Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

“So, I gather you’re not an overly religious man, Mr. Van Owen?” the reverend asked. “You know it’s never too late… until it’s too late. If you get my meaning.”

I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair at the dining table. “Oh, I think I’m fairly certain it’s too late.”

I had let Lovesong shower and dress before me. Tempting as it had been, I decided not to jump in the shower with him, given the fact that we both had somewhere to be. He needed to get to church on time, and I needed to look somewhat respectable for his parents once church was over.

I met the reverend and his wife at the end of service, once they had locked up the church and all the cotton pickers had made their way to the manor for supper.

By the light of a lantern, the reverend and his wife led me out of town to their house a quarter mile away. All around the night insects hummed. In a distant tree an owl hooted, as though sending a warning from far, far away. And somewhere in the bayou, I swore I could still hear the swish of a gator’s tail slinking away through the black water.

As we neared their home, I saw the house shining like a beacon across the cotton fields. It was a large stilt house, old and majestic, with a wrap-around porch, ornate woodwork on the railings, and a barn a short distance away.

“It’s a practical house,” the reverend had commented as we climbed the wide steps leading up to the porch. “High-set in case of a hurricane or a flood in the bayou. Besides, as good Christians, we always feel it’s our duty to rise above.”

The reverend and his wife gave a somewhat righteous laugh. I struggled to find the joke funny, and they both looked at me sympathetically, as though I wasn’t clever enough to keep up with the reverend’s humor.

Inside, the vintage wallpaper, the large antique furniture, and the heaviness of wood everywhere was almost overbearing, making the atmosphere oppressive and grim. It reminded me of an old convent or a doll museum on some forgotten highway on the backroads of Alabama.

There were porcelain vases.

There were lamps with yellowed tassels dangling from the shades.

There were lace doilies on almost every surface.

And then there were the prayer tapestries and wooden crucifixes covering the walls, not to mention the framed paintings of Christ on the cross and Mary on a heavenly cloud and a very pale Jesus with an equally white baby lamb draped over his shoulders.

“I’ve made a good old-fashioned southern pot roast with parsnips and carrots,” said the reverend’s wife. “It’s been slow cooking all afternoon. We used to have help to do all the work around here, but our wicked little cook Henrietta disappeared the same day that… well, we don’t like to talk about what happened to our maid, Harper. But enough about that. Why don’t you two gentlemen make yourselves comfortable at the dining table and I’ll bring it out when it’s ready.”

As she disappeared into the kitchen, Reverend Jim took his place at the head of the already set dining table. I went to sit at his right-hand side before he stopped me. “That’s my wife’s place.”

I went and sat opposite.

That was when he told me it wasn’t too late to become a religious man, at which point I thought I made it apparent that it was, at least for me.

Clearly not.

“Perhaps I can show you something to convince you otherwise,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me?”

He stood from the table, and I followed, my step slow and guarded.

He led me into a large study, with a grand old desk carved from chestnut oak, shelves filled with thick, leatherbound books on Christianity and faith, and even more crucifixes surrounding us. But there was something on the wall behind the reverend’s desk that caught my eye immediately.

It was an antique pistol, more than a century old, with a polished wooden handle and a shiny silver barrel.

It was hung on display, with a plaque at the bottom of it that I couldn’t read from where I stood.

But that wasn’t the strange thing about it.

The thing that really caught my attention was that the gun was supposed to be part of a pair. Two guns were evidently intended to be on display, one facing the other. You could even see the shadowy mark where the second gun was meant to be. But while there were several studs protruding from the wall to showcase the second weapon… it was clearly not there.

Before the reverend had a chance to tell me why he’d brought me into his study, I pointed to the lone pistol on the wall. “That’s a mighty fine antique you have there, Reverend. But it looks like there should be…”

“Two? You’re quite right. Those are dueling pistols. We found them in this house which was one of the original Landry residences on the plantation.”

“Dueling pistols? As in, twenty paces at dawn?”

“Actually, the last time those pistols were used, it happened at dusk. At the crossroads.”

“Why does that not surprise me,” I whispered to myself.

The reverend didn’t hear me, or if he did, he chose to ignore me. Instead, he began telling me the story behind the pistol on the wall. “It all began with Lamar Landry, some hundred and fifty years ago. It was a tumultuous time, as you can imagine. The war had ended, slaves were running free like rabbits, and trying to run a plantation was proving difficult and dangerous. Amidst all this, the youngest son of the Landry family took it upon himself to fall in love with a servant girl named Clara Calloway. If this, in and of itself, was not scandalous enough, matters were complicated by the fact that Clara was already in love with a stable boy named Jeremiah Sutton whom she planned to run away with. A young kitchen boy even tried to help them flee, collecting silver spoons for the couple to sell to help them survive on the road.”

“Wait, did you just say there was a kitchen boy who stole… spoons?”

The reverend waved his hand. “The little thief is inconsequential to the story, for when Lamar learned of Clara’s intention to run away with Jeremiah, he flew into a rage and challenged Jeremiah to a duel. Back in those days, a man dare not decline such a challenge. And so, at dusk the next day, the two men met at the crossroads in the cotton fields. They walked twenty paces, turned, and fired. Unfortunately, Clara ran to protect her lover, Jeremiah, the moment that Lamar pulled his trigger. While Jeremiah’s bullet missed. Lamar’s bullet shot Clara in the back, just as she fell into her lover’s embrace to protect him. The bullet pierced straight through her heart… then straight through Jeremiah’s… killing them both instantly. There they died in each other’s arms.”

“That’s so… tragic,” I breathed. “And Lamar?”

“Devastated by having killed his beloved Clara, he immediately reloaded his pistol and turned it on himself.” The reverend pointed to the gun on the wall. “That, dear boy, is the very same weapon. A proud part of this plantation’s history.”

“Proud? How is that a proud part of this place’s history? Three people died.”

“Four, actually. The next day, the Landry men dragged the filthy little spoon thief out to the crossroads and beat him to death.”

I gasped, and for a moment I thought I was going to be sick. “They… they what? ”

“As I said before, the boy’s story is inconsequential. But none of this is the reason why I brought you in here, Mr. Van Owen. I have a much higher purpose than that.”

From a shelf he pulled a small wooden chest. He placed it on his desk, then from the top drawer of the desk he produced a key. He unlocked the chest, opened it, and pulled out a frayed old Bible.

“Sit, please.” He sat behind his desk and pointed to the chair opposite.

I took a seat, still feeling sick, still reeling from the story he’d just told me, wishing I’d never come, desperately trying to think of excuses to leave, my heart yearning to be at Moonshine Maybelle’s where I knew Lovesong was at that moment.

Before I could get up to go, the reverend leaned across the desk and slid the bible in front of me, opening it to a random spot. On those frayed, well-worn pages, there were dozens of notes, handwritten in a pencil so blunt that some of the words were nothing more than lead smears.

“This, dear boy, is my very first Bible. As you can see, I have made many, many annotations on the passages within this book. I have highlighted verses, I have given the words my own interpretation, and I have asked the question, ‘How is this chapter from the word of God applicable to my own life?’ I believe that my impressions of the good book can be most helpful to a man such as yourself.”

I stared at the pages, and even his handwriting made me angry: the way he finished his S’s with a swirl like a snake, the way he finished his L’s with a pompous flourish, the way he wrote his E’s like a backward 3.

He pushed the book closer toward me and said, “I would very much like to give you this as a parting gift.”

“A parting gift?”

“You are leaving Clara’s Crossing, are you not? You were, after all, only passing through. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well, precious as this Bible is to me, the Lord has taught us to give unto others, in the hope that they may find their own salvation in the word of God. Personally, I think you might need it, even if you can’t see that yet.”

“Thanks. But no thanks.” My words were blunt.

The reverend took them on the chin. “Tell me, Mr. Van Owen… what are the things that figure largely in your value system? When you take your final breath, will any of them truly matter? Without Jesus our Lord Savior in your life… what do you possibly have to cling to? What is it you have to live for?”

The question fucking offended me— he offended me—and I wanted to tell him so. Instead, I slammed the Bible shut. “Thank you for the gift, but I couldn’t possibly take something so precious from a man of faith. Why don’t you just keep it. I’m fine, really.”

“Mr. Van Owen, I insist you take the Bible… and leave town.”

I sensed an urgency in the reverend’s voice. “I can’t leave yet,” I said defiantly. “I’m waiting for Earl to fix my car.”

The reverend feigned a polite smile. “Perhaps you should take up a room in Baton Rouge while you wait. Or better yet, have your car towed there to be repaired. There are much more reputable mechanics in Baton Rouge.”

“Reverend Jim, if I wasn’t mistaken, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”

He drew a deep breath and pushed out a sigh. Then, in a calm, flat tone, he said, “If we must cut to the chase, then let us do so. The Lord has brought it to my attention that you need to leave Clara’s Crossing. I don’t trust you, and I certainly don’t trust you around our son, Lafayette. That boy is ours. His blindness makes him vulnerable, impressionable, and very, very gullible to the likes of you. I know he seems confident, even charismatic. But I have met your type before, Mr. Van Owen. I know just how capable you are of filling his head with ideas… with wayward thoughts… with desires. I will not have my son corrupted, I will not have him tempted to act on his passions, and I will not have him believing he is anything more than a simple, blind cotton picker from a small town… a small town in which he shall spend the rest of his life, safe under the watchful eye of God.”

I sat there in silence a moment, stunned.

I wasn’t sure how to process the vitriol, the malice, the corrosiveness that had just come from the reverend’s mouth in a tone so casual, he might as well have been reciting a recipe for bundt cake.

When I finally found my voice, all I could say was, “You can keep your Bible, Reverend.”

The reverend sat forward. “Very well, if you insist on being this trying, I’ll strike you a bargain. In the barn outside is an old black Cadillac, in perfect working condition. My wife and I have no real need for it, and the Lord knows our son Lafayette will never be able to drive it. If you leave town before dawn tomorrow, without saying goodbye to a single soul including our son, the car is yours. I guarantee it’s worth a substantial amount more than the wreck you arrived in.”

I pushed the Bible back across the desk to him. “How can I make this any clearer? I don’t want anything that’s yours, Reverend. Not your Bible. Not your car.”

“I hope you’ll include my son on that list.”

I shook my head. “I said I didn’t want anything that’s yours. Look a little deeper into your son’s soul, and I think you’ll find he was never yours to begin with.”

The reverend snatched up his Bible and opened the small chest on his desk. He was about to return his precious book when I caught sight of something else inside the box.

Was that—

An envelope…?

With Lovesong’s name written on it…?

In Joel’s handwriting?

“What’s that?” I snapped, reaching for the chest. But Reverend Jim promptly tossed the Bible into the box and slammed the lid shut.

He twisted the key in the lock, pulled it out and slipped it into the desk drawer.

I felt my throat tighten, I bunched up my fist, I wanted to demand he open the chest again. I wanted to see what was in there, to make certain I wasn’t just imagining what I thought I saw. I wanted to scream at him to open the box, to fight him for it.

But I thought better of it, knowing the chest was locked, knowing if there was something in there that the reverend was hiding from the world, he certainly wasn’t about to open it for me.

From the kitchen, the reverend’s wife called. “Gentlemen, supper will be ready momentarily.”

I wasn’t interested in staying a second longer, and I got the feeling the reverend wanted me gone as badly as I wanted to go.

I turned for the door to his study. “Apologize to your wife for me, but I won’t be staying for supper. I seem to have lost my appetite.”

With that I promptly left the house.