Page 88 of A Boy Called Lovesong

“Come on, then. Let’s get cleaned up, you and me both.” With a firm grip on his hand, I led him out of the trees and onto the road back to town.

CHAPTER 16

“So,I gather you’re not an overly religious man, Mr. Van Owen?” the reverend asked. “You know it’s never too late… until it’s too late. If you get my meaning.”

I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair at the dining table. “Oh, I think I’m fairly certain it’s too late.”

I had let Lovesong shower and dress before me. Tempting as it had been, I decided not to jump in the shower with him, given the fact that we both had somewhere to be. He needed to get to church on time, and I needed to look somewhat respectable for his parents once church was over.

I met the reverend and his wife at the end of service, once they had locked up the church and all the cotton pickers had made their way to the manor for supper.

By the light of a lantern, the reverend and his wife led me out of town to their house a quarter mile away. All around the night insects hummed. In a distant tree an owl hooted, as though sending a warning from far, far away. And somewhere in the bayou, I swore I could still hear the swish of a gator’s tail slinking away through the black water.

As we neared their home, I saw the house shining like a beacon across the cotton fields. It was a large stilt house, old andmajestic, with a wrap-around porch, ornate woodwork on the railings, and a barn a short distance away.

“It’s a practical house,” the reverend had commented as we climbed the wide steps leading up to the porch. “High-set in case of a hurricane or a flood in the bayou. Besides, as good Christians, we always feel it’s our duty to rise above.”

The reverend and his wife gave a somewhat righteous laugh. I struggled to find the joke funny, and they both looked at me sympathetically, as though I wasn’t clever enough to keep up with the reverend’s humor.

Inside, the vintage wallpaper, the large antique furniture, and the heaviness of wood everywhere was almost overbearing, making the atmosphere oppressive and grim. It reminded me of an old convent or a doll museum on some forgotten highway on the backroads of Alabama.

There were porcelain vases.

There were lamps with yellowed tassels dangling from the shades.

There were lace doilies on almost every surface.

And then there were the prayer tapestries and wooden crucifixes covering the walls, not to mention the framed paintings of Christ on the cross and Mary on a heavenly cloud and a very pale Jesus with an equally white baby lamb draped over his shoulders.

“I’ve made a good old-fashioned southern pot roast with parsnips and carrots,” said the reverend’s wife. “It’s been slow cooking all afternoon. We used to have help to do all the work around here, but our wicked little cook Henrietta disappeared the same day that… well, we don’t like to talk about what happened to our maid, Harper. But enough about that. Why don’t you two gentlemen make yourselves comfortable at the dining table and I’ll bring it out when it’s ready.”

As she disappeared into the kitchen, Reverend Jim took his place at the head of the already set dining table. I went to sit at his right-hand side before he stopped me. “That’s my wife’s place.”

I went and sat opposite.

That was when he told me it wasn’t too late to become a religious man, at which point I thought I made it apparent that it was, at least for me.

Clearly not.

“Perhaps I can show you something to convince you otherwise,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me?”

He stood from the table, and I followed, my step slow and guarded.

He led me into a large study, with a grand old desk carved from chestnut oak, shelves filled with thick, leatherbound books on Christianity and faith, and even more crucifixes surrounding us. But there was something on the wall behind the reverend’s desk that caught my eye immediately.

It was an antique pistol, more than a century old, with a polished wooden handle and a shiny silver barrel.

It was hung on display, with a plaque at the bottom of it that I couldn’t read from where I stood.

But that wasn’t the strange thing about it.

The thing that really caught my attention was that the gun was supposed to be part of a pair. Two guns were evidently intended to be on display, one facing the other. You could even see the shadowy mark where the second gun was meant to be. But while there were several studs protruding from the wall to showcase the second weapon… it was clearly not there.

Before the reverend had a chance to tell me why he’d brought me into his study, I pointed to the lone pistol on the wall. “That’s a mighty fine antique you have there, Reverend. But it looks like there should be…”

“Two? You’re quite right. Those are dueling pistols. We found them in this house which was one of the original Landry residences on the plantation.”

“Dueling pistols? As in, twenty paces at dawn?”

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