Fallen Angels (26 page)

The deputy did not offer a friendly greeting this time. “I need to discuss something with you, Reverend. Maybe you want to step away from the house, so the kids don't hear.”

Jeb craned his head to the flank and saw Fern and all three kids staring at them. “You coming to the potluck social, Deputy Maynard?” Jeb asked. “Last chance for potato salad until the spring, I hear.”

“It's about your truck and a bit of trouble down in Texarkana,” said the deputy.

Jeb hid his hands in his pockets. His fingers came around a bit of old cork from a bottle of Texarkana home brew. “I don't know anything about Texarkana.”

“Seems your vehicle was the getaway for a man who bludgeoned a landowner's son to death. You ever heard of a Mr. Leon Hampton, owns a cotton plantation down near the Arkansas-Texas border?”

“This Hank Hampton, he died?”

“I thought I said Leon. Appears so. This Jeb Nubey, he's the man they been looking for all these months.” The deputy held up the wanted poster.

Maynard studied his face. Jeb didn't dare look at Fern, who might have heard Angel call him Jeb. He walked a few paces out and Maynard followed.

“But you say your truck was stolen outside our town. Not in Texarkana? Do I have your story right, Reverend?”

“Seems there was a little business one night about my truck.” Jeb steadied his voice. “It was down around Texarkana. Remember when we were slowed up coming here? My truck turned up missing, but I got it back. I thought some boys went joy riding.” His throat felt like something had been tied around it and yanked by the worst knot yet.

“That is such a relief to hear, Reverend. I'll write this up and get it down to the sheriff in Texarkana.”

He did not feel relieved but sick to death. “No need to report it. Not any harm done that I can see.”

“Best to report these details. Keeps us all straight with one another across county lines. I don't see how this has anything to do with the boys on this robbing spree, the ones who done stole your truck. Appears to be a different matter entirely.” He started to turn away, but then threw in, “Many times as you get robbed, I'd say you're too trusting, Parson. Me, I got to figger out some missing pieces. Somehow, I'll study on it Something will come to me. Always does. I cracked a case two years ago that had those Washington swells completely bumfuzzled. I got the nose for these things. My wife tells me that all the time.”

“Glad to hear that,” said Jeb.

“Best I can figger, this two-man crime spree across upper Arkansas has me thinking we're closing in on finding your truck. I will let you know as soon as we get these boys nailed. See you in church, maybe. Wife's been after me to go. Food's always a good bait.”

Jeb watched him go. His chest felt as though an anvil had dropped on him. Hank Hampton was a fool, but Jeb did not want him dead. The sun of noonday drenched him, poured over him through the baring oaks, but he felt a chill. He had to choke back an anxious moan and the urge to run at the same time. He was convinced that all of the sky light over Nazareth pointed into his dirty past. Maynard had braked at the end of the lane when the urge to run after the deputy overtook Jeb. In the dust of the police automobile he imagined running behind the deputy waving his arms, keen on confessing his crime. Angel ran into the dream behind him shrieking and begging him to stop. Then Fern called out his stolen name and it all disappeared. He felt guilty and safe all at once.

“You scared me today. I never saw you like that before. You came back with trouble all over your face.” Fern had her hand behind her holding open the screen door. “This Hampton must have been a close friend of yours.”

“He shouldn't have died. I just don't understand why. He was young, kind of stupid, but didn't deserve death,” said Jeb.

Every wood and town between Texarkana and Little Rock swarmed with cops. But all Jeb could see in his mind's eye was Hank Hampton laying in repose with a lily in his hands. Fern's face blurred and he saw Hank's momma. He covered his face with his hands. “This is a nightmare, that's what!”

Angel stayed near Jeb, her hand cupped right behind his elbow as though she no longer trusted him to say the right things. “Good night, Miss Coulter. He'll be fine in the morning.”

Jeb wanted to explain his pain to Fern, but two things barred confession: nothing he could say would be the truth and he could not bear another lie. So he pleaded in his mind, something that sounded like a prayer. A bit of relief. Something along the lines of “Don't strike me down before I make things right.”

“Walk me out, Reverend?” she asked.

Jeb told Angel, “Go on and wash up for bed.”

“I can walk Miss Coulter out,” she said. She squeezed his hand as though she was trying to speak to him in secret codes, and that surprised him. When he looked into her face, she did not look hard or sarcastic but like a teenaged girl groping to find her way. Scared for the first time, it seemed. His past had not threatened her security too much until now.

“Angel, just go. We'll talk in the morning.” Jeb opened the door for Fern.

From the front yard, Angel's head could be seen through a window like she had grown a halo. Then the living room went dark.

Fern had to pull on her sweater. The night air had a hint of cooling. Winter was not far off. Jeb helped her pull the wrap around her shoulders so she could slip her arms into the sleeves. “You're sure you're all right, Reverend?”

The way she kept patting his arm and telling him how sorry she was that his friend had died comforted him, even though he did not deserve it. “Go get some rest and don't worry about me, Fern. I shouldn't have gotten so torn up like that.”

“You're up to preaching tomorrow?”

He had forgotten entirely. Sunday was only a few hours away. Then after that, everything she knew about him could dissolve right in plain sight of her. Maynard's report would be sent out on Monday to the Texarkana law enforcement officials. He thought of that one thing and of Hank Hampton lying in his grave. He lied to Fern once more and told himself it would be the last lie, one more invention. Even in his tone, without any trace of boasting, he said, “You'll like tomorrow's message. Paul on the isle of Patmos. Paul and me, we got things together.” He hoped to make it the last lie.

He felt her hand brush against his shirt. When he looked down, he saw her hand resting against his chest. “Fern?”

She lifted her face to him.

“I need you.” It slipped out. He kissed her but even that felt like a lie. Common sense told him to walk away, slink into the night, be gone by morning. Then out came more confessions to entangle him further. The kind of words a bona fide man of worth should say. But not him. “If you don't need me, I'll settle for this.” He kissed her again and when he did it seemed she needed him back.

Her touch took him to a place far from deputy warrants and dark Mondays. For an instant, he could see the two of them on a blanket sipping lemonade at Marvelous Crossing. Four children played around them on the grass making dandelion crowns and soiling the blanket with bare muddy feet.

Other pleasant things crowded out worry like a happy dose of life with a nice kick to it. October had come with more good than bad and wasn't that something to consider? This time and place he had found on the way to no place in particular had somehow made him better. Maybe he just wanted to be better. He was a literate man, for one. In his arms this night was some lovely thing that smelled like the heavenly hosts and all things honorable. Monday could not send him running away, tail tucked, to a new town to start again. He wouldn't allow it to unravel right in front of him. But guilt got the better of him. Fern should know him and know about him.

Then she kissed his neck and he died again.

Tell me, God, this ain't the beginning and dead end of all things good.
He could not believe that destined-for-jail Jeb Nubey had come to like the taste of good people and their simple life spread out like a banquet. To see it end made him feel like the kid shown a peek into a kaleidoscope only to have it taken away for good. It should not be so. He pushed Monday away. Something within reach had to make it all true for him—Fern, Church in the Dell, and this man whose shoes he had put on. Hang tomorrow or Monday! Sunday would row pleasant things onto Jeb Nubey's muddy shores—a little sacred music, some community admiration, and the girl. Tomorrow would be his final gift. He thanked God for it.

“I love Sundays, don't you, Fern?”

“Philemon, you have to kiss me like that again. It felt like the power of God between us,” she said.

17

J
eb slept only until just before dawn. Too soon to know if a miracle would show, but he had asked God for it more than once in the night.
God.
He had used the name for cheating and getting by. He'd made a money-spinning livelihood of the backstabbing of Christ. Now with nothing to look at but the night, he sidled up to Him like a mad dog begging to be shot.

He pulled out Charlie's letter to read again. Near dawn, he read the letter stamped with a Texarkana postmark in the paleness of daybreak, no pigment yet of true daylight.

Dear Jeb or Philemon (haha! how did you come up with that name anyway?) Your first letter, and me the first to know about it! I always said you was a capable man, even when Daddy doubted it. This cover of yours sounds like a good one, so I'd keep doing what you're doing and lay low. You did not say how you are making it, but I guess you always manage to make a living for yourself—must be good money in religion. Bad news, brother. Hank is dead. But you don't need to hear all this. You sound like you got things going your way now and …

Jeb tucked the letter into his britches’ pocket, pulled it out again, slipped it under the mattress, and then pulled it back out to rip Charlie's woefully regretful mail into a dozen strips for the garbage pail. It had not brought him a speck of comfort. He could not bear Charlie's bragging on him for scamming a whole town—not this town. Somehow, he had lost a taste for it. He picked up Evelene's Bible, opened it, then just held it next to him.

“Comfort me, God, will you?” He whispered it like he was ashamed to ask out loud. His hands shook like ratlers. All sense drained from him.
Run, Jeb! Like you always do.
It was time to fly the coop, wasn't it? But too many things anchored his feet to this hick place called Nazareth. As of last night, Fern was his for the asking. His old white shirt still held enough of the faint scent of her perfume to prove it. The feeling of his hands and arms wrapped around her gave him a taste of what time spent with her would do for a man—like a miserly taste of chocolate on the tongue.

In any case, there were other things that tied him up in ropes and left him ready for the block. People treated him like he was respectable and that had never come up before. A small girl's cough in the next room cracked open his heart. He liked the sound of “Daddy.” Angel, Willie, and Ida May had shown him what it felt like to be needed. Made him soft as butter. He could hear Charlie laugh at that. Turning soft had ruined him and in a queer way gave him a life.

Somehow the lie had become his life. Or his life was just a lie. Everything clouded again and he rubbed the wet from his eyes.

The edge of another peaceful hitch was once again at hand as it always had been in the past, coming round like the moon's orbit. His life had known so many beginnings and endings and he hated it. Hated who he really was. Ruination slipped over him. It was the only stinking blanket he really owned and the way he carried it with him everywhere he went like a railroad tramp only proved his vagrant blood.

He pressed his face into the pillow, half-hoping for suffocation, and rolled over on his side. Sleep escaped him, but he thought he must have drifted enough to enter that place of half-sleep, somewhere between the world of mind and spirit, because he lost a whole half hour he could not account for. He blinked, but dread haunted him like a handful of loaded shot made ready for his coming execution. A wind like the voice of Hank propelled a chill through the window screen and seeped through every drafty crevice in the house. A flash of white moved, ghostly and mixed with shadows, underneath his door. The sun had not lifted even a nub of rays, but the sky had lightened, indicating Sunday hummed just down the hill. It seemed to sing his dirge.

The doorknob turned. Jeb closed his eyes, ready to swallow punishment, even if Hank's ghost delivered it himself.

“I couldn't sleep,” said Angel.

“Don't ever bust through the door like that!”

“Somebody woke up Crabby.” She set a lantern on the floor beside her.

Jeb rolled onto his back with the pillow still covering his face. “It's too early to deal with kids.”

“There's something I need to know.”

“After my first cup of coffee.” Jeb tried to dismiss her, and waited to hear her pad back into the room next door.

“You're already awake, so what's the deal anyway?”

Jeb sat up, hugging the pillow like it was the only thing holding him up, and dangled his feet off the bed. The clothes he had slept in were rumpled. All the fight was gone out of him. He said with a peppering of kindness, “Best to get on with it, Angel. You'll not let me go back to sleep until I do.”

She looked past him, sort of through him, like her eyes were fixed on something beyond him. “You're leaving, aren't you?”

He hadn't come up with a reasonable solution yet that sounded humanly decent, so he didn't know what to tell her.

“If you want to run, I'll go to the church and tell everyone the truth about us.” She still had not looked him square in the eye.

It took a con to know one. But something about her, the soft pitch in her voice or the innocence of her eyes before daylight made him listen.

“It's four hours until you got to get up and preach. I figure you can go down by the highway we came in on and catch a ride out of town.”

“So you're going to tell the truth—to everyone, school buddies and all—and I walk away scot-free.”

“By the time the church people know about us, you could be in Texas or anywhere but here.”