Man in the Blue Moon (8 page)

Samuel reached down and picked up the snake’s body. He dangled the black tail that looked like shrunken alligator hide in the air. “Look out,” Samuel yelled, and Keaton jumped backward, tripping over the mule’s feed bucket.

“Samuel, act right,” Ella shouted. She turned away to reprimand Samuel further, and Lanier breathed directly onto the wounded flesh of Narsissa’s leg. Jerking away from him, Narsissa pulled her leg, knee first, closer to the folds of her stomach. She stared at the streaks on her calf that were now seemingly nothing more than crooked lines that a child might have etched on her skin with a pencil.

When Ella returned to Narsissa, she bent down and lifted the edge of Narsissa’s pants cuff with her pinky finger. “It’s not as bad as I’d feared. I’m sure it stings like the devil. Should I get one of the boys to take you back home?”

Shaking her head, Narsissa studied Lanier. She watched him wrap the mule’s leg and then playfully prod the boys back to work by tossing them axes.

That evening Narsissa stood on her porch with a piece of pine straw dangling from the side of her matted hair. She propped her boot up against the side of a rail and unfurled her hair. Wood chips, chiggers, and straw floated to the mismatched porch floor.

With hair hanging in tangles around her eyes, Narsissa quickly swiped the hair back over her head and then straightened the chime of shells that hung by her cabin door. It would be days before she confessed to Ella that an icy tingle came over her when Lanier touched her after the snake flogging. She would certainly never use the word
heal
or admit that there ever was blood on her skin.

Down at the barn, Lanier was unloading the equipment from the wagon. Holding two crosscut saws, he stopped and turned in Narsissa’s direction. When she saw him watching her, she flicked at the chime, twisted her hair back into submission, and disappeared into her cabin.

The bronze letters
JWC
glistened between the two smokestacks on the
John W. Callahan
as it glided into port at Apalachicola. Smoke billowed from the steamboat, and a whistle on the deck sounded. Two black men with matching rubber boots helped to secure the boat’s bow to the side of the dock. Their forearm muscles protruded against the rolled-up sleeves of their shirts as they secured a wooden plank with the painted words
Welcome to Apalachicola
against the side of the steamboat. The plank made a screeching noise as the boat rocked against the painted wood. A flock of seagulls suddenly took flight. “The
John W. Callahan
,” one of the black men shouted.

“Coming to port,” the other one added, as if not to be overshadowed.

The first to step off the boat was Brother Mabry and his wife, Priscilla. Standing at six foot six and weighing nearly three hundred fifty pounds, Brother Mabry towered over his wife, who looked more like a little girl than a woman in her late thirties. His mere appearance suddenly made the steamboat seem like a toy.

Before stepping onto the plank, Brother Mabry brushed the lapels of his signature crimson velvet jacket. The coat had become a brand of sorts for the man, an evangelist who traveled the country holding tent revivals and promising a mixture of redemption and reversal of fortune. “I advertise salvation, and this coat is my calling card. Crimson, like the blood of Jesus,” he would tell reporters when asked about the custom-made jacket.

He had been born Alfred Mabry, the son of shoemakers in Brooklyn. After losing the family business, he had found his way again through a street preacher who had convinced him that he had the call to preach the gospel.

By the time Brother Mabry had grown a church from a few who met in an abandoned home into a congregation that assembled in a stonemasonry masterpiece on Columbus Square with pews for thousands, he had managed to marry Priscilla, the translucent-skinned daughter of an industrialist. She brought to the marriage a trust fund, a weakened constitution caused by childhood rheumatism, and a Victorian mansion in Chautauqua, New York.

When the couple stepped onto the dock, Clive Gillespie emerged from the crowd that awaited the boat’s arrival. He motioned for a teenage boy with reddish-orange hair to retrieve the luggage trunk that had been placed by a pile of fishing nets.

“Brother Mabry,” Clive called out with open arms. Sunlight glistened off his waxed hair.

“Mr. Gillespie,” Brother Mabry said in a voice loud enough to match his stature. As the two men clasped hands, Priscilla stood nearby, holding a handkerchief to her nose.

“May I introduce my wife, Priscilla,” Brother Mabry said with a wave of the hand.

Priscilla managed to nod at Clive. She pointed toward a warehouse next door with piles of empty oyster shells stacked twenty feet deep. “I don’t recall the smell the last time I was here.”

“Please excuse the aroma,” Clive said with a laugh. “Oysters are high commerce here nowadays. When was your last visit to our town, Mrs. Mabry?”

“Thirty, maybe twenty-five years ago,” Priscilla said and then placed the handkerchief back over her nose. With her hand she motioned for Brother Mabry to get moving.

Brother Mabry pulled Clive by the arm, saying, “Are we all set up at the inn?”

“Yes, indeed,” Clive said. “Come this way, and I’ll drive you. I know you will want to rest before dinner.”

“Rest is for the deceased. I’m famished,” Priscilla said and promptly put the handkerchief back over her nose. Passing by a group of children playing marbles by the door of a warehouse, Priscilla reached out with her free hand and brushed the head of a towheaded boy. “I was about his age when I came here and that Indian led my father to this place . . . this magical place. I wonder . . . I just wonder if that old man is still alive. Might he be alive, Mr. Gillespie?”

“If he is, then by pete we’ll find him. Now I’m sure you see how Apalachicola has progressed since your last visit, Mrs. Mabry. Back then you probably had numerous train changes and the like. Now it’s comfortable travel on steamboat. One thing I’d like to point out to you is the number of steamboats we have running here. Perfect for drawing in those needing water therapy. I’d say in the past five years, we’ve had an increase of travel from northern ports by . . .”

“Do you have the water?” Priscilla asked, as if suddenly realizing why she had made the journey in the first place.

“I have a container waiting for you at the inn.” Clive smiled a toothy grin and then reached for the door handle of his automobile.

Priscilla paused before climbing in. “I wonder if the water will be as favorable to me outside of its natural habitation? What do you suppose, Brother Mabry?”

Brother Mabry placed his wide hand against Priscilla’s cheek. His thick, long fingers eclipsed the paleness of her face. “Now, now. What did I tell you on the boat? Faith and the Lord’s water healed you the first time, when that Indian brought you to this place. Faith will heal you again.”

The smell of fried fish clung to the air at the local café in the port city. Waiters wearing black vests with stained aprons carried platters of food while bamboo fans rotated overhead. After being properly welcomed by the mayor, Brother Mabry, Priscilla, and Clive Gillespie took their seats at a corner table.

Dimitri, the café owner, was of Greek descent and had the leathered skin born of hard labor. He gently pushed the waiter aside and squeezed in next to the table. “Ah, Brother Mabry,” the owner said in accented English. “We are honored to have you and your missus. Anything I can get you. Anything. You let me know.”

Brother Mabry nodded and unfurled the white napkin. When he tried to tuck it inside his collar, fat rolled over the edges of his shirt.

Priscilla wiped the edges of a water glass with her handkerchief and then took a sip.

Clive Gillespie hunkered down and leaned over the table. “Dimitri there,” Clive said, motioning his head toward their host, “came to town ten years ago to sponge fish, and now he’s raking in the money with this restaurant. I tell you, he’s a smart man. This town is growing by leaps and bounds. An ideal setup for our resort,” Clive said.

“Retreat, Mr. Gillespie,” Brother Mabry corrected and then broke off half the loaf of bread. “A retreat of spiritual and physical nurturing.”

“Certainly,” Clive said. “Retreat. Um, Mrs. Mabry, I never asked your husband, but exactly how did you come to find the springs out near Dead Lakes?”

Priscilla folded her handkerchief and placed it next to the silverware. “My father. He was the head of the Chautauqua festival in New York. Have you ever heard of it, Mr. Gillespie?” There was a sliver of preeminence to her voice.

Clive closed his eyes and smiled. “Certainly.”

“Well, then you know that a little town not too far from here has the sister festival each winter.”

“DeFuniak. DeFuniak Springs is the town,” Clive said.

Priscilla turned her head. “Why, yes. Charming little village. Anyway, my father brought my sisters and me along with him to the festival the year I was thirteen. My doctor thought the warmer climate would be beneficial for my rheumatism.”

“She’s a walking miracle,” Brother Mabry added. Crumbs of bread fell from his mouth. A man seated at the table next to them jumped at the sound of Brother Mabry’s booming voice.

Priscilla cleared her throat and folded her napkin into a perfect square. “If you’re familiar with the conclave, Mr. Gillespie, then you know that the participants are scholars always in search of knowledge. Experts in all fields come to share. The year we were attending, an Indian chief presented on his culture—very dramatic, with burning sage and chants and so forth.”

The waiter came to take their order, and every person in the restaurant turned to stare. Clive turned and waved the waiter away. He also raised an eyebrow toward the other patrons around him, as if daring them to approach his table.

“Anyway, my father was so intrigued that he hired the Indian to take us to this supposed pool of water that he said had helped many in his tribe. Even his own granddaughter, he claimed.” Priscilla fanned her face and took a sip of water. “It’s so warm in here with all these people surrounding me, I’m feeling a bit flushed.”

Clive reached for the paper menu, folded it in half, and began fanning it in Priscilla’s direction.

“Thank you,” Brother Mabry said.

“What a gentleman,” Priscilla said with a smile. She patted her brow with the handkerchief.

“Are we okay now?” Brother Mabry asked.

Priscilla closed her eyes, dramatically inhaled, and smiled.

“And so what exactly did he do when you got to the spring?” Clive asked.

“Well, naturally, in my weakened state, I had to be eased into the water just so, you know. Much like you’d place a baby into a warm bath. Except the water was not hot like the springs I had been accustomed to. Even though it was January, the warmth was pleasant. Room temperature, I’d say.” Priscilla pointed to the empty water glass in front of her. Brother Mabry and Clive motioned for the waiter both at the same time. He tripped over a lady’s parasol trying to get to them fast enough.

“And were the results instantaneous? I mean, did you feel . . . ?”

“I felt warmth all over my body,” Priscilla whispered. “It was the most intoxicating, exhilarating feeling I’ve ever known. Papa had the Indian man wrap me in a blanket after I’d been dipped, but I didn’t need it. There was a glow all in me. We returned home on the train the next day and . . . I never shall forget it. Right after the conductor said we were nearing Tennessee, I leaned against the window and looked down at all those trees that ran down the side of the mountain and knew that I’d been healed.”

“She just knew,” Brother Mabry said.

“See, Mr. Gillespie. That is why I need this water once more. The doctors have given up hope on me. Terminal, they call this disease, this horrific disease that I have. Cancer.” Priscilla whispered the word the same way she might if she were cursing in public.

Brother Mabry engulfed her hand in his. “The doctors say . . . but what does God say?” He massaged his lips with his tongue and studied Clive. “Do you believe in miracles?”

Clive flinched and stroked his chin. “Why, certainly. Absolutely.” He reached for his glass of water and took a sip.

“Good,” Brother Mabry said. “I knew when my man told me he had found the person who could help me develop this land that we had found an answer to prayer.”

“Yes, of course,” Clive said with a strong voice suited for a stage actor. When Brother Mabry’s attorney had contacted him after researching the deed holder of the land with the spring, Clive was officially the owner. He refused to let the opportunity slip away from him now simply because Harlan Wallace had gotten him drunk one night. A scribble of his name on a bourbon-stained slip of paper at a poker table meant nothing. Even if the paper was witnessed, it was not a genuine deed in Clive’s estimation. Besides, one way or the other the property would be his again anyway. “I want us to use the land for good. I want to help those who are in need. As soon as you mentioned building this resort—this retreat—I knew that I had to work with you. People from the North, the West . . . they’ll be pouring in.”

“I want to begin my water therapy immediately,” Priscilla said.

“Absolutely,” Clive responded and lightly tapped his knife against the table. “Now, I’ve taken the liberty of securing a young architect from Tallahassee to develop some plans . . . in keeping, as you suggested, Brother Mabry, with the Victorian theme.”

Brother Mabry looked at Priscilla. “We want the retreat to be based on Wetherford Place, Priscilla’s home.”

“Absolutely. A fine home, I’m sure.”

“I’m going to use every resource out there to get the word out,” Brother Mabry said.

“Yes, absolutely. Get the word out.”

“I want to begin my water therapy tomorrow, Mr. Gillespie,” Priscilla said and balled up her handkerchief.

Clive rubbed his chin. “Well, now it’s not an easy path to the spring, Mrs. Mabry. With all these afternoon thunderstorms this time of year, it might be a rough journey for someone in compromised health. I’m working on having my men clear the way through the overgrowth out there.”