waiting. But his expression didn’t change.
After a long moment, he let the curtain fall back, and the shadows beyond it resumed their normal activity.
Uneasily, I turned away and began walking back through the woods, ignoring the soft glow emanating from my fingers.
It had been over half an hour, but the bag of sodas still sat right where I’d left it. I snatched it up, hurried into the church, bracing myself for a barrage of questions about what had taken me so long.
As it turned out though, no one at the church missed me. The Reverend was the real star of the show. I moved through the crowd of townsfolk—Aunt Bea’s friends, rambunctious kids running up and down the stairs, dressed-up housewives, uncomfortable-looking fathers—with little more than a few nods and How-ya-doin’s.
The Reverend stood near the door to his office, the center of a large group of people, wrapped up in conversation with a stout, red-faced man. The man had both hands jammed firmly into the pockets of his tailor-cut trousers. Seeing me, the Reverend put a hand on the man’s shoulder, said, “Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, here’s someone I want you to meet.” He motioned me over. “Charlie, this here’s Bishop Ishy, the mayor of Cuba Landing. Mr. Mayor, this is my assistant Charlie Wesley.”
I said hello, offered my hand.
The red-faced man looked at it, his features going suddenly slack with something I can only describe as horror. Both hands stayed in their pockets. Stammering, he said, “Excuse me for not . . . for not shaking, Mr. Wesley. I have a condition.” And he left it at that. “Glad to have you in town, though. You like Cuba Landing so far?”
I looked at the Reverend, my hand still sticking out. The Reverend’s grin got bigger until I thought his whole face would crack. His eyes said, Don’t ask, Charlie. Just don’t ask.
Slowly, I lowered my hand and said, “It’s a beautiful town.”
“We’ve always thought so.” Ishy nodded his head vigorously, and his red jowls jiggled. “We can boast of the absolute highest standard of living in this county, Mr. Wesley, and things are only getting better.”
The words came out of his mouth in a rapid practiced line, but his eyes weren’t into it. They focused on some faraway land that could almost be seen over my left shoulder. I said, “So you . . . you’re the mayor?”
“That I am, that I am. Been mayor here for nine years now. Nine years. Do you like rhubarb pie, Mr. Wesley?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yes, sir, things are only getting better in Cuba Landing. Highest standard of living in the county.”
“I’m sorry, but did you say something about rhubarb pie?”
“Oh, I love rhubarb pie,” he said. “You know, a low crime rate leads to a more stable society. And a more stable society means more opportunities for everyone.”
In his strange, lilting voice that seemed so removed from the rest of him, he proceeded to sell me the town. From the corner of my eye, I saw the Reverend sliding off, being led to the other side of the hall by a group of wives, and realized why he’d been so keen to introduce me to the mayor.
For the next twenty minutes I was Bishop Ishy’s audience. Other folks drifted in and out of our company, but the mayor’s words, if not his eyes, were always directed at me so I couldn’t get away. The entire time he spoke, his right hand stayed in its pocket; the left one only came out to add occasional flourishes to his speech, then dived immediately back into his pants.
I’d never actually met a mayor before. It seemed so fitting that the first one to come down the pike was obviously not all there. What would be next?
“Y’know,” said Ishy, “I’ve been the mayor of this lovely town for almost nine years now, and in that nine years the crime rate has dropped so dramatically, why, it’s practically non-existent. Where do you hail from, Mr. Wesley? Why, crime is practically non-existent here in Cuba Landing. I take great pride in
After a long moment, he let the curtain fall back, and the shadows beyond it resumed their normal activity.
Uneasily, I turned away and began walking back through the woods, ignoring the soft glow emanating from my fingers.
It had been over half an hour, but the bag of sodas still sat right where I’d left it. I snatched it up, hurried into the church, bracing myself for a barrage of questions about what had taken me so long.
As it turned out though, no one at the church missed me. The Reverend was the real star of the show. I moved through the crowd of townsfolk—Aunt Bea’s friends, rambunctious kids running up and down the stairs, dressed-up housewives, uncomfortable-looking fathers—with little more than a few nods and How-ya-doin’s.
The Reverend stood near the door to his office, the center of a large group of people, wrapped up in conversation with a stout, red-faced man. The man had both hands jammed firmly into the pockets of his tailor-cut trousers. Seeing me, the Reverend put a hand on the man’s shoulder, said, “Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, here’s someone I want you to meet.” He motioned me over. “Charlie, this here’s Bishop Ishy, the mayor of Cuba Landing. Mr. Mayor, this is my assistant Charlie Wesley.”
I said hello, offered my hand.
The red-faced man looked at it, his features going suddenly slack with something I can only describe as horror. Both hands stayed in their pockets. Stammering, he said, “Excuse me for not . . . for not shaking, Mr. Wesley. I have a condition.” And he left it at that. “Glad to have you in town, though. You like Cuba Landing so far?”
I looked at the Reverend, my hand still sticking out. The Reverend’s grin got bigger until I thought his whole face would crack. His eyes said, Don’t ask, Charlie. Just don’t ask.
Slowly, I lowered my hand and said, “It’s a beautiful town.”
“We’ve always thought so.” Ishy nodded his head vigorously, and his red jowls jiggled. “We can boast of the absolute highest standard of living in this county, Mr. Wesley, and things are only getting better.”
The words came out of his mouth in a rapid practiced line, but his eyes weren’t into it. They focused on some faraway land that could almost be seen over my left shoulder. I said, “So you . . . you’re the mayor?”
“That I am, that I am. Been mayor here for nine years now. Nine years. Do you like rhubarb pie, Mr. Wesley?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yes, sir, things are only getting better in Cuba Landing. Highest standard of living in the county.”
“I’m sorry, but did you say something about rhubarb pie?”
“Oh, I love rhubarb pie,” he said. “You know, a low crime rate leads to a more stable society. And a more stable society means more opportunities for everyone.”
In his strange, lilting voice that seemed so removed from the rest of him, he proceeded to sell me the town. From the corner of my eye, I saw the Reverend sliding off, being led to the other side of the hall by a group of wives, and realized why he’d been so keen to introduce me to the mayor.
For the next twenty minutes I was Bishop Ishy’s audience. Other folks drifted in and out of our company, but the mayor’s words, if not his eyes, were always directed at me so I couldn’t get away. The entire time he spoke, his right hand stayed in its pocket; the left one only came out to add occasional flourishes to his speech, then dived immediately back into his pants.
I’d never actually met a mayor before. It seemed so fitting that the first one to come down the pike was obviously not all there. What would be next?
“Y’know,” said Ishy, “I’ve been the mayor of this lovely town for almost nine years now, and in that nine years the crime rate has dropped so dramatically, why, it’s practically non-existent. Where do you hail from, Mr. Wesley? Why, crime is practically non-existent here in Cuba Landing. I take great pride in
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