Now they couldn't even raise a hand against them at school. Damned liberals were coddling these snot-nosed delinquents like the brats were the victims. Paul had seen the cops bring the boy home once. Peggy had stood in the doorway in her crusty flower-patterned nightgown and nodded her tired bleached head and said Yeah, Officer, I'll keep an eye on him from now on and I know he really ain't a bad boy at heart and I don't know why he'd ever do such a thing.
And the cops had just shrugged and nodded back and driven away.
And the brat had the balls to wear the uniform of the United States military, when that boy had 4-F written all over him. Ought to be a law against that.
Paul watched as the boy put his ear to the trailer door and turned, rage reddening his sharp young face. The boy kicked the gravel and spat in disgust. Then his eyes narrowed to slits, viper's eyes, as he looked around the trailer park. Paul ducked back into the shadows, knowing he'd be invisible because of the bright sunshine outside.
The boy quietly opened the door of Jimmy's pickup and rummaged around. Paul heard the faint clatter of tools and saw an oily rag fall to the gravel driveway. The boy lifted a bottle from under the seat, and Paul saw its brown liquid contents glinting in the light. The boy tucked the bottle into his army jacket with a secretive smirk and jogged toward the stand of scrub pine at the back end of the trailer park.
And he's a little thief to boot. What that boy needs is a good ass-whooping. I've been whooped by hickory switches and thumped with the Bible and ground under the boot of the military and it ain't hurt me not one little bit.
He strained his ears toward the Mull trailer. A window was open, and he could hear bedsprings groaning in rhythm. And Peggy was panting in that way that half the town knew. The wrinkled fingers of Paul's left hand cupped the jar of moonshine while his right hand went down to salute the old soldier.
Preacher Blevins looked up from his lunch. He wished he hadn't.
His wife, Amanda, was looking at him through the greasy black slits of her eye-liner. He choked down the throatful of bland tuna salad and reached for his coffee cup.
Was she trying to become the next Tammy Faye Bakker? One was enough. He didn't need a caricature trophy, a tin-voiced verse-spouter sitting on his shoulder.
"Do you like your sandwich, Armfield?" she asked in her whiny Georgia twang. She stretched his name into three syllables: Ahmm-fee-yuld.
"It's just fine, dear."
"I'm going down to Belk's today to buy me a new dress for Blossomfest. What color do you think I should choose?"
Armfield thought she'd look good in funeral black, with her dewy eyes sewn shut and the Alamo Rose troweled off her lips. Those big puffy lips that he'd once made her use in the way that had gotten the Sodomites burned. The image of him slipping on top of her while she was in her coffin popped into his head. Not that she could perform much worse dead than she did while living.
The devil was at him again. He took a gulp of coffee and said, "Get whatever kind of dress you want, dear."
"Maybe I'll get something that will work for Easter, too. Maybe something robin's-egg blue with a touch of pink lace and a yellow chiffon scarf."
He took another bite of his sandwich. Damn that Sarah and her whole-wheat bread. Now she had taken to keeping tofu in the refrigerator. It looked like an albino cow patty to him.
He thought of Nettie, who was coming in to work at the church that afternoon. The image of the church secretary made his pulse beat faster. He drank the grainy dregs of his coffee and looked at Amanda, wondering if he might spend his sudden passion in her well-preserved lap.
No, never after she'd already put on her makeup. And never in daylight. And never on Sunday. And never when Sarah might hear. And never when her favorite shows were on television. And never when "Armfield, how do you think I would look with a perm?" She touched her burnt red hair with a wispy hand.
"I think you look fine the way you are. But whatever makes you happy makes me happy.” He tried on a smile that stretched his top lip over his twin beaver teeth. "And you know you're shining in the eyes of the Lord, and that's all that matters."
"Oh, Armfield." She tittered, and she may have blushed under her sheet of foundation, but Armfield couldn't be sure. Her clotted smile was enough to shrivel away the last of his excitement.
"Got to go to the church, honey.” He walked over and kissed the top of her head. The kiss tasted of chemicals and her hair didn't move.
"I think I'll buy me a hat, too," Amanda said. "Then I'm going to ride out to see Genevieve Moody about this year's blood drive. See if she wants to spend some of her husband's money. Maybe get her to go with me to the mall down in Barkersville."
"The Lord wants us to enjoy the fruits of our labors," Armfield said, heading out the door.
Just don't max out the credit card. I can only steal so fast. Even the Lord's bank accounts aren't bottomless.
"Have a good day, dear," he called cheerfully before crossing the yard to the church. "Say hello to the Moodys for me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jimmy Morris rolled over onto his back, sweat ringing his unwashed neck. The room smelled of chlorine and olives. Peggy curled into the crook of his tattooed arm, nuzzling his coarse chest.
"Jimmy, you sure know how to treat a lady," she purred.
Jimmy grunted and reached for the bottle that he'd left on the bedside table. He fumbled among the condom wrappers and cigarette butts and old dental floss until his hand struck glass.
He reached his arm over Peggy's damp stringy hair and twisted off the cap, then poured a slug of brown liquor into his mouth. He swished a couple of times to get the taste of Peggy off his tongue, and then swallowed. Fire raged through his gullet and he smiled in satisfaction.
Peggy lifted her head, making a splotching sound as her cheek lifted from Jimmy's sticky skin. She took the bottle from him and sipped at it like a baby taking suckle.
She don't know what she’s missing. If she ever got ahold of the good stuff, she'd be spoiled rotten. But she's happy with this four-dollar-a-pint antiseptic that passes for whiskey, so I might as well save that Jim Beam in the truck for the gals who need to feel pampered.
"That sure was fun, sugar," Jimmy said. He winced against the light pouring through the trailer window. It must be getting toward evening. He wondered how long he dared to stay. Sylvester could drive up any moment. Not likely, but a possibility.
But the danger was part of the thrill. And if he could get Peggy to go along with his idea, there would be a whole hell of a lot of thrill. He took another painful swig and put the bottle down. He cupped Peggy's worn chin in his hand. Dark grease filled the swirls of his fingerprints.
"You know you're good at that, darling. The best I know of," he said, in what he thought of as his George Clooney voice.
"Jimmy, you're just saying that," Peggy said, not hiding the happiness in her voice.
"I mean it. You're worth a little risk."
"You mean to do this, or do you mean it’s risky to love me?"
Jimmy frowned and looked for a different path, one that led away from fool emotions. "What I mean, sugar, is you're too good to waste on Sylvester. What kind of man stays out in the woods all the time when he's got something like this at home?"
He ran a hand over Peggy's freckled breast. Her nipple flexed and stiffened, like an earthworm caught with its head out of the ground.