Tom Piccirilli - November Mourns

Shad didn’t know if Dudlow was genuinely unaware of his wife Becka’s lifestyle or not. The preacher might have simply repressed his knowledge beneath the weight of his religious beliefs. It was hard to admit to that kind of failure, especially to yourself. But Becka was usually crocked out on meth and a lot of the buyers came right to her back door. Perhaps Dudlow’s whole act was only a performance and he was actually helping to cook the meth in the church basement.

No matter which was true, you didn’t want the preacher knowing your secrets.

“Comfort and condolences, Shad Jenkins,” Dudlow said.

“Thank you, Reverend.”

“I’ve been meaning to stop by.”

“And now you have.”

He pointed down to the road, where he’d parked his microbus behind the ’Stang. “Yes, I saw your car, thought I’d come up. You look well.”

“So do you.”

Dudlow patted his stomach as if consoling a loved one. “Mama’s got me on a strict diet of legumes. Problem is she bakes so much for the Youth Ministry, the Fellowship Hall, and the Ladies Coalition that she doesn’t miss a few pies. And I can’t help but indulge. I’m weak that way.”

“So am I,” Shad said, letting the lie ease out as if it might bring them closer together.

Dudlow let loose with a moist chortling, and Shad got the feeling that the man was somehow trying to patronize him. He wondered if the preacher showing up the way he did was a coincidence or had a greater design to it.

“Not so anyone would notice, Shad Jenkins. You’re remarkably fit, I can see. More so than when you left us, I’d venture.”

He stood there with an expectant air, as if he might want to get into it, ask some questions, find out if Shad had been anybody’s bitch. Dudlow clapped his gloves together and began to jitter his way toward bad taste subjects, but then finally thought better of it.

“See, it’s her boysenberry that keeps me awake at night.”

“That so?”

“And I can’t just have one piece either, I have to finish the whole thing off or she’d realize I was pilfering. I have to hide the paper plates at the bottom of the trash so she doesn’t learn I’m off her vegetable platters.”

Were they really talking about pies? “Mrs. Swoozie’s baked goods are the best in the county.”

“You’re so right about that! And who can resist? I can’t. If only I had more gumption!” His rotund torso wobbled and shook on those legs as if it might snap loose and roll free.

“We all have our temptations,” Shad said.

“So true. So human of us. It’s a divine test. We’re fated to quarrel with our flaws.”

Would the preacher mention Becka? Was this commentary on sins leading to drugs or Jake Hapgood?

Shad glanced at his feet and saw he was still standing on the graves. Could that be what caused the preacher’s unease? He stepped away and Lament crept up from behind Mama’s headstone, yawned, and sat at Shad’s side.

“A fine looking hound pup!” Dudlow said, smiling so vacantly that Shad could almost see through his head.

“Yes.”

“A terrific dog, that boy there!”

You cut slack where you could, and when you couldn’t give any more you stood and waited. The warden used to play this kind of game, staring at you dead-eyed and talking in circles, imposing himself on the cons until they shrank away. Shad crossed his arms over his chest and kindly regarded Dudlow, unwilling to speak of legumes or cakes or puppies any more.

Dudlow sensed the change and went back to sucking the corners of his mustache for a minute. He toyed with his scarf, and said, “I thought I should visit Megan’s resting place.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“She was such a nice girl with a bright future. Very special. Such a loss.”

“Yes.”

“I spend several mornings a week down at the village cemetery, cleaning up the graves, saying prayers. But I like to make the effort to attend those who aren’t buried on consecrated ground as well.”

So that was it.

The things you could get hung up on.

Dudlow scanned the trees. “Lovely area. I hope your father finds some solace here.”

“I don’t think he does.”

“That saddens me.”

“Me too.”

The preacher shrugged at that, and the ends of his lengthy scarf flapped against his boot laces. The chill breeze thickened around them. Shad let it at his hackles because he was still cooling down, while Dudlow clapped his hands trying to get some blood circulating. The solid whump of his gloves echoed across the embankment.

“I didn’t merely come up here to pay my respects to your sister. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Sure. About what?”

“To offer counsel, if you need it. I’ve dealt with ex-convicts in my parish before. The stigma they face, the prejudice and bias. Often there are great difficulties in readjusting to normal life again.”

Only someone who’d never been inside would put it like that. Shad tried not to smile but wasn’t sure if he managed to keep from showing teeth. Prison had its own methodical regularity, an even keel and conformity that made a lot more sense when you got right down to it. You didn’t trust anyone. You kept out of the action as much as possible. It simplified life, made some things easier.

But the minute your time was up and you grabbed the next bus south, the sudden illusion of normality grew so oppressive that it could drive you crazy trying to wrap your mind around it.

“Thanks,” Shad said.

“In the event you ever wish to talk to someone. If you ever need to unburden yourself over what you may have had to do to survive… and, ah, what might have been done to you, please let me know. I’m always willing to listen.”

Here was another one who thought you did nothing behind bars except pull a train or get locked in the hot box for mouthing off. The preacher was eager for someone else’s perversions. Like his own wife’s wouldn’t be enough.

“I appreciate it,” Shad said.

That did the trick and Dudlow started to relax some, having offered his hand in friendship and spiritual consultation. He could get back to his boysenberry and jackoff thoughts now with a clear conscience. Good, whatever it took.

They stood like that for a while, listening to oak boles moaning, watching the skinks racing through a nearby clump of birch.

“She came to see me. Your sister. Just before-”

Shad tensed so abruptly that his elbows cracked. He really had to do something about this loss of cool. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I was out and Becka said that Megan stopped by. I called around at your father’s house but no one answered.”

“When was this?”

“Three days before she… well…” Dudlow’s voice cracked and a plaintive note chimed weakly. “… before God summoned her back to heaven.”

Even he couldn’t say that kind of shit with a completely straight face.

Toeing the dirt of Megan’s grave as if making airholes for her, Shad asked, “Had she ever visited you at home before?”

“Only if it involved the Youth Ministry, and then she was usually with the rest of the group.”

“She ever appear troubled to you?”

“How so?”

Sometimes you had to draw a picture. “That’s what I’m asking.”

Thinking about it for a second, Dudlow brought the big hard glove up to his face but couldn’t work the fingers well enough to pinch his chin. “No, not after that difficulty between you and that Hester boy.”

“Was there anyone she would have talked with? Somebody she was close to in the group?”

“She was friendly with Glide Luvell, but that girl had nothing to do with the ministry.”

“How about besides her?”

“I believe Callie Anson.”