Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

“You like music?”

I shrugged. Of course I liked music, I was one of the world’s most renowned music journalists, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. “Sure.”

I had been sorting through my suitcase which was open beside me on the bed, searching for a clean shirt, one that wasn’t soaked in perspiration from the heat of the day.

Lovesong was going through his records. He was feeling particular bends and small tears on the covers, faults and kinks he obviously knew well. He slid a record out of its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. He didn’t have to feel or fumble for the needle. His fingers knew exactly where to find it.

Instantly I heard the crackling sound of imperfections in the groove, followed by a tinny guitar and a muffled voice singing a song I knew to be almost a hundred years old.

“You know Robert Johnson?”

Of course I did. “Can’t say I do.”

The strum and twang of Johnson’s seminal blues song, “Cross Road Blues” filled the space between us, as Lovesong stepped back from the record player. His bare shoulders began moving in time with the music, so carefree and cool that it was almost as though he’d forgotten for a second that he was in the company of a complete stranger. It was as though he forgot everything in that moment, everything but the music.

What was that saying? Dance like nobody’s watching .

That’s exactly what he did.

His feet were like feathers, tapping lightly to the rhythm.

His hips tipped ever-so-casually from side to side.

One arm reached for the acoustic guitar on the wall, once again finding it with ease, and he slipped the strap over his dancing shoulders.

His fingers began thrumming and plucking along with Robert Johnson’s playing, as though the pair were performing a duet. His control over the guitar was masterful, mesmerizing, as though his fingers were weaving their way over the strings like they were weaving some dark and beautiful sorcery.

He wasn’t simply playing the guitar.

He was commanding it to obey his will.

From across the room, I stared in awe at the handsome, half-naked impresario, relieved that he couldn’t see me gawking at him, although something told me he wouldn’t care anyway.

He wasn’t performing for me.

He was worshipping the song.

He was practicing his religion.

He was falling under a spell that he himself was casting.

Then seamlessly Lovesong’s fingers slid in a different direction, switching up his melody completely, playing riffs and notes in harmony with Johnson’s original track, a harmony that didn’t exist in music history… until now.

I knew what he was doing. In technical terms he was performing a maneuver that Johnson himself created called the “boogie shuffle,” layering the music by oscillating several degrees above the root chord.

In not-so-technical terms, he had just led me into the Cave of Wonders where he turned his guitar into a magic lamp, setting a genie free.

My stomach knotted—in anger, in awe—at his musical ingenuity, his bold skill, his respect for the original material and his Devil-may-care desire to breathe new life into it.

And then, with a final strum and drumbeat of his hand against the wood of the guitar, the song ended, a performance so resoundingly perfect that it could have brought the house down had he been playing in the Lincoln Centre or Carnegie Hall.

I wanted to clap.

I should have clapped.

Joel would have been on his feet shouting, “Bravo!”

But how could I applaud the man who’d killed my partner. I hadn’t come to praise him. I’d come to crush his soul for what he did.

Beside me on the bed, Chet barked enthusiastically, as if he sensed my lack of respect for the musician and was trying to make up for it.

Lovesong looked in Chet’s direction and smiled. “Well thank you, sir. Much appreciated.”

Chet wagged his tail at the attention from Lovesong, who took off his guitar and sat on the bed, lifting his chin slightly to look my way.

“So, what brings you to Clara’s Crossing?” he said, making polite conversation. “Did you get lost on your way somewhere? Nobody winds up here intentionally.”

I wanted to tell him I had every intention of being here. I wanted to tell him he was the reason I was here.

“Yeah, I got lost… I guess. I was passing through and I got lost.”

“Where did you come from?”

“New York.”

He burst out laughing. “Wow! You really were lost.”

From outside a bell tolled, its clanging loud as it split the peaceful twilight.

I looked out through the French doors to see the bell in the church tower swinging back and forth, summoning the town to evening service.

“Oh shit,” Lovesong uttered. “Is that the time? I ain’t even had a shower yet. Never mind, I guess.”

Quickly he stood and made his way over to his dresser. He opened drawers and pulled out a freshly pressed shirt and trousers.

Without a word of warning, he unbuttoned his sodden work trousers and let them drop to the floor.

There he stood facing his dresser, stepping out of his pants, completely naked but for the crucifix around his neck.

His body was perfect, his ass cheeks round and firm, only a slight shade lighter than his tanned back, as though the light fabric of his work trousers did little to block out the sun’s rays.

“Oh!” I said, stunned… then kicked myself for uttering a sound.

He half turned to me, himself surprised by my reaction, as though taking his clothes off in front of a stranger was completely natural. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” He stood side-on, and I caught the briefest glimpse of his cock, long and bountiful, bobbing with his movement. “I can go change in the bathroom.” He bent to pull his trousers back up and between his ass cheeks, a large ripe set of balls dangled low.

“No, it’s… it’s okay,” I stammered. “I’m not embarrassed at all. And you’re in a rush.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I don’t have any inhibitions.” He stood again, leaving his work pants on the floor and sliding on his fresh clean trousers, no underwear. “I’ll be more considerate next time, I promise.” He buttoned and zipped his trousers up.

“Please, don’t apologize. I’m just not used to sharing a room with a stranger.”

He pulled on a shirt, crisp and white. “We’re only strangers when we meet, at least that’s what Maybelle says.” He buttoned up the shirt, roughly tucked it into his trousers and smiled. “We’ve met now. We can never be strangers ever again. We’ve passed that point of no return.” From under his bed, he felt for a shiny pair of black shoes and slid them on his feet, no socks. “Say, you coming to church, Mr. Van Owen?”

“Please, call me Noah.”

“A good strong name from the Bible. You must feel right at home in church.”

I smirked at the irony. “If only you knew me better.”

“Perhaps I’ll get the chance to do just that.”

The bell tolled again. “Shit, I gotta go. Maybe you’ll decide to join us. I play the organ. Come for the music if nothing else.”

With that he hurried out of the room, again moving so deftly that it was as though he could see perfectly.

I heard his footsteps bounding down the crumbling grand staircase.

I went to the balcony and watched as he raced across the road, splashing through puddles, saying, “Coming through. Excuse me,” so other townsfolk headed toward the church doors could step out of his way.

A moment later I heard the rich, deep chords of an organ playing.

I looked back to the bed where Chet sat looking expectantly at me.

“You wanna go downstairs and take a peek?” I asked.

Chet barked and wagged his tail.

“Okay. But just a peek.”

The entire town had already filed into the church by the time Chet and I ventured warily across the street, avoiding the muddy potholes.

Through the open doors of the church, I saw the tiny township seated at the pews.

Cybil and Earl were there, as well as Li’l Leroy now dressed in his Sunday best even though it wasn’t Sunday at all. Beside Leroy sat Maybelle, and behind them sat the workers from the cotton fields, while up in the front pew sat a woman whom I hadn’t yet met. I knew this despite the fact that from where I stood just outside the door, all I could see was the back of her.

Her gray hair was tied in a bun like a school mistress.

There was a string of pearls around her neck.

And in her hand was a black silk fan which she waved busily to keep her neck cool.

On the left side of the raised dais was an organ at which Lovesong sat, while standing behind a wooden pulpit on the right was Reverend Jim, dressed in black as he addressed his flock.

“Grace and peace be unto you all, from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ above,” he said, arms raised and his voice booming with authority. “Dear brothers and sisters in Christ, we are gathered here today in the presence of our Holy Father, united in his love and grace. As we gather as a community, I feel led by the Holy Spirit to speak on the theme of welcoming the stranger—a biblical command, a divine invitation, and a call to reflect the love of Christ. But as we open our hearts, we must also remember to guard them, for the enemy moves like a shadow, always seeking to swallow the light.”

Was he referring to me?

Was I the shadow?

I inched further behind the door.

“The Scriptures tell us, time and again, that we are to welcome the stranger, the foreigner, and the outsider. In Leviticus chapter nineteen, verse thirty-four, God commands us to treat the sojourner as one of our own, saying, ‘The stranger who dwells among you shall be to you as one born among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt, and I am the Lord your God.’”

The woman with the silk fan called out, “Amen!”

The reverend nodded his approval of the woman’s remark. “But be warned, dear brothers and sisters. As we open our hearts and homes, we must also remain vigilant. The Good Book warns us that while God calls us to welcome the stranger, the enemy is always seeking an opportunity to sow division, confusion, and destruction. ‘Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the Devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour’ says Peter, chapter five, verse eight.”

I shuffled another step backward.

“This is a sobering reminder, my children of Christ. We are not just opening our doors to those who come in peace; we are also called to discern the spirit behind every encounter. It is not enough to simply be kind and hospitable; we must also be watchful. Not every person who enters our lives comes in the name of Christ. We must remember that the Devil can disguise himself as an angel of light, so says the Book of Corinthians. He may appear in the guise of a stranger, but his intentions are far from holy. We must exercise wisdom and discernment, especially when inviting someone into our community. Are their words aligned with the truth of the Gospel? Does their life reflect the fruits of the Spirit according to the Book of Galatians—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control? Or has the Devil come for your soul?”

“Amen!” cried the woman in the front row.

“Amen!” nodded the reverend.

“A song!” shouted Maybelle. “Let us praise the Lord with our voices raised in song.”

At the mention of music, the rest of the congregation gave a cheer, and a ripple of “Amens” and “Hallelujahs” went through the small crowd.

Lovesong turned to them with a grin, before his fingers took to the keys of the organ.

Instantly the bleak and bombastic tone of Reverend Jim’s sermon was flipped into a moment of happiness and joy as Lovesong started pounding out the gospel favorite, “This Little Light of Mine.”

Cries of “Praise Jesus” and “Play it, Lovesong” rang through the church as everyone started singing in loud, proud harmony, led by Maybelle who stood from her seat, holding onto her cane with one hand and holding her other hand up to the Lord as she led the song in a voice strong enough to accompany Lovesong’s organ playing.

People started clapping.

They rose from their seats.

And soon the entire congregation—with the exception of the woman with the silk fan—was on their feet, singing and rejoicing in the Lord.

Even Lovesong pushed his stool away and stood in front of his organ, belting out the chords and singing his heart out.

That was when the reverend saw me standing outside the door.

Immediately he stepped down from his pulpit, and as his flock continued singing, he made his way toward the door.

Quickly I picked up Chet and began hurrying back to Maybelle’s manor, stepping in one puddle after another in my haste to avoid any kind of encounter with the reverend until, from behind me, came his voice.

“Son, where are you going?”

I stopped in my tracks, my heart sinking as I slowly turned around.

There Reverend Jim stood in the doorway of the church, smiling at me while the joyous song continued behind him.

“I guess I’m tired,” I said. “I was about to head to bed.”

“Come, join us,” he said, waving me back to the church. “You can rest peacefully with the Lord once you’re dead, right? Come. Join us. Tell us why you’re here.”

I hesitated, then said, “I’m not the Devil, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He laughed jovially. “Oh son, you didn’t take offence at tonight’s sermon, did you? That wasn’t about you. It’s a constant reminder to my flock to keep the Devil at bay, that’s all. Come. Join us. Tell us why you came to Clara’s Crossing.”

Chet gave a low growl in my arms, his eyes fixed on the preacher.

I took a step back, not trusting him… or his church… or his God. “There’s nothing to tell. My car broke down, that’s all. I’ll be leaving as soon as it’s fixed.”

I knew I had more to do than that in Clara’s Crossing, but that was no business of his.

Without another word I turned and walked back down the path that led into Maybelle’s Manor.

As I walked through the door, I glanced back over my shoulder.

The reverend was still standing in the doorway of his church.

Still watching me.

Still smiling.

He gave a wave.

I didn’t wave back.

I didn’t want to join anyone for supper downstairs in the dining room, but I was starving, and after days on the road the smell of a homecooked meal lured me downstairs like a fly to a carnivorous plant.

Chet hadn’t eaten all day either, and he was about to bound recklessly down the grand staircase before I caught him and bundled the two of us into the grill-door elevator.

It rattled its way slowly toward the lower floor before stopping with a dramatic jolt.

I opened the doors and released Chet, and we followed the sounds of chatter and the smell of Cajun food into the dining room.

There were the cotton pickers and Leroy and Maybelle… and Lovesong… all still dressed in their church clothes, eating and laughing and passing a big pot of some kind of stew and another pot of grits around the table.

“Well, if it ain’t the Devil himself,” chuckled Maybelle. “Come join us, Satan. Take our jambalaya, just spare our souls.”

Everyone at the table laughed, and at first, I wasn’t sure if they were mocking me or the reverend.

That’s when Lovesong said, “Is Noah here? Please don’t tell me you heard my father’s sermon. I’m sorry I invited you to join us. He gets a little carried away.”

“So, he was talking about me?” I asked, knowing the answer but still feeling decidedly offended.

Lovesong patted the empty chair beside him. “Ignore my father. He gets carried away. Come, sit by me. I’m pretty sure you ain’t the Devil. I should know.”

I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but my stomach was grumbling, and Chet was already scooting about under the tables begging for scraps of chicken and shrimp which everyone seemed happy to give him.

I was reluctant to take up Lovesong’s offer, but the seat beside him was the only empty one at the table.

I took a deep breath and sat down.

Someone passed him the pot of jambalaya, taking him by the hand and guiding his grip to the pot handles before he turned to me and said, “Jambalaya? It’s Maybelle’s secret recipe. You ain’t tasted jambalaya till you tasted Maybelle’s jambalaya.”

“I ain’t tasted anyone’s jambalaya before,” I said, then promptly corrected my grammar. “I mean, I haven’t tasted anyone’s jambalaya before… I meant to say haven’t .”

“I know what you meant. Don’t matter how you say it, I know what you meant.” He felt for the ladle in the pot. “Here, bring your bowl near. Clink it against the side of the pot so’s I know where it is.”

As the others continued their chatter and laughter, I picked up my empty bowl and noticed the number of chips around the rim. I guessed Lovesong enjoyed serving people their meals. There must have been a lot of pot-clinking going on.

I clinked my bowl against the pot now.

He slopped a generous spoonful of the Cajun stew into my dish.

“Did I miss? I didn’t spill any on you, did I? If I did, I apologize.”

“You didn’t spill any at all.”

“Good. But there is one other thing I need to apologize for.”

“What’s that?”

Did he know why I was here?

Did he know all too well what he had done?

My back stiffened and I clenched my gut. I was unprepared for him to beat me to the very purpose of me being here, and I was certainly unprepared to have some kind of confrontation in front of everyone at the table. I gave a nervous chuckle. “What on earth do you have to apologize for.”

“I’m sorry I called you an asshole when we first met.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh God, forget it. I’ve been called worse in my time. I’m sorry I was so stupid about…” I wasn’t sure what to call it, which made me feel stupid all over again.

“You mean me being blind and all?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been blind my whole life. I’ve learned to live with it. It’s only really a problem when I try to eat and miss my mouth. Which happens all the time.”

He lifted a spoonful of dripping jambalaya to his face, and I panicked.

“Oh God, do you need help? Let me help you!”

I grabbed the hand holding the spoon to steady him, and suddenly he snorted with laughter. “It’s okay, I’m just shittin’ you. I know how to eat.”

I let go of his hand, annoyed. “Oh funny. Real funny. Who’s the asshole now?”

“I am. But it was so worth it. I just wanted to see if you had a sense of humor, that’s all. You give off a serious kinda vibe. Has anyone ever told you that?”

I hmphed. “Yeah. All the time. At least lately.”

“I figured my dad’s sermon didn’t help. I mean, it weren’t exactly a knee-slapper. Like I said before, he gets carried away sometimes about the whole ‘something wicked this way comes’ thing. He thinks the Devil is everywhere, and hey, I’m not saying he’s wrong. But you? I know you ain’t him.”

“How do you know?”

Lovesong leaned in close. “Because Maybelle told me you met Iggy.”

I went blank for a moment. “Who?”

“Iggy Spoons. She said you met Iggy at the crossroads.”

“You mean the kid with the spoons? Yeah, he was kinda… strange. No offence. Where does he live, anyway?”

Lovesong gave a half smile and a shrug. “Nowhere. Everywhere.”

“He’s homeless?”

“No. He knows exactly where his home is. And he knows exactly what his job is.”

“To play the spoons? He told me his job is to play the spoons.”

Lovesong’s half smile turned to a full smile. “And don’t he do it well.”

I had to admit, of all the buskers and theatre acts I’d seen playing the spoons over the years, Iggy was up there with the best of them. Perhaps even better. Not that I was about to give too much of myself away. “He seemed rather good at it. Then again, are spoons really an instrument? Mine’s full of jambalaya right now. I’d hardly call it a harp.”

To be clear, this was not my personal opinion. Being with Joel, I’d learned that just about anything— anything —could make music. I guess I was just testing Lovesong’s limits. Seeing how smart he really was when it came to music.

He hitched one eyebrow in my direction. “You don’t think you can make music with spoons?”

I grinned, knowing he couldn’t see me. “I’m just saying a piano is a piano… and a spoon is a spoon.”

He raised his other eyebrow. “You’re smiling. I can hear it in your voice. You’re baiting me, ain’t you.”

“Maybe,” I toyed.

He laughed. “Oh definitely. Let’s play, shall we?” He turned to the rest of the table, his blind eyes floating over them as he said, “My dear friends, we have a challenge. Our wayward traveler here would like to hear a symphony of sound and a choir of voices… without the use of a single instrument, at least in the traditional sense. Oh, what a happy day!”

The others at the table laughed knowingly, and looking back I probably should have seen what was about to happen. And yet, I’m glad I didn’t, because the surprise of it was half the magic.

“Leroy, that wooden spoon on the rim of the grits bowl please,” said Lovesong. “In time with me.”

Lovesong started clicking a steady beat with his fingers while Leroy thumped the wooden spoon in time.

“Ida-May, Eloise, Lucy, forks against your glasses if you please,” said Lovesong, and the three cotton pickers ting ed their glasses, each one a different pitch depending on the level of gin they’d drunk.

Lovesong was beginning to sway in time with the music when he said, “Auggie, George, blow into your beer bottles in time.”

The other two cotton pickers created a flute-like sound with their Abita beer bottles.

At that point, Lovesong glanced in Maybelle’s direction and said, “You know what to do next, Mama Maybelle.”

Maybelle smiled, and in time with the music began to sing the gospel anthem “Oh Happy Day!”

As she sang, Lovesong licked his spoon clean. With the fingers of his other hand, he felt his way down my arm, reached the spoon in my fingers and gently stole it from me.

I watched as he licked my spoon without a care in the world, then joining the spoons together in one hand he began to play them…

Tapping them against his other hand…

His chest…

The table…

Keeping perfect time and rhythm with the song.

Ida-May and George joined in the chorus with Maybelle, as did Eloise and Lucy, Auggie and Leroy, and before I knew it, the entire table was belting out “Oh Happy Day!” in joyous harmonies.

Even Chet started howling with delight from under the table.

Everyone sang except me and Lovesong. “Now do you believe me?” he asked, leaning close to my face.

I could feel the heat of his words against my cheek.

I could smell paprika and cayenne pepper on his sweet, spicy breath.

I closed my eyes, wishing Joel could be here right now.

I thought about how much he would have loved this.

I thought about how much he should have been the one sitting here in this magical musical moment, not me.

And yet the only reason I was here… was because he was no longer here.

I opened my eyes and quickly brushed away the tear that fell, happy that Lovesong couldn’t see it.

“Okay, I believe you now,” I uttered. “Yes. I believe you.”

Out through the back door of the kitchen was a path that led to the juke joint shack next door. After three glasses of gin at the dinner table, I wasn’t entirely sure how I managed to cave in to the invitation to the bar next door. Hell, I was struggling to figure out how three glasses could get me this drunk. I used to be able to go head-to-head with Keith Richards in interview sessions that turned into all-nighters in the private cinema in his mansion, alternating between Tarantino and Disney movies while we polished off one bottle of tequila after another.

But I hadn’t been this drunk since that ill-fated lunch with Margot and Brad and Mike on the East River.

Oh, how very, very long ago that felt now. And yet, in reality, it was only days ago.

Life can change quickly when it wants to.

“That wasn’t gin you were drinking,” Lovesong breathed into my ear as he felt for a seat for himself, then one for me, and sat us both down at a table in the rickety, ramshackle bar. “That was Maybelle’s home-brewed shine.”

“Maybelle’s what?”

He pointed to a sign above the bar, although he missed by at least three feet. Not because he was drunk. “Can’t you read? I’m told there’s a sign there. Not that I’ve ever seen it, but Leroy was damn proud of himself the day he painted the sign and hung it up.”

I blinked and focused on the sign over the shelves of booze.

The bar was called Moonshine Maybelle’s .

It was a small and intimate juke joint, with a dozen tables, stools at the bar, and a row of windows facing out onto the street, their shutters open and the night breeze swaying in like someone who had had too much to drink.

Someone like me.

“Maybelle runs a moonshine bar?” I asked, probably more shocked than I needed to be. “As well as Maybelle’s Manor?”

Lovesong shrugged and ever so casually slung an arm over my shoulder. “Yup. Everyone needs a good reason to go to church every day, right? Have a little fun, ask a little forgiveness… you know how it goes.”

Carefully I took his wrist in one hand and lifted his arm off my shoulder.

I had to.

He was exactly what Maybelle said he was.

Likable.

Loveable even.

The kinda guy you feel like you’ve known forever.

And I had to force myself to feel annoyed at that… because I could feel my anger toward him slipping, and I couldn’t let that happen.

I spotted a piano in the corner and used it as a distraction. “You play here too?”

He gave a not-so-humble shrug. “I play everywhere… did you not catch the dinner table symphony?”

“Oh, I caught it all right.”

“It’s what I do. It’s all I do. That’s the deal that was made.”

I suddenly had no idea what he was talking about. “What deal?”

With a plunk on the table, Li’l Leroy suddenly sat opposite us, slamming three glasses down. “Courtesy of Moonshine Maybelle,” he announced, before looking to me and adding, “Although I should warn you, Maybelle’s shine is triple distilled and at least a hundred and sixty proof.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” I said.

Lovesong and Leroy exploded with laughter.

“It means you need a pitcher of water on your bedside table tonight,” Lovesong said.

“And maybe a bucket beside the bed,” added Leroy.

Suddenly there came a call from across the bar. “Maestro, why is there no music?”

It was Maybelle calling to Lovesong.

Instantly Lovesong jumped up, and again he made his way across the bar to the piano without faltering, clearly a path he knew well.

Unfortunately, the piano at Moonshine Maybelle’s was far from a Steinway.

It was, for want of a better term, a classic upright honky-tonk piano, solely built for joy, not looks.

It sat on a lean, one of its pedals had fallen off, and its front panel was missing, exposing the hammers that moved with every key that was struck.

And yet, with all the enthusiasm in the world, the prodigy who could clearly play any instrument on the planet propped himself on the wonky stool before the piano and unleashed his fingers on the keyboard.

Tinkling his way up and down the keys, Lovesong began singing Amos Milburn’s bluesy 1953 toe-tapper, “One Scotch, One Bourbon, One Beer.”

He glanced over as he sang, and although he couldn’t see me, I felt like he had me in his sights.

George took Ida-May’s hand, and the pair got up to dance.

Suddenly Maybelle—or should I say, Moonshine Maybelle—took Lovesong’s seat at the table and said to Leroy, “Finish that drink and go tend to the bar, Li’l Leroy. That is your job, after all. My hip might be done for the night, but that moonshine sure ain’t. Keep it flowing, baby boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Leroy gave Maybelle a wink and a salute, then headed to the bar.

At that point, Maybelle patted the back of my hand laying on the table.

“So, tell me, Mr. Van Owen…”

“Please, call me Noah.”

“So, tell me, Noah. What do you think of my moonshine?”

I took a sip and wheezed. “It’s strong.”

“And what do you think of Clara’s Crossing?”

I hesitated then answered, “It’s strange, in a lost-in-time kinda way.”

“That’s Louisiana. It’s the way we like it down here.”

“Sorry, that came out wrong… I’m just not used to a place like this.”

“And what do you think of our Lovesong?”

That question I couldn’t answer, so I deflected. “Is Lovesong his real name? I mean, I know it’s not his real name. He said on the tape that his name’s Lafayette Valentin. So why the hell does he call himself Lovesong?”

Maybelle looked at me quizzically. “What tape?”

Oh fuck.

The tape.

I mentioned the tape?

Oh fuck, I totally just mentioned the tape.

And where was the tape even?

Oh fuck, it was still in the Dynasty in Earl’s workshop.

Fuck!

I stood in a panic.

My chair fell over with a loud bang.

Lovesong’s fingers fumbled on the keys at hearing the commotion and he stopped playing.

“Noah?” asked Maybelle. “You all right?”

I nodded, and pushed my way to the door of the juke joint, my head spinning from the moonshine.

I knocked over another chair.

“What’s going on?” Lovesong asked, standing from his piano stool.

Leroy moved to catch me, to try to help me. “Noah, everything okay? Slow down.”

“I’m fine, I just need some air, that’s all,” I told him loudly, shoving passed his bulky frame for the door. “I just need—”

Suddenly the door opened, and I came face to face with Reverend Jim, looming large and shadowy in the doorway.

I pulled to a sharp halt and everyone in the bar fell suddenly silent.

“What is it you need, son?” asked the reverend in a calm, cool tone. “Through the door I heard you say you need something. What is it you need? Answers? Jesus? A glass of water?”

“I need some air. I just need some air.”

I tried to step around him, but the reverend didn’t move.

“I ain’t surprised you need air. It can be hard to breathe in here, what with all this booze and ballyhoo. Gets hard to hear yourself think, all that blues music clanging in the air and clawing at your thoughts.” He looked over at Lovesong standing at the piano. “No matter how much I try to convince them otherwise, my flock just can’t stop dancing with the Devil.”

“What are you doing here, reverend?” asked Maybelle, sitting back in her chair and smirking at him tauntingly. “You finally decided to join us for a drink after church?”

The reverend scoffed. “The day that happens will be the day Hell freezes over.” He loosened his collar to air his neck. “And we all know it’s far too hot here for that to ever happen. Besides, someone in this town has to keep the evil at bay.” He looked back at Lovesong. “Ain’t that right, son.”

Lovesong didn’t answer.

“Is that what you’re doing standing in the doorway?” Maybelle asked. “Keeping evil at bay? Best you step aside before that boy throws up all over your shiny black shoes. I’d like to see you keep that at bay.”

A quiet giggle rippled through the bar.

The reverend simply sneered. “Mockery is Satan’s delight. I came to bid you all goodnight, and to let you know I’ve padlocked the church doors tonight. I’ve advised Earl and Cybil to do the same at the repair shop and the general store. In fact, I’d urge you all to do the same.”

“Padlock everything?” said Maybelle. “Since when have you ever felt the need to lock up the town?”

He looked at me and answered in a flat, firm tone. “I suppose you could say I’m feeling… watchful.” He extended his hand to me. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Reverend Jim.”

“Noah. Noah Van Owen,” I breathed. “Now, can I please get past you? I need—”

“Of course. You need some air. I understand. You poor soul, into the night you go.”

With that he stepped aside and let me rush out into the street, Chet growling at him as he raced after me.

I slipped on the mud and nearly fell, but regained my balance and got my bearings as a cloud slid aside to let a full moon light my way.

I charged down the street with Chet at my heels.

When I reached Earl’s Auto , the roller doors were shut, locked with a padlock and chain. I hurried around back to see if there was another way in, but the door I found was locked as well.

I looked around in the dark and saw a small shack through the long grass. There was a light, dim as it was, in one window.

I ran through the grass and knocked on the door.

I heard movement inside, then a woman’s voice. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Noah.” I was breathless after running.

The door opened and Cybil was standing there, a book in her hand, a robe wrapped tightly around her and a look of concern on her face. “Noah? Is that your name? Are you all right?”

I realized I hadn’t introduced myself to her yet. “Yes, I’m Noah. I need to get something out of my car, but the auto shop is locked. Do you know where Earl lives?”

“This is Earl’s house, but he’s sleeping like the dead right now. Can it wait till morning?”

I was panicky about the tape. I didn’t want anyone finding it, listening to it, asking me what I was doing with it. I knew I wouldn’t sleep unless I had Lovesong’s tape in my possession. “It’s kind of important.”

Cybil nodded. “Hold on, I’ll get the keys.”

Moments later I was following her back to the auto shop. She didn’t enter through the door at the back, she explained the key had broken off in that lock years ago and Earl hadn’t gotten to it on his to-do list yet. “There’s a lot of things Earl hasn’t gotten to on that damn list. But that’s Earl, for ya.”

Out front, she unlocked the padlock and pushed open the roller doors.

She flicked on the industrial lights and Joan Collins lit up.

“Thank you.” I hurried to the Dynasty. The driver’s door was unlocked. I slipped in behind the wheel, hit the eject button on the cassette deck, and sighed with relief as Lovesong’s tape popped out.

Nobody had taken it.

Hopefully nobody had heard it.

Quickly I slid it into my pocket and got out of the car.

As I did, I looked past Cybil and out through the open roller doors to see a couple walking past arm in arm. Instantly I recognized the reverend, the features of his face sharp and shifting in the glow of the lantern he carried. Beside him was the woman with her gray hair up in a bun.

They were both dressed head to toe in black, the reverend wearing his black wide-brimmed hat.

When they saw me, they instantly stopped.

Chet growled again and I whispered to him, “Chet. Not now.”

The reverend raised his lantern and called out, “Cybil? Everything all right? Young man, are you bothering Cybil?”

“He ain’t bothering me at all,” Cybil answered for me. “He needed something from his car and Earl’s asleep.”

A moment of silence, or perhaps suspicion, fell between us and the lantern squeaked as it swung in the hot, slow breeze. “I see. You must be very tired, Mr. Van Owen. I hope you’ll see the sense to head straight to bed now.”

“Yes sir,” I said like I was some kind of recalcitrant child, instantly regretting it and wondering when the fuck I’d ever called someone “sir” before.

The reverend smiled at my submissive slip. “Good to hear. Cybil, may we walk you back to your door? Or should I say, Earl’s door. I fear tonight is not the night to be out unaccompanied. Especially for an unmarried woman like yourself.”

I caught the slightest roll of Cybil’s eyes. “I can look after myself just fine, thank you reverend. I know the way to Earl’s door like the back of my hand.”

“I know you do,” said Reverend Jim, the undeniable hint of judgement in his tone. “Adeline includes the both of you in her prayers every night.” He turned to me and said, “Mr. Van Owen, I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting my wife, Adeline, yet.”

The reverend’s wife glowed ghostly in the light of the lantern as she nodded to me and said, “Pleased to meet you. Praise Jesus.”

“Oh.” I had no idea how to respond to such a greeting, and still annoyed at myself for calling the reverend “sir,” I blurted, “I don’t, actually. Praise Jesus, that is. But hello anyway.”

The reverend’s wife looked instantly offended.

Reverend Jim glared at me angrily.

Cybil snorted, then tried to hide it.

The reverend’s eyes turned to slits. “I hope you’re not going to cause any trouble in our town, Mr. Van Owen.”

“I don’t plan on being here long enough.”

“A man who makes plans, is a man who sets himself up for disappointment,” chimed in the reverend’s wife. “The Lord decides whether you come or go. There is no need to plan. Simply trust in him and let him guide your way.”

“Amen to that, my dear,” the reverend smiled smugly. “Cybil… Mr. Van Owen… we bid you goodnight. May the Lord watch over you both.”

With that they walked on, the lantern light gliding into the night.

As Cybil flicked off the workshop lights and closed the roller doors, I picked up Chet and said in a hushed voice, “Where are they going?” I could still see the flicker of their lantern in the dark.

“They live about a quarter mile out of town. They’ve always lived out there. They prefer it that way.”

“Thank you for letting me in.”

“You’re welcome. Not sure why Earl listened to the reverend and locked it up in the first place. Sometimes it’s easier to do what the reverend says rather than listen to him preach to you about it the next day.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Reverend Jim’s kind of intense.”

“Him and his wife both. You get used to it. Hard to believe Lovesong turned out relatively normal, given those are the people who raised him. Thankfully nature proved stronger than nurture in his case, and don’t the reverend and his wife hate it.”

I was putting two and two together in my head. “You mean, they’re not Lovesong’s biological parents?”

Cybil shook her head. “Nobody knows who the boy’s biological daddy is, but his mama disappeared when he was just a baby. Left him in a basket at the crossroads. It was the reverend’s wife who found him and took him in.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“That’s exactly what they believe, that Jesus guided the reverend’s wife to Lovesong that day. That they saved that poor innocent child from the Devil himself.”

A chill plucked at my spine. All the talk of Heaven and Hell had left me feeling completely unnerved. As Cybil locked the roller doors, I asked, “Would you like me to walk you back?”

She smiled in the moonlight and shook her head. “Thanks, but really I’m fine. It takes a lot more than the reverend’s fear-mongering to rattle me. Sometimes when he’s standing at that pulpit I tune out altogether. I mostly only go to church to hear Lovesong play. You gotta find joy where you can, right? And hell can that boy play.”

“He can play, all right.”

She gave me a look that was difficult to discern in the moonlight. “Makes you wonder where that kinda talent comes from.”

I wanted to ask what she meant by that, but it was late and I’d already disrupted her evening enough.

I wished her goodnight, and from the side of Earl’s Auto I watched to make sure she reached the door to Earl’s house safely.

I carried Chet back to the manor, feeling a desperate need to protect him.

The wind was not strong, but it still made an eerie rustling sound through the cotton fields all around us. It teased the chains leading up the bell tower, making them rattle and clatter against one another, imitating the sound of creatures scurrying through the night. The padlock and chain on the church entrance swayed in the breeze and banged on the door, like someone inside was knocking to get out.

I reached the manor, grateful to see no padlock on the door. Clearly Maybelle did not feel the need to heed the reverend’s advice.

I could hear the muffled laughter from the bar next door, but there was no longer any music playing.

I wondered if Lovesong had retired to his room.

Our room.

I decided to enter as quietly as possible.

The lamp on the dresser beside my bed was on, and when I peered around the opening door, I saw Lovesong sitting up on the side of his bed, as if he had been waiting up for me.

He was wearing nothing but the crucifix around his neck and a pair of baggy old boxer shorts that looked way too big for him. They reminded me of myself, always dressing in Joel’s clothes which were too big for me, although by now I had gotten used to it.

Lovesong’s head was tilted toward the door as I entered.

Obviously, he had heard the elevator, heard my footsteps down the hall, heard the turn of the doorknob no matter how silently I had tried to enter.

“Hi,” he said in a quiet voice. “Are you all right? Y’all left in kind of a hurry tonight.”

Before I could answer, an excited Chet jumped out of my arms and up onto Lovesong’s bed, his tail and tongue both working overtime.

Lovesong laughed with surprise as Chet licked his chin and cheeks. “Hi to you too! How you be, little buddy?”

“Chet, don’t be a handful.”

“He ain’t a handful. He’s a bundle of love is what he is.”

“I guess so. He used to be. He hasn’t been himself lately, but I guess he likes you.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, cause I like him too.” He asked Chet, “How come you ain’t been yourself lately? Huh?”

I answered the question, trying to remove all emotion from my voice. “My partner died ten months ago. Chet was his dog.”

The smile instantly faded from Lovesong’s face. “Oh shit. I’m sorry.”

The polite reply from me would normally have been “Thank you” or “I appreciate the sentiment,” but all I wanted to do was pull the tape out of my pocket and scream “Sorry? You’re sorry? Fuck you! This is all your fault! He’s gone because of you! He died, all because of you! I wish you were dead instead!”

I felt my heart hammer against my chest.

I felt my hands begin to shake.

I felt the words rising in my throat, ready to escape me in short, sharp breaths filled with hate.

But before I could give my fury life, he said, “Noah? Are you okay? I can feel you. I can feel you about to explode.” He set Chet aside on the bed and stood, his arms feeling their way toward me. “Noah, just breathe. God, I can feel your heart pounding through the floorboards. Please just breathe. You need to breathe through the grief.”

His hands found my shoulders and he held onto me tightly, his grip firm.

“Just breathe.”

“I am fucking breathing,” I spluttered, and I realized the words came out as a sob.

A grim, restrained, angry sob.

“Oh God, you’re hurting bad.”

Without a moment’s warning, he pulled me toward him and wrapped his arms around me.

His skin gave off the sun’s heat, even when the moon was out.

His arms were strong, but not so strong that I couldn’t push him away, which is exactly what I did.

“Don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. I just need to…”

I needed to lash out, to punish him, to release the demons shrieking inside me.

But suddenly Chet was barking a warning, not at Lovesong but at me.

What was he doing, ordering me to back off?

Threatening to leave me for Lovesong?

Bargaining with me not to do what I had come here to do?

The bark split my head and dimmed my fire. My blood began to simmer down and I recalled Maybelle’s words to me earlier that day—“Let things simmer without ever boiling over. When things boil over… that’s when the Devil takes hold.”

“I think I just need to sleep.” I backed down, stepping toward my bed.

I dropped down onto it and the springs squeaked.

Lovesong sat on his bed opposite me, Chet sitting by his side.

Silence hung between us for a moment before he gently said, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Another pause. “Do you want me to bring Chet over to your bed?”

“No. He can damn well sleep where he wants. Now do you mind if I turn out the light?”

He shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.”

It was true, I guess.

I left it on while I sat up to take off my shoes, my shirt. I realized I could take everything off, sleep naked if I wanted to and it probably wouldn’t bother him in the least.

It suddenly struck me as odd that Lovesong was wearing those oversized boxer shorts in bed, given the ease with which he had dropped his trousers in front of me earlier that evening, and I had to ask, “Why are you wearing those ridiculously big boxer shorts? Either you need someone else to do your clothes shopping for you, or they’re not yours.”

“They’re not mine,” he readily admitted. “I was embarrassed that I made you embarrassed earlier, when I took off my clothes without even thinking. That was rude of me. So, for discretion’s sake, I asked to borrow these from L’il Leroy.”

His polite gesture annoyed me. “You don’t have to do that just for me. Please don’t do anything for me.”

“And please don’t think you need to wear anything to bed. If you wanna sleep in the buff, don’t let me stop you. I won’t even peek.”

Oh, so now he was being polite and cute.

Determinedly I stood and unzipped my trousers. “You know what, I think I’ll do just that.”

I dropped my pants and slid my underwear down my legs, and there I stood facing him, completely naked.

I realized I hadn’t taken off my clothes in front of another man—whether he could see me or not—since before Joel died.

Perhaps it was my defiance or my boldness or my anger kicking back in… perhaps it was the adrenaline still pumping through my system after such a crazy night… or perhaps it was the blood still simmering inside me… but before I knew it, my cock began to swell.

Lovesong sat there for a moment, his eyes unblinking before he said, “Feel better?”

“Matter of fact, I do. Feel free to do the same. I wouldn’t want to ruin your usual sleep routine.”

He gave a casual hitch of his shoulders. “If it’s fine by you, don’t mind if I do.”

Was he baiting me?

Was he mocking me?

Was he flirting with me?

I refused to give him that much control.

Quickly I snapped off the lamp, folded into my bed and said, “Goodnight.”

I pulled the sheet over myself and rolled away from him, facing the wall.

I heard him stand from his bed, then the swish of fabric on skin.

I heard the boxer shorts flop onto the floorboards.

Despite my rage, part of me wanted to roll over and see his handsome, naked form, even if only in the pale light of the moon that shone through the French doors which were now closed.

Besides, what did he care? He’d already stripped in front of me once today.

Slowly, ever so quietly, I rolled over, turning my head, seeing his frame in the blue light of the moon—his naked, beautiful body, his perfectly sculpted muscles, his long, semi-hard dick swinging between his legs, almost taking my breath away when—

Squeak.

I was suddenly betrayed by the springs in the mattress beneath me.

I saw the whites of his teeth in the pale light as a smile spread across his face.

Then all he did was climb beneath his sheets, let Chet cuddle up around his feet, and whisper, “Goodnight Noah.”

I fell asleep quickly.

And I woke just as fast.

Not to the morning sun.

Not to the sound of a rooster crowing or the church bell ringing.

But the sound of the French doors banging.

I sat upright in bed, the moonlight still casting its glow over the room, streaming in through the doors that were now open and swinging in the night breeze.

I figured the wind must have blown them open and stood from the bed, naked.

I began to walk toward the doors when I heard a whimper—a warning—from Chet. I couldn’t see him in the dim light, but the sound came from the foot of Lovesong’s bed.

I turned in his direction and put a finger to my lips, whispering “Shhh” so he didn’t wake Lovesong, then turned back to the doors and took another step toward them.

Only then did I notice one of the sheer curtains catching on something as it billowed in the breeze.

No, not catching on something, but wrapping itself around it.

Only it wasn’t a something…

It was a someone.

With a jolt of fear, I realized someone was standing just inside the doors, the flowing curtain draped around them like a veil.

I stepped quickly backward and breathed, “Lovesong? Is that you?”

Suddenly I realized the person behind the curtain was too small to be Lovesong, the shoulders too narrow, the frame tall but petite. And then, from around the curtain, fingers unfurled, gripping the edge of the drape, about to reveal who was behind it.

Even in the pale moonlight I could see the fingers were caked in mud.

I saw hair, long and wild and knotted, twisted with twigs and dead leaves.

And then came the voice, a whispering chant, saying “Come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me…” faster and faster and faster until the words slurred into a shrill, nerve-shredding shriek. “ Cometomecometomecometomecometomecometomecometome! ”

It sent me staggering backward in terror…

Crashing into the stand with the record player on it…

Tumbling to the floor and grabbing for the nearest weapon to defend myself.

My hand seized on Lovesong’s electric guitar.

I snatched it up by the neck, raised it over one shoulder like a baseball bat and swung it at the intruder.

But it cut the air and caught nothing but the billowing curtain.

Whoever was behind it was now gone, as though they simply vanished on the wind.

I swung the guitar back and forth several more times just to be sure, my heart racing, my body shaking, but there was no sign of anyone else in the room.

“Lovesong, wake up! Lovesong!”

I dropped the guitar and raced toward the lamp, snapping it on.

As the room lit up, I saw Chet shivering at the foot of Lovesong’s bed.

But Lovesong himself was gone.

There was nothing but tussled sheets and a drawer left half open on his dresser.

Something else was missing too—

The acoustic guitar that had been hanging on the wall.

That’s when I heard a distant sound floating on the warm night breeze.

A bluesy strumming of guitar strings.

A riff on a C major.

A chord progression from G to D, all drifting over the sea of cotton plants beyond the church, milky in the moonlight and swaying in the wind.

With the sheer curtains billowing on either side of me, I stepped warily toward the open French doors.

On the floor I saw the muddy footprints of the intruder.

One foot after the other I moved forward, until I stepped out onto the balcony, my fists bunched up and ready to fight whoever might be hiding out there.

I looked left and saw nobody.

I looked right and saw nobody.

I looked down and followed the trail of muddy footprints from the French doors to the post at the far corner of the balcony.

Cautiously I stepped toward the railing, looked over the edge… and saw nobody on the street below.

From across the cotton fields, I heard the playing of a distant guitar.

And all I could do was ask myself—“What the fuck is going on here?”