With her scolding finished, Rosita holds the door and I step out onto the porch. The night air is cool, the field illuminated by the high beams of pickups and a few torches some cops thought to stake in the yard. By the torchlight, the scene looks almost primeval. Muddied men and women slogging toward the well with their buckets. They’ve yet to notice me standing in the shadows.
“Just a few words,” Rosita says.
After Angela, I promised myself I’d never change for another woman. After we ended, the drive to improve and all my new-found valor slipped away without me even realizing its absence. One day it was there, the next I had regressed toward all the same old flaws. If the changes were only a temporary augmentation, I knew I’d have to accept myself for the vulgar man I was. Anything else would be an unfair con on whatever woman I was trying to impress. Still, the need for Rosita’s approval makes me want to harness a bravery I don’t have. I want to be the sort of man who can stand in the torchlight, unafraid of all those eyes on my broken body, and say something to make the moment easier. When I open my mouth, my tongue is frozen. Air emits around my teeth. I swallow and try again.
“Can I have your attention?” I call.
No one turns. Most cannot hear since the intended shout was no more than a baby’s breath. Others seem unsure the muttering wasn’t from a private conversation. One of the deputies raises her hand. The crowd stills, turns toward where I stand in the firelight. Rosita has moved away from the pulpit of the porch and stands in the field watching through her camera. Framed in the lens, I feel like I’m onstage again. Washed in the same sweat and nausea that used to come with the bright lights.
“My name’s Hollis Bragg,” I say. The eyes on me are a strange mix of curiosity and sadness. Not even whispers pass through the crowd. I close my eyes to continue, but feel the stares bore into me like I’m a specimen underneath a microscope.
“I just wanted to say I’m pleased to have you all. Thank you for braving the creek and coming out. I ain’t got much, but I hope what little I’ve got helps. I’m happy to share it.”
Light applause, a few nods from those embarrassed to be taking anything from a stranger. I sit down on the stoop and let them return to it. It feels foolish letting Rosita drag me out expecting some grand speech, but she walks over with her digital camera and shows me the images in the small screen. Without my awkward words, the true quality of the moment is captured.
I’m standing with a single hand raised high in greeting, the small fires throwing shadows on the strange contours of my body. The picture is beautiful in a bleak way, but the real truth is in the next photo. Just me sitting on the top step, quiet and unmolested, while the men and women march by to quench their children’s thirst.
* * *
• • •
After the residents of Coopersville depart, we sit up with the television muted in the background. I cradle my guitar just to feel the comfort of it, but Rosita asks me to play snippets of random tunes. It becomes a little game. I strum a few chords while Rosita tries to guess the song, or she calls out a title and I attempt it from memory. She’s moved close on the couch, her bare foot absently touching my knee. When her skin first brushed the denim of my jeans, I expected her to pull away like a hand scalded on a hot stove. She seems not to notice as her toes tap in time with my guitar.
“Do you want me to turn it off?” Rosita asks, pointing to the muted TV. On-screen, the protesters are marching in silence.
“I’m fine either way. At least the place is getting some press.”
“They should have been here tonight,” Rosita says. “Those pictures are the most important I’ve taken since the early days of The Body Book.”
She tried to show them to me earlier, but I didn’t want to see any more. Better to just pick the strings, let their vibrations ring until it hones my concentration. I’m waiting for her to ask about Angela’s signed guitar.
“I’ve spent all night telling you about these photos,” Rosita says. “It’s your turn to tell me some stories.”
“You’re not getting me out of my clothes,” I say.
Playful moments of flirtation have emerged. Fleeting glances, secret evaluations with bashful eyes. I almost never get any signals from women, and if such a thing does happen, I’m too oblivious to realize. I still don’t understand why Caroline ever wanted me. Maybe it’s just our circumstances, the close call with death making us both feel too alive, but even my lack of confidence isn’t strong enough to mask what’s happening.
“I’m not trying to get you to do an interview,” Rosita says. “I’ll never get a better picture of you than I did today.”
I strum the solemn intro to an old love song. One of those tunes you’ve heard before, but just can’t place.
“Will you tell me about Angela Carver?” she asks.
I sigh. “Why would you wanna hear about that?”
“Because of that picture in the bedroom.”
I understand the curiosity. No woman remains on a man’s wall without a story. I like Rosita, but the ingrained distrust of outsiders reminds me her motives are not completely altruistic. She wants good photos and stories to go with them. Unless I want the whole world to know the truth, telling her things I’ve never uttered before would be a mistake.
“Did you love her?” she asks.
I perform a quick run down the guitar’s neck that makes Rosita crack a smile. If only I could do that to her with a touch.
“It’s a long story,” I say and shake my head. The truth is, I’m too happy to descend into those memories. “Not tonight.”
“Lame,” she tells me and opens her laptop. There is a sudden gulf between us as her foot pulls from my knee. I set the guitar aside and start to bed when I hear Rosita’s breath catch in her throat.
“Hollis,” she says. “Look at this.”
Every major news network is running the photos of Watson duct-taped to one of the dining room chairs, his head lolling to the side and the wound on his neck blurred out. A sheet of white paper is stapled to his chest. The word TRAITOR written in fat black letters.
“The article says there was a video online,” Rosita tells me. “They’ve already taken it down, of course.”
I can imagine the footage. Victor preaching the same things he shouts from the picket line, standing with the Colt in his hand as he makes a declaration of war against all the traitors.
“We should have done more,” Rosita says.
II
TWISTED LITTLE MAN
THE DUGOUT
I spent my days in the woods with the music books, reading and practicing until the mysterious graphs made sense. The Reverend never checked on my progress. His absence made me wonder if I’d done something to offend him. Maybe he knew I’d been spying on him with Lady Crawford only nights before. Perhaps I’d been walking around with the accusations of false prophet chiseled across my face. It would be nice to believe some guilt ate at his conscience, but I suspect he just didn’t have time for me. Whatever it was, we avoided each other like sore-tailed cats until one morning when I came up from the creekbank to find him waiting for me. He was dressed in his black suit, shoes polished for a house call.