I spent my days in the woods with the music books, reading and practicing until the mysterious graphs made sense. The Reverend never checked on my progress. His absence made me wonder if I’d done something to offend him. Maybe he knew I’d been spying on him with Lady Crawford only nights before. Perhaps I’d been walking around with the accusations of false prophet chiseled across my face. It would be nice to believe some guilt ate at his conscience, but I suspect he just didn’t have time for me. Whatever it was, we avoided each other like sore-tailed cats until one morning when I came up from the creekbank to find him waiting for me. He was dressed in his black suit, shoes polished for a house call.
“The Lord is calling Brother Maynard home,” he said. “We need to pray together. Bring your guitar.”
Before he joined our church, Brother Maynard belonged to the same snake-handling and mountain-magic congregation as Lady Crawford. I saw him once without his corduroy jacket, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose the knotted scar tissue from several bites. He terrified me. If copperheads and timber rattlers couldn’t kill him, I doubted any illness would manage to finish the job. I didn’t want to go but knew I couldn’t refuse my father.
Brother Maynard lived behind the baseball field near Bradshaw Elementary. The diamond wasn’t quite regulation size. The distance from the pitcher’s mound to home plate was noticeably shorter than standard requirements and center field wasn’t wide enough to warrant its third outfielder. Despite these shortcomings, it entertained kids and adults a few nights each week. Since it was a rare source of distraction, the school paid Brother Maynard a small sum to work as groundskeeper. He did a decent job with the upkeep, paying special attention to the grass, but the diamond looked rough that day. Right field was a barren patch. The remaining crabgrass blighted until the ground was mostly mud. Rain had washed away the chalk lines. Even the signs that covered the outfield fence and advertised for local businesses peeled paint. Only CARVER MUSIC, with the new addition of a golden saxophone spilling musical notes from its mouth, looked fresh.
The Reverend parked the truck in front of the one-story house and climbed out carrying my guitar. I followed down the concrete walkway, past a broken dog chain that wrapped around the trunk of an elm. Its rusted links lay coiled atop the tree’s surfacing roots. I thought I heard an animal howling in the distance, but once the smells of sickness met us at the front door, I realized the sounds were coming from Brother Maynard.
Lady Crawford stood in the hall with her mouth hidden behind a painter’s mask. She pulled it down under her chin and offered a smile.
“How is he?” The Reverend asked.
“Worse. I think the Lord will call him soon.”
During the ride, The Reverend explained that Brother Maynard had been suffering from agonizing headaches. He finally took himself to the hospital after weeks of praying, but by that time the mass was already the size of a boiled egg. Other small specks surrounded the margins of the X-ray like gnats in a swarm. Since then, Brother Maynard had refused all medical intervention including painkillers. Occasionally, he spoke in a madman’s yattering. Fantasy mixed with half-remembered moments of his youth. He begged for water, but Lady Crawford said even a drop made him gag.
I covered my face with a mask as she ushered us inside. The congregation surrounded the sickbed like sentries. Every member wore white clothing that seemed to glow in the dark room.
“Play him something,” The Reverend said, as he handed me the guitar. “Something to ease his suffering.”
I watched Brother Maynard tremble and sweat until his pillow was saturated. I worried the bright sound of a guitar might feel like hot needles in his brain. Nothing I could offer would make his passage easier. What he needed was a morphine drip and eternal sleep, but I obeyed my father and made the first chord. I don’t remember the song, just that I tried to play a soft progression. Brother Maynard didn’t dive into convulsions, but his eyes opened wide before going distant. I’ve thought about that over the years. At the time, I believed it was the look that accompanied any death. Now I wonder if my music hurt the dying man so severely he couldn’t even scream. I tried to stop after the first song, but my father made me play “Amazing Grace” while Lady Crawford took up the vocals.
My palms moistened until I almost dropped the guitar. Everything inside wanted to bolt as the congregation joined in the crooning. I held firm, finished the song and stood aside while they began another hymn. My father expected me to keep playing, but I stumbled outside with The Reverend calling after me.
The chain-link fence surrounding the ballfield was unlocked, so I crossed the faded chalk line into the visitors dugout. Inside, a bench had been formed by a slab of concrete poured against the back wall. I stretched out across it with the guitar forgotten at my feet. I knew my father would beat me when he finished with Brother Maynard. A good strapping to ensure that next time I’d be too afraid to run, but the coming punishment didn’t bother me. I just didn’t want to lend my music to the Lord. He’d already taken up so much of my life, I’d decided that this one thing would be mine.
It started to rain. I closed my eyes and listened as the fat drops pelted the roof. I wanted to play along to the rhythm but was afraid my father would be searching for me. I’d just gained the nerve to form a chord when Angela Carver appeared at the entrance of the dugout. Her red hair lay matted to her neck in wet curls. The elaborate eyeliner and mascara she wore the first time I saw her were gone. Absent any makeup, I could see the constellation of freckles that covered her cheeks. I remember thinking she looked more like a woman that day. Less a child painted with false maturity.
“I didn’t expect to see you again,” she said, approaching like the dugout might be booby-trapped. Her canvas sneakers squished with each step.
I had no clue what to say. What would a girl like her want to hear? As much as I desired having her close, the proximity only reminded me how twisted I looked lying on the cold slab. In another time, young women would’ve been kept from the presence of boys like me. Their husbands would’ve paid to see my deformities through the safety of a freak show cage, and they’d come home describing the shock of such a horror, assuring curious wives that even a glance at something so sinister could atrophy unborn children in the womb.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. It came out sounding like she was a trespasser. Angela just shrugged.
“I walk the diamond sometimes to clear my head. So, are you going to tell me what’s up?” she asked.
“My father brought me to play for Brother Maynard.”
“I hear he’s a pretty weird guy.”
“He’s a member of our congregation.”
“Yeah, sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“It’s all right. We’re all weird.” It was self-deprecation I hoped she would argue against, but she didn’t say anything.
“Do you like your church?” she asked.
I’d been instructed to tell outsiders our congregation was the same as any other. Some of the parishioners might have even considered themselves normal, but a normal congregation doesn’t need to train its young members to lie. Maybe it was the recent flight from the sickbed, but I wanted to finally tell somebody the truth.
“I hate the church,” I said. “Sometimes I think I’m beginning to hate everything. Except playing.”
Angela picked up the guitar and laid it across her lap.
“You played really well,” she said. “Especially to just be learning. I know your dad bought some books. How’s it coming?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. There are things I want to do, but just can’t.” I wasn’t talking exclusively about music. I didn’t elaborate or try to explain, but I knew she understood. Even that early on, we could communicate that way.
“I could show you some things,” she said. “I mean, if you want.”
Angela slid the guitar onto my lap. As the wooden curves brushed over my thighs, I imagined her fingers trailing across the denim. She took my left hand, raised it to the guitar neck and shaped my fingers into some new chord. Angela strummed as she explained the construction, only I couldn’t concentrate. For the first time in months, I wanted something more than the music. I took her hand and held it away from the strings. She let me claim the fingers, so I sat holding them while she ignored my awkward grip.
When she didn’t speak, I knew I’d misinterpreted the moment. Excitement caused me to grope for something more than a simple act of kindness. I let go of her hand, and might have fled into the rain, but my legs wouldn’t let me stand.
“Sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay.”
Even after all these years, I can still feel the desire to burrow under the pitcher’s mound in shame. Sink into the nearest river and let the minnows devour my eyes. I felt too embarrassed to breathe.
“I play in my father’s shop after school some days,” she said. “He’s got a little studio down in the basement. Why don’t you join me?”
I didn’t believe it was a real offer. Just something to dull the sting of rejection.
“Do you drive?” Angela asked. “I could pick you up.”
“No,” I told her. The last thing I wanted was someone to see where we lived.
My father’s truck rumbled in the distance, tires sloshing through fresh puddles. In that moment, I preferred the coming beating to another second beside her.
“I have to go,” I said. “Thanks for showing me some things.”
“You don’t have to take off,” Angela said. But I’d already started out of the dugout. Angela called after me, but her words were lost in the rain. The Reverend didn’t say anything as I climbed in the truck. On the drive home, I kept remembering the warmth of Angela’s hand. The feeling of her calloused fingertips rubbed raw from the guitar strings. Something we shared. That day, it felt like the only characteristic still linking me to humanity.
In the weeks that followed, The Reverend’s policy on tithes began to change. He balked at any paltry sum, tossed coins from the offering plate and demanded folding cash at the end of each service. I always waited outside until the congregation required me to strum a few hymns. Afterward, they’d kick me back out until prayers concluded, but I no longer needed to spy. My father’s preaching echoed through the thin wooden walls like Gabriel’s trumpet. If the message could previously be considered one of Hellfire and brimstone, the newer version was apocalyptic. All sermons reduced to speeches where The Reverend frothed and screamed about sin in the camp. He repeated the same commands, told the congregation the best way to save themselves was to abandon all worldly possessions. He became a backwoods version of the televangelists I occasionally heard on the radio. Prophesizing exclusively on how the Lord needed cash.
None of this newfound wealth went to repairs. The roof still leaked and the dirt floor transformed to mud every rainy night. My father hoarded the cash in a wooden cigar box under his bed. I didn’t know how much he managed to squirrel away until later, but I’d lie awake at night imagining how far I could get with the money. In these proposed escapes, I’d cross the creek to the blacktop and pay someone to haul me to the nearest town. From there, I’d hitchhike to a city. Lexington, Philadelphia, Atlanta, New York.
It was a pipe dream, but it felt good pretending I could make it alone. I knew a man like me would never even cross the state line. Some redneck would see the cash, bash me in the head and leave my body in a ditch. Fantasizing I had the same chance as others helped me survive the routine of church service, practice and sleep.
Angela returned just as I began to forget about her. She drove up to the camper in her father’s F-150, a vehicle that rode too low to risk crossing the creek, but she braved it anyway. The Reverend was away somewhere with Lady Crawford, but I stayed in the camper and peered out the window as Angela paced in the yard. I didn’t want to be seen after botching our last encounter. Hope felt too dangerous at that age.
Angela didn’t leave. She just leaned against the hood, lit a cigarette and folded her arms across her chest. She’d removed her leather jacket despite the chill, and I could see her forearms covered in freckles as if her whole body had been dusted with cinnamon.
“I can wait all day,” she called and slid up onto the hood. Her shoes dangled in front of the grille as she flicked ash.
I took the guitar from under the bed and stepped out to meet her. Every inch of my body hummed until I felt like the most malformed features were trying to capture her eyes. Every man or woman I’ve ever met allows themselves a moment to take in my flaws. Angela had that same human inclination, but there was a different tone to her observation, more curiosity than disgust. She saw me in a way I never hoped anyone, much less a woman, would.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“Everyone knows where you live, Hollis.” It was a stupid question. In those days, it was a rite of passage for young men to cross the creek and dare each other to walk near the church.
“Let’s go for a ride,” she said.
“I have to be here when my father gets back,” I lied. The Reverend was too enamored with Lady Crawford and his hoarded money to notice my absence. I was just trying to sabotage things. I’d spent weeks telling myself I didn’t want her because it seemed impossible to have her.
She picked me up nearly every day to compose music in the basement of her father’s shop. Just fragments at first. Everything from distorted rock riffs to acoustic pieces that sounded like prayers and played in my head long after I returned home. I hummed them alone at night, sneaked out of bed to practice the chords outside among the crickets and owl calls. The music wasn’t a secret, but I understood it was just for us. No one ever listened, and we never discussed the notion of additional players or an audience. Sometimes I wondered if Angela felt embarrassed to be seen with me. If I were like other boys, would she have encouraged public performances? I struggled with that uncertainty, went back and forth between thinking she just wanted us to be ready, or that I only served as a distraction until someone better came along. Slowly, the music changed me. My stoicism melted away, and I realized all the songs were admissions that I loved her.
Things might have continued this way forever, but The Reverend was sitting outside one evening when Angela dropped me off. My father looked naked in his shirtsleeves, his body lying across the camper’s stoop like a man who just completed some incalculable burden. Each breath swelled his belly until his shirt tented and remained aloft even as he exhaled. When I reached him, I smelled the sour mash seeping from his pores.
Angela asked if I needed help, but I waved her on. I poked my father’s ribs with a finger. He didn’t respond, so I jabbed harder until his eyes rolled and he lifted his neck enough to speak.
“Leave me be,” he mumbled.
“What are you doing out here? Come inside.”
He wouldn’t let me touch him, swung violent slaps whenever I tried to help him rise. I’d never known my father to drink. The Reverend always preached about the wicked nature of spirits, but that evening was a vintage blackout, the sort of bender that looked like farce drunkenness in a poorly acted movie.
“Won’t talk to me,” The Reverend said to no one. “Won’t even explain.”
I left him raving and traveled across the field to see if Lady Crawford was in the church. Let her play caretaker, I thought. The windows were dark, the normal candlelight that shone through the cracks extinguished. I pounded on the door.
“I know you’re in there,” I shouted.
It felt absurd playing diplomat to the adults. I gave the door a final furious kick and shuffled off to the camper where my father had finally raised his head enough to stay awake. I grabbed his chin to secure his attention.
“Can you walk?” I asked.
The Reverend pushed himself up from the steps, went inside and collapsed in my bed. I wanted to move him somewhere else, but was happy enough to have him out of the elements. I pulled the boots off his feet, left the socks with holes that expose his yellowed toenails.
“You wanna explain to me what’s going on between you two?” I asked.
“Put here to deceive,” The Reverend said. “Ever since the garden. Don’t forget, boy.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever have to worry about it,” I said.
Drool leaked across The Reverend’s lips. I considered wiping it away but left it to darken the pillowcase.
“What about the one I see you with?” The Reverend asked. “The one bringing you home the last couple weeks?”
The question had loomed since the first day Angela fetched me, but with my father in such a pathetic state, I became brave.
“Just a friend,” I said.
The Reverend grunted. “You don’t need any whore friends.”
“Sure,” I said.
“You sassing me?” He grimaced as something internal protested his attempt to sit up. “I don’t want the slut back here. Understand?”
I looked at the sagging waddle of neck fat, the sweat-stained armpits of The Reverend’s shirt and tangled knot of his dirty hair. Even the teeth that jutted from his snarled mouth seemed worn down and loose at the roots, as if a bit of wiggling could extract them with ease. Any intimidating presence he carried had been stolen by the bottle. I felt more powerful even with my bones in decline.
“I don’t give a shit what you want,” I said. I leaned in to capture his eyes as they swam around the room. “You try and stop me, you try and say anything to her, and I’ll make sure the whole congregation knows about you and Lady Crawford. I’ll make sure they know about you hoarding the tithes.”
Mentioning the money washed The Reverend sober. The fog lifted from his gaze and he lunged at me. I staggered backward, caught my feet in the rug and bowled over onto my side. I scrambled away as The Reverend tried to climb from the bed, but he got tangled in the sheets and fought the comforter for freedom before worming his way out from under the blankets. Somehow, he found steady feet and seized me by the throat. The hands felt reptilian pressing down on my Adam’s apple. I closed my eyes and waited for breathing to become impossible, but The Reverend administered two slaps instead of suffocating me. I didn’t have any fight left, so I curled up, prepared for boot heels and improvised bludgeons.
“Nothing but a burden,” The Reverend said. His whiskey breath blew hot on my face. Underneath the sweet rot of the bourbon, I could almost taste the rage my father carried inside. I was glad to have it come to this. Better to have a real moment together than the continued lies. In a way, it was the only time he showed me the truth.
“Another mention of her and I’ll bury you out in these woods,” he said. “Do you understand?”
I wasn’t sure which hurt more, that he wasn’t just threatening or the idea that my father finally found something to love. I always knew I was never going to be that object of affection. I could accept that, but was surprised by my sudden jealousy. Even if the emotions didn’t naturally meld, my swelling lips were a testament to The Reverend’s affection for Lady Crawford. I wanted to feel that way about another person or, better still, have another person love me enough to utilize such violence.
“Understand?” he asked again.
I croaked out an answer. “Yes, I understand.”
The Reverend took my left hand and twisted my ring finger. He moved to my pinky, grasped it tight while I begged him to stop. It wasn’t the pain. I knew if he bent it all the way back, I’d never form proper chords again. I closed my eyes and felt the bone pop from the socket.
“That fixes things,” he said, and shuffled back to bed. I lay looking at the bent digits. The pain must have been intense, but I can’t remember feeling it. I was too busy lying in the dark for hours, trying to wiggle the unresponsive fingers. When it became hopeless, I decided to see if Lady Crawford was awake.
The church door opened before I mustered the bravery to knock. Lady Crawford wore one of the same dirty white gowns, the fabric matted tight around her waist as if she’d been sleeping in it. I couldn’t imagine her ever sliding out of the gossamer sheath. In my mind, she stayed clothed until The Reverend unwrapped her.
She touched cool fingertips to the bruise smeared across my mouth while I probed at a loose canine with my tongue. The sanctuary she led me into felt like a cave, pools of darkness in the corners deep enough to sink into, light that flickered as the candle flame waned. I took a seat in one of the chairs around the altar. Lady Crawford kneeled beside me with a bowl of murky water and a dishrag. She dipped the cloth, wrung it out and patted my eyes. My cracked lips stung as she wiped the drying blood from the corner of my mouth, but I didn’t protest.
“Do you want to tell me what you said?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well, he didn’t have to do this.”
I looked at her pale arms and wondered if she hid similar wounds under the white dress. I almost asked but let her continue cleaning the cuts. Afterward, she took my fingers and popped them back into place while I bit into the cloth to keep from screaming. She fashioned me a poor splint.
“He wants us to leave,” she said after I’d regained my breath. “But I can’t.”
“Because you don’t want to take stolen money?” I asked.
Lady Crawford dunked the cloth again, pressed it to my brow. “Yes, but not just the money. I’ve never been anywhere else.”
I knew what she meant. The mountains both isolated and secured us. Even if her reputation carried frightening infamy, it was still a reputation. Outside the valley, she’d be just another piece of country trash.
“It’s not fear of the Lord,” Lady Crawford said. She turned her gaze to the cross hanging over the altar. “I’m not sure I even believe anymore.”
Lady Crawford set the bowl of water at her feet. The dregs were dyed dark by blood, the rag equally stained.
“Do you love him?” I asked.
“I know he loves me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m afraid of how he acts. Like I’m the last thing that matters.”
Lady Crawford carried the bowl and rag to the altar. “You’ll sleep here tonight,” she said. It wasn’t a request.
She prepared a pallet on the floor, sacrificing blankets from her own burrow in the corner so I wouldn’t have to lie on the dirt. The fibers of the bedding smelled full of sweat from the lovers’ labor. I ignored it and pulled the blanket over my chin. When I closed my eyes, the candlelight rendered the membrane of my eyelids red, veins mapped across my vision. Lady Crawford extinguished the flame and we lay down in darkness.
She began humming a soft church hymn. I recognized it from page fifty-two of our hymnal, “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.” Her voice broke on higher notes, unevenly hit the chorus where she repeated “leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms . . .” but something about the cracked-china quality was soothing. I drifted to sleep on the lullaby.