Forgive Us This Sin

By Jeffrey Matthews

Her name is Good.

And her father had a dream.

He built that dream out of a Georgia swamp with his bare hands and strength of will.
It isn’t Good’s dream, though. She has other plans.

But her father’s sudden death, her love for him, and his near mythic and ghostly presence on the property have kept her feeling obligated to maintaining and operating the dying Starlite Drive-in theater. She also feels responsible for her father’s old friends - the drive-in being their home and livelihood.

Good’s art, along with her hopes and dreams, have taken a firm backseat to the daily tasks of running a business and wrestling with a massive, temperamental and outdated movie projector she calls ‘the beast’. All the while she faces down a huge, white screen that seems like a never blinking eye keeping watch of her every move.

She’s certain she’ll never escape. She also has a lot on her plate right now.

The Georgia winter was a short one and there’s plenty to do before the crumbling Starlite will be ready for the upcoming season.

What she certainly doesn’t need is a handsome stranger to come wandering into her life. He has only one name, drives a classic car in showroom condition, and has odd burn scars on the palms of his hands. To top it off, he claims to have amnesia.

But Elvis likes him. And Elvis means the world to Good.

While she hasn’t the time nor the patience for any of this, she can hear Elvis saying plain as day: “There’s a story here what needs a tellin’.”

You see, a new season is about to open for the Starlite.

Yes sir, a whole lot of new is about to open up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664204287

Jeffrey Matthews

Jeffrey Matthews is a native of the Sunshine State. He woke up one morning in his adopted home of New Ulm, Minnesota, remembering he was meant to be a storyteller. His debut novel, Carry Us All, was honored with inclusion in the National Carousel Association’s Archives.

Book preview

1

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BANG - BANG - bang –- BANG!

That final kick sent a painful shockwave through her shin.

A screwdriver slid from her hand as she retreated three steps, her eyes locked on the outdated movie projector. Feeling behind her for the workbench, her fingertips finally touched its rough edge and she slumped against it, her arms splaying out to either side. She was definitely defeated for the day. She would let the obstinate machine return to its peaceful, metallic slumber.

She doubled over, hands on her knees, her breath whispering from her lungs in a slow, steady stream. A dull, rhythmic throb in her big toe reminded her - she’d forgotten to kick with the side of her foot, like her father had always cautioned. She’d seen him chastise the stubborn projector, exactly the same way, hundreds of times.

But always use the side of your foot, he’d told her.

She sank to the floor, pulled off her sneaker, and rubbed at her toe. She smiled at the flash memory of her father. She’d definitely inherited his total lack of mechanical skills. So how, she wondered, had he kept the beast running all those years? It seemed akin to magic.

A gauzy streak of Georgia sunlight ran the length of the projection booth’s floor. She leaned against the workbench, studying the shaft of light. At first, there was nothing more to see than the pale light contrasting with the floor’s dark wood - but then she began to see the tiny dust motes floating and whirling within the beam. Some twinkled as they spun and twisted in the air, while others bobbed along with restraint and purpose. She blew a stream of air toward the beam, sending the motes into a frenzy - but as if following standing orders, each mote eventually returned to its slow and graceful dance.

She put her sneaker back on, gripped the top of the workbench, and pulled herself up. Going back to the projector, she ran her hand along its metal casing, as if to soothe it. Turning her back to it, she stood at the open port facing the drive-in’s parking area. The huge, white screen stood defiantly in the distance - as blank and empty as blank and empty could be.

In its lifetime it had reflected back hundreds of movies - stories coming alive each night in a blaze of color. But during the day it stood silent and resolute, patiently waiting for the sun to dip below the horizon. Then, in the twilight, it would beckon once more - promising to amaze, to astound, to entertain.

At sundown, cars would stream into the lot, lining up in rows, all pointing toward the anticipated magic of the screen - every car filled with hopeful patrons, all eagerly awaiting that first flicker of light.

She loved that moment.

She loved the first scratch and pop of sound bursting through the car speakers, the great beacon shooting out from the projector, illuminating the darkened screen in the distance. And once the beam struck, it shattered into moving bits of color - forming people and places, animals and machines, sweeping vistas. Adventures would begin, true loves found each other, great romances blossomed and raced toward bitter ends - or more hopefully, toward happily-ever-afters. There was comedy, drama, action, chilling moments of horror. Stories upon stories. People going places, doing things, or quietly living out their lives. It was all up there on the same screen.

There was magic in that shaft of light.

And it was that magic her father had loved so much and had built his life around. It had not only provided her and her mother with a home, but it had also given jobs to people who often couldn’t get hired anywhere else. And it brought many nights of entertainment to families - a gathering place for experiences and memories.

Movies, her father once told her, help people forget their troubles for a little while. For a few dollars a carload, we provide a couple of hours of respite. An evening of wonder and escape.

That’s how he always spoke of it. Like it was some grand adventure, far beyond the drudgery of the everyday world.

She often imagined how her mother had helped her father with getting the place started. A small, framed photo of her mother hung on the wall behind the snack counter. She is imminently pregnant in the snapshot. She is smiling, handing out candy to children - which she probably did whenever her husband wasn’t looking - ever acting the part as the drive-in’s faithful ambassador.

But sometimes, lately, she could barely remember her mother’s face - or even her smile, except in that one framed photo. Nearly everything she knew about her mother had come from her father’s lips. He’d told her story after story about her mother - about when he first saw her, about how they started the drive-in, and of course, about how much he adored her. It was when she heard those stories from her father that she felt she knew her mother best.

How much you remind me of her, he would tell her at any given moment - sometimes after some small thing she’d done, or some little thing she’d said, or even observing the way she scrunched her toes while watching TV. And sometimes, even in moments when she was doing nothing at all.

She had her father in her life right up to the age when a young woman begins to experience the female stirrings that turn her confidences solely to her mother. One moment his heart was beating - the next it wasn’t. And just like that, she was left with the responsibility for the family business. Left with responsibility for employees who were more like family - who counted on the drive-in for their financial security, and some, even for their home.

And most of all, she was left as guardian of her father’s cherished dream.

At times she could even think it was her dream, too.

At least, she hoped it was.

Because often, deep in her soul, there stirred a quiet voice. It told her none of it was true - not even the hope of it. If she were completely honest with herself, she wanted something else. Something far beyond the drive-in.

She felt the imperceptible weight of a tear as it welled unexpectedly at the corner of her eye.

A tear for what? For her father? For the dream? For herself?

The sun had climbed higher in the sky. The shaft of light that had coursed through the projection booth had vanished. The screen had turned a dull gray. The parking lot, with its forest of speaker poles, had taken on the calmness of a vast ocean - its gently rolling swales frozen in the pavement.

But the view slowly morphed into the hard reality of gravel, dust, and cracked pavement - marred further, here and there, by sprouting weeds - the prickly green clumps bursting up from everywhere.

And farther out, she spied a lone figure. His head was bowed and he walked in carefully measured steps. He was dressed in gray work clothes - wearing a pith helmet to protect against the sun. In one hand he held a jug of weed killer, with the other he directed a spray wand at each clump of weed he passed. It would take him all morning to cover the entire lot - and he’d probably miss half the weeds - but Elvis was as much a fixture at the drive-in as her father had been.

Before her father had passed away, Elvis had been an adopted grandfather of sorts. Afterwards he’d become more of a surrogate father. She loved him as much as any flesh and blood family. The sight of him, taking patient and vigilant care to his duties, made her smile to herself.

She swiped at the tear, turned back to the beast, and sighed.

2

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GOOD SHUT THE projection booth door, pausing at the top of the stairs while a very familiar list of season opening chores ticked off in her head.

Although the morning sun was nearly white, the sky a blue wash, it was still late February - an edgy nip to the air. It had been a mild winter, and she knew most of the cool air was coming off the coast, just thirty minutes away.

The drive-in was closed for the worst of the winter months, but with the days becoming unseasonably warmer, she hoped to have an early season opener. The extra traffic would certainly help with the cash flow situation - if she could just manage to get the beast to cooperate.

But even if they did open early, there was yet another problem looming on the horizon - one she didn’t want to think about right now. It was a fundamental and costly change coming for the entire industry - an industry already struggling under financial burdens and competing with a rapidly changing culture and how it consumed entertainment.

Movement up in the tower caught her eye.

The tower was a five-story, open frame, metal structure - like a lighthouse - with a wide, circular platform at the top. It sat at the end of the two-story main building which housed a single row of motel rooms - twelve in all. The tower’s upper platform had a railing around it and could accommodate about twenty-five people. For a small fee, patrons could watch the movie from there. It was something her father had seen in an old book about drive-in theaters. He had instantly seized on the project and took out a loan the following year to have the tower constructed.

It was a big draw at first, but soon lost its novelty. Later, it had to be closed when the insurance sky-rocketed - the insurance company declaring the tower’s railing as ‘insufficient to reasonably assure safety.’

The tower remained closed after that, but still held its mystique. From time to time they had to chase off amorous teens who tried to steal away to the top for a rendezvous. It had become a legendary rite of passage to be able to say you experienced a romantic moment up on the tower.

And right now, someone was up there who shouldn’t be.

Good stepped onto the catwalk that circled the outside of the projection booth. She held a hand to her forehead, squinting against the sun. In the glare she couldn’t make out any defining details of the person, but someone was definitely up there.

She scanned back over the property, out to where she’d last seen Elvis spraying weeds, but saw no trace of him now - and she knew he couldn’t have made it back that fast.

Without another thought, she hopped the catwalk’s railing onto the roof of the motel. The projection booth sat at the center of the building, so she had to walk across the roof of six motel rooms, gravel crunching beneath her feet. When she reached the tower stairs, she stopped and leaned back to take another look.

Hey you! she shouted. Who’s up there?

There was no answer. No movement.

She scanned the lot again for Elvis, but he was still nowhere to be seen - and even if he were, he’d probably be too far away to hear her call for help.

She jumped the railing onto the tower stairs that spiraled up to an opening in the center of the platform. If the trespasser stayed looking out over the outer railing, she’d have a fair chance of getting a peek at the intruder before they saw her.

As she neared the top, she stopped just below the opening, but instantly recognized the gray work clothes and boots - and the pith helmet. Frowning, she came the rest of the way up.

Elvis, didn’t you hear me calling you?

Hey there, sweetheart. Ain’t this just a beautiful mornin’?

The old man didn’t turn around in his chair, but stayed focused on the blank movie screen, as if it where showing one of the old westerns he loved. He also didn’t seem as though he’d cut a sweat all morning.

Then it hit her. Hadn’t she seen him a few minutes ago? She was certain she’d seen him out at the far end of the parking lot, wearing his pith helmet and spraying weeds. Hadn’t she?

She went to the railing, leaning over it, scanning the parking lot. It was certainly too far for him to have come back so fast. She turned to him and he placidly smiled up at her before returning his gaze to the screen.

And, she thought, he’s an old man. He was shorter than average, with a slight, but sturdy build and a small paunch, though it was obvious he’d been well-muscled in his youth. He never moved any faster than he needed to, always pacing himself. He couldn’t have crossed the distance that fast - not even for a supper call.

She gripped the rail, scanning the property for the intruder.

Whatcha searchin’ for, sweetie?

I just saw a man. Out there, she pointed. I saw him from the projection booth a few seconds ago. He was wearing a helmet, like yours, and he was spraying weeds.

She glanced over her shoulder at Elvis. He sat calm and relaxed.

Funny thing is, she said. I was pretty sure it was you.

Ain’t been sprayin’ weeds this mornin’. Been thinkin’ on it though for tomorrow.

I’m serious, she said, returning to her search. Someone was out there. She pounded the rail. And I was positive it was you.

Hmm, sighed Elvis. Musta been my key-ah-eeh.

He stood and walked to the opposite side of the platform. He slowly arched his back, hands on his hips, holding his face to the sun and scrunching up his eyes.

Come over here and help me look, she insisted. I’m not kidding. She leaned over the railing, as if she could get closer. Someone may be trespassing.

Nope. I ain’t doin’ no such thing. No sir. Not me, he said, still holding his face to the sun in the opposite direction. The ancients say it’s bad medicine to see your own key-ah-eeh.

She turned back to him, bracing herself against the railing. What on earth are you talking about? she asked tiredly.

He came back and sat in the lawn chair, staring down at his boots, being careful not to raise his eyes too far past the railing.

I’ll tell you this. Now bear with me some, cuz this here is from the time ‘fore time. That’s a heap of rememberin’ for an old man to do, he said. Now I heared it told, in the lore of the ones who walked here afore, that as you’re movin’ on through your life, sometimes you leave a part of yourself behind. Specially in places what meant the most to you. You leave traces of your spirit on things, even on other people. It’s somethin’ like leavin’ fingerprints. You follow me?

She found herself sliding to the floor of the platform, wrapping her hands around her knees, unconsciously taking up the position she’d so often held as a little girl while listening with rapt attention to one of Elvis’s stories. Even the ones she was certain were complete nonsense.

He claimed to have Native American blood, and was very proud of it - although he couldn’t produce a single shred of evidence, other than his word on it. He said his father had been an English nobleman - exploring the New World, seeking his fortune. He’d fallen in love with an Indian princess, and after a magical and passionate romance, they’d stolen away to be married. The girl’s father, a powerful chieftain, was enraged. He swore to track the pair down, kill the brash intruder, and return his daughter to the young brave she’d been promised to. But the couple had gone far away, passing through many dark forests, until they came to the big water. There they lived happily and had a son.

But the Chief never gave up searching. He sent out his best trackers and eventually they found the couple hiding in a swamp. The Englishman was killed and the Chief’s daughter was returned to her people. But before that happened, the couple had hidden their son deep in the swamp - the princess conjuring a spell over the creatures of the forest and swamp, bidding them to keep watch of her child.

Elvis said from that time on he felt every tear his mother cried for him - for her lost boy, alone in the swamp. He said sometimes his mother’s key-ah-eeh would come to visit him and she taught him all the things he needed to know to survive on his own.

Good knew there was about as much Native American blood running through Elvis’s veins as there was truth to his stories - never mind that the timing of the story alone would have made him ancient. But she never challenged him on any of it. It was an endearing part of her childhood - and still a part of her, even now.

She leaned her head back against the railing, closing her eyes and letting the warmth of memories flood through her soul.

Elvis sighed out a breath, signaling the end of his story. I reckon my key-ah-eeh already walks this bit of ground, like it walks the swamp in the dark hours. This here is my home. You’re my home. But a day will come when I’ll walk only in your heart, like the part of me that’ll always walk this bit of earth.

She felt a breeze come up, rousing her from her reflections. I’ve got to get the beast fixed, she said resolutely.

She got up and walked around the platform’s edge, letting her hand run along the top of the railing. When she came back to where Elvis sat, she noticed he’d dared now to look back out toward the screen. When she looked at it, all she saw was its fading, white cover - more work to be done.

I hate to hire someone to take care of that, she said, gesturing to the screen. We don’t have the money for it right now. She hung over the railing and propped a foot up on the bottom rung. I’m not so sure we’re at the end of the road, she sighed heavily. Guess I’m glad dad’s not here to see any of this.

She straightened up, stretching herself out over the railing like a sail. On the other hand, she said. He’d probably know exactly what to do.

Seein’ the key-ah-eeh of a livin’ person, ‘specially in the daylight, means somethin’s ‘bout to change, said Elvis, narrowing his eyes.

Yeah, yeah, sighed Good. Something’s always about to change.

She stepped back from the rail and bent down to hug him about his shoulders. She leaned her head into his neck and breathed in the sweet smell of tobacco that always played about him, though she’d never seen him smoke a pipe or anything else. She felt his hand pat her head, before stroking down the length of her hair.

My little princess, he said. You’ve done learned yourself well from me. Now you just go on with yourself. You watch and see.

3

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GOOD LEFT ELVIS to the rest of his morning meditations and set her mind on taking inventory of the concessions.

The concession’s kitchen and snack bar area were at the center of the building. To either side, on the ground floor, were parking stalls for motel guests. The twelve motel rooms were all on the second floor, with stairs at each end of the building and a criss-cross of stairs at the rear of the concession area, all leading to a balcony that the motel rooms opened on to.

Each room had a bay window facing the movie screen, allowing guests to watch a movie from the comfort of their room. The two rooms on either end of the building were suites - with living rooms, kitchenettes, and enclosed bedrooms.

After her father passed away, Good had moved into one of the suites. She’d felt swallowed up in the main house, especially after it was just her living there.

Her father had built the family home beneath the movie screen. During her grade school years she’d been somewhat of a celebrity among her schoolmates - having her own playground, a movie playing over her head every night, and easy access to a paradise of candy and junk food.

But as she grew older, the celebrity became more of an oddity - and she became a social recluse, hurrying home from school to immerse herself in her artwork. On weekends she helped her mother with the concession stand, or sat with her father up in the projection booth. Sometimes she hung out with Elvis while he directed cars or patrolled the park’s perimeter, watching for kids slipping over the fence. The older kids also used the wooded area that rimmed the lot as a hiding place to do other things teens often did under cover of darkness and away from home.

Good started to unlock the kitchen’s rear door, but stopped, hearing a familiar grandfatherly voice whispering in her ear: Don’t burn daylight on things what don’t bring fire to your soul.

She abruptly changed her mind about the inventory, bounded up the stairs, going straight to her suite at the north end of the building. As she opened the door, the smell of oil paints and paint thinner instantly soothed her.

The drapes of the bay window were open - the white slab of movie screen seeming to spy in on her. She hardly ever closed those drapes. Something about the starkness of the distant rectangle comforted her - even while also being a constant and quiet reminder of her responsibilities. But she was afraid if she didn’t have that reminder, she’d be quite capable of staying forever in her room, alone with her art, barely noticing the world going by outside.

She sat down at her easel, to her current work, and as she studied it, felt unsatisfied. She picked up a brush, continuing to stare into the dried paint on the canvas. The colors were off, the composition was off - the whole thing seemed wrong. She wasn’t sure why, or even where to begin with it - and maybe, she thought, she shouldn’t even bother.

She eased back on the stool, turning her head to stare out at the cold blank of the movie screen - and it was definitely staring back.

Her mind wandered to her father. Had he ever even looked at one of her paintings? And what she meant by that was, really looked. She knew he’d seen them many times, but it felt as if he’d only given them a passing glance. He’d never looked deeply. This bothered her a little, but she also understood how busy he was - always something to do with the drive-in’s maintenance, or with the running of the business.

It became even more overwhelming for him after her mother had died. Her mother had always supported him and his dream. She’d made it her own dream. They did everything together, and mostly by themselves - unless they absolutely had to hire something out. But even then, everything was closely supervised by them at every step.

After her mother passed away, her father’s dream evolved into an epic quest. His wife’s love and devotion for their shared dream made him feel as though it had now become his solemn duty to sustain the drive-in at any cost. Anything less was not honoring her memory. Letting it fall apart, or fail, was not an option - even after the crowds stopped coming. Even when the drive-in became little more than a curiosity to some, a fool’s errand to most.

Leaning against the wall under the bay window was her last blank canvas - and it caught