“We have to pick up Hoofers,” says Callie. I haven’t seen her since the fire. As we pass the burnt-out cornfield we both stare out into the blackness and go quiet.
At the end of the Wye River Road there’s a rustic hut set back in the trees. Tuesday night Bible study. Bethel African Methodist. We park the car around the corner like Hoofers asked us. It’s drizzling and dark. We’re fifteen minutes early.
“Let’s spy on him,” says Callie.
We scuttle through the woods, we don’t follow the road; we always go cross-country. I take cover under the eaves below a window where it’s mostly dry. The shrubs are damp around my feet and legs. Callie shoves in beside me. Through the louvres we see Hoofers standing with an open Bible in his hand. He has on a white stiff-collared shirt, starched, the top button done up. I’ve never seen him without his cap and dungarees. He’s reading out loud. In less than an hour he’ll be jumping cars for money.
“I didn’t know he was in charge,” I whisper.
Callie’s up on tiptoes, pushing me so she can see. But the window is closed, we can’t hear.
By the time we get to the door, someone’s playing the piano, making enough noise that they don’t hear us crawl in. We kneel behind some free-standing chairs at the back. An old woman with her hair in a bun sits a few rows ahead, the others are all up near the front.
A pale-faced Jesus hangs on the wall, askew, as if the cross is falling sideways. Hoofers starts singing a song. His voice is surprising, much lower than when he talks. I can hear the words clearly, but I don’t understand what they mean. “There is a balm in Gilead,” he says. At first I think he says “a bomb.”
He has a grey streak in his hair where his pigment is pale, it makes him look older than he is. He’s in his twenties, older than Callie and me. When he finishes singing, the people keep humming.
“Close your eyes and pick yourself a scripture,” he says to a man in the front with hair shellacked across his head.
“Chronicles,” says the man, “11:12,” his voice from way back in his head.
“After Jashobeam was Eleazar the son of Dodo,” reads Hoofers.
I don’t think it’s one he’s heard of. He wrestles the air to come up with a meaning. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. “It’s about sons and fathers,” he says. “What’s your father’s name?”
“Never knew his name,” the old man says. Hoofers reads on, looking for something else. Then it comes to him.
“Your father’s name is God,” says Hoofers.
“My father’s name is Darwin,” I whisper to Callie. She thinks it’s funny and snorts. The woman in front of us half looks around, but she’s too fat to make the turn. Her movement catches Hoofer’s eye; he sees us in the back. He doesn’t wink or smile, just shakes his head like we shouldn’t be seen.
Callie stands up and points to her watch. It’s already time to be on the road. She doesn’t want to miss the cockfight. We have thirty miles to drive, but Hoofers isn’t finished.
“Let me speak from Judges,” he says, thumbing pages. I’ve never heard of Judges; the Bible isn’t something I’ve read.
“And Samson caught three foxes, and set them afire.” Hoofers looks right at us, I can tell he’s talking to Callie. “He let them go unto the sturdy corn, and burnt up both the shocks and also the sturdy corn and all the field around,” he says.
The woman in front of us can tell Hoofers speaks past her. She turns herself around this time and looks at Callie. Her eyes are deep set and simmering. It’s the mother of the boy who’s under suspicion for lighting the field. A boy called Seaweed.
Callie is gone from beside me, she runs through the rain to the car. I follow her out. She drives without talking, the wipers scrape the glass. The high beams from an oncoming truck light her face, she is fierce with concentration. I’ve never seen her this angry before, more than when the horse drowned.
She stops on the roadside where she picked me up and waits for me to get out. We’re not going to Girdletree.
“It was just a fucking cornfield,” she says and drives away.