“I’m sorry to see you in such duress, Jiff.” Sute was nearly in tears. This was the first time that Jiff had ever confided in him, the first time he’d ever regarded Sute as more than just a kink trick. “Stay with me. Let me make you breakfast.”
Shit,
Jiff thought.
What am I doin’?
He snapped out of it.
He’s right, it was just a dumb dream, and I’m all actin’ like a baby about it.
He pulled away from his client and began to dress. “Naw, I gotta go. Got work at the inn.” He blinked away the remaining dream fragments yet still felt his stomach souring.
Sute sat back down on the bed, morose that the love of his life was leaving. “If it’s any consolation, Jiff, a long time ago I spent the night at the inn when my roof was being reshingled. You were just a teenager then. But I had a nightmare, too, that’s similar to yours in some ways.”
Jiff paused to look at him.
“I dreamed that I was a Confederate general, who’d sold his soul to the devil, and the first man I met after making the pact was Harwood Gast.”
Jiff felt as though a tarantula had just skimmed up his back. He didn’t want to hear anything about the devil. But he had to ask, “J.G.? You think a place can make nightmares, ’cos of what happened in it in the past?”
“Well, that’s one endless rumor about the Gast House, Jiff. But in truth…no. I really don’t think so.”
“I hope not.”
“It’s ironic, though: the content of your nightmare as well as the history of your mother’s inn. That man from the TV show is quite interested in the topic. He’s almost obsessed with the Gast legend.”
Jiff eyed his client with suspicion. “Yeah?”
“Seems quite odd, doesn’t it? A book writer and celebrity from California, so taken by a Southern ghost story.”
Yeah, I guess it is
…“He’s a nice guy and all but this town definitely ain’t the place for him.”
“Southern pride.” Sute managed a smile. “I’ll call you again soon.”
For a split second, he had the most noxious vision: Jiff was shoving
Sute
into the furnace’s fiery maw. His hand was shaking when he grabbed the doorknob. And, no, he wasn’t going to tell Sute yet that he was dumping him as a client. The tricks were so much easier at the Spike. He’d simply had enough.
I’ll tell him next time he calls,
he decided, and just said for now, “See ya later.” Then Jiff turned to leave.
“Gracious, Jiff. You really
are
out of sorts, aren’t you?”
Jiff turned. “Huh?”
“You were about to do something you’ve
never
done before.”
Jiff was getting irritated. “What’cha talkin’ about?”
“You almost walked out of here without your money,” Sute informed him and smiled. Then he gave Jiff a check for one hundred dollars.
“There’s no gray area here, folks,” the minister said. “You can’t get more cut-and-dry than the Ten Commandments. There’s no
interpretation
necessary to understand Christ’s Golden Rule, ‘Do to others as you would have others do to you.’ When Jesus said on the Mount, ‘Blessed are the merciful for the merciful shall be shown mercy,’ we don’t need a literary analyst from Harvard to tell us what that
really
means. The Word of God is sim
ple. It’s like boiling rice. If you follow the instructions on the bag, it
works.
God’s Word works, too, but our problem is we don’t really listen. We may try to, or we tell ourselves that we’re listening, but we really aren’t because as humans we exist in error. We’re unworthy in the shadow of our sin…”
Collier felt inhibited throughout the service, as out of place as a Washington Redskins jersey in a Dallas sports shop. The minister reminded him of the Skipper on
Gilligan’s Island
but was bald as Telly Savalas. He interestingly mixed fire and brimstone with lackadaisical good humor: “We’re all premeditated sinners worthy of nothing but hell, but God’s a pretty cool guy and he cuts us slack if we earn it. He
knows
we’re all screwed up but he loves us anyway! He doesn’t want heaven to be full of nothing but stone-faced boring pilgrims and monks who haven’t cracked a joke in their entire lives!” Collier figured heaven would indeed be Dullsville if exclusively populated by such folks.
Dominique held his hand through the entire service, save for intervals for hymns. She as well as most everyone there listened to the minister with the same attention that Collier had paid to those
Girls Gone Wild
commercials: with rapt veneration. Maybe that was the difference.
The minister pointed his finger at the congregation, like an accuser, then slowly aimed it at himself. “My friends, there really are seven deadly sins: wrath, lust, pride, greed, envy, sloth, and—my personal favorite—gluttony…” He stepped away from the lectern and hoisted a considerable belly beneath his vestments, which summoned laughter from the pews.
“But the other day I was thinking that maybe that’s why God put seven days in the week—a day for each sin. Why don’t we reserve each separate day to atone for one, and stick to it. Monday can be pride, Tuesday can be envy, Wednesday can be sloth, and so on. And today?
Sunday? Let’s assign greed to Sunday, and use the Lord’s day to try to redeem ourselves of this sin. Let’s remember Jesus’ story of the widow’s mite, how a destitute woman gave her last two leptons to the offering box—only a fraction of a cent. That’s not much money but to Christ that woman’s selfless sacrifice was worth more than a mountain of gold.”
Collier grew suspicious.
Here it comes. Open up your hearts and open up your wallets…
“Let’s remember that for every dollar we give, we get back a hundred in spirit. Let’s remember the word of James: ‘Every act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above,’ so that when we give in the name of God, we become
like
God. And the words of Matthew: ‘Freely we have received, so freely we must give.’ Just go out and
give—
let’s do
that
today instead of watching TV or washing the car—”
The collection plate’ll be making the rounds any minute now,
Collier thought.
“—and for you wise guys out there who think I’m just pumping you up for the collection plate, I’m asking you to not give a penny to this church today. Give it to someone else instead—”
Collier frowned.
“—and if you’ve got no money, give your time. Or maybe we can follow our best examples”—he pointed to someone in the pews—“like Mr. Portafoy who spends every Friday night helping terminal patients at the hospice, or Janice Wilcox who runs the local clothing drive, or Dominique Cusher who prepares a hundred meals before her restaurant opens and drives them all the way to the Chattanooga homeless shelter every Sunday—”
Collier looked at her…then wondered if he’d ever given anything as charity in his life…
“Let’s be like those wonderful people, and also remember Corinthians: ‘God loves a cheerful giver.’” Next the minister stepped away from the lectern again, hoist
ing his belly. He seemed to be looking right at Collier when he said, “And for you wise guys out there wondering what
I’m
going to give? I’m not going to eat today, but instead I’m going to go drop a hundred dollars on pizzas and take them to the Fayetteville soup kitchen. I’m gonna drive those people at Domino’s
nuts
…and I’m not even going to snitch a slice for myself. I swear!”
More chuckles from the crowd.
“Go to the hospital and give a pint of blood! Go to the underpass and dole out a backseat full of Quarter Pounders! Go online and throw some of that MasterCard at the Red Cross, or fill out that organ-donor form and drop it in the mail. You’re not gonna need your liver when you’re dead, are you? So go on and do it!” Then he scanned his finger across the pews and barked like a game-show host, “And until next week, go in peace to love and serve the Lord!”
Everyone said “Amen” while they were still laughing, then a jazzy organ kicked in to signal the final procession.
“Wow,” Collier whispered. “Church has changed.”
“When was the last time you went?”
“Ah, you would ask. I’m too ashamed to say.
When
was Oliver North shredding documents for Reagan?”
Dominique chuckled. “Being here is a start, isn’t it? And, yeah, Father Grumby gets a little gung ho sometimes but he’s a great pastor.”
Collier’s throat felt thick when he noticed two young girls in white dresses filing out behind their parents.
Couldn’t be,
he thought. He still wasn’t sure if he’d really seen the girls or if it was a booze-triggered phantasm.
Then his belly twitched again when he recalled the
other
mirage: the four small hands playing with him…and the dog…
“Let me ask you something,” he said on a completely inappropriate lark. “Does Harwood Gast have any descendants?”
“Nope.” She smiled at him. “Why do you ask?”
“I bought a bunch of books from Mr. Sute but I haven’t read them yet. Isn’t it kind of curious that the Gasts never had kids?”
“Oh, they had kids, two of them, two girls.”
Collier felt a twinge. “But you just said he didn’t have any—”
“No descendants, that’s right.” She seemed to stall on a thought. “But his two daughters died in their teens, during…the war.”
Collier watched the backs of the two girls. One was dirty blonde, the other drably brunette.
Just like…
Before they exited the nave, they turned for moment to wave to some other children. Collier saw that it clearly wasn’t them.
“Did…Gast’s daughters have a
dog?
”
“Justin, how would I know
that?
”
“Well, you know a lot about the legend. How did the two girls die, exactly?”
She nudged him. “I don’t think
church
is the best place to talk about Tennessee’s version of Ivan the Terrible. If you insist on obsessing over it, go ask your friend J.G. Sute. He’ll tell you all the facts and all the B.S. you want to hear. If anybody’s more obsessed with this stuff than you, it’s him.”
Collier felt foolish now, but what she’d said spiked him.
Maybe that’s what I’ll do today—give Sute a call.
Suddenly he felt intent on learning about Gast’s two children.
He followed Dominique out as she spoke briefly to acquaintances. Outside he said, “So I take it you’re busy this morning.”
“Yeah, like the man said, that’s what I do on Sundays before work.”
“It’s quite a gesture.”
“No it isn’t—it’s no big deal. I use all the leftover side dishes from Saturday, then make some kind of meat dish
with overstock or specials that didn’t sell. It’s actually kind of fun. One time I made chimichurri pork tenderloin with a banana-pepper drizzle and wasabi mashed potatoes for a hundred homeless.”
“I’ll bet that made their day,” Collier said.
“They loved it. Another time my supplier was trying to get rid of eight-count sea scallops, so I bought a bunch on the bulk discount and did them up over penne quill pasta with truffled cream pomodoro sauce. It was a riot. The only real hassle is driving all the way to Chattanooga and back.”
Collier felt a stab of obligation. “Let me help you. I’ve got nothing big to do today.”
“No, no, it’s something I do by myself. You heard Father Grumby; you’ve got to choose your own manner of charity.” She grinned. “You’ll think of something.”
Collier felt relieved beneath his falseness. The last thing he’d actually want to do is cook for homeless people hours away. But at least he felt like less of a schmuck for offering.
He pulled on her hand and stopped her. “I hope I can see you later.”
“Of course you can. Anytime after five at the restaurant, but I’ve got to run now. Today I’m taking chicken marsala and saffron rice to the shelter.” She kissed him briefly but not so brief that she didn’t have time to run the tip of her tongue across his lips. Collier tried to retrieve her for a longer kiss but her arms pressed him back.
“If you keep messing around with me you’re only going to wind up pissed off and aggravated,” she said with a coy smile.
He already knew what she was clarifying. “How do you know I don’t
like
being pissed off and aggravated?”
Her smile dropped down a notch. “Justin, I’ve already told you, I’m
never
going to have sex out of wedlock. I don’t put out. Get it?”
“As a matter of fact, I received that impression very distinctly last night—”
“If you’re looking to get laid, you’ve got the wrong girl.”
“How do you know I don’t
like
not getting laid?”
She shook her head, amused. “What I’m saying is I’ll understand if you don’t show up tonight.”
“Great. I’ll see you tonight.”
She kissed him one more time, then pulled away. “’Bye…”
He watched her traipse off in the morning light; he was speechless. Even in the distance, her beauty poured off her. He watched after her until she disappeared around the corner.
Collier considered his plight.
Over the past few days I’ve turned into a hell-bent, primo-perverted, lust-obsessed sex maniac…and I’m falling in love with a girl who will never have sex with me.
“Oh well,” he muttered aloud. He started back to the inn, to retrieve the phone number of Mr. J.G. Sute.
Lottie had dreamed she was being raped in the dirt by soldiers in gray uniforms. “Don’t bust her belly,” one of them laughed. In the dream, Lottie was very, very skinny but also very, very pregnant. “Keep the baby in the bitch ’fore we get her up the hill…”
She’d been shorn of all her body hair in a strange barn full of boiling vats, and though she wasn’t sure, she thought she’d been naked for several months. Outside, the men took turns raping her on her hands and knees, while the rest of the prisoners were packed back into the wagon. “Give that bastard baby some Tennessee jism to swaller!” one guffawed, hoisting up his trousers. “Ain’t gonna be no milk waitin’ fer him when he comes out!”
The soldiers all laughed. When they were done, they
squashed her back into the evil-smelling wagon with the dozens of others. Lottie could see through the slats that the wagon was taking them up a winding path, to a great smoking hill.
The sound that throbbed from the wagon was a crush of children’s sobs and desperate prayers. Lottie looked down at herself and saw that she was little more than a skin-covered skeleton but with a big, tight stomach sticking out; she could feel the rape-baby kicking in horror from within. Many of the other women there looked identical to her, but the worst sights were the children, who looked like smaller versions of herself, and some just as pregnant.
The sound of rifle fire cracked down the hill. What was happening? In between volleys, she heard shouts, then more volleys. The distant rifles fired for a long time, then sputtered out.
That’s when the wagon stopped.
Lottie and the other prisoners were dragged out and forced into a line. They now stood before a compound formed by a great wooden fence, and spiring above the top of the fence was a brick-and-mortar structure that tapered to a tepee shape, at least forty feet high. Lottie knew this was a blast furnace, but she’d never seen one this big.
“Don’t send these in yet,” a soldier barked. “We gotta let Mr. Gast’s men finish up…”
Finish up what? And who was Mr. Gast? In the dream Lottie didn’t know…
Next, a soldier who seemed to be in charge ordered, “Send a couple’a these ’un’s in to collect the boots’n clothes.” And then Lottie and several of the women less close to death were pushed through the fence gate by more soldiers with bayonets.
Inside the compound, she could not comprehend what she saw. The base of the furnace had to have been a hundred feet wide, and into various vents shirtless
black men shoveled coal. But in the compound’s open areas dozens and dozens of more black men lay moaning while their clothes and boots were pulled off by still more slaves. The heat was so hellish, Lottie almost lost consciousness.
Baskets were shoved at Lottie and the others. “Collect it all up and pile it by the gate,” they were ordered.
The floor of the compound was like a field of dying men—all black slaves. Lottie could see they’d been shot, and at the far wall stood several dozen white men with big rifles. They weren’t soldiers, though. They looked like rail workers.
Lottie stalked between the fallen slaves and gathered up their clothes. At one point she noticed a well-dressed man in coattails looking on with the rail workers. Their eyes all seemed to have a yellow glaze.
Someone shouted, “one’s got out! Don’t let him get away!” and then several soldiers ran to a window. Lottie got one glimpse outside as she hauled a basket: she saw a black man running in the distance, then—BAM!—a soldier on horseback dropped him with a pistol shot.
When all the clothes had been gathered, Lottie helped transfer it all outside, where another wagon waited.