the truck. He had light-colored hair, straw colored, I guess you'd say.” Jeb tried to remember. It had been dark.
“I'll check with the sheriff back in Camden and the one up around Hope. If mere's been a slew of crimes, maybe we got some real outlaws. But if nothing else is going down, well, it could be a couple of locals out for a joyride. Maybe from Hope or somewheres else. Now give me an idea of what kind of truck and the rest of your belongings and then I'll be on my way.”
Jeb described the truck, the food supplies, the tarp that covered the goods.
“You got anything that says it was your truck?”
Jeb did not know how to answer.
“Truck in your name, Reverend Gracie? Free and clear.”
Jeb knew that his brother had bought the truck off the Hamptons, but how it was transacted, he couldn't remember. “It's mine.” He felt the hope of finding the truck sucked from his grasp like a nickel down the well.
“That's Philemon Gracie,” said Mr. Honeysack. “Good Bible name. Did your momma know you was going to be a preacher?”
Angel cackled and ran up the road toward the house. Ida May followed her, skirt flying like a paper parasol.
“How you spell Fi-le-mon?” the deputy asked.
“It's just like in the Bible,” said Honeysack. “Right, Reverend?”
Jeb nodded.
When the deputy finally pulled away followed by Honeysack, Jeb marched up the steps to the parsonage and yelled, “Angel, out here front and center.”
She failed to appear. He went inside and found her sprawled across her bed while the radio blared from the parlor.
“I don't need you running off like that. How in the world you expect me to spell a name like ‘Fi-le-mon.’ You pull another stunt like that and maybe you can just explain yourself without me.”
Angel pressed the back of her head into the pillow. “Of all the names to give you. I mean, you can't read but you got to spell Philemon. That's funnier than the look on your face when Mr. Honeysack said it. I guess you're lucky you know your whole name now. Maybe you ought to practice saying it in front of the mirror. ‘Greetings, I'm Reverend Philemon Gracie, at your service.’ “
Jeb left her to her own devices—to laugh, wallow around in her own folly, anything she pleased as long as he didn't have to listen to her foolishness. He had an hour to himself before that Josie would show up with supper. He would spend it quietly drinking.
6
J eb found Willie stretched out across the stream, one hand steadying his weight. The rivulet meandered an acre behind the house, clear water full of sun perch and a few trout. “Don't touch my trot line. I put it there for a reason. So no one would disturb it. I want to land a fish, not a boy.”
“My daddy taught me how to do it.” Willie, on all fours, looked blue in the morning light. Blue denims, blue eyes all beneath the blue morning sky.
“It's mine. I said don't touch it and I mean it.”
“You'd make a terrible daddy,” said Willie.
“Thank you kindly.” Jeb saw Willie purse his mouth, his eyes dimming and disappointment coloring his face. “You know how to clean and cut up trout?”
“I do. You got three already, about yay long.” Wilhe sat back on his heels and held out his hands, creating a measure of ten inches.
“Give it another couple of hours. Sun's just coming up. We might land another one if we wait.” Jeb heard a faint rustle behind him, like soft fabric swishing against itself.
“Good morning,” said a young woman. “Reverend Grade, I assume.”
Jeb and Willie froze like raccoons at the water's edge.
Jeb wondered how long she had listened to him and Wilde. He turned and saw the woman, maybe nineteen, who smiled at him. Yet, her voice made her sound older. Twenty-two, maybe. The first rays of sunlight framed her in a yellow-white oudine. She dressed simply, but the folds of the fabric settled on her round curves as well as any expensive fabric might do. Her dress was White cotton. A pink scarf
“I'll check with the sheriff back in Camden and the one up around Hope. If mere's been a slew of crimes, maybe we got some real outlaws. But if nothing else is going down, well, it could be a couple of locals out for a joyride. Maybe from Hope or somewheres else. Now give me an idea of what kind of truck and the rest of your belongings and then I'll be on my way.”
Jeb described the truck, the food supplies, the tarp that covered the goods.
“You got anything that says it was your truck?”
Jeb did not know how to answer.
“Truck in your name, Reverend Gracie? Free and clear.”
Jeb knew that his brother had bought the truck off the Hamptons, but how it was transacted, he couldn't remember. “It's mine.” He felt the hope of finding the truck sucked from his grasp like a nickel down the well.
“That's Philemon Gracie,” said Mr. Honeysack. “Good Bible name. Did your momma know you was going to be a preacher?”
Angel cackled and ran up the road toward the house. Ida May followed her, skirt flying like a paper parasol.
“How you spell Fi-le-mon?” the deputy asked.
“It's just like in the Bible,” said Honeysack. “Right, Reverend?”
Jeb nodded.
When the deputy finally pulled away followed by Honeysack, Jeb marched up the steps to the parsonage and yelled, “Angel, out here front and center.”
She failed to appear. He went inside and found her sprawled across her bed while the radio blared from the parlor.
“I don't need you running off like that. How in the world you expect me to spell a name like ‘Fi-le-mon.’ You pull another stunt like that and maybe you can just explain yourself without me.”
Angel pressed the back of her head into the pillow. “Of all the names to give you. I mean, you can't read but you got to spell Philemon. That's funnier than the look on your face when Mr. Honeysack said it. I guess you're lucky you know your whole name now. Maybe you ought to practice saying it in front of the mirror. ‘Greetings, I'm Reverend Philemon Gracie, at your service.’ “
Jeb left her to her own devices—to laugh, wallow around in her own folly, anything she pleased as long as he didn't have to listen to her foolishness. He had an hour to himself before that Josie would show up with supper. He would spend it quietly drinking.
6
J eb found Willie stretched out across the stream, one hand steadying his weight. The rivulet meandered an acre behind the house, clear water full of sun perch and a few trout. “Don't touch my trot line. I put it there for a reason. So no one would disturb it. I want to land a fish, not a boy.”
“My daddy taught me how to do it.” Willie, on all fours, looked blue in the morning light. Blue denims, blue eyes all beneath the blue morning sky.
“It's mine. I said don't touch it and I mean it.”
“You'd make a terrible daddy,” said Willie.
“Thank you kindly.” Jeb saw Willie purse his mouth, his eyes dimming and disappointment coloring his face. “You know how to clean and cut up trout?”
“I do. You got three already, about yay long.” Wilhe sat back on his heels and held out his hands, creating a measure of ten inches.
“Give it another couple of hours. Sun's just coming up. We might land another one if we wait.” Jeb heard a faint rustle behind him, like soft fabric swishing against itself.
“Good morning,” said a young woman. “Reverend Grade, I assume.”
Jeb and Willie froze like raccoons at the water's edge.
Jeb wondered how long she had listened to him and Wilde. He turned and saw the woman, maybe nineteen, who smiled at him. Yet, her voice made her sound older. Twenty-two, maybe. The first rays of sunlight framed her in a yellow-white oudine. She dressed simply, but the folds of the fabric settled on her round curves as well as any expensive fabric might do. Her dress was White cotton. A pink scarf
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