Page 89 of A Boy Called Lovesong

“Actually, the last time those pistols were used, it happened at dusk. At the crossroads.”

“Why does that not surprise me,” I whispered to myself.

The reverend didn’t hear me, or if he did, he chose to ignore me. Instead, he began telling me the story behind the pistol on the wall. “It all began with Lamar Landry, some hundred and fifty years ago. It was a tumultuous time, as you can imagine. The war had ended, slaves were running free like rabbits, and trying to run a plantation was proving difficult and dangerous. Amidst all this, the youngest son of the Landry family took it upon himself to fall in love with a servant girl named Clara Calloway. If this, in and of itself, was not scandalous enough, matters were complicated by the fact that Clara was already in love with a stable boy named Jeremiah Sutton whom she planned to run away with. A young kitchen boy even tried to help them flee, collecting silver spoons for the couple to sell to help them survive on the road.”

“Wait, did you just say there was a kitchen boy who stole… spoons?”

The reverend waved his hand. “The little thief is inconsequential to the story, for when Lamar learned of Clara’s intention to run away with Jeremiah, he flew into a rage and challenged Jeremiah to a duel. Back in those days, a man dare not decline such a challenge. And so, at dusk the next day, the two men met at the crossroads in the cotton fields. They walked twenty paces, turned, and fired. Unfortunately, Clara ran to protect her lover, Jeremiah, the moment that Lamar pulled his trigger. While Jeremiah’s bullet missed. Lamar’s bullet shot Clara in the back, just as she fell into her lover’s embrace toprotect him. The bullet pierced straight through her heart… then straight through Jeremiah’s… killing them both instantly. There they died in each other’s arms.”

“That’s so… tragic,” I breathed. “And Lamar?”

“Devastated by having killed his beloved Clara, he immediately reloaded his pistol and turned it on himself.” The reverend pointed to the gun on the wall. “That, dear boy, is the very same weapon. A proud part of this plantation’s history.”

“Proud? How is that a proud part of this place’s history? Three people died.”

“Four, actually. The next day, the Landry men dragged the filthy little spoon thief out to the crossroads and beat him to death.”

I gasped, and for a moment I thought I was going to be sick. “They… theywhat?”

“As I said before, the boy’s story is inconsequential. But none of this is the reason why I brought you in here, Mr. Van Owen. I have a much higher purpose than that.”

From a shelf he pulled a small wooden chest. He placed it on his desk, then from the top drawer of the desk he produced a key. He unlocked the chest, opened it, and pulled out a frayed old Bible.

“Sit, please.” He sat behind his desk and pointed to the chair opposite.

I took a seat, still feeling sick, still reeling from the story he’d just told me, wishing I’d never come, desperately trying to think of excuses to leave, my heart yearning to be atMoonshine Maybelle’swhere I knew Lovesong was at that moment.

Before I could get up to go, the reverend leaned across the desk and slid the bible in front of me, opening it to a random spot. On those frayed, well-worn pages, there were dozens of notes, handwritten in a pencil so blunt that some of the words were nothing more than lead smears.

“This, dear boy, is my very first Bible. As you can see, I have made many, many annotations on the passages within this book. I have highlighted verses, I have given the words my own interpretation, and I have asked the question, ‘How is this chapter from the word of God applicable to my own life?’ I believe that my impressions of the good book can be most helpful to a man such as yourself.”

I stared at the pages, and even his handwriting made me angry: the way he finished his S’s with a swirl like a snake, the way he finished his L’s with a pompous flourish, the way he wrote his E’s like a backward 3.

He pushed the book closer toward me and said, “I would very much like to give you this as a parting gift.”

“A parting gift?”

“You are leaving Clara’s Crossing, are you not? You were, after all, only passing through. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well, precious as this Bible is to me, the Lord has taught us to give unto others, in the hope that they may find their own salvation in the word of God. Personally, I think you might need it, even if you can’t see that yet.”

“Thanks. But no thanks.” My words were blunt.

The reverend took them on the chin. “Tell me, Mr. Van Owen… what are the things that figure largely in your value system? When you take your final breath, will any of them truly matter? Without Jesus our Lord Savior in your life… what do you possibly have to cling to? What is it you have to live for?”

The question fucking offended me—heoffended me—and I wanted to tell him so. Instead, I slammed the Bible shut. “Thank you for the gift, but I couldn’t possibly take something so precious from a man of faith. Why don’t you just keep it. I’m fine, really.”

“Mr. Van Owen, I insist you take the Bible… and leave town.”

I sensed an urgency in the reverend’s voice. “I can’t leave yet,” I said defiantly. “I’m waiting for Earl to fix my car.”

The reverend feigned a polite smile. “Perhaps you should take up a room in Baton Rouge while you wait. Or better yet, have your car towed there to be repaired. There are much more reputable mechanics in Baton Rouge.”

“Reverend Jim, if I wasn’t mistaken, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”

He drew a deep breath and pushed out a sigh. Then, in a calm, flat tone, he said, “If we must cut to the chase, then let us do so. The Lord has brought it to my attention that you need to leave Clara’s Crossing. I don’t trust you, and I certainly don’t trust you around our son, Lafayette. That boy is ours. His blindness makes him vulnerable, impressionable, and very, very gullible to the likes of you. I know he seems confident, even charismatic. But I have met your type before, Mr. Van Owen. I know just how capable you are of filling his head with ideas… with wayward thoughts… with desires. I will not have my son corrupted, I will not have him tempted to act on his passions, and I will not have him believing he is anything more than a simple, blind cotton picker from a small town… a small town in which he shall spend the rest of his life, safe under the watchful eye of God.”

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