Three Rivers (19 page)

Chris waggled the greasy paper sack. “I'm getting soaked out here.”

A rumble of thunder traveled across the sky. “You're going to want to get on the road before the storm hits.”

“I think it's a bit late for that.”

“This is nothing,” she said. “You wait and see. The roads will flood and you'll be stuck.”

Chris cocked his head and lifted up the white paper bag like an offering.

She sighed. “Fine. I was just about to make coffee. She strode past Maurice and Daddy without a word. In the kitchen, she measured out coffee and ran water into the pot. “It's gonna come a flood. You don't want to be here when the water rises, I promise you that.”

“I talked to the general manager at the radio station this morning,” Chris told her. He set the bag of cinnamon rolls on the table.

“Are you getting your job back?”

“I don't need that job. God has a different plan for us.”

“There is no ‘us,' Chris. Get that straight.”

Chris opened the bag, and the scent of cinnamon mingled with the brewing coffee. Melody pulled out a clean plate and set it on the table.

“The FCC is investigating your profanity. Well, the station's airing of your profanity. They may fine the station. They may fine the band.” Chris placed the cinnamon rolls on the plate. “Of course, it might not amount to anything. Hard to tell.”

The coffeemaker hissed. Melody pulled a mug from the cabinet and poured a half cup before the pot was done brewing. She sipped the warm bitterness, sat down at the kitchen table, and looked at Chris. “How much?”

“Could be a few thousand, could be ten thousand. I don't think it would be more than that.”

Once again, Melody regretted squandering three years of her life traipsing around with a terrible band. She had no marketable skills and meager savings. It would not take much to leave her flat broke. She refilled her mug and filled one for Chris. “Why are you telling me this? I can't do a thing about it.” She pulled a pint of cream from the fridge and set it on the table.

Chris started in again with his speech from the night before, his plea about Melody's potential solo career, her voice, her talent, her story. She held up her hand to cut him off, but he kept right on talking. He told her his friend in Memphis could record a demo next week. “We're ready,” he said.

“Well I'm not ready,” Melody said. “I've got my hands full here.”

Chris wouldn't listen. He kept talking, spouting more nonsense about redemption and forgiveness. Melody was stunned that anyone could be so dense. When she couldn't stand another second of his babble, she slammed her hands down on the table between them. “Chris!” She shouted to be heard. “You're not listening to me. I can't drop everything and go to Memphis. Even if I could, I don't have enough songs to record an album.”

He sat back and smiled as if she'd agreed with him about something. “We'll record what you have, and you'll write some more.”

“Writing a song isn't like scribbling down a shopping list.”

“So we'll hire some writers, option songs from other musicians.”

“I can't think about this right now,” Melody said. “Daddy is so sick. He's dying.”

“But you have to think about it now,” Chris said. “Soon it will be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

Chris leaned forward. “I'm working on a series for a new cable channel. A Christian channel. We'll profile people who were down and out until they turned away from sin and found redemption. I call it
Salvation Hour.
What do you think?”

She thought it sounded dreadful. Melody wasn't so desperate that she would look for evidence of miracles on cable television, and she doubted anyone else would, either. “I don't need salvation.”

“Everyone needs to be saved.”

“I don't.” She bit into a cinnamon roll, and the gooey, sweet dough filled her mouth. She swallowed, but a film of grease and sugar remained on her tongue. “I hate television, all that noise and nonsense. I hate those TV preachers most of all.”

“If Noah were alive today, he would spread the word of the flood by using the airwaves. Moses would broadcast the Ten Commandments to the masses. It's our duty as Christians to share the gospel.”

“That's not my duty.” She pushed the cinnamon roll away.

“Melody, I need you. Some of these people we want to feature don't look so great. Bad teeth, bad skin, bad hair. It would be fine for radio, but this is television. I need a few people who are camera-ready. The audience will love you.”

Melody, sitting there in the same faded T-shirt and shorts she'd worn yesterday, now splattered with her father's nutrition shake and dusted with cinnamon sugar, did not feel camera-ready. “You're not listening to me, Chris. I haven't been redeemed. This isn't some story you get to write for me. I have no faith. If God exists, and I'm not saying he does, I don't like him very much. He seems like an asshole.”

“You don't mean that.”

“Daddy is in pain. Mama abandoned us. My brother was destroyed by the church. God hasn't done a damn thing about any of it.”

Chris kneeled beside Melody, put his arm around her. “God wants your life to be a testament to his grace, but you have to ask for it. ‘Remember the Lord your God, for it is he who is giving you the power to make wealth.'”

Melody pushed him away, stood and paced across the kitchen. “The only people getting wealthy off God are the preachers. They get richer and we get poorer.”

“Wealth isn't always about money,” Chris said.

Melody snorted. “Wealth is always about money to the goddamned preachers.” She rinsed her coffee mug and stared out the window at the rain. She filled a clean mug with coffee and took it out to Maurice. She felt desperate to escape Chris's fervent pleading.

She set the coffee on the bedside table and gathered up the soiled sheets. “I'll start another load of laundry,” she said to Maurice. She tilted her head at the mug of coffee. “Do you want cream or sugar? I wasn't sure how you liked it.”

“This is fine,” Maurice said. “Thank you.”

“He hasn't eaten anything,” she said. “I tried to get him to drink one of the shakes, but he wouldn't. He just dumped it out all over the bed.”

“Mr. Mahaffey,” Maurice said. “Is that true? Are you refusing to eat?”

Daddy's hands flailed up, as if he were trying to shoo Maurice away.

“Can't we give him real food? What harm would it do to give him something that tastes good?”

“He won't keep it down,” Maurice said. “That's why we started the shakes in the first place. His stomach can't handle it.”

“Then do something else. Put in one of those feeding tubes.”

“I'm right here,” her father barked. “Don't talk about me like I'm not here. I can hear every goddamned word you say. No tubes. I don't want you sticking one more thing in my body.”

“Calm down, Mr. Mahaffey. No one's inserting a feeding tube. We talked about this, remember?”

“Well,
I
didn't talk about it,” Melody said.

“Why don't you bring him a glass of water?” Maurice prepped one of his needles. “I'm going to give him a little extra medicine for the pain.”

“What exactly are you giving him?”

“Morphine.” He might as well have said “cranberry juice” for all the inflection in his voice.

“Don't people get addicted to that?”

“Yes,” Maurice said. “People do.”

“Well, aren't you worried about that? Daddy, aren't you worried about it?”

Maurice plunged the needle into her father's thigh. He made a note in a small notebook he kept by her father's bed and discarded the needle into a red plastic box with a locking lid. “I'm not worried about it,” Maurice said. “How about that water?”

“What if I'm worried about it? Does anyone care what I think?”

“Look.” Maurice lowered his voice and stood close to her. “It doesn't matter. Can't you see that? He isn't going to turn into a junkie. He isn't going to be here long enough for that.”

“But…” Melody wanted to say something sharp and hurtful, but there was no point. Maurice was right.

“I'm sorry,” Maurice said. “I know it's difficult.”

Right then Melody wished she believed in something. It would be a relief to be one of those people who could just pray and feel better. Melody was tired of feeling hopeless and alone and pissed off at the world.

Chris came into the room, holding a glass of water. “I couldn't help overhearing.” He handed the glass to Maurice. “We should take turns praying for your father so he is constantly being lifted up. It might help his pain, bring some comfort.”

Melody glared at him, but it was too late.

“Little girl, if I sniff anyone praying over me, I won't be the only one dying in this house.”

“No one's praying, Daddy.” She turned to Chris. “What are you doing?”

“I'm trying to help.”

“Get this praying asshole out of my house! Now!”

“Calm down, Daddy. No one's praying.” Melody pushed Chris back into the kitchen. “What is wrong with you? What in God's name are you trying to do to me?”

Chris stumbled. “I offered to pray. Is that such a terrible thing? Isn't that what God asks of us?”

“You have to go,” she said “You have to leave right now.”

“God knows you are suffering. He'll forgive your faithlessness.”

She pulled a glass from the kitchen cabinet, filled it with tap water, and drank it down. She filled it again. Her hands shook.

“I can help,” Chris said.

“I don't want your help. I don't want your prayers. I don't want your God. It's all a lie.”

“A lie? When your father dies, do you really believe he'll turn to dust? Do you believe that's all there is?”

Melody hurled the water glass at him. He ducked and the glass shattered on the floor behind him. “Get out!” she yelled. “Get out of my house!”

Chris inched his way toward the door. “You don't know what you're saying. You'll come around.” He stepped out into the rain, and Melody slammed the door behind him.

Maurice stepped into the kitchen. He looked sheepish, and she knew he'd overheard everything. “Your father's sleeping. I'm going to go find Bobby.”

“You know, it's not your job to take care of Bobby,” Melody said.

“I'm worried about him out in this storm.” He left by the back door and disappeared into the rain.

Melody stared out the back window, but there was nothing to see. Everything was gray and wet and dark. When the phone rang, she jumped. She grabbed it before it could ring again and wake her father. “Hello?”

“I'm calling for Geneva Mahaffey. Is she available?” It was a man's voice, somehow familiar, though Melody wasn't sure why.

“No, she most certainly is not available. May I ask who is calling?”

“Yep. Deputy Buster Boggs with the Muskogee County Sheriff's Department. Mrs. Mahaffey was in earlier with Mr. Nair. They were supposed to return and pick up Mr. Nair's daughter an hour ago.”

Melody realized this was the same man she spoke with earlier when she'd tried to call Sheriff Randall.

“Mama hasn't been home today,” Melody said. “I don't know any of the other people you just mentioned.”

“I'm afraid they might be stuck somewhere. We've got a hell of a flood coming in, and I don't reckon anyone should be out driving in this.”

“About that,” Melody said. “We're out off of County Road 240 and the water is rising pretty quickly. My brother said there was a man and a small boy out camping on our land last night. I'm worried about a child out in this storm.”

“A man with a small boy, huh?”

“Yessir.”

“Did your brother describe the man? Can I talk to your brother?”

Melody stretched the phone cord to look out the kitchen window. All she could see was water, falling from the sky and rising up from the ground. A crack of thunder shook the house. The kitchen lights flickered and died. “Our electricity just went out.” She was grateful her parents still had an old-fashioned phone with a cord and no plug.

“Yep, it's out all over the county,” the man said. “You gonna be okay?”

“I'm sure I'll be fine.” She thought of her father, alone in the dark. “I should go now.”

“Listen, if you hear from your mother, tell her to sit tight. Tell her that Miss Nair is fine here until the storm blows over. No need to take any chances.”

“Sure.” Melody didn't believe she would hear from her mother.

“And, ma'am, that man with the little boy might be dangerous. Don't confront him.”

Melody wondered if Bobby was outside confronting him right now. “What do you mean, dangerous?”

“Don't know anything for sure,” he said. “Just keep your distance.”

She stared at the back door and willed Maurice and Bobby to come through it. “Mr. Boggs? Are you still there?”

“Right here.” The man's voice sounded garbled, as if he were chewing something.

“If you do talk to my mother, would you tell her that we're doing just fine without her? Tell her we don't need her here.”

She heard a strange wet sound on the other side of the line. “I reckon I can do that.”

“Thank you.” Melody hung up the phone. She didn't know who Mr. Nair and his daughter were, but Mama had obviously chosen them over her own family.

She found a bundle of old candles in the dining room and a book of matches. She took one of the tapers and an old crystal candlestick holder out to the living room. Daddy moaned and said her name. His chest rattled. He coughed. He gasped.

“Did I wake you? I'm sorry. We lost the electricity.” Melody placed the candle atop the piano and lit it. The soft light was comforting. “Flood's coming in.”