Kind of Kin (30 page)

Oren Dudley put his arm around his wife and asked
her quietly to go back inside the house. “What's this all about?” she whispered.
“Well,” he said, “it's a long story. Take Carl with you. I'll be in in a
minute.” She could hear their two little ones screaming gigantically in the
living room. She couldn't tell if they were playing or half killing each other,
but she felt like she ought to go see. “Come on, Carl,” she said, and, glancing
back over her shoulder several times, she walked away with her hand on the boy's
head.

The sheriff, having decided that it would be better
to take a chance on getting shot and still garner the glory than to pussyfoot
around until OSBI or some other agency showed up, started along the angled walk
toward Fellowship Hall. Oren Dudley loped around in front of him and blocked his
path. Holloway stood frowning. “You wouldn't be obstructing a peace officer in
the lawful execution of his sworn duty, would you, Preacher?”

“No, sir,” Oren Dudley said. Holloway started
around him, but the preacher did a little sidestep and blocked his path
again.

“What the blazes do you think you're doing?”

“Well,” the preacher said. Despite the chilly
weather, he could feel his forehead popping out with sweat. He'd prayed the
whole night long, had searched Scripture till daybreak, flipping back and forth
between his Concordance and the verses. No word for
immigrant
in King James, of course, or the New Revised Standard,
either; he'd had to look under
stranger
and
alien,
also
sojourner,
and very sorely he had tried, for the sake of his family, he'd really
tried to find verses to support doing the opposite of what he was getting ready
to do, but unfortunately, on the treatment of aliens, the Bible was just pretty
clear: “ ‘But the alien that dwells with you,' ” Oren rattled off quickly, “
‘shall be as one born among you, and you shall love him as yourself,' Leviticus
nineteen, verse thirty-four.”

“What the—” The sheriff started around the other
side, but Oren Dudley sidestepped again.

“ ‘Vex not a stranger, nor oppress him, for you
were strangers in the land of Egypt,' Exodus twenty-two, verse twenty-one.”

“Get out of my way, Preacher.”

“ ‘Do not oppress an alien,' ” the preacher said,
unconcerned about mixing translations, “ ‘for you yourselves know how it feels
to be aliens,' Exodus twenty-three, verse nine.”

Arvin Holloway pushed forward. “I'm warning you,
man.”

Eyes closed, combing over a few damp strands of
hair with his fingers, Oren Dudley quoted on: “ ‘And to the strangers that
sojourn among you, which shall beget children among you: they shall be unto you
as born in the country,' Ezekiel forty-seven, verse twenty-two.”

The sheriff was stymied; his hand twitched on his
pistol grip. You couldn't just shoot a blamed Bible-spouting Baptist preacher
for standing in your path. Not in front of this many witnesses. He turned to
look behind. More people had gathered.

“ ‘One law shall be to him that is homeborn,' ” the
preacher droned on, “ ‘and unto the stranger that sojourneth among you,' Exodus
twelve—”

“I got no concerns about strangers and sojourners,
Preacher! It's Sweet Kirkendall I mean to talk to.”

“Well,” the preacher said. “You want to tell me
what that's about?”

“Hell no, I don't want to tell you what it's
about!” Holloway shouted, but he quickly checked himself. Not good policy to
cuss a preacher. “This is official Latimer County Sheriff's Department business,
Oren. I'll thank you to step aside.”

“Can't do that, Mr. Holloway.”

“I'm not here to arrest nobody, damn it. I'm here
to conduct an investigation.”

“Into what?”

“The disappearance of Dustin Brown, what the hell
do you think!”

“Dusty's not here, Sheriff. I promise you.”

“I ain't said he was, did I say that?”

“ ‘I was a stranger,” the preacher answered, “ ‘and
ye took me in,' Matthew twenty-five, thirty-five.”

“Get out of my way!” The sheriff's pistol was in
his hand, pointing skyward—force of habit, he later told himself, but the
gesture did not sit well with Clyde Herrington and some of the others gathered
in the yard: “Here, Sheriff, what do you think you're doing!” “Arvin Albert
Holloway, you put that away!” “You can't draw down on a preacher!”

“I ain't drawed on nobody! Y'all stay out of this!”
Reholstering his pistol, Holloway turned and stomped back through the crowd to
his cruiser, reached in for his radio.

I
nside
the nursery, Sweet stood with her back to the door. “If the sheriff tries to
come in . . .” she started. Her voice trailed off. If Holloway
tried to come in, what? She'd have to let him. What else could she do? She
slumped against the door. Misty sat in the rocker with her daughter in her lap.
Lucha was quiet now, curled against her mother's chest, sucking her two fingers
and staring solemn-eyed and suspicious at Sweet. Misty Dawn, on the other hand,
hadn't looked at her once since she'd slammed back into the room and told them
the sheriff was outside, nor did Misty translate for her husband. How much
Juanito understood, Sweet couldn't tell—but enough to make those black eyes of
his look mighty serious. Well, it was serious. A serious situation. She needed
to know what was happening, but she didn't dare go back out to the glass doors.
Sweet glared at the poster-covered cinder-block wall opposite. Why would anybody
in their right mind build a church nursery without windows? What if there was a
fire or something? How stupid could people be? Well plenty stupid, she knew
that. She'd been knowing that a long time. She turned around and opened the door
a crack. A faint squeak of protest erupted from Misty Dawn behind her, but she
heard no sound outside in the hall. Her senses told her there was nobody out
there. She was almost one hundred percent sure of it. But what if she was
wrong?

Snicking the door shut again, Sweet scanned the
room. Not even a chair tall enough to prop against it. Well, except for the
rocker. “Get up, Misty.” Her niece was looking at her now, frowning, but she
gripped the baby more tightly and got to her feet. Sweet dragged the rocking
chair over, tilted it back on its rockers and wedged the wooden edge of the top
slat under the doorknob. This is beyond stupid, she told herself, but she could
think of nothing better to do. Then she went over to the little kids' table and
sat.

“La migra?”
Juanito
asked softly.

“La policía,”
Misty
answered, then a few more words in Spanish, then: “Aunt Sweet, what are we going
to do?” Her voice still held a faint note of resentment, but mostly she sounded
scared. In her arms her daughter began to whimper. “She's hungry.”

“I know.”

“What are we going to do?” Misty Dawn repeated.

“Let me think!” But Sweet could think of nothing to
do, no action to take. “Wait and pray,” she said finally.

“You're joking, right?”

“No.” Sweet bowed her head. “Dear Lord, we are
really in a fix here. We need You to do something drastic, if it be Your will.
We'd just ask that You send the sheriff away from this place, Lord, and also to
please shut Claudie Ott's mouth. We know that in You, Lord, all things are
possible. Give us this day our daily bread, because the baby is hungry. And
deliver us from evil. And we would just ask once again, Lord, that You—” Her
voice caught. She cleared it. “ . . . bring Dusty home safe. In Jesus'
name, amen.”

“Amen,” Misty echoed. Sweet looked up to see
Juanito finish crossing himself before he reached to take Lucha, who was still
whimpering. A light tapping came at the nursery door, and all three adults
jumped. The doorknob rattled, and whoever it was pushed against the door. The
rocker held. But this wasn't the kind of pounding and yelling Sweet expected
from Arvin Holloway. “Who is it?” she called in a low voice.

“Me. Vicki. I need to talk to you.”

Sweet went over and stood by the door. “What's
going on out there?”

“It's kind of a . . . standoff.”

“Between who?”

“That's what I wanted to talk about. Can I come
in?”

“Is Carl Albert with you?”

“No. He's fine, though. He's eating a
sandwich.”

“This little girl here is hungry.”

“I'll bring something over if I can.”

“
If
you can. What's
that mean?”

The doorknob rattled again. “I don't like talking
through the door, Georgia. It makes me have to talk too loud.”

Sweet cut her eyes at the kids. Misty Dawn shook
her head no. Juanito stared back with a kind of wary expression. Well, but it
was the preacher's wife, after all. Sweet tugged the rocking chair out of the
way, and Vicki Dudley hurried in.

“Who's standing off who?” Sweet said, jamming the
rocker back under the doorknob.

“I knew something was wrong,” Vicki said. “The
whole ride home from Stigler.”

“Did Arvin say what he wants?” Then she caught
sight of Vicki's round pink face staring at Juanito. “Um, this is Juanito,”
Sweet said. “And you met my niece, Misty.” She decided against trying to explain
why Misty Dawn was wearing the preacher's bathrobe. “And this is their little
girl, Lucha.”

“I
knew
it was
something,” Vicki said. “He told me he'd be in in a minute. When he didn't come,
I went to the bedroom to look out. He's standing in front of Fellowship Hall
with Clyde Herrington and T. C. Blankenship. They're blocking the doors.
Arvin Holloway is on the sidewalk with Rex Hendricks and Cecil Young and a
couple others, glaring fit to be tied. The rest of them are watching.”

“Rest of who?”

“I don't know. Half the town. There's probably
fifty or sixty people.” Vicki's eyes returned to Juanito holding his little
girl. “I thought this was supposed to be about Dustin.”

“Well,” Sweet said. “Not entirely.”

“See? This is what happens. He won't talk to me! I
said what's a pastor's wife for? It's my burden as much as yours! The whole way
home from Stigler I kept asking.”

“I'm so sorry, Vicki. I didn't know where else to
turn.”

“But what
is
all
this?”

As quickly and plainly as possible Sweet explained,
and she thought she must be doing a better job today than yesterday evening with
the preacher, because Vicki seemed to grasp it all at once. She sat down on the
low table, nodding. “He's welcoming the stranger.”

“I guess.”

“No, he
is.
That's what
he said. Two or three times, on the way over the mountains. I just didn't
understand what he meant.”

Misty Dawn edged forward. “How'd you get in if
they're blocking the doors?”

“Oh, I went out through our kitchen door, down the
back steps, and around behind Mrs. Griffith's. I came in through the Pastor's
Study door.”

Sweet said, “I forgot there was a door there.”

“Is it in the back?” Misty said. “We could maybe
sneak out that way.”

“And go where?” Vicki said.

“Fort Smith,” Sweet and Misty Dawn said
together.

“All right, good. Where's your car?”

Sweet and Misty Dawn looked at each other. “Well,”
Sweet said, “that's one of our problems.” After a beat, she said, “My car's sort
of stuck. I was kind of hoping we could borrow yours.” She held up her hand as
Vicki started to protest. “I promise I'll take full responsibility! I'll tell
them you didn't know I was going to take it!”

“No, I'm saying you
can't.
The sheriff's parked behind us.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Mommy, I'm hungry,” Lucha said. Sweet shot a look
over. The child had her face tucked against her daddy's chest, her long legs
dangling. Her daddy said something in her ear, and she answered in Spanish. “She
needs some breakfast,” Misty said. “She hadn't had anything to eat since last
night.”

“There might be some saltines in the kitchen,”
Vicki said.

“She needs
food,
like
real food—not crackers.”

“Misty Dawn, don't be rude!” Sweet snapped.

“Well, she does.”

“Well, whose responsibility is
that
? Miss Mommy.”

The bored look slid down. Misty Dawn walked over
and took Lucha out of her husband's arms. Sweet could have bit her tongue. Oh,
why couldn't she keep her mouth shut? At least till this was over. Vicki Dudley
was in the process of unwedging the rocking chair from the door. “I'll see what
I can find in the kitchen,” she said. “I think that'd be better than my trying
to go to my house and back.”

“But they'll see you!” Misty cried out. “Can't they
see in the kitchen?”

“It's a sunny day out. I doubt they can see inside
that far.” Vicki opened the nursery door just as Arvin Holloway's voice squawked
into the room over a loudspeaker: “YOU MEN ARE RISKING ARREST FOR OBSTRUCTING
JUSTICE AND INTERFERING WITH AN OFFICER!”

They heard Brother Oren's answer, slightly muffled
because he was turned away, but clearly enough, as he was using his strongest
pulpit voice: “ ‘Thou shalt not oppress a stranger!' ” the preacher called, “
‘for ye know the heart of a stranger, seeing ye were strangers in the land of
Egypt!' Exodus twenty-three, verse nine!' ”