(2006) When Crickets Cry (13 page)

Davis will admit all this if you ask him, but he's zeroed in on his target audience and knows what appeals to them. I'm not saying he's right or wrong, and I'm not suggesting the end justifies the means, but he's passionate about getting people to heaven. And judging by his Bible study attendance during the week, it's difficult to argue with his results. If it means titillating people's sin senses and hoodwinking them on their beer, he's comfortable standing before God and telling Him he did it that way. That's just Davis.

If he'd lived in Germany during World War II, he'd have been one of the people who answered the knock at the door and told the SS soldier there were no Jews in his house, while his basement was bursting at the seams with eight or ten families whose fathers' names were Hananiah, Azariah, and Mishael.

Bottom line, Davis is not interested in the people who aren't attracted to the promise of big bosoms, cold beer, and the possibility of having both. And for that reason he's targeting the folks who think they can't live without them.

DAVIS REFILLED THE GLASS OF THE KID NEXT TO ME, GAVE him a fresh napkin, and stepped back to the grill where six or eight burgers were sizzling through medium rare. The stranger smiled at Davis, shot an eye toward me, and started reading his napkin.

I grabbed a toothpick and stuck it in my mouth. The three bigscreen televisions hanging behind the bar were tuned to two baseball games and one middleweight boxing match.

When Davis's back was turned, the skinny stranger leaned toward me and swore. "Hey, dude, is this a real bar or what? I think this dude is whacked. Sounds like a preacher. And what's the deal with these napkins and all this religious mumbo jumbo written on the walls?"

I didn't know the first thing about him, but the stranger cussed like someone who was making up for inadequacies someplace else.

I nodded, pointed toward Davis, and whispered, "Monk's got a pretty clear picture of what his job is, but don't let it get to you. You tried the burger yet?"

The stranger shook his head.

"Try one. It's worth whatever verbal abuse you have to endure from the owner."

"I heard that," Davis said over his shoulder.

The stranger smiled and said, "Barkeep, I'll have what he's having."

Davis sidestepped the griddle smoke again and said, "Three Transplants, coming up."

Swiveling on a bar stool, Charlie and I small-talked the stranger, who, as it turned out, was a sixteen-year-old kid named Termidus Cain.

"But," he whispered, "everybody calls me Termite."

He looked twenty-five and had the stubble, knuckle scars, and fake ID to prove it. Problem was that his eyes gave him away. He said he'd just moved to town looking for work and running from some woman's husband down at Lake Lanier. His nose was long, pointed, and moved like a mountain road across his face. At some point it had been broken-badly-and now traveled like an S, making the base almost an inch to the right of the pinnacle between his eyes. Soaking wet, I doubt he weighed 125 pounds. And he had a habit probably acquired recently-of looking over his shoulder.

"Termite," Davis interrupted, shoving a platter in front of him, "eat up."

Termite attacked the plate like a guy breaking a three-day fast. I noticed his hands, which were thick with calluses and stained with grease. Compared to the rest of his scrawny body, the size and strength of his hands were out of proportion. I swallowed and waved my fork at him.

"What do you do when you're not drinking beer, eating cheeseburgers, and running from angry husbands?"

He looked quickly over his shoulder, saw no one, stuffed another enormous bite in his mouth, and muttered, "Engines."

"You build them?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever."

"You any good with marine engines?" Charlie asked.

He looked at us with nonchalant cockiness. "Any engine. Don't matter none what kind. I s'pose my specialty is jet Skis, motorcycles, and cigarette boats, 'cause I like things that can go fast." He waved his fork in the air and squirted some more mustard on his burger. "But it don't matter none."

I pointed south toward Charlie Mountain Road. "If you're any good, the guys at Anchorage Marina are always looking for mechanics. Seem to pay pretty fair too. And this lake's loaded with rich kids tearing up their daddies' Jet Skis, Ski Nautiques, and eightyyear-old boats."

Termite nodded and registered this tidbit without looking up. He didn't seem to need to prove he was any good with engines, which probably meant he was. Obviously, engines were not an area of inadequacy.

In ten minutes he had consumed most of a dinner that normally takes me the better part of forty-five minutes if I pace myself. He scraped his plate clean and then tapped his beer glass with his fork like a seasoned drinker.

Davis served him his sixth "beer," and Termite drank with all the confidence of an underage, cocky kid who needed redirecting before he ended up in some cell with a bunkmate named Butch who can bench-press five hundred pounds and likes to call people "Sue." When he finished his beer, he thumbed a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, hung itJames Dean-style between his lips, then lit it with a silver Zippo lighter, which he slammed shut on his thigh in a public and prerehearsed fashion before slipping it back into his pocket.

Over the course of the last four years, Davis had prodded and probed enough to know that I had a secret and that Charlie knew what it was. After about three years' worth of digging at me and realizing I wasn't talking, he was kind enough not to dig too much further. Although that didn't stop him from getting in his jabs when he could.

"So ..." Davis leaned over the bar and stuck his nose about three inches from mine. "How're we doing today?" He dropped a napkin on top of my food and waited for me to read it.

I picked it up and held it toward the light. l John 1:8, 9. I knew this one because Davis had dropped it here before.

Termite tapped me on the shoulder, leaned in like he was trying to steal the multiple-choice answers from my test, and whispered, "What's yours say?"

I placed it on the bar and sipped my Sprite. Without looking at either him or the napkin, I said, "If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."

Termite slammed back the rest of his beer, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and said, "You guys need to take a dang chill pill."

Charlie just smiled and shook his head. Sal smiled, stirred his food, nodded in agreement, and chewed in equal rhythm.

I forked the mound of food on my plate into smaller bite-sized portions while Davis opened himself a bottle of water and winked at Termite, who wasn't quite sure about this whole thing.

I wiped my mouth with the corners of the napkin and kept my eyes on my food. "Monk," I said, "my sins are many and welldocumented, but they'll die with me."

Davis leaned in closer. "Let's see, the last time we left off you were telling me about where you went to high school."

I had done no such thing, and Davis knew it.

Charlie leaned toward Termite and said, "Pal, don't let Monk wink at you. He spent time in a monastery with about a hundred other men dressed in robes and ... well, you know what they say."

Termite looked at Davis. "No kidding?"

Davis nodded but never took his eyes off his burgers, which were getting close to perfect. "About two hours outside of Seville, up in the mountains."

Charlie's little wink and comment did two things: it got me out of having to brush off Davis, and it gave Davis an intro. In a sense, Charlie was watching my back. I wondered if he'd do that if he knew the whole truth.

"A monastery," Termite repeated. "Why'd you want to do something stupid like that?"

Davis turned and chewed on his answer before he spoke it. "I was arguing with God."

Charlie spoke up. "Which is a lot harder when you don't speak for five years."

Termite looked confused.

"He took a vow of silence," I explained.

Termite's eyes grew big, he looked at the floor, at all of us, then back at Davis. "You didn't say a single word to another human being for five years? Not even a whisper?"

"It's not exactly like that. There are times and places for talking. It's more about living in an atmosphere of silence. But, yep, I did. For five years, four months, three days, eighteen hours, and ..." Davis thought for a moment. "A couple of minutes."

Termite was starting to get interested, but he gave us a look like he knew better than to let somebody pull the wool over his eyes. "So when you could finally just talk again, what's the first thing you said?"

Davis looked off into the distance, then said, "Excuse me, do you have change for a twenty?"

Termite laughed, lit another cigarette dangling from his lips, and slammed the lighter across his thigh. Over the next ten minutes, Davis told him the abbreviated version of his story, as he'd done to a hundred other Termites. The amazing thing about Davis's story was how unlike it was from every fish story I'd ever heard. It didn't grow with each telling. It remained true. A testimony to Davis's belief that the truth is good enough.

Termite liked all the parts about world travel, exotic, faraway places, and how Davis backpacked bootleg Bibles behind the Iron Curtain when there still was one. Termite thought for a minute. "You was in Spain, right?"

Davis nodded.

"That near Italy?"

"Pretty close."

"Did they have nude beaches?"

Davis nodded. "Yes, although I can't speak from experience."

"You mean to tell me that with all that travel, you ain't never been to no nude beach."

Davis shook his head.

"Well, don't you think they need Bibles too?"

"Yes, but there's probably a way to get them to those people while they still have their clothes on." Davis slid a bowl in front of him and said, "Try some onion rings."

While Termite engulfed the onion rings, Davis told him the story of how he was running through the Alps trying to get away from the East German police, about returning safely and then burying his parents, of flying here, buying this bar, his silent investors, his morning Bible studies and-Davis tapped Termite's glass with his spatula-his nonalcoholic beer.

Termite looked around him, took it all in, looked down at the seven empty beer glasses in front of him, then looked at Charlie and me, who had heard the story dozens of times. He pounded one fist on the bar. "You guys' eyes is turnin' brown."

Somewhere in Termite's head, there was a disconnect between what he was hearing-the story of a man risking his life to take Bibles into a communist country-and where he was hearing ita strip bar. Between the big-busted weather vane atop the roof, the neon signs in the windows, the pool tables, the ashtrays, the Harley at the front door, the promise of cold beer and naked women, Termite was having a difficult time. He looked at us and raised his hands. "This is a joke, and pretty soon I'm gonna see some really big breasts bouncing across the pool table and start feeling drunk, right?"

Charlie put his arm around me and broke in, "Pal, the only breasts you're bound to see around here is if Reese or me raise our shirts. But"-he tapped the bar with his folded walking stick-"I'll dance on the bar if it'll make you happy."

"Yeah," I said, "you really haven't lived until you've seen Charlie here paint his stomach with lipstick and do his one-man belly-button routine."

Termite sat back and his eyes grew big as Oreos. "You guys tellin' me ... you don't like women?"

Charlie hugged me around the neck and kissed me square on the cheek.

"I ain't dadgum believing this. I'm in a clang queer bar. The guys back home ain't never gonna believe this." Termite stood up and put the bar stool between himself and us while his eyes scanned the bar for a more portable weapon. "I need to take me a whiz. A long one." Termite walked to the bathroom, looking over his shoulder. "And don't none of you sweet girls foller me, neither."

Termite disappeared into the bathroom, and we all started laughing. Even Sal, who looked at Davis and said, "I think your unorthodoxy just got you in a jam."

Davis smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and wiped down the bar. After a second or two he said, "People dying of thirst in a desert will do just about anything for even one sip of water. And that kid"-he pointed toward the bathroom-"is parched."

A few minutes later, Termite walked out of the bathroom with nervous eyes. His shirt was tucked in and his belt cinched up tight. He walked to the other end of the bar, pulled a wad of one-dollar bills out of his pocket and said, "Yo, quiet man, what I owe you?"

Davis kept wiping the bar. "Let's see, for one Transplant and seven beers ..." Davis looked at the ceiling and appeared to be calculating. "That comes to one Tuesday morning."

"What?" Termite looked confused, then backed up and pointed at all of us, waving his finger like a pistol. "See, I knew you guys was gay."

"Kid," said Davis, "for you, there's no charge. But if you're interested, I teach here every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday morning. We're walking through parts of the Gospels, studying the words in red, and you're invited. I'll give you one free meal every time you come back." Davis held up a glass and smiled. "And all the beer you can drink."

Termite shook his head. "Nah, red words or not, I'm paying my dang bill. I ain't owing you sorry Betsies nothing. Y'all trying to get me back here for some queer fest on Tuesday. I seen this kind of thing on Cops, and I ain't falling for it. Getting you hooked on the beer and food, and the next thing I know you've slipped me a Mickey, and I wake up wearing a dress and posing for pictures."

Termite started throwing one-dollar bills on the bar and counting as fast as his fingers would let him. "Here. Here's thirty dollars." He looked at Davis. "We square?"

"Kid, you don't need to pay me."

"I ain't your kid and I ain't your girl. Now, are we square?"

Davis nodded. "We're square."

Termite walked backward out the propped-open door. We watched from the bar as he cranked his Camaro and spun gravel out the drive, Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama" blasting out his open windows.