Mischief In Maggody

10

"And if you don't mend your ways, why-you'll all spend eternity in the blazing fires of hell," Mrs. Jim Bob concluded in a pious spray of spittle. Steeling herself to be charitable about the big rip in the upholstery of her sofa, she folded her hands in her lap and gazed at the nearest Buchanon bastard, who happened to be Sissie. "Now, just what do you who have to say for yourself?"

"How do I know you ain't lying?"

"Because, young lady, I am a God-fearing Christian woman who was brought up to tell the truth if I didn't want to be beaten on the buttocks by my father's leather strap. I was not reared in some filthy pigsty by a woman with no morals or sense of decency. And now that's she dead and burning forever in the fiery furnace of damnation, you'd better heed what all I say to you." She turned to stare at Bubba, who held a sniveling Sukie on his lap. "And as for you, young man, you're likely to spend your life on this earth in a rat-infested prison cell if you don't mend your ways, not to mention enduring ever-lasting torment after you die some terrible death."

"Big fuckin' deal," Bubba said. "I still think you're a-lyin' about what happened to Her. We don't have to pay any mind to what lies you tell us, or listen to all this shit about devils and fires and furnaces." He pushed Sukie off his lap and stood up. "Come on, y'all. We're gittin' out of here. This holyfied lady's jest tryin' to bumfuzzle us."

Mrs. Jim Bob resisted an urge to smack the smirk off his face, because that wouldn't be charitable in his hour of grief. "If you don't believe me, I'll call Brother Verber to come over here and tell you all the details of how you'll burn in hell until you look worse than a charred marshmallow. But let me point out that you were brought here by the police, which means you're arrested and in my custody. For another thing, you don't have anywhere to go. Your mother is dead, and there's no one in this entire world who has one whit of concern about any of you. If you had any sense at all, you'd drop to your knees and beg my forgiveness for all the wretched, horrible sins you've committed against me, right here in my own home. I'm liable to throw you out myself, and let you sit in the cold night until you all starve to death."

Sissie looked at her brother. "Do you think Her is really dead? Iffen she is, we hafta do something."

Sukie got up off the floor and stuck a finger in her mouth. "Where's Hammet?" she whined, as saliva dribbled down her wrist like a brown crayon mark.

Mrs. Jim Bob stopped being righteous long enough to run a head count. "Where is that little heathen? Did he have the nerve to leave my house without asking permission?"

"You was upstairs," Bubba said. "He'll come back when he's a mind to." He wrinkled his brow for a minute, then frowned at Sissie. "Where the fuck is Baby? You was supposed to watch out for him, and I don't recollect hearing him howl for a long while. I ought to whup you up the side of the head for losing Baby."

He took a step toward her, his hand raised. Shrieking, Sissie dashed behind the sofa and lit out for the kitchen. Sukie began to moan and hiccup, sending more rivulets of brown down her arm to collect on her elbow. Bubba yelled at Sissie to get her ass back afore he kicked it across the county. Sissie yelled that he was gonna be shit-faced sorry, 'cause she was coming back with a goddamn butcher knife to carve out his heart and feed it to the hawgs. Bubba began to stalk toward the kitchen as he loudly opined that she had a fat chance of doin' that.

From her perch on the sofa, Mrs. Jim Bob took in the action. She was still in control, she told herself in a level voice. One or two of the bastards might have wandered off, but she was down from the bedroom and clearly held the upper hand. The bastards were orphans; they were at the mercy of her generosity and hospitality, not to mention the fact she could have all of them thrown in jail for what they'd done to her newly carpeted downstairs. If she was kindhearted enough to allow them to work off the damage, they'd be cutting the grass and scrubbing the floors until they were middle-aged. And cleaning those disgusting smears off the plate glass. And gluing together shattered dishes. And polishing the wood until it positively gleamed. And scraping food off the wallpaper, although the flocked swirls would never look all that pretty again.

"You!" she said, snatching Sukie's arm to dislodge the finger. "You are a nasty little orphan girl. If you don't beg my forgiveness, you're going to be right sorry for the rest of your life."

"Let go my hair or I'll kill you!" Sissie shrieked from the kitchen.

"I'm fixin' to rip out every goddamn hair on your head!" Bubba replied in kind. "And kick your butt till you cain't walk no more!"

"Oh, yeah? How about I cut off your dick?"

Mrs. Jim Bob tightened her grip on Sukie's arm. "Did you understand me, young lady? You just get on your knees and start begging."

Sukie lifted her free hand to consider which finger held the most promise. Once she made her selection, she stuck it her mouth. "Fuck you, lady," she said wetly.

Mrs. Jim Bob was formulating a reply when she heard a knock at the front door, although it was a miracle she heard it over the din from the kitchen. She went to the door, smoothing her skirt along the way, flipped on the porch light, and opened the door with a vague smile.

"Why, David Allen, how nice of you to come by for a visit," she said as she stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her. There was no reason for him to be forced to listen to those vile screeches, she told herself. After all, someone who was unacquainted with the personal sacrifices she'd made by taking in the bastards would be likely to misinterpret what all was going on in her kitchen.

"Good evening," David Allen said, wondering what the holy hell was going on in her kitchen. It sure didn't sound like a meeting of the ladies' missionary society-unless they were role-playing heathen savages.

"I'm afraid I wasn't expecting company just now. Did you drop by unannounced to have a word with Mr. Jim Bob? He's out of town at the moment, but I'd be glad to take a message. Or is there something I can do for you?"

David Allen began to tell her about Robin's death, but she cut him off almost immediately. "I already know about the murder and the booby trap," she said. "I have informed the children, who seem to be taking it well. Of course, they were as aware as the rest of us that the woman was an ignorant, immoral, filthyminded whore and therefore hardly a great loss."

"She were not," Hammet said from behind David Allen.

"There you are, you wicked, wicked child!" Mrs. Jim Bob said. "How dare you sneak away like some slimy snake?"

Before Hammet could point out that snakes wasn't slimy, Sissie opened the front door. "There's some man a-bellowin' for you on this contraption. Sounds like a right ornery peckerwood." Which ruled out Arly and LaBelle, who weren't men, and Brother Verber, who never sounded like an ornery peckerwood. Squaring her shoulders in much the same way the Christians had when ushered into the presence of lions, Mrs. Jim Bob told David Allen that he would simply have to come back in the morning when she could receive him. She went inside and locked the front door, then crossed the living room to the telephone in order to have a word with her husband, who was all the way down in Hot Springs at a municipal league meeting. At least she dearly prayed he was.

David Allen stood on the porch for a while, then finally got into his wagon and drove over to Ruby Bee's Bar and Grill, where over a beer and a cheeseburger he related his news to an interested party.

I woke up the next morning at some absurd hour, heated water for coffee on my camp stove, ate cornflakes from the box, and tidied up the tent. All that got me to seven o'clock. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and had another cup of coffee. That got me to seven-fifteen. I doubted my weekend gardeners would show anytime soon, so I went down to the jeep and made sure it was invisible under the scrub pines and branches I'd piled on it. Seven-thirty. I checked for tire marks along the road, just in case my boys were wily enough to notice. Seven-forty. I was back at the tent, preparing another cup of coffee, when my beeper beeped from somewhere inside the sleeping bag. Although it was not my favorite sound, it was pleasant to reaffirm the existence of an outside world. I went back to the wagon (seven-fifty-five) and called in on the radio. "Somebody need me?" I asked optimistically.

"This is LaBelle, honey. The sheriff just wanted me to check on you and see how it's going up there. You caught any criminals as of yet?"

"Not as of yet," I said, watching a squirrel scamper up a tree and fling itself into space like a furry Frisbee. "But tell Harvey that I've set up camp and found a place from which to keep surveillance on the scene. I think odds are good that the perpetrators will show up today or tomorrow. If not, I'll drag myself back tomorrow night and admit defeat."

"I just know as sure as the sun rises that you'll nab them, Arly."

"Thank you, LaBelle."

"Oh, and Harvey says he feels rotten that he couldn't send a man up there for backup, but we're plumb busier than ants at a Sunday-school picnic these days. He also says for you to check in every four hours, so we'll know you're okay, that you haven't been eaten by wild animals or shot in the head by these awful dopers and left to bleed to death all by yourself up on the ridge. So you check with me every four hours, rain or shine. Can you remember all that?"

"Yes, LaBelle, I can. Did Harvey really say all that?"

"Verbatim, honey. Oh, and Ruby Bee called to talk to you. She seemed to think your beeper was like a walkie-talkie and that she could holler into it and you'd hear her, but I had to inform her otherwise." LaBelle licked her lips as she pondered some folks' misconceptions about police technology. "Anyways, she said for you not to worry about her and Estelle interfering in the police investigation, because they're not."

The squirrel had stopped on a nearby branch to glare at me through little red eyes. I glared back so hard, he backed into the leaves. "Just what did Ruby Bee mean by that?" I said grimly.

"I really couldn't say. She just told me to give you the message. Well, I've got to run, Arly. Harvey's bellowing for coffee, and he can be worser than a mangy old grizzly bear if he doesn't get it. You have a nice time up there in the woods."

Her voice faded in a crackle of static. I fetched a blanket, my book, a thermos, and my camera, then went to the spot I'd chosen and made myself as comfortable as possible, considering. I could see the patch and part of the road beyond it. I figured I'd hear a car engine long before it arrived, or even the snap, crackle, and pop of dried leaves if someone tried to approach on foot. Eight-fifteen.

After a while the birds, gnats, mosquitoes, and squirrels decided I was harmless and began to squawk, buzz, bite, and chatter. I leaned back against a tree trunk and considered the case. Robin Buchanon had a ginseng patch (e-i-e-i-o). She'd come to it about a week ago, with her gunnysack and hoe and expectations of digging up the roots to sell to a wholesaler. A nice autumn day, the family patch, an easy hundred dollars or so. Her only source of legal income, although it was hard to imagine that she reported it for income-tax purposes.

But someone had found the patch earlier in the year, probably toward the middle of the summer, and decided it was the perfect spot to grow a little dope. And why not? It was flat, with good drainage and a creek not too far away to provide water, and best of all, it was smack-dab in the middle of nowhere. The ginseng had been a scattering of low plants then, with no berries or distinctive leaves to hint at its value. So that someone(s) had cleared the ground and put in a half acre of marijuana.

The fact that there were booby traps was uncommon, but not unheard of. Plenty of ole boys thought they'd be right sly and put various traps around their patches to spook hikers and hunters, or those who failed to follow the philosophy of the Little Red Hen and hoped for an easy profit. The growers could hardly report the theft. I'd heard stories of punji pits, of baby rattlesnakes tied to the plants, of all sorts of crazy devices made from clothespins, detonator caps, gunpowder, and Plasticine.

So that didn't get me anywhere. Now that I thought about it (eight-forty-six), I was most likely wasting my time. True, it was the end of the harvest season and time to cut the plants. True, the perps were likely to do so on the weekend, since they could pretend they were out scouting for deer or taking a little nature hike. True, all I had to do was get a good look at them and maybe at the vehicle. True, true, true. It was also true that I was intending to sit on my fanny in the middle of the woods for forty-eight hours on the off chance they might show up. There was an equally good chance I'd nab wee green men in shiny saucers complete with Christmas lights and synthesizer music.

I wondered how David Allen had made out with Hammet, his siblings (I was beginning to regret my vocabulary lesson), and Mrs. Jim Bob. That arena of thought made me uncomfortable, so I moved right on to Kevin and Dahlia and the jeep. It wasn't too tough to conclude Kevin had taken up the junior G-man cause, and had managed to persuade Dahlia to accompany him on his harebrained mission. But what had happened to them? I made a mental note to have LaBelle check at the high school to see if he had shown up for work yesterday.

Dahlia, of course, worked for my mother, the same woman who'd sent the message that she wasn't interfering in the police investigation. Which meant that she was. Ruby Bee's easier to read than a Reader's Digest condensed book. But I couldn't come up with any theories to explain what she and Estelle might be doing. They weren't perched in a tree to assist in the stakeout, since no one knew about the dope patch except for the sheriff's department, Merle Hardcock, and yours truly. For that matter, only that select group knew there'd been a murder-or any other crime.

"What police investigation?" I muttered aloud, just to hear a human voice. Lord, within twenty-four hours I'd be singing hymns and having debates with myself. I threw a walnut at a squirrel that had ventured too near, then picked up my book and settled in. Nine-eleven. Over and out.

"And she claimed not to know where Arly is?" Estelle said in an incredulous voice. "You know as well as you know the nose on your face that LaBelle is lying through her teeth-which anyone can see are nothing more than mail-order dentures. Arly wouldn't waltz away in the middle of all this confusion, what with Buchanon bush colts all over town and Robin Buchanon deader than a doorknob up in the woods." She patted a stray wisp into place and propped her elbows on the bar. Lowering her voice to a husky whisper, she added, "I find that mighty suspicious."

"What?" Ruby Bee asked. "LaBelle lying, Arly waltzing, Buchanons all over Maggody, or Robin the victim of an accident?"

"All of it," Estelle said grandly.

"Don't wake Baby. This is the first time I've had a chance to sit down and take a load off my feet. Dahlia didn't come in last night, so I had to run myself ragged between the bar, the booths, and the kitchen. I suppose she's decided to quit. I'd have thought she had the common courtesy to tell me to my face, instead of just plain not showing up. She didn't even drop off the apron I made especially for her."

"Well, there's no point in fretting over her. Breeding shows, if you know what I mean. But what are we going to do about finding out the identity of Baby's father?"

"What can we do? The midwife says she never attended Robin's birthings, and wouldn't have any way on account of Robin being the way she was. We wasted a good hour over there, all for nothing. The Bar and Grill was closed right in the middle of the Friday happy hour, which cost me a pretty penny. Then Baby cried half the night, and I couldn't get back to sleep, and-"

"We can't give up yet, Miz Throw-in-the-Towel."

It occurred to Ruby Bee that they certainly could give up if they wanted to. It also occurred to her that Estelle had failed to have a precious little overnight visitor, and therefore had had considerably more sleep than some she could name. Leaning against the counter, she pointed out all of the above in a voice that was reasonably polite, considering.

"That was an innocent oversight," Estelle said indignantly. "I had to hurry off because I had to finish Elsie's perm so I could have a session with Madam Celeste, if you must know. Some people are acting like real busybodies these days, aren't they?"

Ruby Bee let the insinuation slide by her. "What'd Madam Celeste say?"

"She didn't say anything because she refused to see me. Mason was real nice about it, though, and invited me to sit down for a soda or a glass of iced tea. He's the politest thing."

She and Ruby Bee exchanged looks that verged on telepathy.

"He's single, you know," Estelle said.

"He doesn't have a real job," Ruby Bee pointed out.

"But he's personable and polite," Estelle countered. "Politer than a door-to-door missionary with a handful of religious tracts. Dresses like one, too, in a nice jacket and tie, just like he was going to a funeral."

"Nobody said they have to get married," Ruby Bee said, nodding. "I suspect Arly's been keeping company with David Allen Wainright, although she's so tight-lipped that it's hard to get a word out of her. Anyway, it'd do her some good to have a couple of suitors for a change. I worry about her."

"And well you should." Estelle took a sip of sherry, then carefully dabbed her lipstick with a napkin. "Imagine a daughter leaving town without telling her own mother where she was going. And she never did ask Madam Celeste to help her with the investigation, you know. She just scooted out of town without bothering to cancel the appointment or anything."

"Just imagine," Ruby Bee said. "You'd think she'd never been taught any manners, or that she doesn't have enough sense to take help from someone who's maybe a teensy bit odd."

"Someone who's proved she can assist the police, who can find missing people as easy as snapping her fingers."

"Madam Celeste will be right offended if no one shows up to ask her for help."

"But Arly already knows what happened to Robin Buchanon." Estelle wasn't arguing; she was just building a case for any future defense.

Ruby Bee chewed on that one for a few minutes. "But," she said slowly, "she doesn't know who fathered all those children, and now that they're orphans, it's real important to find out. David Allen told me he was going to question the children today, but he didn't anticipate much success. He said Arly asked him to do it, too."

"Well, there you have it! That just shows that Arly would appreciate any assistance she can get. We tried the midwife, and that resulted in a big, fat goose egg if there ever was one. We know there aren't any birth certificates at the hospital. Robin sure isn't going to offer up any information from the funeral parlor."

"Do you think Madam Celeste could identify the fathers just by thinking real hard? Wouldn't we need to take her something so she could grasp the cosmic vibrations or whatever it is she does?"

It was Estelle's turn to chew. "We can't steal Robin's body and take it over there; the sheriff would have a fit. We just need something that belongs to Robin."

Ruby Bee stared at the storeroom door, behind which was a crib and the sweetest thing you ever laid eyes on. "Something comes to mind, now that I think about it. I just hate to wake him up and set him off howling and screaming the rest of the day."

"That little dumpling? We'll carry him out to my station wagon, and I'll drive slower than smoke off a manure pile. He won't notice a thing until we're back here, all safe and sound. And he can sleep better because we'll know the identity of his dear pappy, who loves him and can come pick him up to take home with him." Estelle picked up her purse and settled her sunglasses on her nose. "Fetch the baby, Ruby Bee. It's almost ten o'clock."

Ruby Bee fetched as carefully as she could, but Baby was screaming like one of those punk rockers by the time they drove out of the parking lot of Ruby Bee's Bar and Grill.

At ten o'clock I reported in to the sheriff's office. Once LaBelle finished informing me that I was supposed to wait four hours, which would make it twelve instead of ten, I asked if there had been any further communiqués from Ruby Bee or Mrs. Jim Bob.

"Not a word from either of them, honey. Nobody has any messages for me to send to you. You don't have to worry about that."

Rather than relieving me, the silence struck me as ominous. "Did you ever find out what was going on at Mrs. Jim Bob's house while she was putting in all those hysterical messages for me?" I asked.

"Can't say I ever inquired," LaBelle said with an audible sniff. "You know perfectly well that I am not supposed to discuss police business with civilians."

I scratched my nose as I tried to make sense of that remark. As I opened my mouth to point out that I was police, LaBelle informed me that she had to make a visit to the little girls' room and that she would look forward to hearing from me in four hours. I hurriedly asked her to check up at the high school to see if Kevin Buchanon had come to work yesterday, and to ask his parents if he was at home today. LaBelle made a gurgly noise and told me to take care, bye-bye.

I went back to my nest, telling myself that David Allen had things under control at Mrs. Jim Bob's house. He probably had a list of the fathers and was busy calling them one by one to tell them the good news. Mrs. Jim Bob was plying him with fresh coffee and pecan pie, while the Buchanons frolicked like puppies in the front yard. As for Ruby Bee, perhaps she wasn't in the midst of doing something she knew darn well would irritate me, if not enrage me. She was counting spoons or bathing the baby, or serving up heaping plates of chicken fried steaks, gravy, green beans cooked with salt pork, crisp fried okra, mashed potatoes, cherry cobbler…

I abandoned my post long enough to get the box of cornflakes from my tent. Then, lecturing myself at ninety miles an hour, I returned to the post and stuffed said flakes into my mouth while keeping an eye on the pot patch. Just like it mattered. Ten-fifteen, if you're counting.

David Allen rapped again on the bedroom door. "Please come out, Mrs. Jim Bob. We've got to do something about the children."

"I don't care what you do with those filthy, satanic monsters. They've ruined my life. Let them rot in hell for all eternity."

"I realize they did a certain amount of damage downstairs, but-"

"Did you see the rip on the sofa?" she demanded shrilly. "The mud on the new beige carpet? The smears on the walls? Did you smell the guest bathroom? Did you?"

David Allen tried to remember a chapter that dealt with the impending hysteria of a client. He decided there probably wasn't one. "We can clean all that up, if you'll just unlock the door and come out of the bedroom. Please, Mrs. Jim Bob."

"He's going to kill me," she answered, shrillness replaced with flatness.

"I won't let Bubba or Hammet or any of the children near you," David Allen said. "I promise that they'll keep nice and quiet so we all can talk about their futures."

"He's going to kill me. He said so, plainer than day."

David Allen came to the conclusion that it wasn't doing any good to converse through the door, and it was clear she wasn't coming out anytime soon. He went downstairs, where he found the four Buchanon children hunkered on the floor in front of the refrigerator amid a clutter of bowls and bottles.

"Having a picnic?" he inquired in a jovial, hearty tone meant to win their trust and ensure their cooperation.

The intensity of the slurps and belches increased, but no one bothered with a reply. He opened cabinets until he found a bourbon bottle pushed way back in a corner, and poured himself several inches of courage. Only then did he squat down next to Hammet and give him a comradely wink.

"What do you think, buddy? Shall we talk about fathers?"

Hammet put a handful of cole slaw in his mouth. "Ain't none of us know anything about that," he said in a jovial, hearty tone that sounded suspiciously familiar to David Allen's professional ears. "You ain't going to find our fathers, so there ain't no point in harpin' any more about it. When's Arly coming back?"

Bubba growled through a piece of chicken. "Who gives a fuck when the policewoman comes back? She's just a damn whore anyways."

Hammet slung a handful of slaw across the little picnic area. "Take that back, you shit-faced sumbitch, or I'll stuff that chicken wing up your nose!"

"Sez who?" Bubba said, rising to his feet. He ignored the strands of slaw dripping off his chin as he crushed a Tupperware bowl under his foot. "Wanna make me?"

David Allen decided the time was not appropriate for a discussion of paternity. He went to his vehicle and lit a cigarette. He did not glance up as a curtain fluttered in an upstairs room. When the cigarette was finished, he drove down the driveway without once looking back.

"Isn't he a living doll?" Ruby Bee held up Baby so that the little legs dangled like a ballerina's.

"I do not have time to admire babies," Madam Celeste said through the screen. "I am studying the cards. Come back later."

"But this is right up your alley," Estelle said. "This is just like that case back in Las Vegas when you found the poor little boy's body out in the desert. This is a police investigation."

"So now you are police? How interesting. When did you change professions?"

Estelle shoved Ruby Bee closer to the door. "You remember how Ruby Bee's daughter is the chief of police, don't you? We're just helping Arly while she's gone on a trip."

Celeste shook her head. "I do not know what's happening, but I do know that I am not a babysitter or even the sort to make stupid noises over a baby. Go away and leave me alone."

Mason came out of the den. "Hi, Miss Oppers, Miz Hanks. Wherever did you get that adorable little baby?" Ignoring his sister's hiss, he went to the screen door and opened it. "Y'all come right in so I can get a better look at this baby of yours."

While he bent down to tweak toes and make stupid noises, Estelle gave Madam Celeste her most meaningful look. "This baby's mother is the woman who was found dead up in the woods somewhere."

"That's right," Ruby Bee added, not sure her look was quite as meaningful as Estelle's, especially since she wasn't sure what precisely it was supposed to mean.

"So?" Celeste shrugged, apparently not sure either.

Estelle came a few steps farther into the hall. "We want you to tell us who's the father of this baby. We figgered the identity might manifest itself if you had the baby here with you."

"Why? What difference does it make?"

Mason straightened up. "Well, if the mama's dead, the baby sure does need a daddy, doesn't he?"

Estelle bobbled her head. "And you're the only person who can help us, Madam Celeste."

The psychic moved farther back until her face was distorted by shadows. "I am not an adoption agent or a social worker. I do not like babies, and I cannot work when one is in my presence. Or in my house."

Estelle took Baby from Ruby Bee and tucked him under her arm. "Well, I'll just stash this little sweetums in the car while you get settled at the table in the solarium. It won't do a toad's hair of harm for Baby to sit outside by himself for a few minutes. Think how happy he'll be to learn who his daddy is!"

Celeste told Mason to bring an extra chair to the solarium, then wearily gestured for Ruby Bee to follow her through the living room. She and Ruby Bee were both at the table when Estelle joined them.

"Do you think Baby'll be okay in the station wagon?" Ruby Bee whispered to Estelle.

"Do you think I'd put him there if I didn't?" Estelle retorted, offended by the very idea. "Nobody ever comes down this road anymore except for a occasional chicken truck headed for Hasty. We don't have caravans of Gypsies going up and down the road, looking for babies to steal. Baby's as safe out front as he would be in your storage room."

"Hush!" Madam Celeste said as she closed her eyes. "You are worse than a squawling baby."

Estelle snorted, but very quietly. Beside her, Ruby Bee tried to keep her mind on the matter at hand and not worry about Baby out in front.

Brother Verber woke up with a groan. His back hurt something awful from the night on the couch, and his knees felt like they were gripped by rubber bands. On the television set across the room cartoon characters moved their lips like amateur ventriloquists as they discussed invasions and wicked princes. He looked at the clock.

"Holy Jesus," he muttered as he sat up. His foot knocked over the glass of sacrificial wine, sending an odorous splash of red all over the braided rug and the pile of study material. It was nearly eleven o'clock. There was something he was supposed to do, but he couldn't for the life of him think what it was. A bedside visit to some dyin' member of the flock? A meeting with the church elders to talk about the behavior of the newest Sunday-school teacher, who'd been seen coming out of a coed skating rink in Farberville? A counseling session with some of the sexually depraved parishioners?

He used his handkerchief to wipe off the study material, wishing it was the counseling session, now that he'd had the opportunity to engage in some right serious research into the possibilities of depravity. On the cover of one of the manuals was a photograph of a young man wearing a black mask, a studded leather collar, and not much else. Noticing the model's rippling thighs brought it all back.

Brother Verber looked at the telephone receiver, which still dangled at the end of the cord. Sister Barbara was expecting him to come by for a piece of pecan pie. Or she had been expecting him more than thirty-six hours ago, anyway. But he hadn't gone because…(Brother Verber tugged his earlobe)…he'd felt the need of atonement for…(he scratched his stubbly jowl)…the sin of…(he squirmed like a nightcrawler in a coffee can of dirt)…arrogance. Yeah, that's why he hadn't gone by to praise her for her Christian zeal in taking in those bastards and trying to instill in them a healthy dose of decency and morality and humility and eternal gratitude.

It was because she was more pious than he was, and he'd seized the necessity of praying in solitude. It wasn't because he didn't want to lay eyes on those filthy bastards. It wasn't because he wished to avoid unpleasantness. No, he told himself, wincing as a lightning bolt flashed across his head, he was doing the correct thing by isolating himself in humble prayer without permitting the intrusion of the telephone to disrupt his concentration.

And since it was Saturday, he mused as he eased himself back onto the couch, he needed even more isolation so he could work on his sermon. In fact, he was going to need isolation all day long. Comforted by the necessity of all that impending isolation, he mentally ran down the list of his favorite sermon themes: charity covering the multitude of sins; the wages of sin being death; the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man avail thing much; by their fruits ye shall be knowing them.

None of them struck just right. As he rolled over, he saw the centerfold of one of his study manuals. The woman was clad in the typical sinful blacklace underthings, which never seemed to go under things since these harlots never wore things over them. He picked up the magazine and held it a few inches from his nose. Looking at the photograph inspired him in more ways than one.

"Shall I continue doin' this, my angel?" Kevin asked, raising his head so he could see his beloved's face over the generous contours of her body.

Dahlia gave him a tender smile. "You're doin' right well. Why, one of these days you're going to know exactly what to do without me having to tell you." She opened her lips to allow the escape of a tiny burp. "I'm beginning to feel like I'm in heaven."

"You are? Gee, that's great, honeybun." Gulping nervously at what he felt was an epic challenge to his manhood (and perhaps a civic responsibility as well), Kevin returned to work.

Dahlia entwined her fingers under her neck and gazed at the ceiling. She thought about how she loved Kevin, for his devoted diligence, if nothing else. Some might say he was kind of a slow learner, but she figgered they had all the time in the world-and then some. After all, wasn't nobody ever going to find them. Not Kevin's sharp-tongued mother nor his mean ole pa, not her own granny with the scary quotes from the Old Testament and her glass eye that all the time fell out and rolled under the recliner like a marble, not thundering Brother Verber, not even Arly, who might throw Kevin in jail for what all he did.

"Just a smidgen higher," she murmured contentedly.