face and blurt out, “Get in the truck, Ben, I want to show you something.”
The “something” he wanted to show me was usually some natural oddity bizarre enough to attract his attention. Once he took me to a field which, as we approached it, seemed to bubble with a thick black oil. It was really locusts, enormous black ones, thousands of them, which, he said, had swept in from Texas and would be gone by morning. There were other odd visions that attracted him: a field of smooth white stones, for example, that was actually a pond in which hundreds of fish had suddenly surfaced, belly-up and dying, killed, as my father told me, by “some kid” who’d used a portable generator to electrify the water.
I still don’t know what effect such scenes had upon my father. I was never even sure what drew him to them. I do know that human disasters attracted him with the same steady call as natural ones, although I never saw any sign that they had any more lasting impact.
But they did on me. Or at least one of them did.
It was the single worst calamity that ever struck Choctaw, and in the park, on a Saturday evening, the old- timers who gather at a place called Whittlers Corner still talk about it.
One night in the middle of July 1954, a family of twelve set out in two narrow boats from a small, wooded island in the middle of the Tennessee River. It was very dark, and the boats had no lanterns to mark their positions. Somewhere along the way they lost track of each other in the darkness, began to cross paths, and finally collided at a place almost exactly halfway between the island and the farther shore. In the terrible confusion that followed, all but the husband had drowned—eleven people, a wife, a grandmother, and nine children ranging in age from seven months to sixteen years.
Two days after the drowning I heard my father’s truck pull into the driveway, then his voice calling to me from outside. “Come get in the truck, Ben. I want to show you something.”
I did as I was told, and we headed up the side of the mountain, driving briskly along its curling road until we passed onto the broad plateau of farmland at its top. On both sides of the road, I could see tin silos rusting in the tall, dry grass, and miles of barbed-wire fence running in thin brown scars across weedy, unplanted fields.
It was midafternoon when we arrived at my father’s destination, a small country meeting hall which, from the look of it, had once been a barn. A few pickup trucks and old cars rested here and there around the building. They were dusty and battered, and I knew that the people who drove them were the hardscrabble farmers who struggled to live off the barren lands through which we had just driven.
Three or four men lingered in the doorway of the building, most of them dressed in overalls. They nodded to us as we passed by.
Inside, there were a few other people, but it was not the living that caught my attention, it was the dead. I had never seen so many of them in one place. They seemed to fill the room, draining off its light and air. They were arranged along the walls, all eleven of them, their coffins growing in size from the tiniest, which held the body of the seven-month-old infant, to the largest, the one that held the family’s drowned grandmother. All of them were open, and from the doorway I could see eleven faces rising toward the dusty ceiling, their eyes closed, their lips puffed and oddly purple, their skin a chalky yellow.
One by one, my father led me past each coffin, pausing slightly, glancing down. The baby looked the most natural of them all, its small body sunk low in the coffin’s nest of ruffled white silk. We passed a three-year-old girl, then a four-year-old boy, then up through the ages of man until we reached the family’s oldest victim, her gray hair pulled back behind her head, her cheeks rouged, a pair of cheap store-bought reading glasses perched ridiculously on her nose.
When it was over, I waited for my father to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he wandered over to where the surviving father stood in a knot of other men. He was a short, stubby man, and he looked stunned not so much by the sheer magnitude of what had happened to his family as by the sudden attention the tragedy had brought in its wake.
“I’m Arthur Loomis,” he said, stretching his hand toward my father. “I’m much obliged for your coming.”
My father took Loomis’s hand. “Well, it’s a terrible thing,” he said quietly, “but, you know, there’s a lot the little ones won’t ever have to know.”
Mr. Loomis nodded, then released my father’s hand, the words washing over him without effect, then disappearing into the gray air.
But to me, my father’s words lingered shockingly. What was it, I wondered, that these “little ones” would never have to know? What did my father know about life that was so terrible that sudden death in the very young could be thought of as a blessing?
My father idled awhile with the men in the building, but I walked outside instead. For a time, I wandered aimlessly among the old pickups, then drifted around the side of the building, and finally behind it.
Once I turned the corner at the rear of the building, I saw a small house. It was not much more than a shack, with a tin roof that was badly rusted, and a front porch that sagged to the right. A young man stood a few yards from the porch. He was tall, and rather thin, with hair that shone almost silver in the midday light, and I could see that he was watching me intently. For a long time he stood in place, his body weaving from side to side as if being gently pushed left and right by invisible hands. Then he laughed in a keening voice and moved toward me, a length of rope trailing behind him at the waist, its far end tied securely to one of the porch’s supporting posts.
I drew back reflexively and suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder. I glanced up and saw a tall woman in a flowered dress, her skin brown and leathery, but her eyes very sharp beneath the high green bonnet.
“Nothing to be afraid of,” she said, clearly indicating the boy in the front yard. “That’s just Lamar.” She smiled quietly and stroked my hair. “Nothing to be afraid of,” she repeated, “he’s just Jesus in disguise.”
I thought of that phrase again as I headed down the mountain toward Choctaw that night so many years later, my father long dead, the burning ruin of the old church miles behind me. I could feel my memory heating up like a great furnace in my brain, and after a moment I pulled onto the side of the road, trying to gather it all together. From where I’d stopped, I could see all of Choctaw below me, a glittering necklace strung between two dark mountains, and in that instant it seemed to be just as Kelli had once described it, the whole world, with everything that could be known of life gathered within its tiny space. Once again, I heard the old woman say, “He’s just Jesus in disguise.” And I realized that over the years that single phrase had come to me again and again. I’d heard it when little Raymond Jeffries first appeared in my office, his arms and legs crowded with dark bruises, and still later as I’d lifted Rosie Cameron from the stretcher, felt her shattered bones beneath her skin like tiny tubes of chalk and realized that she was dead. I heard it as I’d peered back down the long corridor and glimpsed Mary Diehl sitting mutely in her white room. It’s just Jesus in disguise, I’d repeated in my mind, and by that means absolved myself from all that had been done to them. But most of all I’d heard it on those summer nights when I’d gone out on the porch, sat down in the swing, closed my eyes and seen the face of Kelli Troy. And suddenly I realized that down through the years it had worked like an incantation, a magical phrase I’d used not to open a door and thereby release all that lay trapped inside, but to keep one tightly closed.
It was at that moment, with that realization, that I felt something break in me, the fragile wire that had held my life together for over thirty years. I knew that my eyes were glistening, so I wiped them with a handkerchief, then started the car and drove on down the mountainside toward home. On the way, I thought about my life, about how, over the years, I had assumed the noble role of village doctor and public benefactor. But I knew now that each time I’d allowed myself to imagine my own character in so revered a way, a disturbing little voice had risen in me. It was like the one whispered into the ears of returning Roman conquerors, cautiously reminding them that fame is fleeting. But in me, the voice had always been Luke’s, and it had brought a different message than the one the conquerors heard. Each time I’d imagined myself good, kind, wise, the fully deserving object of a small town’s admiration, the voice had spoken softly, but insistently, whispering its grim suspicion,
CHAPTER 3
IT IS LUKE’S VOICE THAT HAS FORMED THE CONTRAPUNTAL rhythm of my life, and so it is fitting that he was with me on the day Kelli Troy appeared again.
It was the last weekend of the summer before my sophomore year, and the two of us had gone to the town park for a game of tennis.
It seems strange to me now that Luke and I ever became friends. He was a year older, tall, well built and
