and no doubt Cartwright found them irritating. But this ham play and the word from the Lord was all to promote his radio show. I’m pretty sure Jesus never used a live remote, but then Jesus didn’t have Cartwright’s skill with self- promotion. Or confidence games if you prefer.
You see, Jesus ordered Cartwright to the mountain every year about this time. Cartwright did his communing inside a comfortable little trailer, while all around him were booths offering religious pamphlets he bought in bulk at two cents each and charged $2.50 for. Then there were his self-published books, record albums, children’s books, and Jesus sweaters, caps, and jackets. His church ladies sold burgers and hot dogs and pop at jacked-up prices. And every time he emerged from his trailer to speak to the two or three hundred people who’d gathered there, a plate was passed around. The shakedowns never ended.
He kept talking, or tried to. The smirkers kept shouting insults and laughing at him. Not even the cops walking among them could shut them up. Cartwright’s flock turned on the smirkers and started chanting their own cleaned-up insults right back. Cartwright the mountaineer was drowned out completely.
And then finally, it broke. Whether the smirkers rushed the followers or the followers rushed the smirkers, it was hard to say, but somebody threw a punch at somebody and about a dozen bodies were entangled in pushing, shoving, and throwing a few fists.
The cops rushed to form a broken line between the two groups. They shouted, too-for both groups to shut the hell up.
For the past few minutes I’d sensed somebody staring at me, but in all the shouting I hadn’t looked around. Now that I started scanning the people behind me, I didn’t see anybody taking any particular interest in me. These were the true onlookers. They’d come to the crash site just to check it out. They weren’t followers and they weren’t smirkers. I suspected that most of them in this blistering, sweaty night were here for the yuks. This might well be more interesting than anything on at the drive-in. (I’d checked and it was.) I started to look back at the groups who were bringing the cops to understandable anger. But then peripherally I caught somebody waving. He’d quit waving by the time I’d started looking again. I was about to give up when I saw him lean from behind a tree and wave again.
Tommy Delaney, high school football player and tortured soul of his parents’ many deadly battles, walked in my direction. I thought maybe he’d seen somebody behind me he wanted to talk to, but then there he was putting out his hand.
As we shook he said, “I’m sorry I was such a jerk to you before, Mr. McCain. I ran into Sarah this afternoon and she told me you were a good guy and that I should apologize.”
“I didn’t know you and Sarah knew each other.”
“Yeah. My uncle owns the used-book store over on Main and Chandler. I used to work there sometimes. She was always coming in. She’s a big reader.” He had a shy smile. “We didn’t get along at first. You know, she can come on pretty strong with the hippie stuff. But eventually we got to be friends. I even took her to the movies a couple of times.” Then he nodded to Kenny. “We sell a lot of your books there, Mr. Thibodeau.”
“I wouldn’t admit that to anybody, Tommy.”
Tommy smiled, but now his body tensed. Hands into fists, his eyes jittery. He gulped twice. He looked around at the melee that was calming down. He was going to tell me something. Then the tension and the anxiety drained from him and he said, “Well, I better get going. I-I’m not real popular with Mr. Mainwaring now. You know, I’ve kinda lived there for the last year and a half. It was real peaceful there. But I don’t think he wants me around anymore. I wanna see if I can patch things up. I hate to be-you know, banned from there for good or anything.”
The sadness looked wrong hanging on the beefy teenager. He should be flattening players on the field or pouring himself a sloppy beer at a kegger or making it with a comely cheerleader in the backseat of a car. All that energy, all that popularity, all that raw strength-but now he was stooped again, bereft as an orphan in those Dust Bowl photographs of the Depression ’30s. It wasn’t difficult to imagine that he’d cried about this-or even that he might cry about it now, as soon as he was out of my sight.
“Did you want to tell me something, Tommy? I kind of got that sense a minute ago.”
“Nah-I mean-” After a glance at Kenny and then at me, he said: “I just wanted to apologize.”
He turned and left, quickly becoming part of the crowd.
“I wonder what he wanted to tell you, McCain.”
“Yeah, I wonder, too.”
15
I was working my ass off eating a bagel and reading the morning paper’s version of the events that followed Kenny and me leaving the good Reverend Cartwright’s play last night. Apparently things had settled down enough for the program to continue. My favorite line in the story was: “According to most estimates, Pearson’s Peak is not considered a mountain.”
“Did you like the coffee this morning, Mr. C?”
“Great as usual.” Jamie was sensitive about her coffee.
“I tried a new brand. I thought you might notice.”
I put the paper down. “I was going to mention it the minute I stopped reading. Whatever brand it is, keep on buying it. It’s terrific.”
Her smile pleased me. I enjoyed seeing Jamie happy. Lately her blue eyes had lost their luster and her slight shoulders slumped. Between motherhood and her surfer-boy lazy bastard husband, she deserved to smile every once in a while.
Which was when our door opened as if a pair of battering rams had been thrust against it. Jamie jumped in her seat, her hands covering her mouth, a sharp noise caught in her throat.
He stood in the doorway with his finger pointed at me as if it was a weapon. “You son of a bitch.” Then he glared at Jamie. “Get her out of here. And I mean now.”
Jamie was already crying. I hurried around the desk. When my hands went to her shoulders I felt how rigid her entire body was. “Why don’t you go somewhere for half an hour or so?”
“But where will I go, Mr. C?”
“The cafe down the street would be a good place. Get a donut and some coffee. It won’t be as good as our coffee, of course.”
She didn’t laugh, just plucked a Kleenex from the box on her desk and blew her nose-a hardy blow indeed. I helped her up from her chair, grabbed her purse, and slid it under her arm.
All the time our guest stood there trying to restrain himself from attacking me.
“Will you be all right, Mr. C?”
“I’ll be fine, Jamie. Now you go on and have a coffee break.”
“But it’s not even nine yet-”
“Get her the hell out of here right now, McCain.”
I walked her quickly to the door. Four steps across from the threshold she started to turn around to say something. I closed the door.
“You son of a bitch.”
“You said that already, Paul.”
After I was seated again, I said, “You could always sit down.”
But Paul Mainwaring was seething. “I should tear your head off, McCain. But I’ve got stockholders and they wouldn’t be happy about the bad publicity.”
“Some people wouldn’t consider it bad. They’d think you were a hero.”
“That’s just the kind of glib bullshit I’d expect from you.” He was calming down enough to consider using the chair. He eyed it with great suspicion, as if it was about to attack him. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions that don’t need to be asked. Dragging my family’s name through the mud. I wanted you to find out who killed my daughter. But for some goddamn reason you started investigating my whole family.” He was so angry he was spluttering.
“Sit down and tell me what you’re so upset about.”
