Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

Hicks leaned over and spit off the edge of the porch. “Hyatts,” he said. “I know you been keeping company with ’em. Nothing but white trash, all of ’em.”

Craig hid his annoyance. “Yeah, I’ve been to visit a few times, but that’s kinda harsh, isn’t it?”

“That Chloe Hyatt? Back when she was Chloe Smith, you could find her out in the fields with a different boy every night. Sometimes even with boys whose blood was a little too close to her own, if you take what I mean. That sound harsh to you?”

“Well, yeah, actually. Sounds like gossip.”

“Ain’t no gossip. That’s pure-D fact. Come up on her a few times myself when I’d be out hunting or fishing. Scared up her and whatever boy she was with. All I seen was assholes and elbows.” He snorted at the memory, a sound so full of bile that Craig understood anew why everyone left the old man alone. “And that daughter of hers is the same way. Before she run off to join the army, she made sure every boy in the county knew what a girl’s mouth could do for them.”

“I’m sure you have a few youthful indiscretions in your own past, Mr. Hicks,” Craig said, but he found it hard to keep his tone even. How did Hicks know he’d visited the Hyatts unless one of them told him?

“Not like that Bronwyn Hyatt. She was a hellion for sure. Had an abortion when she was sixteen, did you know that? Wouldn’t never say who the daddy was. I figure it was that oldest Gitterman boy, Dwayne, but hell, could’ve been anyone old enough to stand at attention, the way she carried on. Might as well have strapped a mattress to her back.”

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hicks,” Craig said as he started to rise.

“Sit down!” Hicks barked. “You don’t walk off when I’m talking to you!”

Craig stared; the old man’s sudden burst of fury was overwhelming, like a volcano that had previously been merely placidly steaming. His face blazed bright red beneath his cap, and his eyes shone as if lit internally. Demonic was the word that first came to mind.

Craig slowly sat back down. He forced himself to step outside his immediate resentment. Whatever else, he could at least spend a few minutes listening; perhaps Hicks had been unpleasant for so long, he knew no other way to be. Christ wouldn’t stomp off in a huff.

Hicks glared at him, showing more animation than Craig had ever seen. “Let me tell you about your ‘war hero,’ Reverend. That little slut spent four months in juvenile jail for stealing a car when she was fourteen. She was arrested twice for selling dope, but shook that little ass of hers and got out of it. Does that sound like some goddamn hero to you? It don’t to me, that’s for certain. Yeah, sure, she got all shot up and got rescued on live TV, but that ain’t nothing. Sure as shit ain’t heroic. ”

Then as quickly as it rose, the storm of rage passed. His color returned to normal, and he resumed his methodical rocking. After a long moment Craig said, “Anything else?”

“Naw,” Hicks said, looking straight ahead. He seemed content, satisfied that he’d somehow done his job.

“Well… I’ll be going then.” He stopped halfway through standing to see if the old man would bellow at him again, but there was nothing. He left the porch as quickly as he could without running.

Back in his car, the air conditioner blasting in his face, he had time to evaluate. Maybe Hicks was sliding into dementia. Yet his anger had not been irrational, just out of proportion. Perhaps it was simply the ire that can fester in isolated small towns, especially when one person is singled out for notoriety. Craig had witnessed that before, just never out in public and with such an abrupt, 180-degree shift.

Or maybe, he thought with sudden insight, this was all designed by a much greater hand to show him that Bronwyn Hyatt would never be a suitable partner for a preacher. Perhaps the pain he endured now would spare him a greater pain later.

As he pulled out of the lot, he noticed that the door at the building’s back corner, marked with a tiny sign as NEEDSVILLE CITY HALL, now stood open. In the three months Craig had visited Needsville regularly, he’d never seen that, so he immediately pulled the car back into its space and got out. He avoided eye contact with Hicks until the old man was out of sight.

He knocked on the doorframe, then stuck his head inside the tiny office. “Hello?”

Marshall Goins looked up from behind an old wooden desk. A green filing cabinet stood against the wall, along with a photo of Bill Monroe where, in most city halls, the current governor’s portrait would hang. “Well, howdy, Reverend,” he said with a big grin. He stood and offered his hand. “Just getting the water bills ready to go out. What brings you around?”

“I’ve never seen the city hall open before,” Craig said honestly.

Marshall laughed. “That’s true enough. Not a lot of civic business in a town of less than three hundred. But we do have to send out the bills, and every so often, somebody’ll need something notarized.”

“Are you the mayor?”

“’Fraid so. Hard to get shed of the job when no one runs against you.”

“Could be a sign of confidence.”

“Or laziness,” Marshall said with a laugh.

Craig looked around. “So this is the seat of power for Needsville.”

“I don’t know about ‘power.’ You got the two Tufa tribes each with their own place, and—” Suddenly he scowled and shook his head. “Listen to me, sounding like I know something. You know, Reverend, you got a way of making a fella so relaxed, he forgets his good sense.”

Craig knew he’d just lucked up on something and had to proceed carefully. “I think it’s just because everyone here is so friendly. Sure can’t be because you’re used to preachers.”

“That’s true,” Marshall said. “Hope you can make it work, though. You’re a lot more easygoing than some have been.”

“Marshall, why don’t you go to church? Why don’t any of the Tufa go to church? We are in the Bible Belt, after all.” He deliberately kept the same jovial, carefree tone, but inside he was alive with anticipation.

“The Tufa.” Marshall snorted. “Do you know what the Tufa are, Reverend? We’re people they ain’t got any other name for. We ain’t white, we ain’t black, we ain’t red, we sure ain’t Mexican or Chinese. I don’t even know what the word means. And maybe it means nothing at all. If I was to leave Needsville, nobody’d look at me twice. They sure wouldn’t need a special name for me.”

Craig smiled. “Is that the truth, Mr. Goins?”

Marshall laughed. “I reckon so. Who’d lie to a preacher?”

“Somebody with a guilty conscience.”

“My conscience is as white as the first winter snow,” he said, looking heavenward and batting his eyes.

They both laughed. Craig decided to take a risk, based on his sense of Marshall’s innate decency. “Hey, can I ask you something and have you promise to keep it between us?”

“Of course, Reverend.”

“I’ve been hearing some gossip about Bronwyn Hyatt. I know she was pretty wild before she joined the army, but what I’ve been told goes way beyond that. Wondered how much of it was true.”

Marshall paused and thought. “Well, Bronwyn was a hellion. They called her the Bronwynator, you know. She’d take a drink, a draw, or a dare from anybody. And she ran with a rough crowd. But I tell you, I’ve known Deacon and Chloe all my life, and they wouldn’t raise a child with a bad song in her soul. Besides, she’s too important to us.”

“Because she’s a hero?”

He looked startled, shook his head, and laughed again. “Boy, you can sure put a fellow off his line, Reverend. You don’t be worrying about Miss Brownyn Hyatt. That leg of hers may be a little stiff, but a year from now, I bet you won’t even know she was hurt unless you’re close enough she shows you the scars. All that other talk—” He held up a bottle of Wite-Out. “Time has a way of covering up mistakes, just like this stuff does. She mighta sowed some wild oats, maybe even done some things that crossed the line of the law. But a fella’s got to have faith in his fellow man, or woman, doesn’t he?”