Alvin stands just to Craver’s right, his back rod straight and his gaze defiant. But there’s a hesitancy about him. He keeps those hands in his pockets. I catch his eye, but he just twitches and looks away. Was I right? Is he here to try to kill Junior? But that doesn’t quite explain Craver.
“Friend of yours, Mayor Bell?” the second man says, with a nervous laugh. “Didn’t realize how integrated your little town was. I’m as much for equality as the next man, but within reason. We don’t want to scare off good money when we open.”
Craver takes a step closer to the two men. Bobby Senior stands. “Ben,” he says, “whatever this is about, this is not the time.”
Alvin shifts his weight and eases his hands into the dim light. I hope no one else notices, but I reach for Pea. She tightens her hand around mine without looking away from the other table.
“We’ve known each other all our lives, Bobby,” Craver says calmly, “but I don’t think there’s any sense in us having another word together.”
The elder Bell has a voice tempered by decades of stump speeches. It is capable of a great volume. “Goddamn it, Ben—”
Craver drops to his knees, grabs the sharply pressed slacks of the drunken Astor.
“Sir, that land, the church’s land, it is not yours to develop, it belongs to God, to the good Lord Jesus Christ who suffered for our sins—”
I assume he continues to mine this vein, but Mayor Bell’s bellow drowns it. The Astor looks panicked and disgusted. He swats at Craver’s upturned, tear-streaked face.
“Get a hold of yourself, sir!”
Bobby Junior grabs Craver’s elbows and attempts to haul him back.
Alvin raises his hands. “Don’t you touch him!”
Bobby Junior freezes. The drunk tries to stand, then falls back into his chair. Alvin reaches—for whom, for what, impossible to know. We only see his hands, those living weapons, those holy gifts, about to illuminate another man’s sins.
A threat jumps from Pea’s fingertips to my wrists, but she has pulled away by the time I register its faint, muddy warning. Walter stands, pushes Tamara behind him. He reaches for his gun at the same time as Mayor Bell, but only one of them intends to use it.
Pea grabs Alvin by his shoulders. The mayor shoots. The two women—already plastered against the back wall—start to shriek and the drunk man slides onto the floor.
Then I see the blood.
Not everything desired beneath night’s blanket has a place in living reality. I might have lusted after the taste of my own blood on Pea’s lips, but the idea of reliving that nightmare of three months ago, her blood soaking the jacket I pressed against her chest—
I go for Mayor Bell. Calmly, carefully, full of a rage that tells me precisely when he sees me, and exactly how much he will hesitate when he raises that piece again.
I grab it. Hand around the warm barrel, a sharp tug away from his trigger finger—mine. Behind me Pea says, “Well, fuck, Dev.”
I already knew she was safe—not enough blood—but still that voice, half-appalled, half-amused, goes through me like an electric spark.
I assess the situation. Walter levels his gun at Bobby Junior, Bobby Junior keeps his piece up, the younger Astor presses against the back wall with the women. All three are quiet and horrified. Craver shivers on the floor beside Alvin and the fainting man. Alvin touches the spreading stain beneath the burned edges of his torn shirtsleeve.
“Is he dead?” I ask Walter. The man’s pants are wet, and a sharp scent testifies to the reason.
Walter shrugs. “Sauced. Scared shitless.”
Pea sniffs. “Walter, does anyone ever laugh at that?”
“Couldn’t help myself. Tammy, how you doing?”
“Christ, Pea, don’t you know how to relax?” Tamara’s voice is breathy but reasonably controlled. She’s getting better at this.
“Now,” Walter says, “I’m going to put this down on the count of three. And then we’re all going to stand up and go our separate ways. I don’t know a damned thing about what’s going on here, and I don’t care. No one’s been hurt—”
Alvin lifts his head. “That mother shot me!”
“Badly,” he continues, “and we’re going to keep it that way. Right? I see that piece you got there, kid, so don’t look at me like that. Put it on the table and we all walk out easy. Agreed, Mayor?”
Mayor Bell has been unusually silent through this. But then, Walter’s power is clearly his equal. He glances at his son, then squares his shoulders. “Sounds reasonable. Junior, you heard him, put that gun on the table.”
“But Dad, what if that boy tries to touch us?”
“Alvin won’t touch anyone,” Pea says, weary. Alvin stares at her, then remembers to nod. Bobby Junior grimaces and slides his gun over the tablecloth, amid the mess of Marnie’s best dinner.
“Davey, are you planning to keep that?” The mayor gestures to the piece I’m still holding like a dead snake. “It was my father’s, and I know you know the importance of those sorts of keepsakes.”
I slide his gun across the table. Having any common ground with the Bells makes even my rusted soul feel dirty.
Then Walter counts to three, holsters his gun, and hauls Tamara up by her elbow. Craver gets to his feet, trembling and glassy-eyed. The Bells and their guests hurry to the side of the Astor groaning on the floor. The rest of us look at one another, clear in the same understanding—better to leave before he wakes up.
“Alvin,” Pea says, “come with us, will you? That needs looking after.” After a moment she adds, grudgingly, “You’re welcome too, Mr. Craver.”
Alvin looks up at her like he’s been struck with light on the road to Damascus. “You—I—all right.”
Craver shakes his head mutely and walks down the steps. Back in the street, he is unsteady, shrunken, a wobbling silhouette that dances among the long shadows of the houses until they swallow him whole.
Pea explains about Alvin’s saint’s hands in the
