by Gary Carter
Ernie lately had taken to studying intently on whether life was just something you endured on a minute-to-minute, hour-to-hour, week-to-week, year-to-year journey toward, as he liked to call it, running a worm farm. His daddy had termed it “taking a dirt nap.” Didn’t matter what you called it, you were dead and gone. End of story.
But Ernie couldn’t determine if he was missing out on something or had been promised something that hadn’t been delivered or, as he’d been pondering, whether life was just life, and maybe you got out of it what you put into it. Or, as his wife steadfastly held, your reward for living a good life would come afterward when you rose up to heaven to be with Jesus, and all your family and friends in eternal paradise. Therefore, all the trials and tribulations of life, all the pain and suffering, would be washed away.
However, Ernie was still having problems with the here and now, and just wasn’t coming up with any answers that felt right. Sure, he could hold on to Jesus and put up with the day-to-day bullshit until time for his dirt nap, and look forward to a nice long vacation in heaven. He wasn’t sure he necessarily wanted to spend eternity hanging around with his family, and damn sure didn’t want to be saddled with his wife’s clan who never liked him worth a crap anyhow, and wasn’t real sure his friends could be counted on for an eternity of amusement. The way he figured it, the best thing might be just to kind of ease into heaven and avoid the welcoming party, slip off and do a little exploration for himself, see what paradise was all about. Seemed to him it had to be different things to different folks, which maybe Jesus took into consideration and, him being all-knowing and such, actually did a little custom plan for each worthy individual, kind of like a travel agent of the soul.
Ernie kind of liked that approach, but didn’t find his wife too accepting of the notion when he sought some insights. After all, Thelma was a self-appointed missionary for the Lord on earth, had been since she’d been saved at age fourteen right at the kitchen table in her little house, with her mama and daddy and the preacher praying long and hard until, as she liked to tell it, there was this heavenly radiance in the room and a lightness in her heart that told her in no uncertain terms Jesus was front and center and ready to welcome her into his flock since he’d died for her sins. Though she admitted she actually didn’t have many at the time, except she had let Clayton Starnes touch her boob once, but only through her shirt and bra, and that had led her to some carnal thoughts on which she might have acted eventually had Jesus not seen fit to save her before she had all that extra guilt to weigh her down. So she’d really and truly been a virgin on her and Ernie’s wedding night, which still came as a bit of a surprise to him because he wasn’t sure such a thing truly still existed in the early 1970s. She had assured him she was indeed untouched—though it was obvious through some dating hanky-panky that Thelma had either figured some things out on her own or had some good coaching somewhere along the way. But Ernie put that out of his mind, actually feeling pretty special that Thelma really had “saved herself for the man she loved.”
Anyway, Ernie’s studying on life seemed to be getting him nowhere fast so he decided he’d ask Thelma for some counseling, her being a well-respected Sunday School teacher who pretty much always attracted a packed house when she did her semi-annual special month-of-Sundays series she called “Don’t Think Temptation Won’t Come Calling, With Satan Not Far Behind.” She’d start out with real-life horror stories, some based right in their own town, of individuals who’d run up on temptation of one sort or another and, lacking the faith in Jesus to know the right way, chose the path to sin and degradation and suffering and even death.
Thelma was always adding to and freshening her repertoire until nearly the first half hour of the initial session was a steaming litany so full of sin and suffering that some sensitive types had actually been sickened and had to leave the room. Thelma remarked to Ernie once, after she returned home flush from the impact of her anecdotes sending four folks out, that she wasn’t sure if it was the power of the parables or really that those particular folks were guilty of such sins they became revolted by that knowledge of themselves. She figured it was fifty-fifty when they left the room whether Jesus was going to swoop in and rescue them, or whether they were too far gone and Satan was waiting with open arms. She reckoned she’d know the answer the following Sunday based on whether any or all showed back up.
Ernie was a bit apprehensive about opening up the subject of his life’s meaning with Thelma since he realized full well he’d long been under suspicion by her and her family as someone who didn’t fully embrace the teachings of the Southern Baptist faith to the extent Thelma believed wholeheartedly was necessary to ensure ascendance to heaven, as opposed to the soul-shattering plunge into eternal damnation. The fact that Ernie was known to stop down at Henry’s Roadside Tavern for an occasional beer and maybe a game or two of eight-ball gave Thelma what she called “spiritual heartburn,” which generally spread to Ernie in the form of what he called “a down-home ass-crawling” during which all his transgressions, real and imagined, were examined in detail by a woman hell-bent on not being embarrassed by a husband lolling in Satan’s arms. Unfortunately, even after a major reaming, Ernie still couldn’t figure out precisely why Jesus would care if he chugged a couple of beers—he seldom, if ever, allowed himself to get even the least bit tipsy—or shot a game of pool for a couple of bucks.
In fact, he thought it strange that if Jesus was so opposed to alcohol and such he had even allowed it to manifest itself. Which Thelma would point out, usually with a long sigh, that the Lord had given mankind freewill but, after that fiasco by Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, had allowed temptation so that a man had to learn to choose the path of righteousness. Which Ernie would counter seemed a bit of a contradiction if the Lord really was all-knowing and all-seeing, and could just as easily have laid down the law, kept everybody on the up and up, and made life pretty simple and easy. Which then allowed Thelma to administer the verbal slap-up-side-the-head that the Lord worked in mysterious ways that simple mortals like Ernie were not supposed to understand, but should just follow the commandments and Bible teachings in a literal way, and know everything ultimately would be revealed.
Which is what Ernie was hoping for when he sat down across the kitchen table from Thelma who was stringing pole beans and keeping time with her labors by humming “The Old Rugged Cross” low and sweet.
“Listen, honey, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” Ernie said, hoping to get a chance to ease into the conversation.
Thelma immediately gave him a sharp examination, making Ernie realize he’d made it sound like he had something serious to confess. “What is it, Ernie?” she said, halting her efforts with the beans.
Ernie tried to regroup, lighten things up, saying, “Now, it’s not anything big, but I just was hoping you might, you know, be able to help me understand how life works, just in general, so I can figure out what’s coming down the road.”
Apparently, the lightness didn’t take, because Thelma raised her eyes to the ceiling, though Ernie knew she actually was looking up to heaven, and said, “Lord, help me,” before looking back to her husband with something grim behind her gaze.
“So, you don’t think understanding life and how to live it properly is, what did you say, not anything big?” Thelma said. Ernie wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer or if that was what the preacher called some other kind of question that was just to make you think and that you probably couldn’t respond to anyway. Just to be safe, he stayed quiet, suddenly wishing he was not sitting at the table right then and had not opened his big mouth.
“You know, Ernie, I’ve been waiting a long time for you to ask just such a question, because what it tells me is maybe Jesus is very quietly working on your heart in an effort to save your soul from an eternity in hell. I mean, Jesus doesn’t just blast into your presence out of the blue—you have to be ready to allow him into your heart, you have to want to be embraced by his love. Then he’ll show you the way to live your life. You ask me, you’ve been fighting me and Jesus for a long time now, and it’s likely the perfect time for you to get right with the Lord since you’re not getting any younger, your blood pressure’s been acting up and nobody knows exactly when you’ll be called home. So you have to be ready, and washed in the blood of the lamb. Are you ready, Ernie?”
What Ernie thought was, “Shit, why’d I open my big dumb mouth,” but what he ended up saying was, “Well, you know, honey, it may be that Jesus is sneaking around inside me and working some magic. I just don’t know for certain. But I’ll tell you one thing, when and if he reveals himself, you’ll damn sure be the first one to know.”
Thelma tilted her head, stared hard into her husband’s eyes, which seemed a little jittery. “First of all, sinner, don’t ever use profanity anywhere around the Lord’s name. And second, this is no joking matter. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times Jesus is not going to come begging you to accept him as your savior and to let him cleanse your sorry soul so you can be in heaven with me and everyone we care about in this life. You have to be willing to change your way of living and believing, which you just aren’t indicating you’re ready to do. So don’t be asking me how life works and how to live it—it’s all right there in the Good Book.”
Ernie could feel his legs doing a jitterbug under the table, like they wanted to blast him out of this kitchen and down to Henry’s where he just might, this time, have a couple more beers than normal just to wash all this talk out of his mind. In fact, getting a little out of his mind might be just what he needed, might free up the kinks and push aside the unnecessary clutter, might just put him in touch with that something he needed to figure his way out of this messiness called life. At the very least, should Jesus indeed come calling, he’d be all relaxed so that power could just come rolling on in, no opposition, and bundle him up, maybe even just go ahead and rapture him on up to paradise.
“Ernie? Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, honey, I believe I surely did,” Ernie said, giving Thelma one of his really good smiles.
“Well, I’m not so sure,” Thelma said sharply. “In fact, you know what I think you need to do, right now while you’re in this frame of mind? I think you need to head right down to the church and sit down with Reverend Franklin and let him help you see the light, see the error of your ways and maybe get you on the right path where you won’t be sitting around here fretting about something as silly as how life works and what to do about it. What do you think about that?”
Ernie gave her another smile, one that felt positively heavenly. “You know what, Thelma, I believe that’s a da—a really fine idea. And I believe I’ll just mosey on down to the church right now.”
Now it was Thelma’s turn to shine her love light on this man she’d pledged as just a girl to love, honor and cherish until death parted them. She honestly felt maybe this finally was the turning point. After all these years of hoping Jesus would show her how to guide Ernie onto the path of righteousness, it felt as if the time had come when she was sitting at her kitchen table, doing something as innocent as snapping beans for supper. Yes, indeed, she marveled, the Lord does indeed work in mighty mysterious ways.
She raised her face as Ernie rose from the table and accepted the quick kiss he placed on her forehead. And then she sat in what felt like a moment of grace as she listened to Ernie’s footsteps crunching the gravel, the door closing and the truck cranking. As she listened intently, wondering how Ernie felt at this special moment, he backed down the driveway and onto the road. Thelma cocked her head as the exhaust note softened with distance and, feeling something slip away inside of her, realized Ernie was headed in the opposite direction of the church.
It was dark and cool inside Henry’s Roadside Tavern, but Ernie was surprised at how quiet it was, even if it was just Wednesday afternoon. But it wasn’t quite five yet. Of course, Ernie already knew he was going to be in for the full fire-and-brimstone treatment when Thelma figured out he hadn’t gone to the church to be counseled by the preacher. But even the pending threat couldn’t detract from the joy and pleasure he was reaping from his third Old Milwaukee as he sat alone in a booth with nothing to distract him except the distant click of pool balls, the occasional brief conversation between Henry and somebody at the bar, and the steady whir of the fan from the air conditioning unit protruding from the wall above him and doing its best to fight off the August heat pounding on the tin roof. As usual, the light was dim in Henry’s except for the bulbs hanging low over the two pool tables in the back. It was, in Ernie’s opinion, a place just made for drinking and quiet meditation about the mysteries and vagaries of life.
Whenever the door opened from outside, an eye-blasting burst of sun exploded into the place, though most patrons knew to hustle on in and minimize the distraction and intrusion of hot air. However, whoever opened the door this time, took a long pause in the doorway, framed by the white glare, as if pondering whether to enter or not. Somebody at the bar expressed his irritation at the interruption, yelling out, “Shut the goddamn door.”
As if that decided things, the shadow entered fully and let the door swing shut. Ernie didn’t pay any attention to the newcomer, planning to maintain his lone vigil over his sweating bottle of beer, but perked up when he heard the same guy at the bar, now a little sheepish, say, “Oh, howdy there, preacher. Didn’t know that was you.”Ernie leaned over so that he could see around the back of the booth and, sure as shit, there stood Reverend Wyatt T. Franklin, decked out, as usual, in a black suit and starched white shirt, but no tie, which wasn’t as usual. It was as if he plucked off his tie so it wouldn’t look like he was on official business. In fact, Ernie at first had the thought maybe it was pure coincidence the reverend had appeared in Henry’s, that perhaps it was a regular stop-off for him just to see if any of his members were backsliding or if he could spot a wayward soul in need of redemption. For all Ernie knew, a preacher had a quota just like a salesman. But he realized it wasn’t chance when Reverend Franklin, craning his head around, spotted Ernie and headed straight toward him, giving Ernie no chance of escape and only enough time to mutter “holy shit,” under his breath and ease the beer down beside him on the wooden seat. Unfortunately, there was no time to hide the two dead soldiers pushed up next to the wall.
“Afternoon, Mister Evans,” the preacher said a bit solemnly. “Mind if I join you?”
Like I have a choice, Ernie thought, but said, “Why sure, Reverend. Sit yourself on down.” And figuring at this point he didn’t have much to lose, Ernie asked innocently, “Buy you a beer?”
Reverend Franklin smiled, not a real warm one, but still a reasonable attempt. “I’m fairly certain you know the answer to that question, Ernie. I believe you know we frown on any use of alcohol.”
At this point, Ernie was becoming a bit annoyed at having his peace and quiet disturbed, particularly by someone he was pretty sure had something on his mind. So, Ernie figured what the hell, can’t get much worse, and raised his bottle back onto the table, grabbing a long swig along the way. “You know, preacher, I’ve never been quite sure about that, considering how, if I’m not mistaken, King David and Moses and Jesus and all the disciples used to partake a bit of wine from time to time. In fact, as I recall, Jesus even turned water into wine to serve the multitudes, which doesn’t sound like he was too much against it—in fact, sounds like he was promoting it.”
Reverend Franklin held his half-smile, but it twitched just a little as he folded his hands in front of him on the table. He appeared considering how best to put Jesus and wine into the proper Baptist context when Henry appeared and said, “Get you anything, Reverend?”
“Maybe a nice cold grape soda, if you have one,” Reverend Franklin replied.
“On the way,” Henry said, turning to Ernie and giving him a wink on the sly. “You need another brew, Ernie?”
Now a smart man, at that point, likely would have cut his losses and declined. But Ernie was three beers into what had been a pretty nice time and also was figuring what the hell difference does it make now, so he said, “Yeah, why not, Henry. And bring me one of those Slim-Jims, too.”
Henry backed away, obviously a little surprised at Ernie’s boldness but definitely admiring his guts, returning quick as a wink with a grape soda, the Slim-Jim and another Old Milwaukee, and proclaiming as Ernie reached into his pocket, “Nah, this round’s on the house,” probably because he was sensing a story unfolding with which he could later entertain the regulars.
As Henry retreated behind the bar to observe the action from afar, Reverend Franklin leaned forward and said solemnly, “I guess you know why I’m here, Ernie.”
Even though he had a pretty good idea, he decided he was going to make the preacher work for everything he got. “Now, I can’t say that I do, preacher. I was just sitting here, relaxing, minding my own business and not bothering anybody.”
Reverend Franklin reared up and arched his back as if what he deduced to be Ernie’s bold-faced lie might just cause a bolt of lightning to slice through the roof and burn him to a crisp. “But you are bothering somebody, Ernie, because I wouldn’t be here except that your dear Thelma, one of the Lord’s most divine creatures, called me very concerned about the fact you told her you were coming to the church to see me—but went in the wrong direction—and also that you were asking some pretty serious questions about dealing with life. I believe you can understand how she might be worried, even more than she usually is about you, Ernie, because she doesn’t feel you’ve made peace with Jesus and given him your heart, put yourself in his hands so you can live a good, clean life and enjoy eternal peace.”
Ernie tilted his head back to think for a second, then took a long, slow pull off his bottle. “Now, you see, right there, preacher, you’re making like you have all the answers for me, you know what I’m thinking and feeling, and all I need to be happy. As far as I can tell, you’re pretty much a normal man like me, except you believe the Lord called you to—how is it you like to say it—oh yeah, minister to his flock. Now I reckon I’ve always wondered, since it’s just us boys here talking, whether that means Jesus actually speaks directly to you, tells you what’s up. Like, even if Thelma hadn’t picked up the phone, would Jesus have sent you on down here to pluck me out of this den of iniquity and put me on the straight and narrow?”
Reverend Franklin’s face had turned slightly purple in sharp contrast to his white shirt that sort of glowed in the dimness, and there was a thick vein right between his eyes that was bulging and pulsating. Somehow, the preacher managed to hang onto his composure, though his voice had taken on an edge that indicated to Ernie he was getting down to serious business now. “You need to listen to me very closely, Mr. Evans, and understand I’m ready and willing to do my best to help you find your way in this world, but I can’t help someone who doesn’t seem to want help and who speaks with disrespect about our Lord and his book, and who questions my beliefs and faith. I know Jesus is in my heart and soul, that he hears my prayers and guides my steps, and forgives me of my sins and has gone before me to prepare a place in heaven, and—”
“Now, let me stop you right there, preacher,” Ernie said, cutting in to halt the flow rather than let Reverend Franklin get rolling. “How do you know these things for certain? That’s all I’m asking. Because I’d like to know these things too so I could get on with what’s left of my days on this planet, either just taking things as they come and having at it, or knuckling down to this kind of life you have where everything is the Lord’s will and you don’t have to worry about anything or even take responsibility for anything, because it’s the Lord let whatever it was happen.”
If it was indeed possible for fire to shoot from someone’s eyes, Ernie would have been a pile of cinders because Reverend Franklin looked like his head was going to split open and avenging angels were going to explode out. He pounded his fist on the table so hard the bottles danced along the wood. “Now you hear me good, it’s all about faith, all about believing in something that’s been laid out for us by the Lord who created heaven and earth, who—”
Ernie jumped in again. “You see, right there, just exactly how do you know some all-knowing, supernatural being whizzed around and decided to do all those things?”
“Because it says it in the Bible,” thundered Reverend Franklin, pounding both fists on the table now.
“Well, sure I know that,” Ernie offered, “but how do you know who wrote all that stuff, whether it’s truth or some fairy tale, or just something somebody made up in order to make people do things, or—”
Reverend Franklin reached across the table and grabbed Ernie by his ears, pulling him forward and screaming into his face, “Damn you, you blasphemous son of a bitch, I want to—to—”
He slammed Ernie backwards, spun out of the booth and stood panting like a wild dog, his white shirt pulled partially loose and hanging over the front of his pants. He pointed a long finger at Ernie and said in his deepest gospel voice, “The Lord is going to get you, Ernie Evans, just as sure as I’m standing here. He will punish you.” And then he stormed across the bar, knocking over a chair and practically taking the door off the hinges.
Ernie sat back and rubbed his ears, relieved to find both still fully attached. There was total silence around him, except for the relentless whir above him, because everyone in the place was frozen. Ernie glanced around, picked up his beer, shrugged his shoulders and said to no one in particular, “I don’t know, must’ve been something I said.”
Ernie didn’t stay much longer at Henry’s after the reverend blew out, finding the other patrons were throwing odd looks his way and keeping their distance, probably fearing the jaws of hell might open up at any moment and swallow Ernie. But he knew it wouldn’t take long for word to spread and had little doubt Thelma already had been briefed by Reverend Franklin as part of his duty to his flock. They might even be plotting some kind of Baptist-style intervention or exorcism to pull Ernie back from the brink and into the folds of Jesus’ robe. At the very least, Ernie knew there was going to be some serious retribution forthcoming from Thelma that he was in no hurry to experience, which is why he stopped and picked up a pint of Old Crow and decided on a long and meandering path home, finding himself now somewhere in the remote northern part of the county on a winding strip of gnarly two-lane blacktop hemmed in tight on both sides by brush and trees. It was well off Ernie’s beaten path, but sufficed as a road to somewhere, even if he didn’t know quite where.
At some point, for some odd reason, Ernie was blindsided by a memory of a story he’d heard once—maybe in seventh grade—about an ancient guy who got in a bad way with the gods—Ernie couldn’t recall the exact transgression—and ended up with the never-ending task of pushing a big rock up a steep hill where, every time he got right to the top, the rock would roll back down again. Ernie wasn’t sure exactly what that had to do with his current condition, but it did start him thinking again about life and that maybe all life consisted of was doing the same things over and over, and that was it. Which would mean there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of meaning to the whole shebang, and, therefore, he was doing a bunch of fretting over nothing and might just as well get on with living in whatever form it took and get ready for dying, which definitely was going to happen. As his daddy used to say, “Ain’t nobody gets out alive.”
He slid by a little crossroads grocery store and thought about stopping for something to wash the taste of the bourbon out of his mouth, but a little hand-lettered sign caught his eye that said, “Tent Revival Ahead. Ever Body Welcome.” And about a quarter of a mile later there was an arrow pointing down a dirt road to his right, onto which Ernie turned without knowing exactly why and without giving it much consideration, especially surprising in light of his most recent brush with religion.
There was a clearing with a little rundown frame church at one end, and next to it was a good-sized white tent underneath which there was a fairly sizable number of folks standing or sitting in fold-up chairs. There were some lights up under the tent that made the thing kind of radiate in the growing twilight, and Ernie parked about fifty feet away, switching off the engine and listening to what sounded like a man preaching, his exact words unclear but with the rhythmic rise-and-fall cadence of a country preacher. It had a soothing quality about it that reminded Ernie of sitting in church as a kid, before he started having all these questions, when he was perfectly content to know Jesus loved him and was looking after him.
Ernie noticed a young fellow easing out from under the tent and heading his way. He considered cranking the truck and moving on, but found himself unwilling to make the effort.
“Evening, sir,” the young man said politely. “Anything we can do for you?”
“Nope,” Ernie said. “Just happened by, was curious as to what was going on—haven’t seen a tent revival in a long while.”
The young fellow smiled. “Well, you’re welcome to come on and join us. Might be some good reason you were led in this direction.”
Ernie found it odd how religious folks always seemed to leap to the conclusion that something or someone was mysteriously leading people hither and yon. But he had to admit he was a trifle curious.
“Ah, I don’t know,” Ernie said. “I probably should be heading home.”
The young man leaned in closer to Ernie’s window and said softly. “Listen, the preaching’s about over, but there’s going to be some singing and other things going on that you might find, well, you might think they was interesting.”
“Interesting, huh?”
The young man nodded. “Yep, I can just about guarantee it.”
Ernie pondered the offer and, having already had a few hell-with-it moments that day, decided it wouldn’t hurt to see what was going on, might even give him something good to tell Thelma, get her sidetracked at least a little from her righteous indignation, maybe even show her he was trying to keep an open mind about things. “Okay, friend, maybe I will just visit for a few minutes,” Ernie said, climbing out of his truck.
“Good,” the young man said, stepping back. “But listen, you ain’t the law, are you?”
Ernie had no clue why this was asked, but it made him chuckle. “Lord no, son. That’s definitely one thing I’m not.”
That put the smile back on the young man’s face, and he escorted Ernie to the tent where they ducked under the side flap and stood just behind the last row of chairs. As the young fellow had said, the preacher was winding down, though he was still slinging his Bible around and exhorting the gathered to consider giving themselves wholly to Jesus that evening or rededicating their lives if they’d slipped from the straight and narrow. It was hot underneath the tent, which seemed to have trapped the day’s heat, and folks were flapping furiously with those old-time fans made out of a piece of cardboard with a religious scene on it, stapled to a flat stick. The preacher was sweating like a pig and kept wiping his face with a handkerchief without ever missing a beat. It was obvious he’d done a pretty good job of whipping the crowd up because there already were a couple of women hopping around and swaying, and there were quite a few shouts of “Amen, brother,” and “Tell it, preacher” and “Yes sir, that’s the truth.”
In fact, Ernie felt there was a palpable hum under that tent, a kind of energy emanating from the scene that made him feel sort of jittery and strange, even a little light-headed, though maybe that was the liquor. About that time, two boys startled Ernie when they suddenly started up with electric guitars, settling into a quick beat, and folks started singing one of those old gospel tunes, and a young girl started dancing up at the front and slapping on a tambourine.
Ernie assumed the show was winding to a close and was thinking about slipping on off when he noticed the preacher had put a good-sized wooden box on a table at the front. He laid his hands on the top, scrunched his eyes shut and looked like he was praying hot and heavy while the music picked up momentum. Then he flipped the lid back, reached in and came back out with a handful of writhing snake—in fact a damn big, evil-looking diamondback rattler that had to be at least four feet long and made Ernie suck in his breath, at which point the young man grinned at him and winked as if to say, “See, told you there was going to be some good stuff going on.”
Ernie had grown up in the country and wasn’t generally fearful of snakes, at least from a distance, but this was a whole different scene unfolding here. The preacher turned back to the gathering and held that rattler up by its thick middle and looked it right in the eye, which caused the snake at one point to coil backward, making Ernie cringe because he was pretty sure the preacher was about to get popped right in the face. But damn if the rattler didn’t calm down and wind itself around the preacher’s arm just a docile as could be, which led folks to start whooping “Halleluiah” and “Praise Jesus” and “He’s here with us now.” And then a couple of other men grabbed snakes out of the box and flanked the preacher, one of them letting a fat copperhead slither up his shoulder and around his neck.
Without realizing it, Ernie wandered down the edge of the tent as if compelled by the strangeness going on before him, until he was standing about ten feet away from the action. He watched as a young girl in a simple white cotton dress approached the preacher and accepted the rattler from him, holding its mid-section with both hands so that its arrow-shaped head and tail drooped in front of her. She did a slow turn, face turned upward, eyes closed as the music shifted gears into another fast-paced tune that set more folks to twirling and jigging around, pushing the energy even higher.
As Ernie watched, the girl’s eyes opened and met his. She began to walk toward him and even while something inside said to get the hell back, he couldn’t move. The girl stopped in front of Ernie, the rattler’s back end now wound around her arm like a bracelet. He was transfixed, thinking if there were indeed angels, here was one, this girl with wide blue eyes set above a freckled nub of a nose in a pale round face framed by two long blond pigtails, radiating something he’d never before encountered.
“Are you feeling the power, brother?” the girl asked, her voice seemingly inside his head, isolated from the pounding music. “Are you feeling anointed?”
Ernie couldn’t speak, but nodded, surprising himself, feeling as if he was watching himself from above, or at least his body about to do something he never could have imagined. The girl extended her arms and Ernie raised his, accepting the rattler, which coiled silkily into the palms of his hands. He knew it should have mass, but it felt weightless, and he knew he should be afraid, but for some reason was not, lost in the angel’s steady gaze. He imagined what Thelma would think when he told her, or would wonder if this viper sank its fangs into his arm and ended his worries about life right there and then.
The angel, relieved of her burden, still stood before him, still smiling sweetly. She leaned closer and whispered, “Don’t worry too much. It don’t have any fangs so it’s all for show.”
Now her smile seemed amused, and Ernie watched her pigtails whip as she turned away. Feeling completely alone despite the fury of sound and motion around him, he looked down at the rattler, sensed the lightning flick of its black tongue on his wrist, stared into its icy eyes, saw nothing, felt nothing, and, as he dropped the rattler hissing to the ground at his feet, understood with shining clarity he had again and for the last time been fooled into thinking somehow or somewhere there was an answer to it all.