
“So that puts you in—what? The eighth grade?”
“Seventh grade. I got held back on account the teacher caught me cheatin’.”
“Good for you!” Burl applauded. “Because if you aren’t cheating, then you’re playing by somebody else’s rules. Nobody ever wins by doing that. People think that so long as they play by the rules, they’ll be okay. They don’t like to rock the boat. The best that can get them, though, is just getting by.
“It’s like playing the state lottery. Every week people buy a ticket or two, or however many they need, depending on how desperate they are. Over and over again, they lose. Then every few weeks some lucky son of a bitch wins a huge jackpot, fooling them into thinking, Next time it could be me. Somebody’s got to win, right? Wrong! Fortunes are made on the wreckage of other people’s dreams. The only surefire winners are the ones who rig the system. That is, the cheaters.”
Justin’s eyelids fluttered.
“Are you paying attention to me!?!”
“Yessir.” Justin sprang upright. “You’re telling me it’s a good thing to cheat.”
“Essentially, yes. But there’s a difference between cheating and making your own rules. Cheating means manipulating the rules to your advantage. Making your own rules, though, puts you in control. That’s crucial because the rules change over time. They always do. People who continue following old rules always lose. I feel sorry for them. I do. But business is business, and doing the ‘right’ thing is most often bad for business. That’s what people in this town just can’t get through their thick heads.”
“My dad says I got a thick head. But I know this much—just as soon as I turn eighteen years old, I’m getting the hell outta Coon Creek.”
“I’ve heard that story before.” Burl chuckled. “You sound just like your Aunt Mazie.”
“Mazie? My dad says she’s nuttier than a buckeye tree. And more useless.”
“For your father to call anybody nuts is like somebody breaking a mirror because they don’t like how they look in it. Still, he’s sort of right. Mazie couldn’t be told anything. If I agreed with her, she’d change her mind just to spite me. We argued about everything. She insisted that she would break out of Coon Creek, as if it were the Shawshank Prison. But I said to her that if you can’t make it in your own hometown, you won’t make it anywhere. Neither of us ever persuaded the other. We just made each other more stubborn.
“In hindsight, I think I did what was right for me. And what she did was right for her. It isn’t often that two people get to say ‘I told you so’ to each other, and both be right.”
Burl shifted his feet onto the floor. He rolled his shoulders and lifted his belly, teetering between getting up and remaining seated. This talk teased a memory of a moment with Mazie when he’d either said something or hadn’t said it. He reached out with his mind but couldn’t bring it into focus. Finally, he sighed and sank back into the chair.
“Can I have another beer?” Justin asked.
Faye prayed. She was quite good at it. Effective prayer was focused, disciplined, and dignified—three values that Faye believed in. The natural dialog of her thoughts was task oriented. She prayed for explanations, not favors. Functional prayer yielded the same catharsis, peace of mind, and sense of transcendence as those berserk evangelicals who spoke in tongues and handled snakes, but without all the absurd excesses.
Normally, Faye could switch from regular thought into prayer mode at will, no matter where she was or what she was doing. If extraordinary circumstances required special or additional prayer, she could step aside, close her eyes, and do a quick check-in with her higher power. Prayer’s portability was one of its most useful features.
That morning, though, Faye was so confused and distressed that, try as she might, she could not sustain mindful prayer for more than a few seconds at a time before anxious thoughts and turbulent feelings distracted her. It felt like God was keeping a secret from her. After trying to pray at home, in her lab, and at the cemetery, yet still not feeling any better or even understanding why, she went to the Coon Creek Baptist Church of God to try there.
To her relief, Faye found the church empty. She passed row after row of pews before she slipped into the first. She closed her eyes and cleared out her consciousness. However, her mind refused to still. Against the blackness of her eyelids, she saw flashing colors and brilliant flares, like mental fireworks. She grimaced and squeezed her eyelids tighter until her eyes popped open, as if her eyeballs kicked back suddenly.
Damnit. What was wrong with her? It felt like her brain was turned inside out. She couldn’t stop thinking feelings and feeling thoughts.
Faye slid forward in the pew and landed on her knees. The cartilage in her kneecaps crunched. Pain helped her concentrate. Staring into the face of Jesus in a stained-glass window behind the altar, she fought the impulse to blink, as if she was locked into a staring contest with the Lord Almighty. She drew slow, steady, shallow breaths through clenched teeth. Her eyes began to ache. She felt movement in her brain, a synaptic breeze. She felt herself on the brink of an out-of-body experience.
Jesus winked at her.
Faye felt a heavy hand land upon her shoulder. Acting instinctively, she grabbed it and twisted.
“Yeow,” Reverend Belvedere squealed. “Uncle!”
After she let go, Faye slapped her own hand for having betrayed her. “I’m sorry, reverend. I just reacted. You startled me.”
Reverend Belvedere rubbed his wrist. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that. But I was a wee bit worried. You weren’t moving. Are you okay?”
Faye straightened her shoulders and tugged on her lapels. She scooched back into a sitting position. “I was praying.”
“You seem fidgety.”
Faye considered Reverend Belvedere to be an honest man, even a Godly one; but she’d never regarded him as especially perceptive. If he could sense her unease, then it must be obvious. She started to say, I’m fine, but when she spoke, she surprised herself by saying, “You’re right.”
Reverend Belvedere sat down next to her. “If something is bothering you, then you’ve come to the right place.”
“I just... oh, I don’t know.”
“Here, it doesn’t matter what you know. Only what you believe.”
“Thank you,” Faye said, then wondered—For what?
“Belief matters more than knowledge, because when you get right down to it, what does anybody know, really? God works in mysterious ways.”
“That’s for sure.”
“But rest assured that, no matter how unjust or difficult a situation may seem, it nevertheless aligns perfectly with His eternal plan. God is in charge, always.”
“I see.”
“God tests us. Sometimes, He confounds, frustrates, even aggravates us. When He took my dear Maude from me, I was inconsolable. I could not fathom—why? Her death seemed cruel. I wasn’t sure that I trusted God.”
“Oh?”
“You must know that feeling—don’t you? It was a terrible tragedy when your parents died.”
Faye bowed her head and gripped the seat beneath her. “Yes, it was.”
“But have faith that for every obstacle God places in front of you, He also blesses you with new opportunities. For example, I have found a renewed purpose in running for mayor. The people’s support has lifted my heart. Our community is coming together like never before. It’s like Mr. Slocum said, ‘God gave me the nudge that I needed.’”
“Mr. Slocum? Do you mean Burl?”
“Of course. He loves Coon Creek deeply. I rely upon his counsel. He understands what the people want and need. He has been very encouraging to me.”
Were they talking about the same Burl? The Burl Slocum she knew wouldn’t encourage another person to breathe unless it served him in some way.
“I’m glad,” she said.
“And thank you, too, Faye. When I announced my candidacy, you were among the first people to stand with me.”
She wondered if Reverend Belvedere had come up with the idea of running for mayor all by himself, or if Burl had persuaded him. “You’re welcome.”
“Let’s pray together,” he suggested. He gave her hand a squeeze. “Lord, Jesus, God Almighty. Let us never forget that You bless us with Your grace at all times, the good and the bad, and even when our troubles seem insurmountable, we trust Your unerring benevolence, for we know that it’s through worldly trials that we fortify our souls and prove ourselves worthy of Your love. We must remember that You have a reason for everything that happens. You place hardships upon us because You love us so much.”
Reverend Belvedere turned his face to Faye; she’d never noticed before how tiny black pores cratered his nose. He locked into eye contact with her.
“So we must look beyond our petty trials and tribulations. Even in moments when our hearts are heavy, if we seek You through prayer, we will know what to do.” Reverend Belvedere placed both hands on Faye’s cheeks, held her head steady, and kissed her on the lips.
Faye was too stunned to react. Sexual rigor mortis set in. His dry, cracked lips felt like sandpaper on hers. His breath was steamy and smelled like he’d been chewing on dirty gym socks. Their noses dueled. His hands moved from her cheeks to her shoulders, pulling her close; at first gently, but when she did not move, harder, like trying to pull open a stuck door. He swung one of his legs onto her lap and poked at her hips with a sapling of an erection; it was damp and sticky through his pants. Faye couldn’t fight through the shock and disgust to resist. Reverend Belvedere seemed to interpret her passivity as consent. With some fumbling, he managed to loosen her tie and undo the top button of her shirt. His hand was cold when he slipped it under her bra strap.
An intense spasm of nausea liberated her. When he tried to worm his slimy tongue into her mouth, it triggered a gag reflex. Faye heaved violently, as if choking. Simultaneously, she reacted the way she’d been taught to disarm any would-be rapist. She kicked Reverend Belvedere in the nuts.
Reverend Belvedere yipped in pain and groveled on the floor. “Owwwww. Did you have to do that?” he whined.
Faye rose above him, feeling no pity.
“I’m sorry, Faye. I thought we were having a moment,” he sobbed.
She toed him in the back.
“Please, please, please. Don’t tell anybody about this.”
At that instant, Faye’s absolute disgust and total revulsion peaked. It wasn’t just the reverend—all men were scum. Saliva and snot filled her mouth. She gathered the vile juices in her cheeks, swished them around, and then spat right between his eyes.
