Family Values

By James Crouch

Some people think Tim Sloan is a pastor who acts like a cop. Some think he is a cop masquerading as a pastor. It turns out they are both right.
Except that it’s no masquerade.
The story begins as Tim takes a position as pastor in a small country church deep in the heart of Appalachia. The job is a cover while he investigates his mother’s disappearance. Raised in a foster home until he was 18, Tim has always believed that his mother abandoned him at the age of five. Now he has learned that she had returned to the town of Cairns Grove to confront the wealthy man she claimed was Tim’s father and to demand child support. She never returned. Tim suspects she was murdered, and he intends to find the killer and avenge her death.
His investigation takes longer than he has planned, and over the course of a year he unwittingly becomes embedded in the small Appalachian community and its web of formal and informal family relationships in ways he never anticipated. These relationships challenge both his hard-edged cynicism and his religious beliefs and lead to a surprising revelation: His mother was indeed murdered but not by the person whom he suspects. This discovery forces him to deal with a crisis of faith and conscience.
The novel is built on layers of family issues: from the protagonist’s search for his mother’s killer to compensate for his own lack of a family, to the family crises among the people he is forced to deal with, to his involvement in what may be called a “family church,” even to his life in a small community that functions (or dysfunctions) as a family. At least one of his enemies in the novel is a person who claims to have “family values.”
Some of the novel’s tension comes from his outsider status in a close-knit community and his eastern tough-guy image, which leads him early on to a brawl in a parking lot with three young locals.
Another source of tension is his frustrated effort to find out what happened to his mother and to exact revenge on the person responsible for her disappearance. That she may have been killed by the man who fathered him is something he refuses to think about.
Among the enemies he makes in his search are the man he suspects of causing his mother’s disappearance, one of her lovers, and that man’s political ally, the former sheriff and county strongman.
Among his friends are the current sheriff and two of the church’s deacons who become reluctant partners in the quest to find the mother’s killer. He becomes especially close to two people who do not share his belief system One, a woman, becomes his romantic partner; the other, a man, openly boasts that he is the “village atheist.”
A minor parallel plot involves the crisis in one of the church families provoked by a husband’s serious abuse of his wife.
The story comes to a climax with the intrusion of an outside killer, the discovery of his mother’s bones, and his growing realization about who really caused his mother’s disappearance.
A subtitle of the novel could well be “A year in the life of Tim Sloan,” since it describes the changes he undergoes in the course of the novel. Not only does he abandon his unquestioning belief system for a more critical faith, he also makes decisions about his future that surprise both him and his friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Crouch
• Release date: Jan 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465871749

James Crouch

Like the protagonist of his novel, James E. Crouch is an outsider living in Appalachia. In a previous lifetime he had an academic career in the field of religious studies, teaching in locations as disparate as Oklahoma and Japan. More recently he has been translating theological works, primarily from German to English. With the publication of Family Values he is beginning a new career.

Book preview

I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generations.

Exodus 20:5 (New King James Version)

In those days they shall say no more,

The fathers have eaten sour grapes,

And the children’s teeth are set on edge.

But every one shall die for his own iniquity; every man who eats the sour grapes, his teeth shall be set on edge.

Jeremiah 31:29-30 (New King James Version)

For Margaret, creator of safe spaces

The dog lifted her head, looked at the stranger, decided that he was not a threat, and went back to nosing through the trash spilling out of the overturned garbage can.

The sign on the can read, Do not litter!

The sign overhead said, Scenic Lookout. Elevation 2319 feet.

The man shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted toward the distant mountain. Flat on top and bare of old-growth trees on the side, it looked strangely out of place in the heavily wooded area.

He shortened his gaze toward the cluster of buildings in the valley below. At the edge of town was a combination filling station and fast foods eatery: Exxon and McDonalds, familiar icons that reassured him he had not left civilization too far behind. To his right, hidden by a shoulder of the mountain, was the center of town dominated, as he remembered, by the court house and three—or was it four?—churches and a main street that had seen its better days.

That old deacon was right, he said to himself. I’ve come to the heart of Appalachia.

• • •

You know, don’t you son, that if we call you to be our pastor you’ll be coming to the heart of Appalachia.

Tim laughed. Yes sir, I know that.

Did I say something funny?

Not at all. It’s just been a long time since anyone called me ‘son.’

Well, you come here folks’ll probably call you Brother Tim. You can call me Hank.

With the discipline of a detective he committed to memory the names of the men at the table. Hank, the chairman, had a farmer’s sunburn, and a sturdy, thickset body. He was pushing 70 and was wearing bib overalls. He was soft-spoken but, judging from the behavior of the other men at the table, he commanded respect.

Brian was balding and thin with the look of a schoolteacher or maybe an accountant. He was a cheerless man with a sallow face and a nervous edge to his speech. Whenever he spoke, he took off his glasses.

Stanley also wore glasses and had an ingratiating smile that matched his reedy voice. He had a round face and soft features and, Tim remembered, a wet dishrag of a handshake.

The youngest of the group was unshaven and had a lower jaw that dominated his face. He also had a full head of curly blond hair worn around his ears. Thin but wiry, he was the tallest man at the table. He had a coarse, homespun air about him, but he was affable with friendly eyes and seemed to be amused by the questions his fellow deacons asked. This country boy was a Jimmy Lee.

Benny’s face was scarred, and his nose had been broken at least once. He fixed Tim with a steady gaze that was neither challenging nor ingratiating. He had the husky voice of a smoker and the look of a man who would brook no nonsense.

Finally, the quiet deacon, a wizened elf of a man, sat at the corner of the table and avoided eye contact. He was of indeterminate age but, apart from Hank the chairman, looked to be the oldest member of the group. When he spoke, his voice creaked, and with his pointed chin he reminded Tim of a mouse. Somebody had to have had a sense of humor to name him Mickey.

Tim looked at the six deacons. All men. All white. No doubt about it, this was his kind of group.

How old did you say you were? asked Brian.

I don’t think I said, but I’m 35.

Thirty-five and you’re looking for your first church?

This is my second career, explained Tim. Used to work for the government. Well, local government; I worked for the city.

While they were talking, Tim looked around at the room that Hank had described with obvious pride as our fellowship hall. The concrete blocks were painted two shades of green, dark on the lower half and lime green above. The building was, at most, fifty feet long. A small kitchen, enclosed by a counter, occupied one corner of the room, and folding tables and chairs were stacked neatly in another. At the opposite end of the room a small, unisex restroom filled a third corner. The room’s stale odor, redolent of tuna-fish casserole, suggested that it was kept closed and unused for most of the week.

When someone cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, Tim became aware that the man had asked him a question.

I asked, Benny repeated, what kind of work did you do for the city?

Tim looked again at the picture of the praying Jesus mounted on the wall. The longhaired figure in the picture had a distinctly northern European look. When Tim turned back to the questioner, he said, Just about whatever they wanted me to do. I guess you could say that I worked in social services.

Stanley said, I see from your letter that you’re single. Thirty-five years old and not married?

Brian did not wait for an answer. You know, don’t you, that we don’t want a divorced man as our preacher.

Yeah, I know. I’m not divorced; never been married.

Thirty-five years old and never married? The speaker was the quiet deacon in the corner. You ain’t of the homo persuasion is you?

No, Tim smiled. I’m not gay. I guess I’ve just been too busy to get married.

You a born-again Baptist? asked Hank, the chairman.

Yes sir . . . er, Hank. I am.

Southren Babtist? This from Jimmy Lee.

No, Tim said. I was saved in a storefront mission run by an American Baptist evangelist.

American Babtist. Ain’t that the same as Northern Babtist?

I suppose some people still think of them as Northern Baptists.

And ain’t they libral?

Some of them may be. This one wasn’t.

Important thing is, Stanley interjected, you’ve been saved and you preach from the King James Bible.

I have and I do.

What schoolin have ya had? Brian wanted to know. Maybe he was a teacher after all.

Attended a community college for two years before I went to work for the city, and since I felt the call to preach I’ve been taking an extension course from a Bible College.

That’s good enough for us, said Stanley. We don’t want a man who’s been spoiled by too much theology. Main thing is that you preach the Bible and believe in values.

That’s what I want to know. It was Mickey in the corner. How can a man preach family values if he ain’t married?

I don’t see why a man has to be married to have values. You just have to know what’s right and what’s wrong. Besides, I’m expecting that the church will be my family while I’m here.

Well said, pronounced Hank. Then looking around the room, Maybe it’s time to wrap this up. Any more questions before we let Tim go?

Yeah, Jimmy Lee said. I’ve got a question. How come an Easterner like you wants to come to a place like this? We’re a simple country Babtist church, and we cain’t offer you much.

Good question, Tim replied. Truth is, you offer me exactly what I want. I’m ready to get away from the city. Don’t want a big church, and I’m sure not interested in being rich and famous. The Lord has laid it on my heart to come to a place like this. I believe I have a mission to do, and if you let me, I intend to do it right here.

You not bein married will be a problem, Hank said, if we decide to call you to be our pastor. But you keep your nose clean, an’ the people will get used to you. Just remember: This is a small town where everbody knows everbody. There ain’t no secrets here.

What he’s tryin ta say, Jimmy Lee’s mouth flickered with the bare hint of a smile, is whatever you do, don’t diddle the women.

To which the mouse in the corner added, An’ don’t diddle the boys, neither.

And so Tim Sloan—ex-cop, sometime cynic, and a casual believer at best—became the pastor of Shepards Chapel Baptist Church. The vote to call him was by no means unanimous. Two of the deacons, Brian Mann and Mickey Qualls, voted against him, and in the congregational meeting several voices questioned the wisdom of calling an unmarried man, and an outsider at that, to be the spiritual leader of the flock. But the arguments of Hank and the other deacons carried the day. Hank liked the young candidate, and the truth was that Hank Edwards was the closest thing to a ruling patriarch one was likely to find in a Baptist chapel. When he spoke, his words carried moral authority.

It’s true that Brother Tim is rough around the edges, Hank said, but he’s bright and he’s solid, and I’m thinkin he’s got the makins of a pastor.

What Hank did not say, but what the people knew, was that there were no other candidates for the job. They had already been without regular preaching since the first of the year, and here it was June already.

It was true that Tim had lied when he told them he had never been married, but he’d had no choice; they were not going to hire a divorced man. And had he actually said that the Lord has laid it on my heart to come here? Well, sometimes a man has to say what a man has to say. Still, he had grown up in a family that claimed to be Baptist, and he had gone to church as long as he was married.

The deacons rented a bungalow for him a half-mile from the chapel—a squat, rectangular, one-story house covered with weathered clapboards and fronted by a small covered porch. One of the families donated a single bed, and the men brought a few folding chairs from the fellowship hall. I don’t need much, he had assured them, and a couple of the deacons allowed that there were indeed advantages to having a single preacher. He picked up a card table and a lamp from the lone furniture store in town—the one with the sign over the door: New and Used Antiques for Sale.

His first Sunday in the pulpit he preached on the text Can anything good come out of Nazareth? He got a laugh out of the congregation when he began, My name is Tim Sloan, but all week people have been calling me ‘You’re-not-from-around-here-are-you?’ so you might as well too. The sermon was short on theology and long on self-deprecating humor. Whether the humility was genuine or not, no one knew, or seemed to care. He had a role to play, and he played it well. And if he spent a lot of time comparing himself to Jesus, well—didn’t they all?

In time, people came to realize there was nothing bland about Tim Sloan’s humor. It had an edge to it—sometimes a sharp edge. Laura Jane Mullins, the church’s master gardener, in fact if not in name, took to saying that Tim had a pH of somewhere around 4.5. Only a few plants could thrive in a soil with that much acidity. Since she was one of them, she did not complain about his humor, but she opined to her husband, The man ain’t gonna last long around here.

In the church there were a few acid members, as Laura Jane called them. They were the people who themselves needed a touch of sarcasm to neutralize life’s absurdity. They were Tim’s natural constituency, and they were a small minority. Most of the others liked him from a distance, but up close a minister who did not speak in platitudes and express an air of bland optimism made them uneasy.

The morning after that first sermon, Benny Arwood came by with a used window air conditioner for Tim’s bedroom. It was, he said, the first time he’d gotten a close look at the place, and as they walked around the yard he was not impressed with the condition of the house, especially the drab clapboards. The tight-fisted son of a gun, he muttered. A man ought to’ve at least slapped a coat a paint on the sidin.

Tim squinted at the nest clinging precariously to the attic vent. Guess I could get a stick and knock that old nest down.

The deacon pulled a half-smoked cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it, and studied the nest through a cloud of smoke. After a moment’s reflection, he said, Don’t think I’d do that.

Why not?

Birds may come back next year an’ use it again.

This time Tim looked pensive. If they had built this nest, he was thinking, can’t they build another one like it next year? What he said was, What kind of bird would do that?

This one? Benny responded. Maybe a phoebe.

Behind the house the two men leaned on the fence and looked across the field. It was a large, rolling meadow, and it belonged, Benny explained, to Tim’s landlord. He just lets it grow and cuts it fer hay. Probly twice a year . . . That woods yonder, don’t know who it belongs to. If a man was to want to hunt, he’d need ta git permission from the owner. He crushed his cigarette against the fence post and put it back in his pocket. You hunt?

Never have, Tim admitted.

Wouldn’t hurt to learn how to handle a gun—if you’re thinkin to stay around here.

Tim nodded. Probably wouldn’t hurt.

Benny pointed to the distant skyline. That mountain yonder? He waited until Tim acknowledged his gesture. My daddy owns some land on the side a one a them mountains. Built him a huntin cabin. He’s too sickly to use it any more, so I reckon it’s mine now.

Inside, Benny continued his inspection, his footsteps echoing in the almost empty space. He grunted his approval. At least the place was clean, and the landlord had painted the two bedrooms, living room, kitchen, and bath. He flushed the toilet and, with no sign of embarrassment, stood with closed eyes listening to the sound of the gushing water.

Ain’t that beautiful music? he laughed. I kin remember when we got our first indoor plumbin. Momma was still alive then . . . He left the unfinished sentence hanging in the air.

After they had installed the air conditioner, the deacon observed, Looks like the only thing you need now is a TV set. You know—for a little entertainment and to keep up with the news.

Don’t need entertainment, and I don’t listen to the news, Tim pronounced.

But how do you keep up with what’s goin on? Benny wondered.

I know what’s going on, Tim announced bluntly. Shit happens, but that doesn’t mean I have to rub my nose it in.

The conversation collapsed like a punctured balloon. The deacon studied the preacher through narrowed eyes until he decided that the man was not joking. Benny Arwood was not a man easily intimidated; not once in his life had he backed down from a fight. But this time he simply announced that it was time for him to leave.

At the door he paused and, without looking at the preacher, said, Ya know, we didn’t bring you here ta tell us that shit happens. We already knew that. We was kind a hopin you’d help us get above it somehow.

• • •

The chapel got its name, so Hank explained, from Charles Shepard, the farmer who had founded the church in 1873 and donated the land for the building. The old building burned down when I was just a chunk of a boy, Hank said, but I was big enough to help build the chapel we got now. It was a simple frame building, painted white, topped by a small steeple and connected to the fellowship room and kitchen by a covered walkway. You want to take a leak, Hank explained, you got to go over to the new building. It’s only a little over 20 years old. They was great rejoicin around here—especially among the women folks—when we finally got runnin water and indoor plumbin.

They ain’t no more Shepards in the church, Hank explained one afternoon as they sat on one of the hard benches in the chapel. Although a couple of the families claims distant kinship. Lately some has agitated to change the name to somethin more biblical. Somethin like the Damascus Baptist Church—that bein where Paul had his born again experience. Then someone else liked the name Antioch Baptist Church, but that caused a problem, ’cause it sounded too Campbellite for some folks. And, of course, the families with ties to the Shepard family doesn’t want any changes made. They argues that ‘shepherd’ is a biblical word too. So I reckon we’ll just go on bein the Shepards Chapel Baptist Church. The truth is that, like you was told, we’re just a simple country Baptist church.

It could not be said that Tim Sloan was a natural pastor. More than once his ex-wife had accused him of being a misanthrope. But over the next few days he worked at getting to know people. Most afternoons he climbed into his used 4 x 4 and, county map in hand, drove out to visit members of his flock. If they had a day job in town he went in the evening, although he soon learned that evening was a vague concept. Come by this evenin, Brother Tim, might mean anytime after noon.

Still, unless the only person at home was a married woman whose husband was at work, he chose to visit people—he called it his investigative work—in the afternoon. At first folks wondered who the stranger in the dirty pickup truck was who wore a baseball cap and wraparound sunglasses and drove the back roads with one arm out the window. But word soon got around that he was the new preacher at the Shepards Chapel church.

When he found someone at work in the field or in the garden he always offered to help. He means well, Willard Minton told one of his neighbors. But he don’t know squat about farmin. And when he found the widow Dockery working in her garden and offered to help hoe the weeds, she gently but firmly explained to him, Young man, you don’t hoe weeds. You chop weeds; you hoe corn.

More often than not he would end up sitting on the porch and drinking lemonade or iced tea, and that’s when he got to talk to the people about the church and the community. If anyone noticed that most of his questions were about what people had been doing 30 or 40 years ago, they didn’t say anything about it.

He was relieved, so he told himself, that there were no women in the church who would be a problem. There was one young widow, a woman about 40, but she was living with an invalid mother. And there were two younger divorced women who were active in the chapel. Apparently a divorced woman was accepted as long as she was the innocent party. Stanley Hurd, the deacon, did have a twenty-something daughter, but she wouldn’t be a problem. There was, in fact, only one real looker at the Sunday morning service, and she was married to an army sergeant who was on his second tour in Iraq. She always sat with her in-laws, and they did not stay for small talk after church.

One morning he stopped in the yard to say hello to Scotty, the neighbor boy who mowed the grass for the church.

Tell me about your name, he said. Is Scotty a nickname for Scott?

Yes sir.

Is Scott your first name or your last name?

First name.

So what’s your last name?

It’s Heel.

Tim turned to leave, then stopped. What did you say it was?

Heel!

Heel? I’ve never heard a name like that before. How do you spell it?

H-I-L-L.

Tim glared wordlessly at Scotty, but the younger man did not look away.

That’s all right, Brother Tim. Folks around here thinks you talk funny too.

The mayor in?

The big man behind the desk lifted his gaze from the magazine he was reading and eyed the stranger at the door. The police officer leaning against the wall with his hat over his eyes snorted.

You’re lookin at im, mister, the man at the desk offered. Somethin we can do for ya?

Name’s Tim Sloan, the stranger said. I’m the new pastor at the Shepards Chapel Baptist Church. Stopped in to say hello.

When the big man nodded and said hello, the officer snickered again and pushed his hat back to study the stranger at the door.

The mayor was an older man with a thick neck, a round face, and a soft body. His salt and pepper hair was sprinkled with more salt than pepper, and his garish, short-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a mat of grey chest hair. The middle-aged officer, a thin man with a sharp nose, was dressed in black slacks and shirt and was wearing a badge and a sidearm. Neither man stood up to greet Tim; neither offered to shake his hand.

Actually, Tim admitted, what I’m really looking for is the police station. I couldn’t find it, and when I saw your sign outside . . .

"You’re lookin at that too," the mayor growled. The man still had not smiled.

Tim glanced around the room, taking a closer look at the grinning cop. And the chief of police would be . . . ?

Me, the mayor said. Around here I wear two hats.

Tim gave the man a thin smile. Ohhh-kay, he said, "this is the mayor’s office and the police station. Anything else I should know about law enforcement around here?"

The police officer spoke in a metallic voice. They’s a county sheriff that’s got a office the other side a the courthouse. They might could pass the time a day with ya.

Tim fixed the cop with a cold stare, and when he looked back at the mayor he saw that the big man was yawning and looking at his watch.

OK, he said with a nod. I thank you for your hospitality. He turned to make his escape, then hesitated at the door. By the way, why do they call this town Cairns Grove? Was it named after somebody?

The mayor shrugged his shoulders. They had to call it somethin.

Anyway, the officer of the peace added, it ain’t no town; it’s a city.

Coming from his mouth city had three syllables.

• • •

Outside the basement entrance to the mayor’s office Tim looked in vain for shade—a tree, an awning, anything that would give him protection from the angry sun overhead. He squinted through his sunglasses at the bank clock down the street. He could not make out the temperature, but he did not need to see the numbers to know it was hot. He was having trouble deciding what to do next; the heat, he was thinking, had addled his brain. He could try to make his way back to his 4 x 4, or he could look for the sheriff’s office. The only thing he knew for certain was that he would die from heat exhaustion before he would go back inside and talk to those two retards.

He had hiked from the edge of town, thinking the best way to get familiar with Cairns Grove was to walk the length of Sycamore Street, up one side and back the other. It had been a good idea, but under the oppressive heat he had turned back before he reached the Exxon-McDonalds complex at the far end of the street.

The walk had not been a total loss. He had learned that every street in the long shoestring of a town—it was a town, not a city, of that he was sure—was named for a tree. The main route, running from one end of town to the other, was Sycamore Street. The side streets, branching off two blocks in one direction to open countryside and in the other direction to an overlooking hill, were also tree streets: Poplar, Pine, Oak, and others he could not remember.

He had left his truck in the parking lot of a grocery store across from a small fast-food restaurant. As he walked, he passed the office of the local newspaper, the Dumfries County Patriot (your hometown weekly newspaper), a boarded-up theater with a condemned sign nailed to the door, two large old churches—Baptist and Methodist—flanking the courthouse, and, also clustered around the courthouse, a handful of offices offering legal services. An arrow at one intersection pointed to a hospital at the end of a side street, and on another corner the sign in the yard of a two-story, frame house announced that it was the public library. There was no town square; the conventional, redbrick courthouse facing Sycamore Street served as the center of town.

It was an old town, a town whose glory days lay somewhere in the past. There were two or three newer businesses at the end of Sycamore Street, and the high school complex outside town had a modern look about it, but the town itself was shabby and exhausted. Even the stores not boarded up exuded an air of genteel poverty. Had there been any doubt in Tim’s mind before the walk, now he was certain: His stay in Cairns Grove and Dumfries County would be brief. He would do what he had come to do and then move on.

Inside the entrance to the sheriff’s office Tim stumbled and almost fell. The move from the harsh glare of the street to the diffused light of the small room had left him half-blinded. Even when he took off his sunglasses, he blinked before he could make out the indistinct figure sitting at the desk.

It was the familiar-sounding voice that let him know this was someone he should recognize. Brother Tim! Welcome to the best law office in the state!

Closer to the desk he was able to make out the neatly ironed uniform shirt and the deputy’s patch.

Jimmy Lee Tomlinson! he exclaimed. What are you doing behind that desk? And in a uniform at that!

I work here. Didn’t you know I was a deputy sheriff?

I didn’t. You mean nobody warned me I had a lawman looking over my shoulder at church? Never would’ve guessed it the first time I saw you.

Can’t tell by the look of a poke what’s inside. Have a seat. Both men were yelling to be heard over the air conditioner groaning in the window. Can I get you some coffee or a coh-cola?

It’s too hot for coffee. I’ll take a coke.

Jimmy Lee pivoted in his chair, got a bottle out of a battered refrigerator and twisted off the top.

Wait a minute, Tim protested. You said a coke. Isn’t that an orange drink?

Jimmy Lee laughed. Around here all sody pop is coke. If it ain’t got alcohol in it, it’s a coh-cola. Today’s flavor is orange. You come back tomorrow and we may give you a grape.

The door flew open and a tall man walked in accompanied by a blast of hot air. God damn but it’s hot out there, he yelled, slamming the door. I could use one of them drinks, if you’ve got any left. When he saw Tim, he threw Jimmy Lee a question with his eyes. Sorry. Didn’t know you were busy.

I ain’t busy, Jimmy Lee grinned. He’s the one that’s workin. Otis, this is Tim Sloan, the new preacher I’ve been tellin you about. Tim, meet Otis Sanders.

The two men shook hands but neither smiled. When their eyes locked, a wordless, imperceptible challenge passed between them. Tim saw a man over six feet tall, 190 pounds, black hair, brown eyes, with rugged looks that some people would call handsome. This was not a carbon copy of the men in the mayor’s office on the other side of the courthouse. His uniform almost matched the one Jimmy Lee was wearing.

You a deputy too? Tim asked.

The others laughed. Never have been, don’t want to be, Otis said.

This is my boss, Jimmy Lee explained. Otis Sanders is the best sheriff in the whole damn state.

Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Jimmy Lee. Soon as you finish that drink you’re gonna get your butt out from behind that desk and go to work. These papers need to be taken out to the Lawson place. Old man Lawson ain’t gonna like it, but he’s gonna have to appear in court.

Otis settled in a chair near the air conditioner and looked at Tim. What he saw was a tough street kid, a man who made his own rules, a man who looked like anything but a man of God. So you’re the new preacher. Too bad we don’t have anybody in our jail right now for you to visit.

No problem, Tim assured him with a smirk on his face. Way I read the Bible, the people in jail are the good guys; the people who put them there are the bad guys.

Jimmy Lee laughed nervously. When he could find nothing in Tim’s face to indicate the man was joking, he looked to Otis to see if he should laugh.

The sheriff too was giving the preacher a probing look. Maybe, he retorted, you wouldn’t say that if you were in law enforcement.

Could be, Tim conceded. After an awkward moment, he looked around the room and said, You guys do make a better impression than the last people I was with.

As he told them about his visit to the mayor/chief of police, the tension in the room eased, and Jimmy Lee’s laughter became more relaxed. And when he asked if the city police force cooperated with the sheriff’s department, the laughter became raucous. Even Otis chuckled.

That so-called ‘force’ has two-and-a-half men in it, Jimmy Lee explained, "and they never help us out. Don’t have to. We’re the ones that covers their ass."

What is a two-and-a-half man police force? Tim wondered.

Two full-time officers during the week an’ a kid who walks around on the weekend wearin a uniform and a badge.

No wonder one man can be mayor and chief of police, Tim observed.

No more’n he does, a man could have four or five jobs. Old Cliff—’at’s his name, Cliff Gilliam—Cliff won’t be around much longer. He’s the last vestige of the McNabb machine that run this county fer years.

You mean you’ve got an old-fashioned, political machine right here in Dumfries County? Tim set his orange drink on the floor and leaned back in his chair. Tell me about it.

Jimmy Lee had been doing the talking, but now he looked to Otis.

Goes back forty, fifty years, Otis began. His eyes took on a far-away look, focusing on something outside the room. It had begun with the election—by a narrow margin—of Orban McNabb’s father as sheriff. After he had held the office for eight years, one of his brothers, Orban’s uncle, held the office—some said he inherited it—for two terms. Then another brother was sheriff for his eight years.

In those early years, Orban McNabb had held various offices: city mayor, deputy sheriff, county commissioner. But it didn’t take long for people to learn that he was the family’s strong-arm man and enforcer.

When his turn came, he put in his eight years as sheriff. Then he handpicked his own successor. Folks still knew who was in charge. Many still called him Sheriff McNabb. Some still do today. The family owned commissioners, judges, most of the city officers. For a while one of Orban’s aunts was even the clerk who ran the county elections.

Tim, who had been listening quietly to the story, interrupted with a question. Did they rig the elections?

Would’ve, Otis answered immediately, but they didn’t have to. They had a winning formula: Tell the people what they want to hear, and give them somebody to hate.

When he saw the question in Tim’s eyes, he explained, Oh, their slogans evolved with the times. Orban’s daddy could still run on a platform of ‘keepin the nigger in his place,’ but they soon learned to use code language. When tough on crime was popular, they were tough on crime. After that, they were strong on family values. Lately it’s been just values.

If this Orban fellow was running things, Tim wondered, how’d you get elected? You beat him at his own game?

How so?

I mean, did you give the voters somebody new to hate?

The sheriff’s forehead creased in a frown, but he did not rise to the challenge. With measured calm he answered, Don’t think so. Group a folks came to me and asked if I would run for sheriff. We didn’t run a hate McNabb campaign. Didn’t have to. When we promised people honest law enforcement and said it was time for a change, they knew what we meant.

Jimmy Lee could contain himself no longer. And it didn’t hurt that Otis became a Methodist.

Otis bristled. Who’s telling this story? You or me?

Well it’s true! Jimmy Lee protested.

After a brief pause in which Otis considered his words, he admitted. It is true that around here a man has to be an active church-goer to get elected. And it’s also true that in this county a man’s probably not going to get elected if he’s not a member of one of the big churches in town. With a faint smile and the slightest shrug of his shoulders, he added, And since Orban McNabb and his cronies were Southern Baptists, that left the Methodists for me.

Jimmy Lee took over the narrative. You should a been here that year Otis was elected. The election was a real shootout between the Methodists and the Babtists.

Close vote? Tim asked.

Not as close as I expected, Otis said. I got over 55 percent of the vote. Thank God for the secret ballot.

Jimmy Lee was not finished with his contribution to the story. You should a heard the other side bitchin’ and moanin’ about Otis not bein a real Christian.

What did they mean about that? Tim asked.

They tried to say I was in favor of gay marriage and abortion, Otis explained. Most folks knew that wasn’t true, but it probably cost me a few votes when they kept tellin people I had only joined the Methodist church because I was runnin for office.

You haven’t been a Methodist long?

Was raised in a Holiness church in a holler about 20 miles from here. When I went away to college I discovered that there was a big world out there nobody had told me about. You might say I was un-churched for a while.

And you came back into the church because you wanted to be sheriff?

Otis hesitated, then admitted, You might say that was one of the reasons.

Is this old sheriff still around? Tim asked. He might be a good man to talk to about some of the old timers in the county.

He is still around, Otis said. And he knows a lot about the history of the county. The question is gettin him to tell you what he knows.

And his name is Orban?

That’s what his momma named him, Jimmy Lee said, but we call him ‘Lard Ass.’

He carries a few pounds on him?

Yeah, but I don’t think I’d call him that to his face if I was you, Otis advised. Leastways not if I wanted a favor of him. But go ahead and check him out. You and him might hit it off.

I’d bet money against that! Jimmy Lee challenged.

Is this Orban McNabb—this Lard Ass—in anybody’s pocket?

The word around town is that he’s been known to carry water for old Preston Begley, Otis said. I don’t doubt it’s true; Begley used to give a lot of money to Orban’s campaigns.

Great American pastime, Tim nodded. Practice your first amendment right to free speech by bribing your local politician. So who’s this Preston Begley?

He came to the county 40 years or more ago as part of the coal mining operation. When they were doin strip minin, he was in top management. After retirement, he just stayed in that big house he’s got up on the hill.

Doing what? Tim asked.

Chasin women, Jimmy Lee interjected.

Well, yes, Otis said. Word was, a good lookin woman who went to work in that office wasn’t safe around him. And if she wasn’t good lookin she didn’t get a job in the first place. But I doubt that’s what you meant. The truth is I don’t really know how he made all his money. I reckon he inherited some of it. What I do know is that he’s got a lot of it.

"Where does he go to church?" Tim asked.

The sheriff and his deputy looked at each other. Finally Otis shrugged his shoulders. Don’t know that he does.

Guess I’ll just have to ask him one of these days, the preacher said as he stood up to leave.

By the way, he wondered, what’s the population of this place?

Can’t say exactly, the sheriff answered. Been a while since the last census. But it’d be somewhere between seven and eight thousand.

Tim looked incredulous. That many? Cairns Grove looks a lot smaller’n that to me.

Cairns Grove? I thought you meant the whole county!

Later Tim would remember nothing of his hike back to the truck. He moved as quickly as he could in the intense heat, but he walked with a sense of unease as heavy as the humid air around him. It was a vague, indefinable discomfort. He knew only that it had something to do with Otis Sanders. . . . Why, the man didn’t even talk like the people around here!

When the sound of thunder interrupted Tim’s dream-like walk, he turned to look back at the dark cloud, heavy with the promise of rain, then picked up his pace.

At the office Otis held up the almost-full bottle of orange soda, showed it to Jimmy Lee, and said, Strange man, that new preacher of yours. Hope y’all don’t regret hirin him.

What’ll it be tonight, Preacher? Hazel said as she set down his water and napkin. Chicken fried steak, meatloaf, or fried chicken?

Let me think a minute, Tim answered. I might just look at your menu for a change.

The preacher—nobody in this place called him Brother Tim—absent-mindedly watched Hazel’s hips as she made her way back to the kitchen. He sighed and tossed the menu aside. He already knew what was on it; it never changed. He thought, not for the first time: If she was 10 years younger and 15 pounds lighter I might be in real trouble there.

Not long after he had arrived in town someone told him that Granny’s Kitchen had the best country cooking around. Given the competition—two fast-food restaurants, a small pizza shop, and a sleazy bar and grill—that wasn’t saying much. Still, the food was OK. If he had wanted yuppie cuisine he would have stayed in the city.

So several times a week he dined at Granny’s Kitchen. He always sat at the back of the restaurant, in a booth if possible, facing the door. Old habits, it seemed, were hard to break. By the end of the second week he had become a regular fixture. Granny, plump and fifty-something, ran the kitchen and occasionally came out front to visit. Mabel, Granny’s sister, sat at the cash register. Hazel, the youngest of the three sisters, was the head waitress. Sometimes the only waitress. When business was slow she often sat at the table with a customer and drank a cup of coffee. With her red hair, green eyes, and a body that was, in Tim’s words, well put together, she was popular with the businessmen who stopped in for lunch.

Hazel, I’ll bet you broke a lot of hearts in your day, Tim had once ventured.

What do you mean ‘in my day’? she had countered with mock indignation. You saying I’m over the hill?

Not at all, not at all, he had said softly to her retreating back. Just dangerous.

So have you decided what you’re going to have? Hazel called out to him. You sure are a discriminating diner tonight. I ain’t seen you look at that menu once.

Give me the fried chicken special, he ordered. And unsweetened iced tea, if it doesn’t pain you too much to leave the sugar out.

One chicken special coming up, the waitress announced. Then, halfway to the kitchen, she turned and came back with a smile in her eyes. I know Granny will ask when she fixes your plate: Are you a leg man or a breast man?

Oh Hazel, he groaned as he glanced around to see if anyone had heard the question. Don’t you know that preachers have to take vows of chastity?

"I know for a fact that ain’t true, she challenged. . . . So, what’s your pleasure?"

Tell Granny, he said in a low voice, that I’d like to have one of each, please. I hate to play favorites.

• • •

Hazel took away his empty plate. Dessert and coffee, Preacher?

Not tonight, thanks. Got a big day tomorrow.

Yeah, the life of a preacher sure is tough.

He looked around. Business is kind of slow for a Saturday night.

This ain’t unusual for summer. Things’ll pick up when school starts.

That couple that just left, they from around here?

The waitress stopped to think. Oh yeah. That couple. She’s a local girl. Never seen him before.

He looked Mexican. Are there immigrant workers around here?

Not in this county, but I think a couple of the farms in the next county sometimes use seasonal labor.

I’m kind of surprised to see local girls dating them.

First time I’ve ever seen it. Time was when that sort of thing wouldn’t have been allowed around here. I doubt she gets asked out much.

Tim was paying his bill when a couple walked in the restaurant. You might want to call the law, the man said. Looks like there’s going to be a fight out there.

Where? Mabel asked.

Next door in your parking lot. Looks like some of the boys are going to teach an illegal immigrant a lesson.

Maybe you’d better call the sheriff, Tim said. Think I’ll go out and see what passes for Saturday night entertainment here in the city.

When he walked into the half-filled lot, the girl and the Mexican were backed against one of the cars. Two men held the Mexican while a third yelled in their faces. Tim caught the words nigger and leave our women alone.

He’s not black, the woman shouted. And even if he was, I’m not one of your women, Ron Begley.

Shut your face, bitch. We’re going to teach your friend here a lesson. It was the man she had called Ron Begley.

Tim grabbed him by the back of the collar and pulled him away from the girl. Back where I come from real men don’t hit women, and we don’t think three against one is a fair fight.

The three men swung around. Who the hell are you? snarled one of Ron Begley’s companions.

My name is Tim. And your name is?

My name is none of your fuckin business.

Interesting name. Can’t say as I’ve heard it before. Tim retreated until he had another car at his back. As the three men came toward him he calculated his odds. All were younger than he. Two of them looked like strong farm boys who might be able to fight. Ron Begley was half a head shorter, overweight, and soft around the middle. In a fight he’d probably just get in the way. Tim glanced beyond them at the Mexican. Señor, do you speak English?

No.

He caught the eye of the woman. She was crying. Ma’am, is that your car?

She nodded yes.

I think you and your friend should get in it and get out of here. Fast! Then to the three toughs, Now then, gentlemen, where were we?

The two farmers looked at Ron Begley who said, Let those two go; we can get ’em later. Right now we’ve got to teach this stranger some manners. . . . So, Mr. Tim, you want to tell us who you really are before we beat the shit out of you?

I know who he is. It was the farm boy who hadn’t spoken yet. He’s the new preacher out at the Baptist chapel.

The others laughed. You’ve got to be kidding, said Ron Begley. You mean we’ve got us a Reverend here?

Let’s take im! yelled farm boy number one.

Tim stepped aside, grabbed the charging man by the arm and slammed his head against the car, while farm boy number two rushed in and clipped the preacher’s jaw with a roundhouse swing. In the background Ron Bagley was shrieking, Hold him! Hold him! So I can get at him!

Tim staggered, caught his balance, blocked the next blow with his left arm, and drove his knuckles into the man’s windpipe. Ron Begley grabbed him from the rear in a bear hug. Tim backed hard against a parked SUV, and when the bully grunted twisted out of his grip and landed a backhand blow to his face.

Farm boy number one, back in the fight, was beating on Tim’s back, landing blows that would leave bruises but did no real damage. The men were indeed tough, but they didn’t know much about street fighting. With a blow to the stomach and another to the jaw Tim had the man on his knees.

Farm boy number two was gasping for breath. Ron Begley was holding his hand over his bleeding nose and blustering, You’ll pay for this, you son of a bitch. And Hazel was yelling from the edge of the parking lot, The law is coming. You guys better get out of here.

With a threatening we’ll be back the three piled into a red sports car and sped from the lot with tires squealing. Tim was bending over, hands on knees, and gasping for breath, but he noticed that Ron Begley was driving.

Hazel laid her hand on his shoulder. You all right, Preacher?

I have to say I’ve felt better, but I think I’ll live. He straightened up and looked around. So where are the cops?

I haven’t the slightest idea. I just said that to get those guys out of here. Figured you could use a little help.

Probably a good thing, he said. If it had gone on much longer, somebody could have gotten hurt.

What do you mean ‘could have’? Hazel challenged. Do you have any idea what your face looks like? Come inside and let me clean you up.

No. I’ll be OK. A hot shower and a good night’s sleep and I’ll be as good as new.

Hazel looked at the cuts on his face and at his torn shirt, shook her head, and turned to go back in the restaurant. She stopped, came back and said, Tell me something, Tim Sloan. You sure you’re a preacher?

When the bronze sheriff’s car pulled in the driveway, Tim was sitting on his front step, wearing cutoffs and drinking coffee. The two men nodded, and Otis sat down and leaned against the railing.

Coffee? the preacher offered.

Thanks. I’ve had my fill. At least for now.

An 18 wheel behemoth roared by, belching fumes and raising whirls of dirt. When the dust had settled, the sheriff gazed at the bright sky and observed, Gonna be another hot one.

The preacher nodded his agreement. He finished his coffee, leaned back and asked, So, is this a social call or a business call?

Little of both. I’m out investigating how preachers spend their Monday mornings.

You’re looking at it. I don’t expect to be doing any heavy lifting today.

I’d think not. What with those bruises on your shoulders and back. And your face right now is not the best lookin thing I’ve ever seen.

Tim snorted. You know, you’re not the first person who ever told me that.

There was another pause while an old farm truck chugged by, and they returned the driver’s wave. This time the sheriff broke the silence. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you look like you’ve been in a fight.

I suppose you could say that there was a bit of a set to. But as the old saying goes, if you think I look bad you should see the other guy.

The way I hear it, there were three other guys.

"Ah, the truth comes out. So word of my Saturday night party