Benediction (Plainsong #3)(23)

Doesn’t it smell good, Mary said.

Yeah, he said softly. His eyes were wet, but they couldn’t say if that was from tears or rainwater.





16


THAT AFTERNOON, when the rains came, John Wesley was standing at the counter in the Holt post office mailing a package for his mother. When he was finished he went outside and stood next to an old woman who was waiting under the porch of the little entryway. Cars went by on Main Street splashing up wakes of spray, their headlights on, their windshield wipers going fast. The old woman was staring at him. You’re that preacher’s boy.

My father’s a minister, yes.

I recognized you. She turned and looked out at the wet street. How about this rain?

I wish it’d quit, he said.

Oh no. You don’t know nothing about rain out here. You haven’t been in Holt long enough. You got to want it to keep on.

The rain came down hard and sheeted off the street, filling the gutters, running toward the town pond. Then as they were watching, it stopped as suddenly as it had started. The sun shone out from behind the racing clouds.

That’s it. That’s all we get, the old woman said. She stepped out briskly and walked away up the block.

He watched her. He moved out from under the porch roof and crossed Main Street and turned up Fourth Street. The trees were all dark and dripping, the sidewalk spotted with puddles. In the air was the sweet pure after-rain smell and the smell of wet pavement and wet ground. He was three blocks from his house when the two high school boys pulled up at the curb in a black Ford. One of them said, Hey. Come over here.

John Wesley looked at them.

We want to talk to you about something.

About what?

Something you need to know.

When he turned and went on along the sidewalk, they jumped out of the car and caught up with him.

Where you going? Wait up. Shake hands, son. The first boy put out his hand and when John Wesley only looked at it the boy snatched his hand and squeezed it.

What do you want?

What do we want. He turned to the other boy who was shorter but dressed in the same way, in long baggy shorts.

We want to help you.

That’s right. Why don’t we just walk along here and we can talk.

I don’t think so.

No, let’s just walk along here. He draped his arm around John Wesley’s shoulder, moving him forward, and the other boy came along on the opposite side. They walked to the end of the block and crossed the street.

I figure you’re headed home, aren’t you. The bigger boy stared closely at the side of John Wesley’s head. Am I right?

It’s none of your business.

You’re going back to your house. We know that.

He has to get himself ready, the other boy said. She’ll be picking him up any minute.

How’s she doing for you? the first boy said.

Who?

Genevieve. She’s f*cking you now, we know that too.

Shut up. He pushed the boy’s arm off his shoulder.

Here now. Don’t get upset. I was just going to give you a few pointers. You don’t want to make a mistake about this.

Leave me alone.

Now be nice. We’re trying to be friends here.

We only want to give you some advice, the second boy said. Is she treating you right? Tell us that. John Wesley stepped off the sidewalk to move away but they moved in front of him now. I mean is she f*cking you the way you want?

Fuck you, John Wesley said.

No, I can’t do that, the boy laughed. I might like to.

She f*cked you pretty good, didn’t she, the second boy said. Like you told us she did for you.

Fucked me dry, the first boy said.

Shut your mouth, said John Wesley.

He don’t like that kind of talk.

He’s a preacher’s boy. Course he don’t. He don’t appreciate bad language.

He still never answered you.

No, he didn’t. Does she f*ck you the way you want? Tell us the truth.

I said shut your stupid mouth.

Because she’s done about twenty of us by now. She don’t keep anybody for long, though. Fuck her while you can, is what I say.

John Wesley swung and hit the boy in the face. The boy coughed and bent over and spat in the grass. You little son of a bitch. I think you broke a tooth. He felt inside his mouth with his fingers and looked at the bloody piece in his hand. He grabbed John Wesley around the neck and hit him until his nose spurted blood and he fell down on the wet sidewalk. The boy leaned over him and wadded his shirt in his fist. I ought to beat the shit out of you. You little son of a bitch. He let go of the shirt and John Wesley dropped back on his elbows.

Let’s get out of here. Come on. The two high school boys went back the way they’d come, looking around at the houses to see whether anyone was watching, and crossed the intersection and went on to the car.

John Wesley sat up and watched the Ford make a U-turn in the street and drive back toward Main. His nose was bleeding steadily. He wiped it on his shirtsleeve and lay back and looked overhead at the dripping trees. The sidewalk felt cool. He began to think of Genevieve. I fought for you. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. They were bigger than me. There were two of them. I hit one of them for you. I hurt him and then he hit me and made me bleed. You can see the blood on my shirt. My blood was spilled for you.