The Hum and the Shiver

12

Craig Chess waved to George Landers across the Shoney’s. Craig had already claimed a booth, and the older man sauntered over with the easy grace of someone content with his place in the world. This particular Shoney’s was located at an exit equidistant between Craig’s home in Smithborough and George’s in Unicorn, and they’d met here several times so Craig could pick George’s brain.

An elderly lady stopped him and said something that made him smile. He patted her hand before continuing on. Craig felt a tingle of envy, because it was exactly that sort of moment he craved. He wanted the respect he saw in the old woman’s eyes. But he also knew George had spent years building it, and he, Craig, had yet to preach his first sermon in his own church.

When George reached the booth, Craig stood and offered his hand. “Reverend Landers.”

“Reverend Chess,” the newcomer replied. Then he laughed. “Craig, it’s both a pleasure to consider you an equal, and a little disconcerting. I have golf shoes older than you.”

“I’m not your ‘equal,’ George. You’re still my elder.”

“Ouch. ‘Elder.’ I should be wearing bifocals, then, and using a walker.”

Craig knew George ran three miles every morning, even on Sunday. “You know what I mean.”

They sat, ordered coffee, and when the waitress was gone, Landers asked, “So how goes the new church? Ready for opening morning? Is it next weekend?”

“No, it’s this Sunday. If anyone shows up, I’ll be surprised.”

“Reaching the Tufa has defeated many a young zealot, I reckon,” Landers agreed. “I knew a man who’d once been a top vinyl siding salesman before hearing the call. His first post was in Needsville itself, if you can imagine that. Not only did no one show up, he couldn’t keep his piano in tune. For some reason that aggravated him more than anything else. He asked for a post in China soon after.”

“That’s a big reason I wanted to meet with you,” Craig said. “I’ve been spending time in town, just hanging out and introducing myself, offering any help I can. Everyone’s friendly enough, but I can’t imagine any of them in a pew on Sunday morning.” He sipped his coffee. “What do you know about them that I don’t?”

“They’re quiet, keep to themselves,” George deadpanned.

“I already know that. But why don’t they come to church?”

“Why doesn’t anyone? We’re not relevant to them.”

“Are the Tufas even Christian?”

Landers shrugged. “Son, greater men than you or I have puzzled over that. The real Tufas, the ones with family ties back to pre-Revolutionary times, won’t talk. The ones that do talk, don’t know anything. So it’s a tough little nut.”

Craig recalled Deacon Hyatt’s comments. “They must believe in something.”

“Sure, they do: music. I’ve never met one yet that didn’t sing or play some kind of instrument. And play the heck out of it, too. If they ever wanted to, about half of ’em could probably move to Nashville and be on everyone’s iPods within six months.”

“Why don’t they?”

“Some do. Ever heard of Rockhouse Hicks?”

“Sure, he sits outside the post office every day. I’ve met rabid skunks who were friendlier.”

“That’s him. Well, back in the late sixties, he almost made it as a big bluegrass star. Put out a record, traveled with Bill Monroe, was right on the edge. Then he got caught in a sex scandal, and that was that.”

Craig didn’t hide his surprise. “A sex scandal? That’s a little hard to picture.”

“He’s just a man,” Landers said. “Prey to the same temptations as us all. But my point is, that tends to happen to any of the real Tufas who leave their little valley. Look at your latest celebrity, Bronwyn Hyatt.”

“Being hurt in a war is a little different from having trouble keeping your pants zipped.”

“Maybe. But both happened away from Needsville.”

The waitress refreshed their coffee. “So they play music, and they fare badly when they leave home. That still doesn’t help me get them to church.”

“No. But in six months when you get moved to another position, you’ll at least understand a little about why this didn’t work.”

“That’s pretty fatalistic for a minister.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, if God wants them in church, they’ll go to church. I believe that, and apparently so does the annual conference, because they keep sending new ministers until they find one who can reach these people.”

“Do you believe God wants them in church?”

Landers looked around, then leaned over the table and spoke softly. “Here’s what I think, and if you repeat it, I’ll deny it. I believe God wants everyone in church, but I’m not entirely sure our God and their God are the same thing.”

“There’s a school of thought that would call that blasphemy.”

“And they’d be right, but there it is. We also have noses that run and feet that smell. Sometimes the universe just doesn’t make sense.”

Don Swayback pulled his car to the side of the road beneath an oak tree. The sporadic shade made the sunlight dance on his dusty windshield. He picked up the road atlas and compared it to the Internet maps he’d printed out at home. Both agreed; so where the hell was the turnoff?

Ahead he saw the intersection of Highway 23 and Curly Mane Road. A tractor reached it and slowly pulled onto the highway, headed away from Don. Far behind him, though still visible in the mirror, was the turnoff for Jenkins Trail. And in between should have been the road that dead-ended at the Hyatt farm, called simply Hyatt Way. But he’d been up and down this stretch of blacktop a dozen times without finding it.

He thumped the steering wheel in annoyance. He’d always heard the Tufa could disappear when they wanted to, although he assumed that meant they vanished right before your eyes, which of course was impossible. It was typical of the stories that grew up around small, isolated places, and that white folks tended to spread about any group with darker skin. But he supposed that being impossible to find was the same as disappearing.

He jumped when an unmistakable electronic shriek sounded right behind his car. In the rearview mirror he saw the state trooper’s cruiser; in the side mirror, he watched the trooper emerge and swagger toward him. The officer took his time, planting each large foot flat and square so every step sounded like approaching retribution.

When the trooper reached the driver’s open window, Don looked up and saw his own reflection in the mirrored shades. “Sir, are you having car trouble?” the trooper asked, in a tone that seemed more suited to a Guantánamo guard.

“No, I’m looking for—”

The square face, with its huge flat-brimmed hat, leaned down. The name tag on his chest caught the light, and Don saw the word PAFFORD. “I asked you a yes-or-no question, not for your life story. If you’re having car trouble, I’ll call you a tow truck and make sure you get to a garage. If not, I expect to find you gone when I come back by here. Understand me?”

Don blinked in surprise. “I was just going to ask for some help with directions. I’m trying to find the turnoff for—”

Pafford smiled. Don suspected it was for the benefit of the trooper’s dashboard video camera, because his voice was a snarl of contempt. “Get smart with me, son, and I’ll shove a Taser so far up your ass, your nose will light up like Rudolph’s. I ran your license plate; I know you’re one of them reporters making a big deal out of Bronwyn Hyatt. Around here she ain’t no hero, she’s just white trash from the hills who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. You makin’ over her just means every other half-nigger Tufa will think they can smart off to the law and get away with it.”

Don stared. He’d encountered all sorts of cops in his job, but never one so brazen in his prejudices. “Officer,” he said carefully, “I don’t believe I’m breaking any laws sitting here. I’m certainly not bothering anyone.”

“You’re bothering me. And if you look up and down this highway, you’ll see that’s the worst thing you could be doing, because ain’t nobody gonna come help you out. Now git before I lose my good nature, and you lose an awful lot of time and money to the Great State of Tennessee.”

Don’s hands shook as he turned the key and pulled slowly out onto the highway. The trooper stood watching, hip cocked, one hand on his gun. Don wanted to turn around and go back the way he came, but instead drove straight, forty miles out of his way, to make sure he didn’t have to pass the trooper again.

By the time he hit the junction to Highway B near the interstate, his anger had truly peaked. He thought of calling Sam at the Horn and getting a lawyer involved, but he had no proof of anything. After all, the trooper let him off with a warning, and the dashboard camera would show nothing out of line.

“Fuck,” he snarled. He was as angry as he’d ever been, just like he used to get as a young man. But this was no frat-house bully, he reminded himself. This was a cop, who could beat him senseless—or kill him—and get away with it.

He stopped at the intersection. There was no other traffic, and he took a moment to calm down. But it was hard to do; it felt like something long buried was now free and unwilling to go back in its box.

“You’re not chasing me off,” Don said to the air. “I’ll find that goddamned road. Just wait and see if I don’t. And if I see your blue lights again, I’ll make my own recording of what goes down, and we’ll see what happens then.”

But first, he decided, he needed some lunch. His anger had left him ravenous. He turned onto the access road that ran parallel to the interstate until he reached the exit with a Shoney’s restaurant. He parked and gathered his atlas and printouts; maybe he was just disoriented, and the turn was actually obvious. He’d make another run before giving up, and if he ran into that trooper again, he’d be sure to have his cell phone on to record the conversation.

As he entered the restaurant and waited for his eyes to adjust, someone called, “Don!”

He turned. George Landers waved from the cash register. Don went over and shook hands. “You’re a long way from Unicorn,” Landers observed. “Is one of our softball teams in a tournament I don’t know about?”

“No, I’m on double-secret assignment,” Don said with mock drama. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to write your obituary.”

Landers turned to the young man beside him. “Don, this is Craig Chess, the new minister at the Triple Springs Methodist Church in Cloud County.”

Don’s eyebrows rose. “There’s a Methodist Church in Cloud County?”

“Why does everyone react like that?” Craig said with a smile. “And no, technically it’s not. The county line is on the highway right past the church driveway, so we’re actually in Smithborough.”

“Ah,” Don said. “So it’s wishful thinking by the diocese.”

“District,” Landers said. “We’re not Catholic.”

“I stand corrected. At any rate, Reverend Chess, it’s nice to meet you.” The two men shook hands.

“So what’s with all the maps?” Landers asked. “Are you looking for old Colonel Drake’s Confederate treasure?”

“I’m supposed to interview Bronwyn Hyatt, the war hero. I went out to visit them, but I couldn’t find the turnoff.”

Landers turned to the younger minister. “You’ve been out there, haven’t you, Craig?”

“Yes. It wasn’t hard. The turnoff is on Highway 23 just past Jenkins Trail.”

“I know, that’s where I’ve been looking.”

“That’s odd,” Craig said. “The road they live on is a dead end, so there’s no other way to get there.”

Don nodded. “Yeah. The Tufa curse strikes again, I suppose.”

“The what?”

“Oh, it’s just something people say about the Tufa: that if they don’t want to be found, you won’t find them. Old wives’ tale.”

“There’s a lot of those about the Tufa,” Landers said. “Craig and I have just been discussing some of them. Well, good luck.”

Craig said, “Don, pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise,” Don said.

Outside, Landers shook Craig’s hand and went to his car. Craig glanced back at the restaurant, and saw the reporter take a seat in a window booth. Like a lot of local people, the reporter bore the visible traces of Tufa ancestry, but seemed not to be one; certainly he lacked the flat, noncommittal stare the Needsville Tufas presented.

As Craig unlocked his own car, a loud rumble made him look up. An ancient pickup driven by a skinny middle-aged man parked in the handicapped spot near the door. A blue state placard permitting this hung from the rearview mirror. The truck bed was filled with children, the boys all skeletally thin like the driver, the girls round like Christmas ornaments. All had black hair, dead eyes, and suspicious expressions focused on Craig.

“Hi,” he said with a smile. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

The father stepped out of the cab and said, “We teach ’em not to talk to strangers, mister. Can’t never tell these days.”

“That’s a sad truth,” Craig said, and offered his hand. “I’m Craig Chess, the new minister at the Triple Springs Methodist Church.”

The man’s hand was strong and wiry. Craig noticed the pinkie was missing. “Nice to meet you, Father,” he drawled.

“We’re trying to get a children’s program started at the church; we’d love to see you bring your family. It’s just across the county line in Smithborough.”

“Oh, I reckon we’re too busy for that sort of stuff,” the man said. “We live way up in the hills, anyway.”

Craig knew not to push the issue. He was a minister, not a missionary. All he could do was let them know his church was open to them. “Well, think about it, and if you can find the time, we’d be pleased to have you.”

The man’s wife, as large as he was thin, herded the children inside. As Craig pulled out of the parking lot, he turned on impulse away from the interstate, toward Needsville. To date, the Hyatts were the only Tufas who had been pleasant to him, and he had to admit the memory of Bronwyn Hyatt kept reappearing in his imagination, especially when he was in bed at night. The best way to exorcise such fantasies, he’d learned, was to confront them directly. Besides, they had invited him back.

He found the turnoff with no trouble. But at the last minute, he chickened out.

Sam Howell laughed the way a man does when he finds out his bitchy wife has run off with his best friend. The newspaper editor slapped the arm of his patio chair and said with undisguised delight, “So you ran up on Big Bobby Pafford, huh?”

“You know him?” Don asked. He’d gone straight to Howell’s house after leaving Shoney’s, needing to share the experience with someone. They sat on the back patio with cold beers, Howell shirtless and barefoot.

“Sure I do. So do you. You know those stickers they have on gas pumps saying if you run off without paying, you’ll lose your license? That’s his picture.”

“He’s not the friendliest guy.”

“No, for him protecting and serving means kicking ass and taking names.”

“How do you know so much about him?”

“We’ve crossed paths before. They say all bullies are cowards, but not him: he just likes making people afraid of him. He went in the marines right out of high school, I believe, but we weren’t at war with anybody, so there was nobody for him to kill. Poor bastard: he was born in the wrong time. Being a state trooper is the best he can do now.”

“He’s a piece of work. Wonder what his discipline file looks like?”

Howell suddenly turned serious. He sat forward so that his back skin pulled free of the chair’s plastic with an audible pop. “No, Don. No bullshit. You leave Bobby Pafford alone and out of this. You had one run-in and got away without a ticket or a cracked skull. Count yourself lucky. He’s the kind of man who wouldn’t take kindly to being investigated, and since he’s a cop, you’d have nowhere to turn.”

Howell’s voice actually trembled a little, as if describing a fear he knew firsthand. Don shrugged. He was no crusading reporter. “Okay, Sam. No problem.”

“Good,” Sam said with real relief. “So you never did find the Hyatt place?”

“No, and I’m damn sure I was looking in the right place. I double-checked the map and the atlas. It’s almost like…”

“What?”

“You know what. You’ve heard the same shit I have, that the Tufa can disappear if they wanted to. That you could look forever but if they didn’t want to be found, they wouldn’t be.”

“Them big-time New York reporters sure found them. They’ve been all over the TV.”

“I know. But either I can’t follow directions worth a damn, or they covered up the end of that road sometime in the last few days and made it look like it’d always been that way.” Or, he thought, the stories of the Tufa have more truth in them than I used to believe.

Howell leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. He shifted into his Jason Robards mode, the fatherly editor who knows what’s best for his staff. “You’ve still got the assignment, Don.”

“I know, Sam.”

“No, I mean it. Your job is riding on this. I let it slide when you skipped those high school football games and wrote the stories from tapes off the radio, or when you ‘pretended’ to accidentally delete those spelling bee shots that you never took in the first place. This is your last chance, and I’m not feeling too generous about it right now. I admit running into Bobby Pafford can make a man a little shaky, but it’s not enough. You clear on this?”

Don nodded. He felt like a kid in the principal’s office. “Yeah.”

“I want it for next week’s issue. All original, with your own photos, not cobbled together off the Internet. In fact, I want to hear the tape of it.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Don, I like you. That’s why you’ve still got a job. But no, I don’t trust you. You’ve lied to me enough times already.”

Don stood and walked back to his car, feeling a numb tingling on his face and neck. In the rearview mirror, he saw that his skin was still red with shame.