Angela asked if I needed help, but I waved her on. I poked my father’s ribs with a finger. He didn’t respond, so I jabbed harder until his eyes rolled and he lifted his neck enough to speak.
“Leave me be,” he mumbled.
“What are you doing out here? Come inside.”
He wouldn’t let me touch him, swung violent slaps whenever I tried to help him rise. I’d never known my father to drink. The Reverend always preached about the wicked nature of spirits, but that evening was a vintage blackout, the sort of bender that looked like farce drunkenness in a poorly acted movie.
“Won’t talk to me,” The Reverend said to no one. “Won’t even explain.”
I left him raving and traveled across the field to see if Lady Crawford was in the church. Let her play caretaker, I thought. The windows were dark, the normal candlelight that shone through the cracks extinguished. I pounded on the door.
“I know you’re in there,” I shouted.
It felt absurd playing diplomat to the adults. I gave the door a final furious kick and shuffled off to the camper where my father had finally raised his head enough to stay awake. I grabbed his chin to secure his attention.
“Can you walk?” I asked.
The Reverend pushed himself up from the steps, went inside and collapsed in my bed. I wanted to move him somewhere else, but was happy enough to have him out of the elements. I pulled the boots off his feet, left the socks with holes that expose his yellowed toenails.
“You wanna explain to me what’s going on between you two?” I asked.
“Put here to deceive,” The Reverend said. “Ever since the garden. Don’t forget, boy.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever have to worry about it,” I said.
Drool leaked across The Reverend’s lips. I considered wiping it away but left it to darken the pillowcase.
“What about the one I see you with?” The Reverend asked. “The one bringing you home the last couple weeks?”
The question had loomed since the first day Angela fetched me, but with my father in such a pathetic state, I became brave.
“Just a friend,” I said.
The Reverend grunted. “You don’t need any whore friends.”
“Sure,” I said.
“You sassing me?” He grimaced as something internal protested his attempt to sit up. “I don’t want the slut back here. Understand?”
I looked at the sagging waddle of neck fat, the sweat-stained armpits of The Reverend’s shirt and tangled knot of his dirty hair. Even the teeth that jutted from his snarled mouth seemed worn down and loose at the roots, as if a bit of wiggling could extract them with ease. Any intimidating presence he carried had been stolen by the bottle. I felt more powerful even with my bones in decline.
“I don’t give a shit what you want,” I said. I leaned in to capture his eyes as they swam around the room. “You try and stop me, you try and say anything to her, and I’ll make sure the whole congregation knows about you and Lady Crawford. I’ll make sure they know about you hoarding the tithes.”
Mentioning the money washed The Reverend sober. The fog lifted from his gaze and he lunged at me. I staggered backward, caught my feet in the rug and bowled over onto my side. I scrambled away as The Reverend tried to climb from the bed, but he got tangled in the sheets and fought the comforter for freedom before worming his way out from under the blankets. Somehow, he found steady feet and seized me by the throat. The hands felt reptilian pressing down on my Adam’s apple. I closed my eyes and waited for breathing to become impossible, but The Reverend administered two slaps instead of suffocating me. I didn’t have any fight left, so I curled up, prepared for boot heels and improvised bludgeons.
“Nothing but a burden,” The Reverend said. His whiskey breath blew hot on my face. Underneath the sweet rot of the bourbon, I could almost taste the rage my father carried inside. I was glad to have it come to this. Better to have a real moment together than the continued lies. In a way, it was the only time he showed me the truth.
“Another mention of her and I’ll bury you out in these woods,” he said. “Do you understand?”
I wasn’t sure which hurt more, that he wasn’t just threatening or the idea that my father finally found something to love. I always knew I was never going to be that object of affection. I could accept that, but was surprised by my sudden jealousy. Even if the emotions didn’t naturally meld, my swelling lips were a testament to The Reverend’s affection for Lady Crawford. I wanted to feel that way about another person or, better still, have another person love me enough to utilize such violence.
“Understand?” he asked again.
I croaked out an answer. “Yes, I understand.”
The Reverend took my left hand and twisted my ring finger. He moved to my pinky, grasped it tight while I begged him to stop. It wasn’t the pain. I knew if he bent it all the way back, I’d never form proper chords again. I closed my eyes and felt the bone pop from the socket.
“That fixes things,” he said, and shuffled back to bed. I lay looking at the bent digits. The pain must have been intense, but I can’t remember feeling it. I was too busy lying in the dark for hours, trying to wiggle the unresponsive fingers. When it became hopeless, I decided to see if Lady Crawford was awake.
The church door opened before I mustered the bravery to knock. Lady Crawford wore one of the same dirty white gowns, the fabric matted tight around her waist as if she’d been sleeping in it. I couldn’t imagine her ever sliding out of the gossamer sheath. In my mind, she stayed clothed until The Reverend unwrapped her.
She touched cool fingertips to the bruise smeared across my mouth while I probed at a loose canine with my tongue. The sanctuary she led me into felt like a cave, pools of darkness in the corners deep enough to sink into, light that flickered as the candle flame waned. I took a seat in one of the chairs around the altar. Lady Crawford kneeled beside me with a bowl of murky water and a dishrag. She dipped the cloth, wrung it out and patted my eyes. My cracked lips stung as she wiped the drying blood from the corner of my mouth, but I didn’t protest.
“Do you want to tell me what you said?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well, he didn’t have to do this.”
I looked at her pale arms and wondered if she hid similar wounds under the white dress. I almost asked but let her continue cleaning the cuts. Afterward, she took my fingers and popped them back into place while I bit into the cloth to keep from screaming. She fashioned me a poor splint.
“He wants us to leave,” she said after I’d regained my breath. “But I can’t.”
“Because you don’t want to take stolen money?” I asked.