A small photo of a gap-toothed little black girl had been enclosed. Bronwyn gazed into those wide, dark eyes. She saw nothing she recognized.
She put the picture beside her on the bed. Someone was sad, not because she was nearly killed, but because she had to kill other people. Bliss’s words came back to her once more: Even with people, there’s some that need killing.
She realized with renewed vividness that she truly was different from other people, even most other Tufas. The haint knew it. And maybe that’s why Bliss entrusted her with that pragmatic truth so long ago.
She no longer had to pee. She lifted her leg back onto the mattress, wincing at the slight, almost obscene movement of metal bolts penetrating her skin. This would have to end soon. She took three Vicodin, one more than her doctor recommended, and closed her eyes, waiting for the effects to kick in. But she found herself still awake as the sky outside lightened at dawn, her curtains waving in the last of the night wind.
12
Craig Chess waved to George Landers across the Shoney’s. Craig had already claimed a booth, and the older man sauntered over with the easy grace of someone content with his place in the world. This particular Shoney’s was located at an exit equidistant between Craig’s home in Smithborough and George’s in Unicorn, and they’d met here several times so Craig could pick George’s brain.
An elderly lady stopped him and said something that made him smile. He patted her hand before continuing on. Craig felt a tingle of envy, because it was exactly that sort of moment he craved. He wanted the respect he saw in the old woman’s eyes. But he also knew George had spent years building it, and he, Craig, had yet to preach his first sermon in his own church.
When George reached the booth, Craig stood and offered his hand. “Reverend Landers.”
“Reverend Chess,” the newcomer replied. Then he laughed. “Craig, it’s both a pleasure to consider you an equal, and a little disconcerting. I have golf shoes older than you.”
“I’m not your ‘equal,’ George. You’re still my elder.”
“Ouch. ‘Elder.’ I should be wearing bifocals, then, and using a walker.”
Craig knew George ran three miles every morning, even on Sunday. “You know what I mean.”
They sat, ordered coffee, and when the waitress was gone, Landers asked, “So how goes the new church? Ready for opening morning? Is it next weekend?”
“No, it’s this Sunday. If anyone shows up, I’ll be surprised.”
“Reaching the Tufa has defeated many a young zealot, I reckon,” Landers agreed. “I knew a man who’d once been a top vinyl siding salesman before hearing the call. His first post was in Needsville itself, if you can imagine that. Not only did no one show up, he couldn’t keep his piano in tune. For some reason that aggravated him more than anything else. He asked for a post in China soon after.”
“That’s a big reason I wanted to meet with you,” Craig said. “I’ve been spending time in town, just hanging out and introducing myself, offering any help I can. Everyone’s friendly enough, but I can’t imagine any of them in a pew on Sunday morning.” He sipped his coffee. “What do you know about them that I don’t?”
“They’re quiet, keep to themselves,” George deadpanned.
“I already know that. But why don’t they come to church?”
“Why doesn’t anyone? We’re not relevant to them.”
“Are the Tufas even Christian?”
Landers shrugged. “Son, greater men than you or I have puzzled over that. The real Tufas, the ones with family ties back to pre-Revolutionary times, won’t talk. The ones that do talk, don’t know anything. So it’s a tough little nut.”
Craig recalled Deacon Hyatt’s comments. “They must believe in something.”
“Sure, they do: music. I’ve never met one yet that didn’t sing or play some kind of instrument. And play the heck out of it, too. If they ever wanted to, about half of ’em could probably move to Nashville and be on everyone’s iPods within six months.”
“Why don’t they?”
“Some do. Ever heard of Rockhouse Hicks?”
“Sure, he sits outside the post office every day. I’ve met rabid skunks who were friendlier.”
“That’s him. Well, back in the late sixties, he almost made it as a big bluegrass star. Put out a record, traveled with Bill Monroe, was right on the edge. Then he got caught in a sex scandal, and that was that.”
Craig didn’t hide his surprise. “A sex scandal? That’s a little hard to picture.”
“He’s just a man,” Landers said. “Prey to the same temptations as us all. But my point is, that tends to happen to any of the real Tufas who leave their little valley. Look at your latest celebrity, Bronwyn Hyatt.”
“Being hurt in a war is a little different from having trouble keeping your pants zipped.”
“Maybe. But both happened away from Needsville.”
The waitress refreshed their coffee. “So they play music, and they fare badly when they leave home. That still doesn’t help me get them to church.”
“No. But in six months when you get moved to another position, you’ll at least understand a little about why this didn’t work.”
“That’s pretty fatalistic for a minister.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, if God wants them in church, they’ll go to church. I believe that, and apparently so does the annual conference, because they keep sending new ministers until they find one who can reach these people.”
“Do you believe God wants them in church?”
Landers looked around, then leaned over the table and spoke softly. “Here’s what I think, and if you repeat it, I’ll deny it. I believe God wants everyone in church, but I’m not entirely sure our God and their God are the same thing.”
“There’s a school of thought that would call that blasphemy.”
“And they’d be right, but there it is. We also have noses that run and feet that smell. Sometimes the universe just doesn’t make sense.”
Don Swayback pulled his car to the side of the road beneath an oak tree. The sporadic shade made the sunlight dance on his dusty windshield. He picked up the road atlas and compared it to the Internet maps he’d printed out at home. Both agreed; so where the hell was the turnoff?
Ahead he saw the intersection of Highway 23 and Curly Mane Road. A tractor reached it and slowly pulled onto the highway, headed away from Don. Far behind him, though still visible in the mirror, was the turnoff for Jenkins Trail. And in between should have been the road that dead-ended at the Hyatt farm, called simply Hyatt Way. But he’d been up and down this stretch of blacktop a dozen times without finding it.
He thumped the steering wheel in annoyance. He’d always heard the Tufa could disappear when they wanted to, although he assumed that meant they vanished right before your eyes, which of course was impossible. It was typical of the stories that grew up around small, isolated places, and that white folks tended to spread about any group with darker skin. But he supposed that being impossible to find was the same as disappearing.
He jumped when an unmistakable electronic shriek sounded right behind his car. In the rearview mirror he saw the state trooper’s cruiser; in the side mirror, he watched the trooper emerge and swagger toward him. The officer took his time, planting each large foot flat and square so every step sounded like approaching retribution.
When the trooper reached the driver’s open window, Don looked up and saw his own reflection in the mirrored shades. “Sir, are you having car trouble?” the trooper asked, in a tone that seemed more suited to a Guantánamo guard.