I watch a televangelist on channel seven. He drives divine words down the back of my throat and I gag on my tears again. Since visiting the revival, I cry more often.

“Oh sinner, reach out and touch the Lord, as he passes by, you’ll find He’s not too weary to hear your heart’s cry. He’s passing by this moment, your needs to supply. Reach out and touch the Lord, as he passes by.” The tall good-looking man with slicked back hair that matches his shiny black shoes wails and sings through pearly white teeth. His white shirt is soaked in sweat and the skinny tie he wears is held fast with a tie bar that glitters in the camera.

TV cameras pan the inside of the great tent revival. The small town congregation gawks like wide-mouthed bass ready for the deep fryer. I try to guess the color of his tie on my black and white Zenith. Color TV ain’t something I can afford, not this month anyway.

The healings begin. He touches people’s heads and they fall to the sawdust floor. Women and children walk the makeshift aisle, just like I did a month ago, metal chairs are lined in rows. A woman looks like she’s having convulsions, her hairdo shakes loose, ushers try to calm her.

The phone rings. Vivi runs to answer it. “Momma . . . for you!”

She breaks my attention. “Hush,” I say. “He’s ‘bout to cast demons outta that woman.”

The organ hymns mount. The faith healer lays his hands around the woman’s neck and prays. “Come out devils!” The woman shakes harder and falls to the ground.

“Thank you, Jesus. Yes Lord! Praise Him, people!” The evangelist’s chin quivers so fast you can see it on the TV. He starts hopping on one leg.

Vivi folds her arms in front of her. “They all look drunk to me.”

“They are, darlin’. Drunk in the Spirit.” I think about the liquored-up drunks where I used to tend bar and where I may have to go back to work to make ends meet. “Oh nuts, we’re losing the signal. Need me some new rabbit ears.”

Vivi giggles. “Ah shoot, Mommy, you’re missin’ the beggin’ for money part.”

“Ain’t got any to send him this month, anyway,” I sigh. “Shit. I’ll miss out on the blessed cloth special.” I smash out my cigarette butt in my favorite ashtray. “But I got my pressed flowers from Bethlehem last month. I suppose I could use them if I need to.”

“Need to what?”

“Never mind.” Pray for money. “Who called?” I ask.

“Dot. You need to go over to her store. Right away. She said it’s important.”

“Is she sick?”

“How would I know? I didn’t ask, she didn’t say.”

“Watch the baby, I’ll be back in an hour.”

I grab my cigarettes and hope my Fairlane starts. It’s been acting up the last few days. I worry about Dot. Sometimes mean people come into her store to poke fun at her. Mostly young punks. Big, unpredictable, and cruel young men. It’s not Dot I should worry about, though. Last year, a young man from a neighboring high school found himself with a bottom full of buckshot for taunting her because she smelled bad. She got a week in jail. Old Dot didn’t mind. She asked to stay a few more days; said the food tasted better than the slop she cooked. Lord, help us all.

When I arrive, I see Dot run toward my car. She’s clenching a toothpick between her lips. I’ve never seen her move so fast. A half-dozen mixed breed dogs bolt out with her, barking and wagging their tails. I jump out of my car and meet her in the alley on the side of her store. Between the smell of fried okra wafting out from her kitchen window and her snuff, she can’t get a decent breath.

“You . . . you, remember that box of old books you gave me to sell for ya?”

I haven’t thought about that box since I gave it to Dot. “Yeah, so?”

***