Donna Tartt - The Little Friend

“It’s Ida’s responsibility,” said her mother, with sudden sharpness, “to fix you something. That’s what I pay her for. If she’s not fulfilling her duties, then we’ll have to find somebody else.”

“Shut up!” screamed Harriet, overcome by the unfairness of this.

“Your father is after me all the time about Ida. He says she doesn’t do enough around the house. I know you like Ida but—”

“It’s not her fault!”

“—if she’s not doing what she should be, then Ida and I will have to have a little talk,” said her mother. “Tomorrow …”

She drifted out, with her glass of peppermint ice cream. Harriet—dazed and baffled by the turn their conversation had taken—put her forehead on the table.

Presently she heard someone come into the kitchen. Dully she glanced up to see Allison standing in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” she said.

“Leave me alone!”

Just then, the telephone rang. Allison picked it up and said, “Hello?” Then her face went blank. She dropped the receiver so it swung by the cord.

“For you,” she said to Harriet, walking out.

The instant she said hello, Hely said in a rush: “Harriet? Listen to this—”

“Can I eat dinner at your house?”

“No,” said Hely, after a confused pause. Dinner at his house was over, but he’d been too excited to eat. “Listen, Essie did go berserk. She busted some glasses in the kitchen and left, and my dad drove by her house and Essie’s boyfriend came out on the porch and they got into a huge fight and Dad told him to tell Essie not to come back, she was fired. Yaaay ! But that’s not why I called,” he said, rapidly; for Harriet had begun to stutter with horror at this. “Listen, Harriet. There isn’t much time. That preacher with the scar is down at at the square right now . There’s two of them. I saw it with Dad, on the way home from Essie’s, but I don’t know how long they’re going to be there. They’ve got a loudspeaker. I can hear them from my house.”

Harriet put the telephone down on the counter and went to the back door. Sure enough, from the vine-tangled seclusion of the porch, she heard the tinny echo of a loudspeaker: someone shouting, indistinctly, the hiss and crackle of a bad microphone.

When she went back to the telephone Hely’s breath, on the other end, was ragged and secretive.

“Can you come out?” she said.

“I’ll meet you at the corner.”

It was after seven, still light outside. Harriet splashed some water on her face from the kitchen sink and went to the toolshed for her bicycle. As she flew down the driveway, the gravel popped under her tires until bump : her front wheel hit the street, and off she skimmed.

Hely, astride his bicycle, was waiting at his corner. When he saw her in the distance, he took off; pedalling furiously, she soon caught up with him. The street lamps were not yet lit; the air smelled like hedge clippings, and bug spray, and honeysuckle. Rose beds blazed magenta and carmine and Tropicana orange in the fading light. They sped past drowsy houses; hissing sprinklers; a yipping terrier who shot out after them, chased behind them for a block or two with his little short legs flying, and then fell away.

Sharply, they turned the corner of Walthall Street. The wide gables of Mr. Lilly’s shingle Victorian flew towards them at a forty-five-degree angle, like a house-boat beached at a sideways tilt upon a green embankment. Harriet let the momentum whisk her through the turn, the fragrance of his climbing roses—clouds of sweetheart pink, tumbling in great drifts from his trellised porch—blowing spicy and evanescent past her as she coasted, free, for a second or two, and then pedalled furiously rounding out upon Main: a hall of mirrors, white facades and columns in the rich light, receding in long, grand perspectives towards the square—where the flimsy white lattices and pickets of bandstand and gazebo bristled in the dim, lavender distance, against the deep blue scrim of the sky—all tranquility, like a backlit stage set at the high-school play ( Our Town ) except for the two men in white shirts and dark trousers pacing back and forth, waving their arms, bowing and rearing back to shout as they walked, their paths meeting in the center and criss-crossing to and fro to all four corners in an X formation. They were going at it like a pair of auctioneers, amplified and rhythmic cants that met, and clashed, and pulled apart, in two distinct lines, Eugene Ratliff ‘s mush-mouthed basso and the high hysterical counterpoint of the younger man, an up-country twang, the sharp-plucked i ’s and e ’s of the mountains:

“—your mama—”

“—your daddy—”

“—your poor little baby that’s in the ground—”

“You mean to tell me that they’re gettin up?”

“I mean to tell you that they’re gettin up.”

“You mean to tell me that they’ll rise again?”

“I mean to tell you that they’ll rise again.”

“The Book means to tell you that they’ll rise again.”

“Christ means to tell you that they’ll rise again.”

“The prophets mean to tell you that they’ll rise again ….”

As Eugene Ratliff stomped his foot, and clapped, so that a greasy hank of the gray ducktail shook loose and fell over his face, the wild-haired fellow flung his hands up and broke out in a dance. He shook all over; his white hands twitched, as if the electrical current blazing from his eyes and standing his hair on end had crackled throughout his entire body, jerking and jittering him all over the bandstand in forthright convulsions.

“—I mean to shout it like the Bible times—”

“—I mean to shout it like Elijah done .”

“—Shout it loud to make the Devil mad—”

“—Come on children make the Devil mad! ”

The square was practically deserted. Across the street stood a couple of teenaged girls, giggling uneasily. Mrs. Mireille Abbott stood in the door of the jewelry store; over by the hardware store, a family sat in a parked car with the windows down, watching. On the little finger of the Ratliff preacher (held lifted out, slightly, from the pencil-thin microphone, as if from a teacup’s handle) a ruby-colored stone caught the setting sun and flashed deep red.

“—Here in these Last Days we’re living in—”

“—We’re here to preach the truth from this Bible .”

“—We’re preaching this Book like the Olden Days.”

“—We’re preaching It like the Prophets done .”

Harriet saw the truck (THIS WORLD IS NOT MY HOME!)—and saw, with disappointment, that the bed was empty, except for a little vinyl-sided amplifier that looked like a cheap briefcase.

“Oh, it’s been a long time since some of you here now—”

“—read your Bible—”

“—gone to Church—”

“—got on your knees like a little child …”

With a jolt, Harriet noticed that Eugene Ratliff was looking directly at her.

“… for to be carnally minded is DEATH —”

“—to be vengefully minded is DEATH —”

“—for the Lust of the Flush is DEATH …”

“Flesh,” said Harriet, rather mechanically.

“What?” Hely said.

“It’s flesh . Not flush .”

“—for the wages of sin is DEATH —”

“—for the lies of the Devil are HELL AND DEATH …”

They’d made a mistake, Harriet realized, by venturing up a little too close, but there was nothing to be done for it now. Hely stood staring with his mouth open. She nudged him in the ribs. “Come on,” she whispered.