Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

As we pulled into town, Maybelle saw us from the manor porch and instantly knew there was something wrong. She put down her broom and limped over to us as hastily as she could, while I parked the pickup out front of the general store.

She had a look of concern on her face, along with a pinch of fury. “Cybil? You okay, woman? Why is he driving? Did you take one of your turns?”

“I’m fine,” Cybil insisted, getting out of the car. “Although I ain’t sure I can say the same for the clutch on my poor old truck anymore. I feel like we been ridin’ on the Devil’s backbone the last fifty miles.” She looked at me as I climbed out of the driver’s seat. “What are you, a serial killer of cars or something? I’m gonna need to get Earl to take a look and see if you done any permanent damage.”

“I’m sorry,” I felt the need to apologize. It was a rough ride. “I’m not used to driving stick.”

“Never mind the damn truck,” Maybelle piped up. “I asked you, why is he driving in the first place?”

Cybil waved Maybelle’s question away with her hand and a fib. “It was my knee. Seized up, damn thing. Someone needed to drive us home.”

“I don’t believe a word of that,” Maybelle snipped. “I’m also beginning to believe you ain’t never gonna take yourself off to a doctor and get that heart of yours looked at, which leads me to believe all my naggin’ and nigglin’ and tellin’ you to take it easy and slow down is just a waste of my precious breath.”

“It was her knee,” I said, rightly or wrongly backing up Cybil’s lie.

Maybelle eyed me before a smile slid across her lips. “You’re sweet, Noah. You’re also full of shit. Now why don’t you make yourself useful and pick up a bag of flour from Cybil’s for me. I got biscuits to make and I sure as hell ain’t asking Cybil to bring it over for me, she ain’t fit for liftin’ a damn thing.”

If the air outside was hot, Maybelle’s kitchen was even hotter, the breeze blowing in through the open door and windows unable to shift the temperature in the room. Yet not a drop of sweat glistened on Maybelle’s brow.

Her apron on and her cane set to one side, Maybelle moved swiftly and assuredly across her kitchen floor, despite her limp. She was a woman in complete control of her realm, knowing exactly when to stir the gumbo, turn the corn cakes, and pull the fried chicken from the pot of spitting oil.

She reminded me of a world-class pianist tearing up and down the keys of a piano with expertise and grace, serving up a masterpiece with style and skill.

Indeed, if there was a cooking version of the Rach 3, this was it.

“You know how to cook a good southern buttermilk biscuit?” she asked with barely a glance in my direction as I set the bag of flour she requested on the counter.

“What? Me? No!”

“You can cook, can’t you?”

“Yes, but I’ve never cooked—”

“Good. Mixin’ bowl’s in the cupboard. Salt’s over here on the counter. The butter and buttermilk are in the old icebox and there’s a fresh tin of baking soda in the pantry.”

“Oh, okay. And then what do I do with them?” I asked, frantically trying to remember what was where as I began to dart around the kitchen while Chet wisely stepped back, hovering safely in the kitchen doorway.

“You mix ’em and you bake ’em! They ain’t gonna turn themselves into biscuits on their own.”

“But how much of what… goes in where… for how long? Please help!”

“The Lord helps those who help themselves.”

“Don’t say that. I don’t think Jesus likes me much at all. He doesn’t exactly have my back. In fact, there’s a good chance he’ll just set me up to fail.”

Maybelle laughed. “Jesus don’t set anyone up to fail. He knows too well we’re all very capable of doing that ourselves.” She set the chicken out on some kitchen towel, turned the heat down on the corn cakes and put the lid on the gumbo to let it simmer. She took a spoon from a drawer and handed it to me. “Here. Measure out half a spoonful of baking soda. Then pour three cups of buttermilk and cut the butter into cubes, makes it easier to mix through. Don’t worry. If Jesus don’t got your back, at least I do.”

“Thank you.”

“Out of curiosity, what exactly did you do to piss him off?”

“It’s hard to pinpoint just one example. But it’s probably got a lot to do with pouring kitty litter into an urn before giving it to my Bible-bashing bitch of a sister-in-law.”

Maybelle laughed. “Oh, you wicked boy.”

“I think there was probably some Chet poo in there too.”

Maybelle laughed even harder.

Together we mixed.

Together we cut the biscuit dough and set it on a baking tray and pushed it into the oven.

I went to wipe the sweat from my brow with my forearm, but Maybelle stopped me. “Son, your sweaty skin ain’t gonna dry your sweaty skin. That’s how you get a heat rash down here.” She took a clean tea towel, ran it under cold water, then used it to pat my brow before slinging it around the back of my neck and tucking it into the collar of my shirt. “That’ll help cool your blood down.”

A rumble of thunder traveled through the sky.

Maybelle looked toward the open window. “It’s just gonna tease us today. Give a growl every now and then. But this one won’t break.”

“How do you know?”

“When you live down here all your life, you get to know. The air ain’t still enough right now. If you can still breathe it in and out your lungs, it ain’t nearly still enough to storm. The air needs to stop moving completely, like time itself just stood still, so hot it stuck to somethin’ none of us can see. That’s when the sky tears itself open. That’s when the rain comes down so hard, you think the whole land’s gonna flood, far and wide.”

Outside, the sky grumbled.

“This,” Maybelle said. “This ain’t a storm. It’s just a warning of one to come sometime soon.” She untied her apron, hung it on a kitchen hook and picked up her cane. “Well, it’s time I set the dinner table. My cotton-picking little ones will be back soon. Can I leave you in charge of the kitchen, Noah?”

“Oh. Um. I think so. Any urgent instructions?”

“Don’t burn the goddamn place down. I’m sure it’s already on the reverend’s to-do list. Y’all don’t wanna be the one to spoil his fun now, do you?”

With that she hobbled away.

No sooner had she gone, Lovesong appeared in the back door of the kitchen, panting like he’d just run a marathon. “Maybelle? You here?”

The very sight of him unexpectedly set my heart aflutter. I couldn’t quite explain it. Perhaps the appearance of the intruder on the balcony and the scare with Cybil on the road had left me more rattled than I realized. Perhaps the sight of his strong arms, the sheer presence of him, was something I needed in this strange and unsettling town.

“Maybelle?”

“She’s not here,” I answered. “She’s setting the table for supper. It’s just me.”

His head turned in my direction. “Noah?”

I nodded. Then realized I needed to speak. “Yeah. It’s me.”

Lovesong felt his way along the counter to my voice and stopped short of me. He smelled of sweat and sap from the cotton plants. There were smudges on his forehead and cheeks from where the dirt on his hands met the perspiration on his skin.

“Why are you panting?” I asked.

“Because I ran all the way here.”

“Why?”

“George said he saw you driving Cybil’s pickup. I knew something was wrong. Is Cybil okay?”

I nodded. And again I realized I had to speak. “Yes. I think so.”

“Did she have another one of her spells?”

“I guess you could call it that. I think she really needs to see a doctor.”

“Earl keeps telling her that. Maybelle keeps telling her that. We all keep telling her that.” He paused, then asked, “Are you okay?”

I’m not sure why, but that was the moment I realized he was an inch or two taller than me. Almost exactly the same height as Joel. “Yeah. I’m fine. I was scared for her. I didn’t know what was going to happen.”

He stepped closer. “You’re safe now.”

He reached forward and his hand found my chest.

He pressed his palm against it and said, “Your heart’s still racing. Are you sure you’re okay?”

I didn’t know what to say. “Um. Yeah. I guess so.”

He lifted his hand to my face.

He placed his fingers against my cheek. Even with the dirt and sap and cotton fibers on them, in that moment they were softer than feathers, lighter than air.

I caught my breath and he heard it.

“Don’t be frightened, I’m not going to hurt you. It’s just that…”

“It’s just what?”

“It’s just that… I haven’t seen what you look like yet.”

I crinkled my brow, at first confused. “You haven’t…?” I stopped myself mid-question, realizing what he was doing.

He needed to feel my face to see me.

He needed to touch me, before he could see a picture of me in his mind.

He needed to run those earthy fingers over my sweat-dripping skin, until my face looked as grimy as his…

Soft smudges of dirt…

Streaks of fingerprints…

Skin tainted by his touch.

Desperately I tried to control my breathing.

Desperately I tried to keep from him the fact that my knees were quivering…

My hands were trembling…

My face was moments away from melting into his fingertips.

I couldn’t remember the last time I was touched with such intimacy.

Joel and I had been together so long, things had become routine. I was the first to admit I loved that life. We watched movies and cooked popcorn together. We cuddled on the couch. We kissed in bed.

But it had been a long, long time since Joel had touched me like this.

Perhaps he could hear the shortness of my breath, perhaps he could feel the slightest quiver of flesh, but without a word, Lovesong stepped closer to me, our bodies now only inches apart.

I refused to close my eyes, staring straight into his, knowing he couldn’t see me back… knowing he could sense so much more from me right now than I could from him.

It was as though his fingers were drinking from my skin, drawing on my energy, my nerves, making my heart bang like a drum.

I felt as though he knew exactly what he was doing.

As though what he lacked in vision, he made up for with some other unknown power over me.

My legs began to sway gently.

My body hovered ever closer to his.

The space between our lips was about to vanish when suddenly—

He pulled his head back.

He turned to the stove.

“Corn cakes. I can smell corn cakes. They’re about to burn.”

I sniffed the air and glanced at the corn cakes in the pan. “No they’re—oh shit!”

Smoke began to billow out from under them.

I dashed for the stove top and yanked the pan off the heat, coughing and waving away the smoke just as the cakes began to turn to charcoal. I dumped the pan in the sink and fumbled with the knobs on the stove before shutting off the heat.

A second later, Maybelle limped quickly into the kitchen. “Noah, what’s going on here? Didn’t I specifically tell you to not burn the place down?”

“I’m sorry. I got… distracted.”

Maybelle looked from Lovesong to me, then down at my crotch and arched her eyebrows. “I can see that.”

I looked down and saw not just my erection, but how prominent it was. “Oh shit,” I said again, grabbing an empty saucepan off the counter and covering my crotch with it.

“Like things weren’t hot enough in here already,” Maybelle quipped. “You two just had to go and turn the heat right up.”

Lovesong smirked. “What’s going on? What can you see?” he asked Maybelle.

“Nothing,” I answered quickly. “It’s nothing. I think I need to go take a shower.”

“Mm-mmm,” nodded Maybelle. “I bet you do. Make it nice and cold, won’t you.”

I glanced at Lovesong and saw him giggling behind one hand. Yeah, he pretty much knew what was going on.

Blushing, I hurried from the kitchen.

I showered in the shared bathroom upstairs, only running the cold water which was far from freezing. The pipes running through the house were so warm that the water was tepid at best. Still, it did enough to lower my body temperature a little, although putting out the fire in my loins was going to take a lot more than a lukewarm shower.

I was confused, my emotions scrambled.

I had come here to douse Lovesong with guilt, to heap my hate on him, to blame him for killing Joel.

And yet, the more I saw him, the more I wanted to be in his presence…

The more I wanted to hear his voice…

The more I wanted him close.

I wanted him to touch me again, and not just my face.

I wanted his hands to caress my shoulders, feel their way down my chest, reach for my—

I looked down to see my erection straining, the water cascading over it and splashing down my legs.

I closed my eyes and pretended my hands were not my own, but his.

I let them glide slowly over my wet body, venturing over my chest, down my abs, down to the trunk of my stiff, aching dick.

The air grew heavy in my lungs and I had to push it out in deep, hefty sighs.

It had been so long since I’d touched myself, since I’d felt aroused.

There had been days when I’d thought I’d never be able to see myself as a sexual being ever again.

And yet here I was, a thousand miles from home, standing under a shower in a rundown old plantation manor in a town that seemed lost in time, and all I wanted was for someone—for him to open the bathroom door and—

“Noah?”

I sucked in a breath of surprise and opened my eyes.

“Noah, may I come in?”

It was Lovesong.

I gingerly peered around the shower curtain to see him gingerly appear around the door to the bathroom.

“Um… I’m having a shower in here,” I replied awkwardly.

He grinned. “Yeah, I know. I can hear that. I just wanted to check you’re okay. Y’all kinda left in a hurry… again. I’m starting to think it’s me.”

“I’m fine. I’m good. It was just hotter than hell in that kitchen and I needed to cool down.”

“I know the feeling. Let me know when you’re done, I wouldn’t mind doing the same.”

The words seemed suggestive.

Was he flirting, again?

Was he fishing for an invitation to join me in the shower?

Or was I so fucking horny after so damn long that I was fantasizing about what he wanted?

For a second, I actually entertained the thought of saying, ever so casually, “You can jump in with me now if you like.” I even imagined saying it with a mild chuckle, so if he took it the wrong way, I could laugh it off as a joke.

But I’d left his words hanging in the air a moment too long, and the pause was smothering any sexual intention he may have had, and before I knew it, I said, “No problem. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

Peering past the shower curtain, I saw the unmistakable look of disappointment on his face. A look he tried unsuccessfully to hide. “Sure,” he said eventually, then began to disappear behind the closing door.

Before it could click shut, I suddenly called, “Lovesong. Wait.”

Quickly the door opened again, and he gave an enthusiastic, “Yes?”

My words were slow, cautious. “Do you want to…”

“Do I want to what?”

“Do you want to… join me for a drink downstairs after your shower?”

He smiled and said, “Do you know that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name?”

“It is?”

He nodded. “And yes, I’d love to join you for a drink.”

I asked Leroy at the bar if he had anything not quite as strong as the moonshine I’d been served the night before, and he pulled out a bottle of bourbon. I ordered two glasses, one for me and one for Lovesong, and Leroy brought them to our table just as Lovesong arrived downstairs, looking handsome in his church clothes.

As he walked into Moonshine Maybelle’s , Leroy said to him from the bar, “He’s at table seven. Don’t forget we rearranged the table numbers last summer, so now—”

“I know, I have to turn right at the third table, then left. I remember, Leroy. I have been here once or twice before. Thank you.”

Leroy leaned closer to him over the bar. “I just wanna make sure you make a smooth entrance. Not often you get a gentleman waiting to meet you for a drink.”

Lovesong chuckled. “Thank you… again.” He maneuvered his way across the bar. He bumped a chair that was out a little too far, and he gently pushed it back in.

When he reached our table he asked, “Where are you sitting?”

“I’m over here,” I said.

He registered my position and pulled out the chair beside me, then sniffed the air. “I smell bourbon.”

“I ordered drinks. I hope bourbon’s okay.”

“Bourbon’s more than okay.” His open hand moved warily across the table in search of his drink.

“Oh, here. I’m sorry.” I took his forearm in my hand. I could feel the contours of his muscles under the fabric of his shirt. Slowly I guided his fingers to the glass.

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s mighty kind of you.”

“You look…” I wanted to say handsome. “Ready for church. Is it that time already?”

“Not quite. We still got fifteen minutes or so. But I better not be late like yesterday. My father hates it when I’m late. He thinks I lose my focus on the Lord. He thinks all’s I got on my mind is playing the Devil’s music here in the bar after church.”

“Which do you prefer playing? Gospel music or the Devil’s music?”

“I love all music. My father thinks any music played outside the church is sinful, especially if you mix blues and booze. But I don’t see it that way. How can something that brings you so much joy—how can something that moves your soul—be evil?”

“And you’ve told the reverend this?”

He took a sip of his drink. “Let’s just say when it comes to music, the war between my father and me ain’t over yet. Don’t get me wrong, I still believe in Jesus. I know he’s real. But if you believe in him, it stands to reason you believe the Devil is real too.”

“How can you say Jesus and the Devil are real when you can’t even see them?”

Lovesong laughed out loud. “Noah, I can’t see anything. I can’t see you , but you’re real to me.”

“God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like—”

“It’s okay. I’m just sayin’, having faith in something or someone isn’t about what you see with your eyes. It’s about what you feel with your heart. People say faith is blind, but it ain’t. It simply sees things differently.”

There was conviction in his voice.

It was the sound of a man whose beliefs were immovable.

Part of me had always been confounded by such views, and yet sitting there in that moment, part of me was almost jealous of his faith.

“For what it’s worth, I think your playing is… extraordinary. I can’t help but wonder what you’re doing here, squandering all that incredible talent.”

“You think I’m squandering it?”

“I think there’s a whole world of opportunity that you’re missing out on. You could be playing on any stage you want, if you ever left Clara’s Crossing.”

“How do you know that? You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

I shrugged, not that he could see. “I know a little.”

He took another drink, a long one this time. “I used to believe I’d leave Clara’s Crossing one day. Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“I reached out to the world… but the world never reached back. I never told anyone about it, but I know my parents would be pleased it came to nothing. Hell, they’d kill me if they even knew I tried to leave. They’re petrified of setting me free, scared of what might happen to me if I ever pack my bags and go. They love me. I know they’re only trying to protect me.”

I sat forward. “Why would you let their fears stop you from finding your dreams?”

“I don’t know. It don’t matter now anyhow. It all came to nothing. I guess the Lord had other ideas.”

“Despite what your parents think, the Lord doesn’t decide whether you go or stay. You do. If you wanna leave, then leave.”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t now, even if I wanted to. I got too much to do here.”

I felt like he was on the brink of opening up to me. I felt like I was inching closer to the strange goings-on in this town. I wanted to know more, so much more—

The music in the dead of night.

The boy with the spoons at the crossroads.

The creature caked in mud.

But at that moment, the church bell rang, echoing through the storm clouds that refused to break.

Lovesong downed his bourbon and stood. “That’s my cue. Are you going to join us tonight?”

I tapped a fingernail against my glass so he could hear. “Actually, I think I’d prefer to keep worshipping in a different kind of church.”

He grinned. “Enjoy your prayers. I’ll catch you at supper.”

As he turned to leave, Leroy appeared, having changed into his church clothes too. He had an opened bottle of bourbon in his hand which he set on the table in front of me. “This should keep you going for a while.” He hitched Lovesong’s arm onto his shoulder for a little assistance. “Come on, boy. You got some music to play.”

From the bar across the street, I listened to the congregation singing the Lord’s praises while Lovesong transformed the church organ into an instrument of true wonder, playing chords so complex it almost sounded like three organists at the keyboard, not one.

I poured one drink after another, feeling the smooth brown liquor slide all too easily down my throat. When I heard Maybelle’s voice, my head was light and my mood defiant.

“Skippin’ church? You must really think Jesus hates you.”

As I turned to Maybelle, I noticed I could still hear the voice of the reverend floating out of the church like a spirit in search of sinners to punish. “What are you doing here? The service isn’t even finished yet.”

“Thought I’d sneak out early and warm supper up, or at least the parts of it that didn’t turn to ash and cinders.”

“Sorry about that. Drink?” I held up the now half-empty bottle.

Maybelle hitched one shoulder and pulled out the chair next to me. “Sure. Why not?”

“I’ll get you a fresh glass.” Unsteadily I made my way to the bar, a chair or two scraping on the floor as I bumped into them, then returned with a clean glass. Across the road, the gospel music started up again.

As I poured, Maybelle pointed to Lovesong’s empty glass still sitting on the table. “You had company?”

“Lovesong was here for a drink.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Well, well. Seems I put you up with the right roommate.”

The booze started doing the talking for me. “He’s interesting, that’s for sure. And talented as all hell. And kinda hot.”

“Kinda hot?”

“Okay, he’s seriously hot. And right now, he’s over there singing songs about Jesus. God, who’d have thought I’d ever fall for the son of a preacher man?”

“Is that what’s happening right now?”

What was left of my sobriety tried to take over. “No. Absolutely not. I’m still… Hell, I’m still mourning the love of my life.”

Maybelle reached across and laid her hand on mine. “I know. Cybil told me.”

“She did?”

“She also fessed up about the incident on the road, and how you grabbed the wheel. You saved her life.”

I heard the musical praise rise to the rafters across the road. “Is this where you tell me that Jesus put me in that pickup today, to save Cybil from having a car accident?”

“No. Maybe. Who knows? Unlike Reverend Jim, I don’t feel the need to try and explain every little mysterious thing the Lord does. Maybe he did put you in that car for a reason, but you’re the one who took the wheel when you had to. Sometimes I think people give the Lord too much credit for things. After all, he gave us free will and a brain in the hope that we’d use it, right?”

I pondered this a moment as the drunk devil and sober angel on my shoulders battled. Or was it a drunk angel and a sober devil? It was hard to tell. “Lovesong feels his faith deeply, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he does. But that doesn’t mean he ain’t capable of a certain clarity of mind. Unfortunately for Lovesong, he’s had the reverend and his wife filling him with fire and brimstone his whole life. It’s a miracle he emerged from that household with any thoughts of his own at all. The day he announced to his parents he was coming to live here at the manor was a battle of biblical proportions. I think Jesus and the Devil had front row seats to that show. The reverend and his wife did everything but chain Lovesong in the basement to keep him in their care. But that boy had made up his mind to live—he’d made up his mind that he needed to be his own person, to be part of a bigger picture—and so, with nothing but the clothes on his back, he turned up on my doorstep one rainy night and never left.”

“But he still plays in church. He still dresses up in his Sunday best, every night, at the toll of the bell.”

“He never intended to give up his faith. And he never wanted to sever his relationship with his parents completely. He just needed to let out some rope. Truth is, I don’t think he’ll ever be free of them, not until he leaves town… or they’re dead… or both.”

I had to backtrack on the conversation. “Wait a minute. He thinks moving from the reverend’s house to the manor is being part of the bigger picture? Their house is a quarter of a mile away. How is that being part of a bigger picture? He’s never left Clara’s Crossing.”

“It’s a step,” she said, her voice gentle. “He’s blind, Noah. We forget that, because he knows this town so well, he moves around it like he can almost see. He leaps up that half fallen down staircase and weaves his way through the street like a cat, like he can spot every pitfall and obstacle in his way. But he can’t.”

She paused and took a drink, a long one. “There’s another thing about Lovesong that makes him so determined to keep his faith strong.” Just then, the music in the church ended with a cheer and a chorus of “Hallelujahs,” and through the bar’s open windows the township began pouring out onto the street, headed for the manor.

Maybelle stood. “Unfortunately, that’s a story for another time. Supper awaits. I assume you’ll be joining us? After all the bourbon, you could probably use some food on your stomach.”

I stood and my head spun. “Actually, I think I need to go lie down.” I was wavering, my balance shot, and Maybelle reached out to steady me.

“Perhaps that’s a good idea. Why don’t I send Lovesong up with some biscuits wrapped in a napkin for you? If I’m honest, they turned out mighty fine… unlike the corn cakes, may they rest in peace.”

“That sounds great… I mean, about the biscuits. Sorry again about the corn cakes.”

“Come,” she said, taking my hand. “I’m gonna see you to the elevator so’s you don’t do anything foolish like take the stairs.”

Maybelle led me into the house.

She tucked me into the elevator, but before she closed the grill doors, I asked her, “Out of interest, how old is Lovesong?”

“Twenty-seven. Why do you ask?”

I shook my head. “No reason.”

Maybelle closed the elevator doors and pulled the lever to take me ever so slowly upward. Through the bars of the grill, I could see everyone spill into the manor from outside.

I saw Lovesong, and my heart skipped a beat.

Was I really falling for the son of a preacher man?

Is that what was happening to me?

I couldn’t let it.

I couldn’t let go of Joel.

I couldn’t come all this way, with all this rage inside me, to vindicate Joel’s death… only to fall for the one man I was determined to hate more than anyone on the face of the earth.

Only now… I could feel that rage simpering away, minute by minute, day by day.

Only now… that hate I once felt… was turning into the complete opposite.