“And did you?”
“Most of my people didn’t like it.” My forehead smiles, remembering. (My forehead can smile, too, and frown if necessary.) “Agents,” I say. “Managers. Even Buddy. They all liked me working, it meant more money for everybody. Reverend Cornbraker was the one who gave me permission to slow down, and I did, and then it lasted just a little while.”
“And then it came to an end.”
My forehead gives him a rueful look. “Sure did. I know Buddy meant well with what he did, but sometimes, even now, I find myself wishing I’d never learned the truth.”
Flashback 16A
The living room of the ranch stretched across the entire front of the place so that in three directions, through the six-over-six windows flanked by red and white check curtains, the views were of wild and tumbled hills, tall pines, thick untamed underbrush, and high triangles of pale blue sky. Not one artifact of man was visible out there, as though the ranch were a trapper’s cabin high in the Rockies in a silent movie. Except in color, of course.
Within, the ambiance was of a trapper who’d done very well for himself; an Astor, perhaps. The knotty-pine furniture with rosy chintz-covered cushions was rustic but comfortable. The Indian rugs on the floor were muted Mondrians, schematic, symmetric, each with its tiny deliberate unnoticeable imperfection, placed there so the gods — who think of perfection as their own prerogative-would not become jealous and take vengeance on the carpet’s maker. Or owner.
Balancing the broad, heavy, dark-wood front door, on the opposite wall, was a huge fields tone fireplace in which a construct of large logs slowly burned, orange and red. Above the fireplace, where the moose’s head might be expected — and where, until recently, the moose’s head had in fact been displayed — a wide amber painting hung, called “The Return from Calvary”: the weeping women in the foreground, the dirt road curving back and up to Golgotha, the three crosses tiny but prominent there against the cloud-raging sky.
A sound of Gregorian chants filled the clean air of the high-ceilinged room. Jack, dressed in red floral neckerchief, checked flannel shirt, Levis, and well-worn cowboy boots, sat in a wide knotty-pine armchair near the fire and read a copy of Lives of the Saints. Peace, that peace that surpasseth understanding, abided in the room.
Hoskins, dressed quite similarly in style to Jack, although his neckerchief was blue and his cowboy boots less worn, and the entire sartorial approach less suited to his size, shape, age, and demeanor, entered bearing a silver tray on which stood an opened can of Coke and an ice-cube-filled glass. He placed the can and the glass on the rough-legged knotty-pine table beside Jack’s chair.
“Thank you, Hoskins,” Jack said, glancing up from his book. “We’re all equal in the eyes of God, you know.”
Hoskins bowed from the waist and from the neck. “And very good of Him it is, too, sir,” he said.
Jack returned to his reading. Hoskins bowed again and departed toward the rear of the house, carrying the silver tray. Jack poured some Coke into the glass, waited for the bubbles to subside, and sipped. He returned to his reading.
The Coke was not quite finished and the ice cubes not quite half their original size twenty minutes later when the broad front door opened and Buddy entered, also dressed in the same style as Jack, except that his neckerchief was black and his boots were a highly polished snakeskin. In this setting, dressed in such similar fashion, that old resemblance of their youth was more pronounced again, as though they were cousins employed by the same rancher.
Jack looked up, as always pleased to see his friend. “What say, Buddy? Have a good trip to town?”
“In a way,” Buddy said. He was carrying a large manila envelope in his left hand. He shut the front door behind him, crossed the room, and sat in the chair on the other side of the small table bearing the Coke. Jack went back to his reading, and Buddy sat watching him, his expression troubled. He fidgeted with the manila envelope in his hands. One Gregorian chant sighed and reverberated to an end, and a moment later another one started.
Jack looked up, mildly interested. “Something wrong, Buddy?”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Buddy said, looking and sounding sorry, “but I’ve got some bad news.”
“There is no bad news in the eyes of the Lord, Buddy,” Jack reminded him. “Just good news.”
Buddy took a deep breath, and then blurted out: “The Reverend Elwood Cornbraker’s a phony.”
Smiling, confident, Jack shook his head. A finger marked his place in Lives of the Saints. He said, “Oh, no, he isn’t, Buddy.”
“But he is.”
“Buddy,” Jack said, “I know you haven’t felt the call as strongly as I have, but you can be sure of one thing: Reverend Cornbraker’s as real as God Himself.”
Buddy looked grim. He said, “His real name’s Ralph Hatch. He’s done time twice in federal pens on mail fraud.”
Still confident, Jack smiled in commiseration and said, “Not possible, Buddy. Mistaken identification. Goodness just shines from the reverend’s brow.”
Buddy said, “He also did a couple years in Indiana State Penitentiary for child molestation. He liked to take pictures of himself with the kids.”
Buddy tossed the manila envelope into Jack’s lap, atop the copy of Lives of the Saints he held there. Jack stared at it, his expression growing more and more blank. Finally, with nothing showing on his face at all, he withdrew his finger from Lives of the Saints, placed the book next to the Coke can on the table, and picked up the envelope. Even with nothing showing on his face, it was clear from the slope of his shoulders and the slowness of his movements that he really and truly didn’t want to know what was inside that envelope. He opened its flap, then looked across at Buddy, but there was no reprieve there. Buddy sat and waited and watched.
Jack sighed. He slid two fingers down into the manila envelope and partially brought out an eight-by-ten glossy photograph. He turned envelope and photograph around so he could look at the picture, then sat for a long silent moment unmoving, studying what he saw.
Buddy cleared his throat. He said, “The Feds got a tip that Hatch was back in business.”
Jack glanced at Buddy. “A tip? Who from?”
“Anonymous,” Buddy said. “I figure we’ll never know who blew the whistle.”
Jack looked at his friend. He nodded. He looked again at the photograph.
Buddy said, “Hatch is under surveillance now; they’ll close in soon when they’ve got all the evidence they need. I didn’t want you to be there when it happened.”
Still looking at the photo, Jack said, “Turn off that fucking music, will you, Buddy?”
Buddy got to his feet and crossed the room to where the stereo equipment was concealed in an old marble-topped dry sink. While he hunkered in front of it, opening its door, Jack removed three more large photos from the envelope, dropped the envelope on the floor, and looked at the pictures, turning them this way and that.
The Gregorian chant stopped. Buddy rose, shut the dry sink’s doors, and came back across the room to sit once more at Jack’s left hand.
His manner calm, judicious, Jack tapped the photo he was looking at and said, “I didn’t know anybody could do it in that position.”
Buddy leaned forward over the Coke can. Jack turned the picture so they could both look at it. Buddy said, “It’s young bones. They’re supple.”
“Try that with a grown-up,” Jack suggested, “you’d break something.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Buddy said somberly. He kept looking at the photograph.
Jack also kept looking at the photograph. “Nothing to be sorry about, Buddy. I appreciate what you’ve done. It’s better to know.”