“I’m sorry—again.” I rubbed my eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping too well the past couple of nights.”
“Which means most of the week, unless I miss my guess—don’t bother denying it, either. I could pack for a month’s vacation in the Caribbean with those bags under your eyes. Still taking your medication like the doctor prescribed?” Meaning my anti-depressants.
“Yes.”
“Still going to your weekly appointments?” Meaning Dr. Ellis, the psychiatrist who prescribes my anti-depressants.
“They’re twice a week—and, yes, I’m still going.”
She tilted her head to the side, puzzling. “Hmm. How about your diet? Your appetite been okay, Sam? Been eating regular?”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’m not particularly worried about anything, I haven’t been drinking too much caffeine or anything like that...I have no idea why I can’t sleep.”
“Bad dreams, maybe?”
Before I could answer, a voice behind me and said, “Terrible, just terrible,” loudly enough to make me jump, nearly dropping the stack of plates I’d gathered.
“Hello, Timmy,” said Ethel.
“Terrible, just terrible.”
I did a spin-dip-balance-and-catch routine with the plates that Buster Keaton would have been proud of, then set everything on Ethel’s table in case Timmy or someone else decided to test my reflexes again. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” I said to him, and was immediately sorry for the way I said it because Timmy got this look in his eyes like he was going to start crying. “Oh, hey, I’m sorry, Timmy. I’m not mad or anything, I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.” I put my hand on his shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “Forgive me?”
Timmy is one of the more-or-less permanent residents here. The Reverend never makes anyone leave if they don’t want to or have no place else to go. The city council gives him no end of grief about this come the yearly budget meetings, but like every other city body and official in Cedar Hill, they don’t push it too far; it’s all for show, to save face. I don’t know what it is about the Reverend that makes them always back down, but I’m grateful for it, as are the permanent residents like Timmy.
Timmy is something of a walking, talking question mark to all of us. Nobody but the Reverend knows his last name, his story, or even if he’s from Cedar Hill. He never says anything more than “Terrible, just terrible,” to anyone else. But he’s courteous, and quiet, and clean.
He also sees things.
I found out from the Reverend that Timmy suffers from gradual and irreversible macular degeneration. The result is, you see things that aren’t there. In Timmy’s case, these visual hallucinations are pretty harmless: waiters, dancing animals, buildings that have been gone for thirty years, stuff like that. Timmy talks to the Reverend and only to the Reverend. The rest of us make do with Terrible, just terrible—but you’d be surprised how much he can convey with just those three words.
“We still friends?” I asked him. I didn’t want to make him cry; he was the closest thing I had to an older brother.
Timmy wiped his eyes, then pulled in a deep breath and patted my arm, smiling. “Terrible, just terrible.” Said in the same tone as, Don’t ask me dumb questions.
I pressed one of my hands over his and nodded my head.
Ethel finished getting all her things together, and was just about to head back to the Reverend’s office when he came barreling through the swinging doors like a man with a
pissed-off pit bull snapping at his butt. The Reverend is not known for displays of panic, but one look at the expression on his face and all three of us knew something bad had happened.
As if he knew what we were thinking (which wouldn’t surprise me), the Reverend came to a sudden stop, looked up, and tried to smile like nothing was wrong.
“That man couldn’t lie if his life depended on it,” said Ethel.
“What do you suppose it is?” I asked.
Timmy said, “Terrible, just…terrible.”
It was the way he said that last “terrible” that made me and Ethel look at him. Timmy sounded genuinely scared. I patted his shoulder and told him everything would be all right.
The Reverend took a deep breath, held it, then let it out in a quick puff before starting toward us again, slower this time, smiling like someone had just stuck a gun in his back and told him to act natural.
“Some night, eh?” he said.
“Oh, will you can it with the easygoing routine?” said Ethel. “Ain’t none of us blind, we saw you do that Jesse Owens through the doors. What’s wrong?”
“I…” The Reverend looked into Ethel’s eyes and shrugged. “I honestly can’t say—and, no, I don’t mean that I won’t say; I honestly don’t know what’s wrong.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Martha come back yet?”
“No,” said Ethel. “And neither has Joe. What was troubling him, anyway?”
The Reverend walked closer to the front door and stood there a moment, staring out at the freezing rain. “It’s a bad night, Ethel. Nights like this, they make some people think too much. If you think too much, you start remembering things, and some of those things are best left forgotten.”
“You get that from a fortune cookie?”
The Reverend turned to face her. “Beg pardon?”
Ethel sighed. “I asked you what I thought was a fairly direct question, and what do I get for an answer?—gobbledygook that sounds like something from an Igmar Bergman movie.”
“You know Bergman?”
Ethel stood up a little straighter, as if trying to decide whether or not she should be offended. “Yes, I know Bergman movies. I also like Kurosawa and Fellini and think The Three Stooges are very funny. And you’re changing the subject. I asked you what was wrong with Joe?”
“He’s dealing with some bad memories.”
Ethel finished getting ready to leave, handing the Reverend the money envelope. “You can’t save the world, Reverend. Only that part of it that comes through these doors and chooses to stay.” He took the money from her and grinned. “When I grow up, I want to be just like you.” “You’d look terrible in my wardrobe, you’re an Autumn.” He shook the envelope. “Ah…sounds like…let me guess…twenty dollars?” “Learn to juggle while blindfolded and you could take that act on the road.” The Reverend laughed. “Oh, Ethel…what would I do without you?”
“Don’t you be sweet-talking me, mister. I’m immune to your charms.”
“No you’re not.”
Ethel smiled; her smile is a wonderful thing to behold. “No, I’m not, but we can’t have you thinking you’re special or anything like that, now, can we?” She kissed his cheek, smiled at me and Timmy, and was just going out the door at the same time Sheriff Ted Jackson was coming in. The sheriff stood aside and held the door open for her.
“Evenin’, Sheriff,” said Ethel. “There some kind of trouble?”
“Only my troubled heart—why won’t you run off with me, Ethel, why?”
She laughed and smacked his arm. “Ted, one of these days I’m gonna take you up on that, and then what’ll you do?”
“Rejoice. Sing. Dance in the street.”
Ethel shook her head. “You men. What goes on in those heads of yours?”
“Sweet dreams of holding you in my arms, Ethel,” said Jackson. As Ethel walked away toward her car, Jackson called out: “Don’t leave me! I’ll crumble. I love you. Come back!”