Mystery Walk

'Yes, says the man took ill and had to leave town for his health. Anyway, Sayre says he came to the Falconer revival in Tuscaloosa last year, and he's asking if we might get to Hawthorne this summer.'

'Hawthorne's almost at my front door,' he mused. 'Folks would come in from Oakman, Patton Junction, Berry, a dozen other little towns. Maybe it's time for a homecoming, huh? Mark it down, George, and let's try to find a place in the schedule.'

The door opened and a thin, middle-aged man in a baggy brown suit entered the room smiling nervously. He carried a bulging briefcase in one hand and an artist's portfolio clasped beneath the other arm. 'Sorry I'm late,' he said. 'Meeting at the office went about an hour—'

'Close that door and cut the breeze.' Falconer waved him in and rose to his feet. 'Let's see what you ad boys have for us this year.'

Forrest fumbled his way to the easel, set his briefcase on the floor, and then put the portfolio up on the easel where everyone could see it. There were faint dark circles beneath his arms. 'Warm outside this afternoon, isn't it? Going to be a hot summer, probably. Can I . . . uh. . . ?' he motioned toward the lemonade cart, and when Falconer nodded he gratefully poured himself a cup. 'I think you'll like what we've done this year, J.J.'

'We'll see.'

Forrest laid his half-empty cup on the coffee table, then took a deep breath and opened the portfolio, spreading three poster mockups. Hand-inked letters proclaimed: >TONIGHT! ONE NIGHT ONLY! SEE AND HEAR JIMMY JED FALCONER, AND GET CLOSE TO god! Beneath the lettering was a glossy photograph of Falconer, standing on a podium with his arms uplifted in a powerful gesture of appeal.

The second poster showed Falconer standing before a bookcase, framed on one side by an American flag and on the other by the flag of the Confederacy; he was thrusting a Bible toward the camera, a broad smile on his face. The lettering was simply blocked, and said: >the south's greatest evangelist, jimmy jed falconer! one night only! come and get close to god!

The third was all picture, with Falconer raising his arms and gaze upward in an expression of calm peace. White letters were superimposed at the bottom, and said: >one night only! see and hear jimmy jed falconer and get close to god! Falconer stepped toward the easel. 'That picture is just fine,' he said. 'Yes, I like that one. I surely do! Knocks ten years off my age with that lighting, doesn't it?'

Forrest smiled and nodded. He brought out a briar pipe and tobacco pouch, fumbling to fill one from the other He got it lit after two tries and puffed smoke into the room. 'Glad you like that one,' he said, relieved.

'But,' Falconer said quietly, 'I like the message and the lettering on the middle poster the best.'

'Oh, we can put them together any way you want. No problem.'

Falconer stepped forward until his face was only a few inches from the photographed Falconer face. 'That's what I want. This picture speaks. I want five thousand of these printed up, but with that other message and lettering. I want them by the end of this month.'

Forrest cleared his throat. 'Well . . . that's rushing things a bit, I guess. But we'll handle it, no problem.'

'Fine.' Beaming, Falconer turned from the poster and took the pipe from between Forrest's teeth, pulling it away like lollipop from a baby. 'I cannot abide lateness, Mr. Forrest. And I have told you again and again how I hate the stink of the Devil's weed.' Something bright and sharp flashed behind his gaze. Forrest's struggling smile hung crookedly from the man's face as Falconer submerged the pipe in the cup of lemonade. There was a tiny hiss as the tobacco was extinguished. 'Bad for your health,' Falconer said quietly, as if speaking to a retarded child. 'Good for the Devil.' He left the offending pipe in the Dixie cup, clapped Forrest on the shoulder, and stepped back so he could admire the poster again.

One of the telephones rang. Hodges picked it up, said, 'Falconer Crusade. Oh. Hi there, Cammy, how are you . . . sure, just a minute.' He held the receiver out for Falconer. 'J.J.? It's Camille.'

'Tell her I'll get back to her, George.'

'She sounds awfully excited about something.'

Falconer paused, then reached the phone with two long strides. 'Hey hon. What can I do for you?' He watched as Forrest put the posters away and took the dripping pipe from the cup. 'What's that? Hon, the connection's bad. Say that again now, I can hardly hear you.' His broad face slackened. 'Toby? When? Hurt bad? Well, I told you that dog was goin' to get hit chasin' cars! All right now, don't get all excited . . . just get Wayne to help you, and the both of you pick Toby up, put him in the station wagon, and drive to Dr. Considine's. He's the best vet in Fayette County, and he won't charge you . . .' He stopped speaking and listened instead. His mouth slowly opened, closed, opened again like a fish gasping for breath. 'What?' he whispered, in a voice so fragile the other three men in the room looked at each other with amazed expressions: they'd never heard J.J. Falconer when he wasn't booming with good cheer.

'No,' he whispered. 'No, Cammy, that can't be. You're wrong.' He listened, his face slowly going pale. 'Cammy . . . I don't . . . know what to do. . . . Are you sure?' He glanced quickly up at the others, his beefy hand about to crunch the receiver in two. 'Is Wayne there with you? All right, now listen to me carefully. I don't care, just listen! Get that dog to the vet and have it checked over real good. Don't talk to anybody but Dr. Considine, and tell him I asked that he keep this to himself until I speak to him. Got that? Calm down, now! I'll be home in a couple of hours, I'm leavin' as fast as I can. Are you sure about this?' He paused, exhaled a long sigh, and then said, 'All right. Love you, hon. 'Bye.' And hung up the receiver.

'Anything wrong, J.J.?' Hodges asked.

'Toby,' Falconer said softly, staring out the window at the surrounding city, golden afternoon light splashed across his face. 'My bird dog. Hit by a truck on the highway. ...'

'Sorry to hear about that,' Forrest offered. 'Good dogs are hard to . .'

Falconer turned to face them. He was grinning triumphantly, his face a bright beet-red. He clenched his fists and thrust them toward the ceiling. 'Gentlemen,' he said in a voice choked with emotion. 'God works in mighty mysterious ways!'

THREE

Tent Show

11

Heat lay pressed close to the earth as John Creekmore drove away from the house on a Saturday morning in late July. Already the sun was a red ball of misery perched atop the eastern hills. As he drove toward the highway, heading for his job at Lee Sayre's hardware and feed store, a maelstrom of dust boiled up in the Olds's wake, hanging in brown sheets and slowly drifting toward the field of dry brown cornstalks.

There had been no rain since the second week of June. It was a time, John knew, of making do or doing without. His credit was getting pretty thin at the grocery store, and last week Sayre had told him that if business didn't pick up—which it wasn't likely to, being so late in the summer and so stifling hot— he'd have to let John go until the autumn. He was digging into the emergency money to get his family by, as were most of the valley's farmers. Perhaps the most contented creatures in the Hawthorne valley were the local hogs, who got to eat a great deal of the corn crop; happy also was the man from Birmingham who bought dry corncobs at dirt-cheap prices, turning them into pipes to be sold at drug stores.

There was the Crafts Fair, held in Fayette in August, to look forward to now. Ramona's needlepoint pictures sold well. John remembered a woman buying one of Ramona's pieces and saying it looked like something 'Grandma Moses' might've done; he didn't know who 'Grandma Moses' was, but he figured that was a compliment because the woman had cheerfully parted with five dollars.

Morning heat waves shimmered across the highway, making Hawthorne float like a mirage about to vanish. He shifted uneasily in his seat as he passed the still-vacant, rapidly deteriorating Booker house; it had a reputation, John knew, and nobody in his right mind would want to live there. Only when he had passed the vine-and-weed-