The Forsaken

“Qui

“But if I ask him or you ask him, he’ll do it,” Diane said, “right? There’s no need to open things up if the survivors want it closed. That should mean something to him.”

“You want to sit down?”

“Not really.”

“You look a nervous mess, Diane,” Caddy said. “Sit.”

They found a center pew, four spaces back from the stage, Diane wondering if indeed she did look like shit since she hadn’t looked in a mirror since getting to work that morning. She hadn’t dressed up or down and thought she was handling her conversation with Hank Stillwell pretty damn good, considering what he’d said. She now knew his obsession wasn’t just about Lori but about himself and about things haunting him as a man. Diane wanted out.

“What happened?”

Diane told her about meeting with Qui

“And what did he say?”

“He said he’d heard the stories and knew what happened to us,” Diane said. “But he needed to look at the old reports and talk to some people. I don’t want him talking to anybody. He starts talking to people and then things are going to come back on me. People are going to start to talk and point fingers, and, Caddy, I’m too old for that. This was too long ago. I can’t have that happen. And I can’t have anything else happen, either. People might get hurt.”

Caddy sat cool in the pew next to Diane, shit-kicker boot crossed at the knee, leaning up against the pew ahead, resting her chin on her forearm. A big cross made out of cedar logs hung from the rafters, swinging lightly in the breeze that cut in from outside.

“Don’t worry about Qui

“This shit is making me think on things I hadn’t worried about for a long time,” Diane said. “Things happened, some of it I recall, but other things feel like part of a dream. Things I heard whispered by my parents and some of the old people, who’d drop little comments on me, giving me a wink like I knew what they are talking about.”

There was a pleasantness to the old barn, the rough-hewn slats of wood, the still-present smell of feed and hay, even as support beams budded with speakers and the stage had been outfitted for a country gospel band. White Christmas lights wrapped most of the rafters and support beams, and there was a stillness about the place, even though people were hammering and talking outside. Lots of people, working to keep the ministry going.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Caddy said. “But you need to let this all out to two men.”

“Jesus Christ and Qui

“Yes, ma’am,” Caddy said. “Both can help you.”

“I might need the one carries a gun on his hip.”

“Tell Qui

Caddy reached out and squeezed Diane’s hand. Diane hadn’t noticed she was crying until she felt the wetness on her cheeks. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and snuffled a short laugh. “Something better not happen to me or you’ll have to rework Sunday’s service.”

“I got you down for ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ and ‘There Will Be Peace in the Valley,’” Caddy said. “Momma is thrilled. Two of Elvis’s favorites. To Jean, something’s not really holy unless Elvis sung it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Diane said.

Caddy gripped Diane’s hand more and squeezed tighter. She looked her right in the eye and smiled, so much strength and confidence that reminded Diane of Jamey Dixon, him being the one who’d first brought Diane to The River and got her to sing onstage, said she had a gift and he needed her to be a part of the rebirth of this county.

“He sure loved you, Caddy,” Diane said, regretting saying it before the words were even out of her mouth. Caddy withdrew her hand, stood abruptly but kept the smile going, and told her again to speak to Qui

“And after that?”

“Lay it all down for Jesus, sister,” Caddy said.

You take me to the nicest places, Qui

“Blue plate special is chicken spaghetti and two sides,” Qui

“To be honest, it’s just nice being away from work,” she said. “We had two funerals this morning and another one on Saturday. All of them people I know. All of them old. Do you know how hard it is to make old people look good when they die?”

“I imagine it’s tough to make any dead person look good,” Qui

“You’d be surprised,” Ophelia said. “Some people look better in the box than on the street.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Take Miss Nelson, for instance,” Ophelia said. “In life, she wore that crazy red wig and enough paint on her face for a circus clown. I chose a different wig and toned down her cheeks and eyes. Gave her a softer look. Her husband whispered to me after the service it was the best she’d looked since her wedding day.”

“You are an artist, Miss Bundren.”

“I’d like to think so,” she said. “I just have a different canvas than most.”

“You want the special?” Qui

Ophelia sighed and put down the menu that hadn’t changed much, either, over the years. “Only live once,” she said.

Qui

“You too tired to talk shop?” Qui

“I thought this was a date?”

“If this was a date, I could do better,” Qui

“Seriously,” Ophelia said, “I see plenty of that before I even have breakfast. How bad can it be?”

Qui

“Jesus God,” Ophelia said, putting a hand to her mouth.

“Body was found out on Jericho Road not far from where a couple young girls were attacked,” Qui