The Dirty Parts of the Bible: A Novel (19 page)

“Lloyd,” Millie said. “Lloyd Snoats.”

“Well, unlucky Lloyd didn’t watch where he was driving, and landed his Chevy at the bottom of a cliff.” Wilburn folded his hands. “Common accidents. Things like that happen every day. Sarah’s had a string of bad luck when it comes to boys, that’s all.”

Millie shook her head. “Once is bad luck. Twice is a coincidence. Three times is a pattern.”

Wilburn put down his cup. “What—you think she killed them?”

“Of course not. Not directly, at least.” Millie lowered her voice to a whisper. “They say she’s cursed. It’s that Indian blood in her.”

Uncle Will threw up his hands. “Hogwash.
They
—who’s they? The ladies down at the Bluebonnet Salon, that’s who.”

Aunt Millie looked straight at me. “If you keep seeing that girl, you’re digging your own grave.”

“Pay her no mind,” Wilburn said. “It’s a bunch of old wives’ tales, that’s all it is.”

Millie snapped. “Are you saying I’m an old wife?”

“I’d better shut my trap before I fall into yours.” Uncle Will glanced at me and winked. Then he slipped his hand behind Millie’s chair and pinched her ass. She leapt up and knocked her plate off the table. Mashed potatoes splattered on the floor. “Wilburn Henry! Look what you’ve gone and done.”

It wouldn’t be long till the frozen chickens started flying. Millie grabbed the bowl of gravy and held it over Wilburn’s head. “Well, you’re an old husband,” she said, “so what does that make me?”

“A kind, patient, faithful, long-suffering, beautiful wife.”

She rolled her eyes, then dropped into Wilburn’s lap and smiled. I was relieved—one hasty word could have set off another disastrous chain reaction. It’s a valuable skill, knowing how to defuse a woman.

As much as I wanted to ignore it, Millie’s revelation unsettled me. Three boyfriends dead? I didn’t know whether to feel even more sorry for Sarah, or frustrated that she hadn’t told me herself. Should I still ask her to the reunion? I excused myself to go outside and think.

+ + +

When I stepped onto the porch, Craw was setting up picnic tables under a canvas tent. “I hope you’re getting paid for this,” I yelled.

He waved. “I volunteered my services, actually—in exchange for a free ticket to the dance.”

I stepped off the porch and ambled towards him. “You’re really coming to the reunion?” I was surprised Uncle Will would let him. Did Aunt Millie know about this?

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Craw said. “Who knows—maybe I’ll find me a lady to take back to my shed.” He tweaked the brim of his hat.

“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“Who’s joking?”

“I need your advice … It’s about Sarah.”

A grin spread across Craw’s face. “I knew you’d come back to me. Now go ahead—ask me anything.”

I took a deep breath. “I just found out from Aunt Millie that she’s already had some boyfriends.”

“That’s no surprise,” he said. “You’d better lay your claim before somebody else comes along.”

“Not just one—
three
boyfriends.”

“The competition is fierce, eh?” Craw raised his hook. “Where are they? I’ll kill the bastards.”

“They’re already dead.”

“Hot damn, boy—you win by default!” He slapped the back of my head. “So what’s the problem?”

“Three. Boyfriends. Dead.” I waited a moment to let it sink in. “And she didn’t tell me—I had to hear about it from Aunt Millie. You don’t think there’s a problem there?”

Craw sat on a table and motioned for me to come over. “Listen, my boy. Everybody’s got a history. Something they’re scared or ashamed of. Skeletons in the closet, if you will.” When I sat next to him, he looked me in the eye. “Now, don’t try to tell me
you
don’t have any secrets.” I thought of the money and my cheeks flushed red.

Craw must have thought I was blushing over Sarah. “You love her, don’t you?”

The question jarred me. What did it mean to love someone? “I—I don’t know.”

Craw put his arm around my shoulder. “Tobias, my boy, a girl like Sarah doesn’t come down the tracks every day. You let this train roll by, and you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”

A
FTER
the path to Sarah’s, I thought about love. Did such a thing even exist? The way of nature was self-preservation, not self-sacrifice. And the more I thought about it, love seemed to be nothing but a fancy word that disguised our innate selfishness.

Sure, I’d heard a few sermons about love. In my father’s system, you were supposed to love others—not for their own sake—but to deposit coins in your own spiritual bank account. Works of charity were ways of saving your own ass from hellfire.

And I’d heard a million songs about love. Bing Crosby and those fellows promised to love deeper than the ocean and higher than the stars for eternity. But who can sustain that kind of emotion for a month, or a year—much less forever? The song ends, the feeling fades, and they’re onto the next pretty girl.

Maybe the only true love was the sort for sale at the Pink Palace. All the getting and taking of love, without the fluffy words and empty promises. Fucking without the frills.

But if that was the only sort of love that’s real, why did it depress the hell out me? When I had the chance in St. Louis, I hadn’t taken it. And I didn’t want that with Sarah, either. I was attracted to her, but I wanted to believe that my feelings for her went beyond sex and self-interest. Did they?

By the time I got to her door, my hands were shaking.
There’s nothing to be nervous about
, I assured myself.
You’re asking her to a square dance, not a waltz ball
.
Partners at a square dance barely even touch each other.
Then I heard my father’s voice: “You might say it’s only square dancing, but it doesn’t take long to cut the corners off.”

For once, I hoped he was right.

Rosalind opened the door. “Tobias—what are you doing out this time of night? Come inside and—”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I just wanted to tell Sarah something. It won’t take long.”

Rosalind ducked back inside. A minute later, Sarah came to the door wearing a white nightgown. I was shocked to see her in something other than black. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

Sarah stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, and crossed her arms over her chest. She glowed pale and ethereal in the moonlight, like the forlorn spirit of a Civil War widow. I had a sense that if I reached out to touch her, my hand would pass right through.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”

“There’s—that is—”
What had I come here to say?
I leaned back against the porch rail and focused on the toes of my boots, desperate to gather my thoughts. “There’s a family reunion tomorrow.” I took another breath. “And Uncle Will said it would be fine if you came.”

“Mister Henry sent you to invite us?”

“Well, not exactly.” I glanced at her eyes, then back at the ground. “That is, I asked if you could come, and Uncle Will said it was all right.”

The hem of Sarah’s gown fluttered around her ankles. “Just me?”

When I looked up, she lowered her hands to her waist. I could see the outline of her nipples veiled in white linen. When I opened my mouth, no words came out. My bottom lip was quivering. “I don’t like crowds,” I finally managed. “I was hoping you could come, so I’ll have an excuse not to talk to all those relatives I’ve never met.”

Sarah folded her arms back over her chest. “So I’m the excuse?”

Damn it, I’d done it again. Why couldn’t I say what I meant?

She glided towards the door. “I’ll have to see. Mama probably has other plans for tomorrow. Goodnight.” She didn’t look back.

“Wait,” I said. “You’re not an excuse.” It was no use—she was inside the doorway now. “What I mean is—the reunion is my excuse.”

The door creaked, but I heard Sarah’s voice from inside. “For what?”

“To ask you to dance.”

The door clanged shut. I stopped breathing. Silence.

I stumbled into the yard, kicked the dirt, and cursed the moon. Then I heard the door open behind me. Sarah poked her head out. “Thanks for asking, Toby. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

+ + +

Heading back, I didn’t walk so much as float. Boyfriends?—bah. Curses?—who cared? Snapping noises in the grass? Nothing could shake me out of my reverie—not even a rattler.

Well,
maybe
a rattler. I jogged for the last leg of the trail, then climbed the farmhouse stairs and fell into bed, exhausted.

I dreamed I was riding the rails again, only this time, Craw wasn’t with me. I was headed back to Michigan with a big sack of Father’s money tied around my waist. The boxcar was pitch black, and the only sounds were the whine of the wheels and the pounding of rain against the roof. Somehow, I had the feeling of being watched.

In a corner, I thought I glimpsed the form of something darker than a shadow. “Who’s there?” The black shape didn’t speak or move, but it sent a chill down the back of my neck. I felt around until my hands grasped the cold steel rungs of a ladder. What a relief—now I could find another car.

I climbed to the top and opened the hatch. As I struggled onto the roof, the wind and rain lashed my face. I kept on my hands and knees, creeping along the catwalk, but when I reached the back of the car there was nowhere left to go—only the caboose, and it had a smooth, curved top.

I tried to turn around, but someone blocked my way. A black silhouette stood tall against the sky. “Who are you?” No answer. I held out the sack of money. “What do you want—this?”

A flash of lightning tore through the darkness and I saw him—an Indian warrior with eyes red as fire and a face like melting wax. I threw the sack at his chest but he let it drop. It tumbled open, unleashing a shower of coins.

There was only one hope. I leapt for the caboose and slammed against the roof, sprawling. My limbs flailed for traction, but there was nothing to catch hold of. I slid over the wet metal, faster and faster.

As I flew off the edge, my eyes snapped open in the darkness of my bedroom. With a scream lodged halfway down my throat, I struggled for breath. For a few moments I could still see the Indian’s shape standing over my bed. Then my eyes adjusted to the early morning light and he faded away.

Damned old wives’ tales
.

B
Y
noon Sunday, the farmstead was crawling with every manner of Henry relations—aunts and uncles, first cousins and second cousins, in-laws and outlaws. And I was the featured, freak attraction under the big tent: the sole progeny of long lost brother Malachi. Children pointed and stared, old men whispered, large women embraced and smothered me against their bosoms. I grabbed a brown bottle out of an ice bucket, hoping one beer would be enough to get me through the day.

Chatter and laughter filled the air, along with a cloud of cigarette smoke and the scent of roasting pig flesh. No wonder Father kept his distance from these folks—he was the only white sheep in the family. And what a family it was. After a few sips of beer, the names and faces blurred together—Verna, Maynard, Fanny, Homer, Eunice, Elmer …