The red church (10 page)

She clenched her fists and looked at him, the hurt clear on her face. She hurried out of the office, and he did nothing to stop her. She slammed the door, and Littlefield's Officer of the Year award rattled in its case.

Elizabeth McFall, known to the old families as Mama Bet, knelt in the damp forest soil.
The dead belong to the dirt. And the dirt belongs to Him that shaped it all.
The dirt would have her soon enough. She was nearly eighty, suffering from diabetes, cataracts, and high blood pressure. But at least God allowed her legs to work still, and her mind was a lot clearer than her eyesight. She looked through the treetops, at the blue sky and the invisible kingdom waiting behind it. A hand touched her shoulder.

"You done yet, Mama Bet?"

It was Sonny Absher, the biggest small-time thief this side of Tennessee. She hoped his sins didn't jump onto her, like lice or fleas jumping to greener pastures.

The worst part of this whole business was that the Abshers were in on it. The Buchanans were bad enough, what with their moonshining and wife-beating and chicken-stealing ways. But at least the Buchanans knew how to get down on their knees and say they were sorry. The Abshers would just as soon spit at God, even if the saliva fell right back onto their oily faces.

But the Abshers couldn't be culled from the con-gregation. All the families had a hand in the original persecution, and they all carried a common debt in their hearts. After all these years, they were practi-cally of the same blood anyway. And that blood would have to spill, and spill, and spill.

"I'll be done shortly," Mama Bet answered. "Gotta suffer a little, get right down here on my knees and feel a little pain."

"So this is where they buried him?"

Mama Bet bowed over the small pile of stones. "Yeah. But without a body, a grave's just a hole in the ground."

Sonny Absher snorted. She could smell the white lightning on his breath, in his clothes, strong enough to drown out his rancid sweat. "You mean you believe all that bullshit about Wendell McFall coming back from the dead?"

"You better hush yourself," Mama Bet said, shrug-ging his hand away from her shoulder. "God might strike you down. Look what He done to Boonie."

"God's done and struck me," Sonny said. "He got me born here. Why in hell else would I be part of this bunch?"

Sonny drew a cigarette from his stained shirt pocket, lit it, and blew a gray cloud of smoke to the sky. He retreated to a stand of laurels, where his brother Haywood and Haywood's wife and teenage daughter waited. Stepford Matheson sat on a stump, whittling on a little chunk of white ash. Haywood had tried to aspire to a little dignity, tak-ing up with the Baptists and selling insurance in Barkersville. His hands were folded in reverence, but he didn't fool Mama Bet. A person of true faith didn't believe in insurance. But Haywood was all show anyway. His retail-rack suit swamped his skinny frame.
You put a weasel in a forty-dollar suit, and you get a forty-dollar weasel. And Nell ain't quite got
all the ingredi-ents to be a trophy wife. I mean, a quart of makeup and a weekly trip to the hair
salon ought to give better results than that. Why, I've seen better eyeliner jobs down at Mooney's
Funeral Home.

Mama Bet turned back to the loose pile of stones that marked her great-grandfather's former resting place.

Forgive me, God, for thinking ill of others. I guess I suffer the sin of pride. I
'm
just a little shaky,
is all. Scared. You can understand, can't You?

Sure, God could understand. God was really the blame for this whole mess, when you got right down to it. God was the one who put those fool notions in Wendell McFall's head. God was the one who put temptation in Wendell's path. God was the one who sat right up there in the clouds and didn't lift a finger while Wendell sliced up that pretty little girl.

God sat right there and laughed. And God laughed the night He slipped His seed into Mama Bet's belly. Oh, yes, God was a sneaky little devil, all right. Came to her in the dark and made her forget all about it after.

Until she missed a few of her monthlies. Her belly had started to swell and her breasts grew heavy with milk. Everyone thought she had suffered a sin of the flesh, had fallen in with one of those door-to-door Bible salesmen who had a reputation for rutting like stallions going after a pent-up mare. And so the little hens clucked, Alma Potter and Vivian Matheson and all the other no-good gossips of Whispering Fines. She didn't tell anybody she was still a virgin. Then, now, and forever, as far as she could tell. Virgins couldn't get pregnant, could they? Only one had in the whole history of the world, the way the Bible told it. Mama Bet delivered the baby without help, had strained and groaned and screamed for twenty hours, as her water burst and her uterine walls spas-med. God forgive her, she had even cussed that baby's Father. Borrowed every bad word in the Ab-sher repertoire, then added a few of her own. Finally that slimy head popped through
,
followed by little shoulders and arms and belly and legs.
Can a body love something so much that her heart aches with the loving?

She had often wondered. Because she fell in love with that child
,
she pulled him onto her belly and then hugged him against her face
,
her tears running like whatever was leaking from her broken place down there. Her whole world, her whole reason for living, was realized in that moment after birth.

"How long you going to pray over that damned old pile of rocks?" Sonny called.

"Shut up," Haywood said.

Mama Bet slowly rose to her feet, pushing on the mossy stones for support. Haywood started forward to help her, but she waved him away.

"I get my strength from God and Archer," she said.

Oh, yes, it was strength, all right. The strength born of stubbornness and determination. God was the worst absentee father of all time. Because He never really just showed up and did His business, never made this or that happen directly, though He had His hand in every little breath that human be-ings took. He kept Himself invisible, because He wanted nary bit of the blame when things went wrong. That was why He'd planted the seed and sneaked away in the night without even leaving an instruction manual on how to raise a messiah.

Mama Bet peeled her scarf back and let it rest around her neck. The sun was high enough to break through the canopy of forest. The leaves weren't at full size yet. Otherwise, the grave would be in the shadows all day. Mama Bet took a deep swallow of the fresh mountain air. She could taste the past win-ter's ice and the coming summer's oak blooms in the same breath.

Round and round these dadgummed seasons go. Seems like they get faster and faster, mixing together and
not stop-ping to rest, like the world's in a great big hurry to get to the reckoning.
She hobbled across the damp leaves of the forest clearing until she reached the others. The congre-gation. Only they didn't know it yet. They knew only that they had to come, had to join in, had to open their hearts. Mama Bet was the only one who knew that the Second Son was back, and now there would be hell to pay. But she had never whispered a word of the truth, except to Archer. Darned if she couldn't keep a secret as good as God could.

"I reckon we ought to pray," she said. She held out her wrinkled hand to Stepford, who folded his pocketknife and put away his carving. He wiped the wood chips from his hand and clasped it to Mama Bet's. Noreen took her other hand, smiling. She was a pretty girl, not as moonfaced as the rest of the Abshers. Maybe she had Potter blood in her. Zeb Pot-ter had been known to cat around a little, back be-fore his health started failing. Maybe Nell had succumbed to old Zebulon's sinful charms.
There I go again, God. Thinking ill of others, as if I got no sins of my own to worry about. Strike
me down if it be Thy will. Just please don't plant another seed in me. I don't think I could take
another go-round as bad as the last one.

Well, that, plus she had no more love to spare for another child. Archer Dell McFall took up every square inch of her heart. Archer had given her more joy than she ever thought heaven could hold. Archer was the most beautiful creature under Creation. Darned if God couldn't produce a fine offspring when He set His mind to it.

The others gathered in a circle and held hands, though Sonny gave another of his little grunts of an-noyance. Mama Bet shot him a wicked look. He blinked and went cow-eyed. The gathered bowed their heads.

"Dear God, give us the strength to do Your will, and to accept our part in Your work," she said, her voice taking on a tremulous quality. "We know we have sinned and come short of the glory, but we know You love us anyway. Lead our eyes from evil visions and lead our ears from the call of false prophets. Allow us to make whatever sacrifices You require, that we may not stray from the one true path. Keep us and protect us unto the fourth generation. Amen."

And may Archer do this thing right,
she silently added, as the others echoed "Amen."

"Are we done now?" Sonny said, pulling out an-other cigarette.

"We might not ever be done," Mama Bet said.

"When the Lord Jesus gives you a mission, you follow it to the end," Haywood said.
Poor Haywood. Swallowing that New Testament tom-foolery hook, line, and sinker. Well, Archer will
shine the light on him soon enough.

Stepford spat onto the trunk of a poplar. "Come on, Sonny. I'm thirsty," he said. He turned and started down the path that led to the rutted dirt road. They had parked their cars at the foot of the trail.

"Wait a second," Sonny yelled. He turned to Mama Bet. "Do we got to go to the red church to-morrow night?"

"I said so, didn't I?"

He frowned at the forest floor. "It's getting so a body ain't got time to pitch a good drunk, what with all this bowing and scraping and worshiping."

"Well, Mr. Absher, you're welcome to go straight on down to hell if you want, but this ain't about you, is it?"

He looked at the small overgrown grave.

"The stone's been rolled away," Mama Bet said. "We all got sacrifices to make." Sonny's thin lips curled. "Well, we may have to follow the call, but we sure don't have to like it none." He turned and hurried after Stepford, his boots kicking up a wash of leaves. Haywood came to Mama Bet's side and took her arm. "Come on, Mama Bet," he said. "Let's get you home so you can rest up." She smiled at him, at Noreen, even at Nell. The congregation. Well, part of it, anyway. That Noreen was so pretty, there in her Easter dress the color of robin's eggs. Almost a shame that beauty such as that would have to fall by the wayside.

Because all a pretty face does is hide the ugly underneath, don't it?

"Yeah, I guess we all better rest up," she said. "There will come great trials." The sky seemed to darken a little at her words, or maybe God took up into the trees and reached His fingers out to throw a shadow in her eyes. He liked to keep things confusing, all right. She sometimes wondered if He loved her, if He really loved any of them. Or was He just pretending so He could get the things He wanted, like love?

Haywood led her down the mountain path to her home, to the birthplace of the Second Son.
SEVEN

Linda watched the sun crawl down toward the ridge of Buckhorn Mountain. Just a few more hours. She was wondering how she could slip away without the boys noticing. She almost wished David had stayed. He swallowed lies more easily than the boys did.

She turned from the door and went back to the kitchen. Timmy would be hungry when he got in from his chores. She could see him through the win-dow above the sink, chopping at the brown garden soil with his hoe. The cabbage and peas and potatoes were in the ground, and soon it would be time to plant corn and cucumbers. She didn't know how she was going to manage the farm alone. Even though the fields were leased out for growing hay, the garden took a lot of backbreaking time and sacrifice. Sacrifice.

Archer always said that sacrifice was the currency of God.

Linda bit her lip. Tears stung her eyes, and she didn't know whether they were brought by regret or joy. The fold would prosper in the next life and unto the fourth generation, but letting go of the things in this life was hard. There were joys to be had here: her children and sometimes even David, a walk in the wet grass of a morning, standing in the barn dur-ing a rainstorm with the music of the drops on the tin roof. No, that was mortal thinking, covetous and vain and destructive. But she
was
a mortal. Still. A mother of two wonderful boys. Until Archer demanded it, she wouldn't forsake them.

Linda stopped at the refrigerator. One of Ronnie's poems from school was hanging from a banana mag-net. His teacher had circled a large red
A
on the corner of the page. "The Tree," it was called. The tree has arms

that hug,

not as warm as Mother's.

Sometimes when I walk by,

the tree waves

and I run away.