The Dead Don't Dance Page 7

  For some reason, I don’t smell too well. I mean, I can smell gardenias or bacon cooking or that perfume of Maggie’s called Eternity, but on the whole, I don’t walk around smelling life the way she does. Maggie can smell anything. We’ll be walking in the mall, stop at the perfume counter, and she can close her eyes and differentiate between eight perfumes. To me, they all smell the same.

  But a week ago, I brought that cream from the house and put it in her bedside table. I opened the drawer, pulled out the cream, slid my chair to the end of the bed, gently slipped off her socks, and rubbed. Starting with her heel, up through the length of her arch, between her toes, and finally up her calf.

  Maggie has beautiful feet. Her toes are small, callused, trimmed. I used to kid her about having interchangeable toes, because they’re all the same size. She has strong feet, a high arch, a slender heel, and a strong calf—working feet, I call them. She’s a natural runner, with a much better gait than I have, and occasionally we jog along the river. But that’s her second hobby. Her first love is her garden. She’d much rather dig in the dirt than run.

  AT FIRST, MAGGIE AND I COULDN’T SEEM TO DEVELOP A routine at the hospital. At some times we were like two kids on a continual first date, and at others we were like Papa and Nanny after fifty years. Sometimes I’d sit there and talk to her. Sometimes not. Sometimes the rubbing did all the talking. And sometimes, I just didn’t know what else to say.

  Sometimes when I walked into the room, Maggie’s forehead was real tense. Today she had a wrinkle between her eyes, so I started rubbing her feet and the wrinkle disappeared. Who knows what coma patients are doing or thinking on the other side of their eyelids? Maggie’s forehead made me think that they don’t sleep all the time. I’m no expert, but sometimes when I walked into the room, I could tell Maggie was awake even though her eyes were closed and she looked asleep. Her face showed it. Sometimes it was her hands, but mostly it was her face. Then there were other times when she looked asleep, and I knew she was asleep. Her whole body looked relaxed. Sitting at the end of the bed, I rubbed a few more minutes, and Maggie slipped off to sleep. And no, I never told her about the funeral.

  A wristwatch alarm on the arm of a nurse walking down the hall sounded at nine o’clock, and I woke up with my head slumped over next to Maggie’s. I wiped off my drool and sat there a few minutes in the dark, letting her breath wash my face. The moon hung full, and a couple of clouds blocked the stars, but for the most part, it was clear and breezy. A sweet, South Carolina starlight serenade. If we were home right then, we’d be wrapped up in a blanket on the front porch. I tucked the covers up around Maggie’s shoulders, checked her socks to make sure they covered her heels, set the cream next to the bed with the cap off, and pulled the door shut behind me.

  Walking out Maggie’s door, I noticed that Amanda had taped a note to the doorjamb. Professor, come to church tonight. Daddy’s preaching. 7:30. I’ll save you a seat. Amanda.

  I pulled the note down, read it a second time, and thought to myself, The life of a preacher’s kid. Probably front and center every time the door is open.

  Blue and I slipped down the hallway, and a fat old nurse nodded at me as I left. She glanced over her reading glasses, looked me up and down, and continued reading. The silver chains hanging down both sides of her glasses outlined her square jaw and double chin like a cowbell. Blue and I walked down the stairs and out the ER, and I started my truck. We drove out the main entrance of the hospital, and I pitched Amanda’s crumpled note out the window.

  At 9:30 I rounded the last corner before home, and Pastor John’s church came into view. The AME church was built in 1952. Since then, Sunday mornings had become a local spectacle. Almost a parade of sorts. Just prior to the ringing of the 10:30 A.M. bells, women in all shapes, sizes, and colors, escorted by their families, walked smack down the middle of the highway en route to their pew.

  And hats? Hats galore. You’ve never seen so many hats. They say sometimes Pastor John stops midsermon to point out a new or good-looking hat. The women love it. They also love his preaching, which, according to his reputation, is pretty heavy on the fire and brimstone. People say he tells it like it is, and they like him for it.

  The church is a good mixture of all races and sizes, and if

  you drive by during the singing, it’ll resonate through your windows. Even in winter when the front doors are shut. It’s a good thing that steeple is tall and well built; otherwise they’d bring it down. Clapping, singing, even some dancing. You want good hymn singing? Go to Pastor John’s church. You’ll get it there.

  Tonight, like every Wednesday night, was no exception. The place was packed. I slowed to an idle and found myself parked on the shoulder opposite Amos’s Crown Vic. His radio was squawking voices and radio checks.

  “Seven-twelve to HQ.”

  “HQ to 712. Go ahead, 712.”

  “Ah, I’ve got a . . . ” An eighteen-wheeler carrying a load of pine trees whizzed by my window, causing me to miss the rest of the mumbo jumbo. After Amos had been appointed deputy, he told me, “D.S., if I don’t learn my ABCs, they’ll park my B-U-T-T in HQ and I’ll be sorta-outta-luck.” He spent weeks reading flashcards that he kept in his shirt pocket.

  Law enforcement definitely has its own language. I guess it’s a good thing. If I’m sitting there with a telephone pole lying over the top of my car and my feet resting on the engine block, I don’t want a deputy with flowery language. I want somebody who can cut through the c-r-a-p and get my b-u-t-t to the h-o-s-p-i-t-a-l. Right n-o-w. Amos says that pretty much eliminates me from law enforcement. He’s probably right. I’d be explaining to HQ what the situation looked like rather than what was needed. I see colors, not structure.

  Based on the squawking, it was a dull night in Digger. Apparently most of the population was in church, because every parking space was taken. Even the dirt spillover lot was full. I left my truck on the shoulder and slipped in the side door, where I was immediately met by an usher in a three-piece suit. An older, gray-haired gentleman, probably seventy-five. He smiled from earlobe to earlobe and held the door while I walked through it. You have never seen so many teeth. And straight? You could have drawn a line with them.

  I stood there in jeans, scuffed boots, and a flannel shirt that I was rapidly trying to tuck in. I keep my hair pretty short, so that’s never really a problem. Even when it’s messed up, it can’t look too messed up. The entrance to the church was warm and empty, except for Mr. Smiles and me. He asked me if I was a visitor, and I thought briefly about lying to him but figured the narthex of the church, beneath the apex of my grandfather’s steeple, was not the place. I nodded without meeting his eyes.

  Through the window of the door leading into the sanctuary, I could see Pastor John pacing slowly back and forth, wearing a purple robe and holding a well-worn book in his right hand. He’d aged, and his hair had grown white since I last saw him. The usher gently opened the door and stepped in. A sea of three hundred to four hundred people, pressed elbow to elbow, filled the upright pews, and lines of latecomers filled folding chairs all the way down the aisle and around the back of the pews. This would never pass the fire marshal’s inspection.

  The rounded sanctuary fanned out before me like a half circle. At the flat end stood the pulpit and Pastor John. Behind him stood an organ and forty or fifty folks in matching robes shouting “Amen” and “Umm-hmmm.” The pews must have been fashioned by the Oompa Loompas because they were little; but judging from appearance, the size of the pew didn’t seem to bother anybody. The pews did have padded seats, but I’d have given up the padding for a little shoulder room.

  Before I realized what he was doing, the usher had walked smack-dab down the middle of the center aisle, intending to lead me to the front of the church where, wonder of wonders, Amanda sat next to an empty spot. I tried to stop him. I coughed and even thought about whistling, but Amanda turned, saw me, and started scooting over to make more room. I followed while the whispers grew out
from me like aftershocks resonating from an epicenter.

  When the usher got to the front row, he turned, opened his arm so the palm of his hand showed, and nodded his head. Still smiling. Dang, that’s a lot of teeth. With my shirt starting to stick to my back, I slithered into the seat.

  Amanda smiled, whispered, “Hi, Professor, I thought you might come,” and folded her hands in front of her tummy.

  I looked down and said nothing. Studying the carpet, I noticed that Amanda had slipped off her shoes, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Her feet were pretty swollen. I looked up, and Pastor John stopped midsentence, waved his hands, and placed his right index finger against his lips.

  After the congregation quieted and people stopped talking about me behind my back, he said, “For those of you who don’t know him, Dr. Dylan Styles has just joined us. As you all know, we’ve been praying for his wife, Maggie, for several weeks now, and we will continue to do so.”

  Someone behind me said, “That’s right.” Across the room, someone muttered, “Ummm-hummm” and farther over to the left came, “Amen.”

  Walking to the other side of the stage, he said, “Please, make sure that all of you greet Professor Styles when I finish.” Pastor John smiled and looked at me, then back at the congregation. “But not until I finish.”

  Looking back at me, sweat pouring off his face like a spigot, he said, “Welcome, son.” It looked as though he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. Without skipping a beat, he picked up where he had left off and continued thumping that Bible across the pulpit. Based on his speaking and the audience’s reaction, I had interrupted his sermon at the crescendo. After another ten minutes, once he had worked everybody into a pretty good frenzy, he finished and sat down in a big, wide, ornate wooden chair next to the choir.

  An organ started, and my armpits were soaked. The place was like my classroom: real hot. Several women were methodically waving pieces of paper in tempo with the ceiling fans, which only served to circulate the warmth. My forehead was dripping, and I kept rubbing it with my shirtsleeve. Shortly, the music stopped, the sanctuary fell silent save the rustling of the choir’s robes, and next thing I knew, the ushers were leading the choir to the railing. That only meant one thing.

  Communion.

  The choir made their way to the rail and knelt in unison. Following Pastor John’s prayer, the assistant pastor walked down the row of purple robes and placed white wafers in black hands. “The body of Christ. The bread of heaven.”

  After they had time to swallow, Pastor John followed with a great big silver cup. He moved methodically down the aisle. “Brother Michael, the blood of Christ. Sister Annie, the cup of salvation.” When he had finished, the choir stood in unison and returned to their seats where, swaying in rhythm like the women’s fans, they began to hum quietly. Like my cornfield, this place was constant movement.

  Then out of nowhere, Mr. Smiles appeared next to me. He turned, extended his arm, showed his palm, and beckoned. I looked straight ahead and pretended not to notice him.

  Amanda whispered, “It’s okay, Professor. We ain’t Catholic. You can go with us.”

  The row opposite me was filing out and up to the railing on the left. Mr. Smiles beckoned a second time, and my forehead wrinkled.

  Pastor John broke in, waved at the organ, which went silent, and pointed his face toward the balcony. Looking at no one in particular but everyone in general, he said, “You all know how I feel about this.” His hand swept across the railing. “Before you strut up here, remember what waits.” His articulation was crisp and powerful, his wording careful and precise. He paused, moved the cup from one hand to another, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his forehead and cheeks.

  “You all face a choice. You can rise from your seat, follow the person in front of you, stroll down this aisle, critique somebody else’s Sunday best which they happened to wear on a Wednesday night, think about how hungry you are or where, when, and what you are going to eat when you leave here, and then kneel, nod, nip and sip, and return to your seat, having thought the bread stale and wine cheap.” Pastor John wiped his brow again after unfolding and refolding the handkerchief.

  “Or”—he moved the cup to the other hand—“you can slide from your seat, limp to this rail . . .” The humming grew louder. “Reach down, grab these splintery timbers, fall, rest your baggage against it”—Pastor John’s voice rose above the humming—“extend your hands, take tenderly, place the body on your tongue, taste the grit, swallow, and feel the hunger build in your stomach. Then you can grasp this cup.” Pastor John held the cup above his head with two hands, his powerful arms rippling through his robe. “Tremble, sip violently, feel the burn, taste the acrid smell, feel the splinters pierce your elbows, lean more heavily, and then look upon this cross.” Pastor John pointed behind him without looking.

  “You can reach up and place your trembling hands on callused, blood-soaked feet, let the red, slippery liquid run down your fingers, underneath your watchband, and come to rest in the crack of your elbow. You can lean your forehead against His shin, notice the crude and rusted nail, the shake and strain in His arms and legs, stick your hand in the hole in His side, notice the dried blood on His face, the thorns poking through the skin, smell the vinegar, feel the raw skin on His back, and hear the gurgle drowning out His breathing.” Pastor John took a long, deep breath.

  “Lastly, you can raise your head and feel the breath of God. And in that instant, if you so choose, you can see your own reflection. With all your zits, warts, blemishes, and scars. And there, amongst the scar tissue, are your demons. But having chewed, sipped, and swallowed, you can chase.” The choir was humming louder. Pastor John’s voice was calm, controlled, soothing, and resonating.

  “People.” He paused, knelt, leaned his arms on the railing, held the cup between both hands, and faced the congregation. “This is where you chase the demons that feed your doubts, your anger, your bitterness, and your lack of faith.” Then in almost a whisper, he said, “Every last one.” He stood and wiped his forehead. Except for the choir, you could hear a pin drop.

  “Brothers and sisters, a demon’s job is to kill you. To beat you to death. To rob you of anything that is not painful. This railing is where you give more than you take. Where you steal back. Where you kill what’s killing you. Then, having chased and slain, you return”—Pastor John pointed to the pews and folding chairs—“bloody but unharmed, different but the same, changed but unchanged, moved but unmoved. A living battleground.

  “People, we got hurting brothers and sisters here. Every one of us has a closet, and in that closet, we keep and feed our demons. Some’s more full than others, but they’re all busting at the seams. You all know most of mine. I’ve told you. What I haven’t told you is in my criminal record. That’s public. You’re welcome to read it.”

  I shot a glance at Amanda. Peace bounced off the glisten on her face as she watched her father.

  “People,” Pastor John continued, “that space between your pew and this altar, between the red velvet cushion and these splintery timbers. Whether it’s twenty feet or a million miles, it’s not a question of distance. It’s one of position.” He calmly turned, walked to the end of the railing, and waited.

  The humming continued. Mr. Smiles put his hand on my shoulder. The people next to Amanda were standing, waiting.

  I rose.

  I took three steps and knelt. Or rather, fell. If the railing had been much farther, I’m not sure I’d have made it. Amanda knelt next to me. I looked straight forward and followed Amanda’s lead, holding out my hands, one clasped beneath the other. The assistant pastor gently placed a small white wafer in my white hand. I took it. If he said anything, I didn’t hear it. Amanda did likewise and immediately placed it on her tongue and closed her mouth. I held mine out and looked at it, then placed it on my tongue. It was gritty, but I swallowed. I think my stomach growled, because out of the corner of my eye, I saw Amanda smile.

  Silently P
astor John appeared with the cup that he held to my lips. “Dylan, this is Christ’s blood, which was shed for you. Take it in remembrance of Him who died on the cross.” He placed the cold silver cup to my lips.

  I sipped.

  My tongue and throat burned as I forced the liquid into my belly.

  Then he moved to Amanda. “Baby, this is Jesus.” He placed his hand on her forehead and prayed quietly.

  When I opened my eyes, the railing was empty but for me. I don’t know how long I had been there, but when I turned, everyone else was seated and about eight hundred eyes were turned directly at me. I quickly rose and plopped into my seat with an embarrassing thud.

  Amanda sat with her eyes closed. Quiet. I hadn’t seen Amos until now. Out of the corner of my left eye, I noticed that he was sitting at the end of the row opposite me with his attention focused on Pastor John. His uniform stood out, and his badge glistened in the lights. His belt, and Kimber, were noticeably absent.

  At 10:47 P.M. Pastor John said a closing prayer, and as the choir sang, people filed out of their seats. A few headed for the door, but most headed for me. I was the center of several hundred people’s attention and hands. After eight or ten minutes, Amos rescued me. He put his arm around me and led me toward the side door.

  “Professuh,” he said in his cornfield tone, “how ’bout a burger?”

  “No.” I paused. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Doc, that’s horsepucky.”

  “What?” I said, looking at Amos.

  “A few minutes ago, back over there, your stomach told me you were starving and needed a fat, juicy, greasy cheeseburger with bacon, extra pickles, and a little of Amos’s secret sauce on the side.”

  “No . . . ” I fumbled for my keys. “Thanks.” I left Amos standing with three hundred people who had just heard him describe the cheeseburger. I started my truck, noticed a new exhaust leak, bumped the stick into drive, and drove home.