"Deal." Wade dug into his tight Levi's to get his wallet.
"I'm going to make a liquor run up to Don Oscar's. Ya'll want to come?" Junior said, slipping Wade’s cash into the pocket of his army jacket.
Reggie spat a chunk of phlegm that clung to the side of the dumpster for a moment before it slid to the ground like a coddled egg. "That stuff kills your brain cells, man. Mom's sending me to Duke next year, and I hope there's enough left upstairs to get to medical school."
Wade reached up and tapped him on the skull. "Anybody home, Doctor Dope? What do you think you're smoking, cloves or something?"
"I can maintain on this stuff. Liquor messes with me. Plus, getting caught for drunk driving would play hell with my home life. Not to mention skipping school. That would fuck up my citizenship grade, and I want to graduate in June."
"You need to quit worrying about the future, man," Junior said. "There ain't no damn future."
"I'm up for a liquor run. I'm failing anyway." Wade nodded toward the main body of the school. "My ass is going to be in the pine all summer as it is."
"Cry me a river, man," Reggie said. "Say, you clowns going to Blossomfest tomorrow?"
"Kind of artsy-fartsy craft bullshit, isn't it?"
"Yeah. But Sammy Ray Hawkins is playing. And there'll be all kinds of pussy in town."
"Reg, admit it. Your mom's making you go."
Reggie's froggy eyes looked at the litter on the ground. "Well, she is the fucking mayor."
"Me and Junior always go fishing on Saturdays,” Wade said.
Like hell. This old southern white boy ain't never casting another hunk of bait. Because of what might take it. Because of what you might catch.
Or what might catch YOU.
"You know," Junior said, "Blossomfuck might be good for a laugh, especially if you got the right attitude." He patted the pocket where he kept his dope.
"Hey, where's my Red?" Wade said.
"You want to go to Don Oscar's?"
"Does a bear shit in the woods?"
Junior punched him lightly on the biceps. "You drive, I'll roll."
"Since you ain't old enough to have a license, I guess I'm elected." Wade brushed back his Superman curl.
The two teenagers stepped out of the shadows of the alcove and headed for the parking lot. Neither cared if they were seen. Suspension just meant a few days of dope-filled vacation.
"See you guys tomorrow," Reggie said, sniffing and tugging at the collar of his leather jacket, feeling as high as a god.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Armfield Blevins gripped the pulpit and looked out over his imaginary flock. The Lord had brought Armfield this station, and now it was his own.
"The time is at hand," he said in his brimstone voice.
"The wicked are among us, poisoning our spirits with their drink, tempting us with the burning vessels of their flesh, reaching into our hearts with hands that turn to claws. They come disguised as angels, as loved ones, as friends. They come dressed in smiles and shapely clothes and flashing jewelry. They come with golden skin and fine hair and beckoning eyes. Because Satan is clever. Satan is mighty. Satan is determined."
He slammed a fist on the pulpit and the sound reverberated off the stained glass and dark wood of the church. With Easter approaching soon, the house would be packed. A wide-eyed hush of faithful, the men in stiff ties, the women in lavender and yellow chiffon, their perfumes floating like incense in the church's sacred air. Children sniffling and dreaming of chocolate eggs, pinned to their seats by the steely stares of their mothers. All wanting Armfield to lift their spirits and beat off the dusty sin, to then return them to the world pure and new and whole.
He would use this coming Sunday to whip them into a holy froth, to drive their sins to the surface so that they might see their own mortal wickedness. He would force them to look inward at their own black hearts so that all could see for themselves how much they needed Armfield. He would burden them with guilt and darken their brows with trouble. He would make them ache for their preacher, the only one who could shape their flawed souls and make them perfect once again.
But only practice made perfect. He dropped his voice from thunder to a whisper, making sure the words carried to every corner of the empty church.
"And Satan walks among us now. He sees the things the Lord has put on this world and claims them as his rightful keep. Satan builds his throne upon our backs, sets up his kingdom in our tall buildings and our space ships and our science laboratories. He walks in the fields of life as if he is the reaper, as if the fruit of this earth has grown ripe for his dark harvest."
Now Armfield scanned the room, silently accusing every imaginary face. He let his voice crack slightly as he continued.
"And we invite him in. We open the gates of our hearts and say, ‘Come in, Satan, come into our homes and hearts and gardens, for you blind us with your glory. You offer us pleasure and wealth and earthly goods, and for that we embrace you. For you are more human than that other one, that faraway God who has no face and who asks us to make sacrifices of time and love, who promises treasure that we cannot see or hold or spend or fornicate with.’"
Now he could let his eyes mist a little, so that those in the front rows could see.
"That faraway God, who seems small and useless in the shadow of almighty Satan. That faraway God who seems not to hear when we ask for pay raises and better golf scores and a multitude of attractive lovers. That faraway God who asks us to give our precious money to His church, who asks us to walk upright and do unto others and ignore the lusts in our heart. That faraway God who seems to take more than He gives."
Now Armfield nodded gravely and lowered his eyes, as if all hope were lost, as if the Lord were extinguishing the sun, as if the storm clouds of the Apocalypse were gathering outside.
"Satan offers much. Yes, his gifts come in pretty packages. He brings joy to our flesh. He speaks our language."
Now the long, heavy silence, so that his words could settle into the flock and the woodwork and the red carpet.
"And God offers only one gift."
Armfield turned and looked toward the crucifix at the heart of the church, that solemn icon that was bought with embezzled church funds. Someone would cough now, someone whose throat was thick with harbored tears. Another would shuffle his shoes in discomfort. An infant would bleat in borrowed shame.
And Armfield would again face the crowd. His head would lift toward the arches of the church, as if seeing through the pine planks and shingles to a brighter ceiling. Now the tears could come, just two tiny trickles at first. He would repeat the hook: "God offers only one gift."
Armfield was fully in the moment now, as if the crowd was actually before him, arching, and leaning forward to hear every divine word. Armfield lifted his arms slowly, as if Satan had weighted his flesh.
"The gift of salvation."
Now the tears could flow, now the tears could glisten on his cheeks, now he had the whole world in his hands.
He spoke, voice rich with emotional tremolo, his shoulders shaking with agonized bliss.
"Because He sent His only begotten Son to die on the cross. So that the blood of the Son might wash away the grime of our sins. That one would die so that all might live eternal. That one light might shine so that all darkness is banished. That one heart could hold all our pains and troubles and sins, so that we might be spared."
He rose to a crescendo, and using tears and rhythm and tone and all the weapons of his craft, Armfield could lift them into the light.
"That one named Jesus-ah, who took the nails in His flesh-ah, who endured His crown of thorns-ah, who looked down from His high windy cross-ah, and forgave us for what we had done. Because He knew we were weak-ah and human-ah and full of Satan-ah. Jesus gave His earthly life so that we would not have to die, so that we could dwell forever in the House of the Lord-ah.