What I Really Think of You Page 9

  My father laughed his nervous laugh and said, “Nobody’s picking on you, Jesse. I remember one time Bud showed up for a service in a pair of Nikes. He was doing a solo, Donald, and I made him put on my shoes, which were a size too small for him. Well”—my father began breaking up over his own story—“well, these shoes were pinching him. And the song he was singing was ‘I Can’t Even Walk.’ You know. It goes ‘I can’t even walk without holding Your hand.’ Well, every time Bud paused between walk and without, I thought I’d double over with laughter, knowing what I knew about those shoes being too small for him.” He took his glasses off and wiped away tears. “Oh my, that was some morning!”

  Then he reached in his pants pocket and took out keys and three ten-dollar bills, handing them to me. “The money’s not for you, Jesse. Now that you’re on the payroll, you’ll get your check bimonthly like the rest of us. The money is your Godspeed allowance.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by a Godspeed allowance.”

  “I mean that if you meet someone in the hospital who’s complaining about the food, step out and buy him a sandwich, and wish him Godspeed. Maybe someone you’ll meet is worried about a friend’s birthday coming up, and you’ll want to wish her Godspeed by buying her a birthday card for her friend, putting a stamp on it, addressing the envelope for her. Do you see what I mean, Jesse? Don’t just deliver your spiel, hand out our charm, and go on your way. Try to be of real help.”

  “We ought to take our camera in with him someday,” said Donald, “and get some film of it. That’s bottom-line Christianity.”

  “I like that!” my father said. “Bottom-line Christianity … Well, so many times we aren’t of any practical assistance. Bud taught me that. Bud said, Dad, don’t just give them prayers. Give them something up front: money for a pack of cigarettes, a dime to make a phone call. People remember that more than they remember prayers. Bud’s right.”

  “Particularly now that he’s gone,” said Donald.

  “Gone but not forgotten,” I said.

  “Oh, not forgotten!” said Donald.

  “Are you two ganging up on me?” my father said.

  He came over and put his arm around me. “I love you, Jesse. Good luck today.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I love you, too, sir.”

  “Change the tie.”

  On my way to the train station with Donald, he said, “You know, your dad is convinced Bud’s coming home soon. He’s going to pitch a sermon to him, and we’re going to have a charm made up based on it. … Do you really think Bud watches him Sunday mornings, Jesse?”

  “How do I know what Bud does anymore?” I said.

  “Exactly,” Donald said. “Exactly. But your dad’s set on pitching a sermon to him. The Happiest Man thing, remember it?”

  “Yeah, I remember it.”

  “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Everything.”

  I could remember my dad years ago, under the tent, coat off, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up. First he’d play the part of the king. “Go forth and bring me the shirt of the happiest man in my kingdom!”

  It was an old favorite of Dad’s—a story about a king whose oracle told him the only way he could be happy was to wear the shirt of the happiest man in his kingdom. My father stretched the story out with all sorts of sidelines, until the ending when the oracle, crouched in this fawning attitude, announces with this little whiny voice, “My king and master, we have finally located the happiest man in your kingdom.”

  Then Dad straightened up, brought his fist forward, and slapped it into his palm, shouting, “Bring me his shirt!”

  The oracle, wringing his hands, mincing around, finally whimpering, “My king and master, the happiest man in your kingdom has no shirt.”

  When we were little, Bud and I loved that story. So did everyone under the tent, in the old days.

  Donald said, “We’re going to have a charm made of a little bare-chested man.” He heaved a sigh.

  I didn’t say anything, just took the left turn toward the train station. My secret self was laughing it up in my head.

  “If you ask me, it’s a foolish idea,” Donald said.

  “He hasn’t told that one in a long time,” I said.

  “Right now isn’t the time to take it out of mothballs, either,” Donald said. “We’re telling people you can do anything—it’s up to you! We’re not saying be glad you don’t have a pot to pee in!”

  “No, we’re certainly not saying that,” I said, pulling up next to a taxi stand.

  “A humble backwoods ministry is one thing,” Donald said. “A television ministry is another.”

  “I think the television ministry is what got to Bud,” I said. “I think all the fund raising—”

  Donald didn’t let me finish. “Without all the fund raising, your dad would still be wasting his God-given talents talking to two hundred ne’er-do-well bumpkins who couldn’t collectively drop three hundred dollars into a cardboard box! What the hell did Bud ever know about business? He likes to go skinny-dipping over to his girl friend’s fifty-foot swimming pool, but he doesn’t like to think how her old man got so he could afford that pool!” The train whistle blasted and Donald waited, then in a softer voice said, “What about God saying to Solomon, I will give thee riches, and wealth? He gave Job twice as much as Job ever had before all his afflictions!”

  One thing about Donald: You could always count on the fact he did his research.

  He was reaching behind the front seat of our Seville for his Gucci briefcase with the gold ACE insignia embossed across the leather.

  “What about Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, David, and Joseph of Arimathea?” said Donald.

  “I’m not as well informed as you are, Donald.”

  “Well get informed, Jesse. It wouldn’t hurt any. A television ministry is a family business, boy.”

  “Your train’s pulling in,” I said.

  “I see it,” he said, and then he finished his point. “God made them all rich, as a reward! That was God’s will, that they become rich men! So what is all this no-shirt bullshit!”

  Sometimes I forgot what a real celebrity my father was, and how many people watched It’s Up to You. There were security guards at the end of our driveway, and an elaborate CheckCheek Security system built into our house, but day to day Dr. Guy Pegler was just my old man. … ACE’s central offices were in Riverhead, and a staff in Massachusetts handled all our mail, and sent out all our merchandise. … Our small Seaville staff handled the hot line, the outreach program, and public relations, from the office in The Summer House.

  My father liked to say he kept a low profile in Seaville, and we rarely went to public places there. About the only place he went when he did manage to get some free time was The Hadefield Club. No one there made a fuss over him. The place was filled with celebrities. … At Seaville High, I was just another kid.

  But the moment I arrived at Oceanside Hospital, I was reminded that I wasn’t just another kid. I was his kid, and sick people came down the halls in their bathrobes and slippers to get a look at me. Some of them even wanted my autograph, and said they remembered seeing me on TV.

  I even found myself sounding like my father, although I guess I didn’t have his spiel down as pat as I thought I did.

  Because when I said, “We just want you to know we want you to win. So does Jesus,” one old man in a ward bed began waving his hands, as if he was waving flies off his face, saying, “No, no, no, no.”

  “You got it backward, boy,” he said. “Jesus wants me to win, and so do you. That’s how your father says it.” He looked like he was using his dying strength to tell me off. His face turned red, and he’d raised himself up on his elbows to get a good look at me.

  “How do you do, sir. I’m Jesse Pegler.”

  “I know who you are,” he said. “Want a dog?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked you if you wanted a dog!”

  I was taking out one of
our gold-plated charms when he said, “You can keep that gold thingamajig. If you want to give me something, give me peace of mind.”

  He couldn’t hold himself up any longer, so he sank back into the pillows while I moved closer to him. “I’m worrying about my dog,” he said. “I’m heading for the barn, boy. I got carted over here early this morning and they put my dog in the animal shelter.”

  I remembered what my father said when he gave me the Godspeed money, and I reached in my pocket for my ACE notebook. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Willard Peyton. My dog’s named Yellow.”

  I started taking down the information, telling him not to worry.

  “He’s an old dog,” he said. “It’ll be hard to find him a home.”

  “We’ll find him one.”

  He told me he went to church at The Helping Hand Tabernacle, but since he’d been sick he’d been watching It’s Up to You.

  Behind me, people were starring to line up for charms.

  “Yellow’s fourteen years old,” he said. “I don’t know who’ll want a dog that old.”

  “Mr. Peyton,” I said, “I’ll see that Yellow has a good home, if I have to take him myself.”

  “You promise me, boy?”

  “I promise you,” I said, and I didn’t have any doubt I could keep the promise, knowing Seal’s soft side when it came to animals.

  I left the old man with a smile on his face.

  It’d been a long time since I’d felt that good about anything I’d done in the name of ACE.

  On my way back into Seaville, I stopped at the animal shelter, which was closed for the day. I left a note saying I’d pick up the dog the next morning.

  Then I went to a pay phone and called the Challenge hot line, knowing Seal was on duty. I asked her if she wanted to go to Sweet Mouth.

  “Your father’s just had a crank call,” she said. (“Crank call” was ACE’s euphemism for anything from a stream of obscenities to a death threat. We got a lot of crank calls.) “I’ve also got a battered woman calling back in half an hour. Your mother’s calling around to find a family to take her in for the night. Are you finished at the hospital?”

  I told her she had a new dog named Yellow, filling her in on all the details while I fed another quarter to the coin box.

  “You’d better let the Ringers know he’s at Oceanside Hospital,” she said. “Now’s your chance to invite Opal to the Cheeks’ dinner, and The Last Dance.”

  “Seal, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. I don’t even know Opal.”

  “Get to know her,” Seal said. “Ask her to go to Sweet Mouth with you.”

  “I wish you could get away,” I managed to get in before she said, “Jesse, please, we’re so busy here I can’t stay on the line. Arnelle’s been super to my family! Another call’s coming in now, Jesse. … Will you do that for me?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Do it for ACE,” she said. “ACE owes the Ringers something.”

  “If I do it,” I said, “I’ll do it for you.”

  I don’t think she even heard me.

  Nine

  OPAL RINGER

  “I HOPE THIS IS going to be all right with Daddy,” Mum said. “What’d he say again?”

  I was tearing things off hangers, trying them on, throwing them on the bed, seemed like nothing was right to wear with him.

  “First he said Willard Peyton was at Oceanside, said we ought to know that.”

  “That’s on Daddy’s message sheet. They took him over early this morning.”

  “Then he just says would you like to go to Sweet Mouth?”

  “In his car?”

  “I don’t know in his car.”

  “He come in his car last time.”

  Right after he called, Mum came home from the von Hennigs and found me running around my bedroom like a chicken with her head cut off, trying to get dressed. Daddy and Bobby John were down in The Hollow on a sick call. Mum had said she didn’t like it that I’d said I’d go out with him when I didn’t have permission. I said back who was I going to get permission from?

  She put her coat away and brought her Good Living Comic in to look at, while she sat in my rocker. She was trying to finish the story of Daniel in the lion’s den. Daddy got back issues with the covers off from The Upper Room, and when we finished with them we gave them out at The Hand.

  “A boy that calls the same day for a date isn’t showing respect, though,” Mum said. “Your daddy called a week ahead.”

  “Mum, please. I’ve got to find something to wear! Help me.”

  “Wear that nice red wool sweater Seal gave you, honey.”

  “And let him know I wear her hand-me-downs?”

  “It don’t have her name on it.”

  “She could be there in The Sweet Mouth.”

  “The thing I think about is who’s going to get the blame if Daddy don’t like it when he gets home.”

  “Well don’t think about it, then.”

  “I think about it. Right here after they pulled Daniel up from the pit with all the lions? Well, then they put his accusers and their families in the pit and the animals tore them to pieces instead. Someone always pays.”

  “Mum, I’m going out on a date. I’m not being lowered into a pit of lions!”

  “I’m just saying I hope I’m doing the right thing letting you go,” she said. “The color’s gone to your face like you got a fever. Anything you put on’s going to be sweat in you’re so excited.”

  “You think I want to hear I’m going to sweat in what I got on?”

  Mum shook her head and said, “Whatever’s got you worked up so you shout at your own mum that way is Satan’s doing.”

  “I’m sorry, Mum. Can’t I be excited?”

  “Excited’s one thing and sassy is another thing.”

  “I’m just a little amazed. Calls me up and says some dumb thing about we ought to know where Willard Peyton is, then says want to go out to The Sweet Mouth?”

  “And you says yes without permission. That’s the killer.”

  “Oh, Mum, that’s not a killer. I got a date. That’s not a killer.” I went over and put my arms around her from behind and she patted my hands. Then she swallowed hard and come to the real point, I guess.

  “You don’t know much about boys, sweetheart. Boys and cars.”

  “He’s a P.K., that’s what he calls himself. A preacher’s kid.”

  “Your daddy’s a preacher’s kid, too. Don’t mean they’re not human. Honey, boys can’t help themselves, see? Boys got a different makeup.”

  “I know the facts of life, Mum. I took health two years ago.”

  “Well, health might not have taught you boys and cars is a bad mix.”

  “We’re going to The Sweet Mouth, Mum.” I sat down on my bed to get my breath.

  “In a car,” Mum said, and the color was to her own face then. “Don’t let nothing happen in that car, you hear me? He stops that car, you get out, tell him you want to take a walk. A parked car off somewheres in the woods carries three passengers—a boy, a girl, and Satan.”

  “Mum, are you going to put your shoes on before he comes?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Opal Ringer. I never met a guest at the door in my bare feet yet, and you know it.”

  “I don’t know it. No one ever came to the door for me.”

  “I got time to put on my shoes and you got time to hear me out.”

  “I’m listening,” I said. I hugged my arms in my underwear, heart pounding.

  “Oh honey lamb, I want this to be a nice time. He’s a nice boy, too. It isn’t that. It isn’t that.”

  “Guy Pegler’s son’s gotta be saved. All Daddy said was make sure he’s saved.”

  “Satan tempts the saved more often than the unsaved, honey. The unsaved’s already in his camp, don’t you see? He’s a nice boy, couldn’t wish nicer for you if we’d ordered it from the Lord, but I’m just telling you be on your guard. Satan loves a setu
p, honey.”

  “Well I’m no setup.”

  “I’m talking about a boy and a car, honey. That’s a setup. You just remember something my own mum told me. Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “You just remember no one’s going to buy the cow if he can get the milk free.”

  Remember the first time I ever came into The Sweet Mouth Soda Shoppe with him?

  It was this sweet summer night with a wind so soft and warm, felt like a kitten crawling past you an inch from your face, just barely brushing by your skin, and the moon beginning yellow in the deep-blue sky, stars starting to pop out, a plane flying through them you watched to be sure was a plane and not a felling star to wish on.

  He held open the door for me and I just stood there, so you probably saw that, and he said, “Go ahead,” and I did.

  Every single one of you was in there, it seemed like.

  I know all your faces so well.

  Look what the cat dragged in, I think you were saying. Get a load of who just waltzed in with who.

  Not a one of your knees ever shook the way mine shook that June night, and under my arms I’d already soaked though so I kept my elbows pinned to my waist, my heart ready to tear through my skin and take off on its own if I’d let it.

  He said, “All the booths are taken. Do you mind sitting at the counter?”

  I do secret things to make things more, like fixing in my head the song playing when we came in, wrote it down when I got home in the back of my Bible.

  Wrote: Baby, the Rain Must Fall.

  Under it, the date, and S. Mouth. S. Shoppe.

  That was the night no one there spoke to me. “Hi” to Jesse; to Jesse, “Hello!” “How’s it going?”

  But my eyes were not met.

  You think I don’t remember that?

  I still do.

  I guess that was the night he told me about getting Yellow from the animal shelter the next day, and giving him to V. Chicken.

  Half of what he said I heard, and half I didn’t, and some of what he said I only heard the tail end of.

  I was trying to pick up my glass of cherry Coke without letting the sweat smell get out from under my armpit. I was trying to watch the ones in the booths when they couldn’t tell I was watching them. I could probably still sit down and write out what every girl in that place was wearing. I was working out ways to get the glass to my lips without the rim hitting my teeth, beating out a tattoo. I was trying to curl my fingers under and hide my nails so he wouldn’t see they were short, not like theirs so long and pointed, and mine had no moons, was the first time I’d even known I didn’t have them, made a vow then and there to get them.