Slow Fall Read online

  From the far side of the room and a small congregation that included Fenton Carrithers and Seymour Blotz, a woman detached herself and swept toward the two men who had just entered. She was striking in a full floor length brocade skirt and a flouncey blouse that ended in lace high on her neck. The skirt was a deep purple, almost black; the blouse, scarlet. A velvet ribbon of the same purple as the skirt held a large cameo at he neck. Her green eyes found Bodie Picket's.

  Edmund watched her too.

  “Mister Pickett, may I present—”

  “Bo,” she said, as if addressing an old friend, “may I call you Bo?”

  “—my wife, Jan.”

  The woman ignored Edmund's introduction.

  “It is so nice to meet you, Bo. Edmund's told me so much about you.”

  Without the wig, and with her still blonde hair pulled back off her face to a delicately formed bun in the back, she was a different woman. There remained only the slightest trace of the evangelist in her drawl—the ivory tones of magnolia, now, all peaches and cream.

  She extended her hand, and Pickett bowed as he took it, feigning a kiss. Jan received the gesture as her due.

  Edmund nodded to Pickett.

  “I'll, uh, see to the other guests.”

  He touched his wife's arm and, noticeably embarrassed, disappeared into the crowd. Jan appeared neither to notice nor to care.

  “I was simply devastated by the news of your father's death. Such a horrible thing. He must have been very unhappy. So many endure so much for lack of faith, don't you think?”

  Pickett said nothing. Jan smiled.

  “Do you have Faith, Bo?”

  Pickett leaned his head to the side and crumpled his brow. “No, I suppose not.”

  “Oh?” Jan Ayers cocked her head at the same angle and in the same direction.

  “Some things, maybe. I dunno. Truth, honesty… That sort of thing, maybe. Simple things.”

  Jan Ayers dropped her gaze and took Pickett's arm, gently guiding him toward the long window.

  “And are those things truly so simple?”

  She released his arm and settled back against the glass, her hands limply folded in the shadows of her brocade skirt, her face glowing against the evening sky like the moon itself. It was as if the pose had been prepared.

  Pickett was silent. Jan's voice grew softer.

  “Are you true then, Bodie Pickett? Are you honest?”

  “Sometimes, I hope. I try anyway.” Pickett laughed. “The truth is that I try to avoid pain. I dunno, maybe I try at the other too.”

  They both were silent for a moment, as thought reading the other's mind. Pickett spoke first:

  “Trying isn't so bad, is it?”

  “Try, yes. Try we must. But it's faith alone that makes it possible, isn't it? Only through faith can we be true and honest and—”

  “Maybe with ourselves.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Perhaps we can still be honest with ourselves…”

  “Can we? Can you be honest with yourself, Bo? Can any of us?”

  Oh, you foolish child, said her smile.

  “We are miserable creatures,” she continued, smiling incongruously, “—weak and willfully evil. It's the Blood of the Redeemer that can show us the way.”

  “The way to Ed's Temple, you mean?”

  Jan smiled indulgently.

  “The Lord's Temple, yes. To salvation, to the New Jerusalem…” Her eyes glazed, the face tightened though the smile held. Jan placed her hand on Pickett's forearm. “Will you be there, Bodie Pickett?”

  She seemed to expect an answer. Pickett paused, his eyes hooded, lost in thought. Finally, he looked up, smiling sheepishly.

  “I don't know where I am half the time, much less where I'll be when it's all over.”

  Jan raised her chin without moving her eyes from Pickett's. After a moment, the eyes softened, and she laughed.

  “Yes, I do know what you mean. We keep ourselves so busy, don't we? Too busy.” She paused and turned to the window. “It is lovely though—don't you think?”

  Pickett nodded, smiling; but he was still looking at Jan. She smiled to herself as if reading Pickett's mind, then continued:

  “The lake is always beautiful; but as you can see—” She gestured toward the crowd. “-- even here we can't always get away. The shepherd must sleep too, you know.”

  Jan turned and leaned toward Pickett conspiratorially.

  “We have a place on the St. John's. It belonged to Edmund's parents—God rest their souls. We keep it a secret. We get out there every so often to renew the spirit. Lord knows, it needs renewin' every now an' then.”

  The twang was a joke that came too easily. Jan took Pickett's arm again.

  “You know, your father meant a great deal to Edmund. Edmund was lost, truly lost. A little like you, I hear. When his parents died, your father helped him back on track. He couldn't bring him all the way, of course: he wasn't a Believer. You understand…”

  “Do I ever.”

  “. . . But he made it possible for Edmund to return to life. And eventually to Jesus. If only your father let Edmund return the favor. Perhaps, this—this tragedy could have been avoided.”

  She seemed genuinely distraught.

  “No one could have helped—except whoever pulled that trigger.”

  Jan's eyes flew to his.

  “Surely you don't mean to imply—” She paused, trying to read his mind again.

  Pickett said nothing. Jan started over:

  “You don't mean that—that it was someone else? I mean, that your father didn't—”

  “I'm not sure what I mean.” Pickett looked away irritably.

  “But who would want to do… That to J.B.?”

  “I don't know.” Pickett looked up, his face hard and cold. “Do you?”

  Jan's mouth dropped open, astonishment in her eyes. The very notion seemed to set off some interior struggle.

  “What a horrid, evil idea. You can't possibly think that—” She seemed to find the idea unspeakable as well.

  Pickett laughed awkwardly.

  “Look, don't worry about it. If it hadn't been this way, it would've been some other—the drink most likely.”

  Jan Ayers struggled for meaning in the tall man's words. Puzzlement blended with astonishment. “I don't—I mean…”

  Clearly, Jan Ayers didn't. In any event, she'd had enough. She found salvation over Pickett's shoulder.

  “Mark—oh Mark,” she called. “Yes.… I want you to meet someone.”

  Mark stepped around Pickett and extended his hand, his eyes avoiding the taller man's.

  “This is Bo Pickett, Mark, one of your father's oldest and dearest friends.”

  Mark glanced up from his mother's face to that of his father's oldest and dearest friend. The disdain that pulled at one corner of his mouth evaporated as a question dimpled the flesh between his brows.

  “I've seen you before, haven't I? You were at the T-t-temple.”

  “Uh-huh. Quite a show.”

  Mark looked to his mother, then more sheepishly to Pickett.

  “Well, the shows are a little… el-l-laborate.”

  “Nonsense!” Jan patted her son's cheek playfully. “No more so than necessary, dear. We strive for professionalism, that's all.”

  With obvious embarrassment, Mark's eyes darted around the room. They caught and clung to something behind Pickett.

  “Yes, well, nice to meet you, Mister P-p-pickett. Excuse me, please,” and he was off.

  Jan leaned after him, raising one arm as if to catch him. She didn't.

  “Just a moment. Mark? Mark, I'd like a word with you.” Jan turned to Pickett dismissively. “So nice to have met you, Bo. I hope that we can talk again.”

  Though Jan smiled as she swept off in Mark's wake, her expression suggested that she would be just as happy never to see Pickett ever again.

  Pickett turned, following Jan with his eyes.

  Jan spoke earn
estly, but Mark's attention focused on Amy Mooring. She sat in the far corner, bolt upright on a white modular sofa—legs tucked beneath her, a black sleeveless dress pulled down over her knees, her eyes rapt upon the long cherubic face of Mark's father.

  Edmund no longer looked embarrassed; he was in his element.

  7

  “I don't believe that we've met.”

  Bodie Pickett turned to a well groomed man of medium height, close cropped hair, and horn-rimmed glasses. The man smiled; he appeared to know when charm was needed, but not what it was. His suit was expensive.

  “Matthew Cheatham.” He put a pink, well manicured hand to his breast as if to introduce his suit. “I am Edmund's financial advisor. And you are…”

  “Pickett. Bodie Pickett.”

  “Ah…” Matt extending a limp hand. “So nice to meet you.”

  “Edmund was just telling me about you—”

  “You know, Mister Pickett the greater the witness, the greater the need for financial responsibility. No penny should be wasted.”

  Matt Cheatham continued to look at Pickett; although, at the same time, he seemed virtually unaware of Pickett's presence. The warmth of the other man's body had loaded and executed some infinitely repeatable program.

  “When Edmund and I left Princeton…”

  Matt Cheatham paused as if awaiting applause.

  “. . . we realized that the gospel must be spread to the modern world in modern ways. And modern ways require modern means—vast resources, great financial sacrifice…”

  Matt Cheatham gently turned Pickett toward the crowded room.

  “But just as Brother Edmund has given over his wealth to the great witness that he bears, so too have the great supporters of this mission done their share. The great work has been carried forth, but much still is to be done—”

  “How much?”

  “Uh—what? Oh.”

  Matt Cheatham slowly turned back to Pickett. His eyes focused on the other slowly, as if coming out of a deep sleep. Confusion fled as something behind them clicked.

  “Well, the need is ever present. We ask no more than you can afford nor less than you feel—”

  He'd switched to a sub-routine.

  “Mister Cheatham—”

  “Matt, please.”

  “Well, Matt, you got the wrong guy.” He tapped his chest with a long forefinger. “. . . friend of the family.”

  “But Mister Carrithers said… Ah, oh, I see. I am sorry. Mister Carrithers thought you were with the Millennium Club.”

  Matt turned toward the other side of the room. Carrithers waved; Blotz looked at Pickett, sneered, then said something to Carrithers. He laughed. Matt knit his brow.

  “And, well, we are in the midst of a drive. You understand.…”

  “Sure. It's okay.” Pickett turned to leave.

  “It's going quite well, actually.”

  Matt, still smiling toward Carrithers and Blotz, was oblivious of Pickett's attempted escape.

  “Edmund has quite a following, and with the success of the TV show…” Matt finished the sentence by raising his eyebrows and showing Pickett his palms. “We're syndicated now. Did you know that? Fifteen local channels. Mostly Florida—and a few in Georgia. We have one in Louisiana, too…”

  Suddenly, his aspect was earnest. Pickett sighed, and closed his eyes.

  “But, Mister Pickett—Bo, if I might… As I was saying, the need is ever present, and we must keep our shoulders to the wheel.”

  “Looks to me like you got an awfully big wheel.”

  “Wha—? Oh, yes, I see what you mean.” He smiled at the tall man next to him, half closed his eyes, and bobbed his head slightly from side to side. “We do quite well, actually; but, mind you,” he added quickly, “the need is—”“Cheatham—” The face that followed the voice was as blunt as the intrusion. “-- we got business.”

  A foot shorter than Matt Cheatham and at least as much wider, the man tossed a square head of iron-grey stubble toward the door.

  “Now.”

  “Oh—Ralph. Yes, of course, in a minute. Ralph Kemp, this is, uh, Bodie… Pickett. Pickett's a dear old friend of Edmund's.”

  “Yeah? Well, good luck, Pickett.” Kemp ignored Pickett's hand, and leaned toward Matt Cheatham. “Look, we gotta go somewhere and talk.”

  “Of course.” Matt smiled his thin-lipped smile once again. He took the hand Kemp refused. “You'll excuse us Mister Pickett?”

  “Pickett?” Kemp's eyes narrowed. “You related to that clown who shot hisself the other day?”

  “Yeah—” Pickett's face was wood. “-- son of clown.”

  “Oh, my…” Matt looked nervously at Kemp. “I-I-I didn't make the connection. I'm so sorry to hear about your—your loss, Mister Pickett.”

  “It was more my father's.”

  Matt pulled in his chin in puzzlement.

  “The loss, I mean.”

  “Yes, of course it was. I only meant to say… well, that he was a fine man.”

  Bodie Picket released a short burst of air something like a laugh. “It doesn't sound like you knew him too well.”

  Kemp sighed, looked at the ceiling, then at his watch, as though he had a train to catch.

  “Well, I didn't really know him,” Matt continued. “Edmund retained him as his personal lawyer, you understand. He—your father, that is—had been with Edmund's mother and father, I believe. Edmund didn't really require much of him. We have—that is to say—Edmund has several lawyers connected with the Temple; but Edmund felt it—your father, that is—he felt that your father was his, well, responsibility. Of sorts. That is, your father was generally in no condition—too ill, that is, to undertake legal work of any degree of, well, complication.”

  Matt breathed a sigh of relief. “I'm sure you understand.”

  “Yeah, I understand. He was a drunk.”

  Kemp laughed. Matt winced.

  “Well, I wouldn't have put it that way myself—”

  “That's real nice, but we gotta go.” Kemp turned Matt toward the door, then looked back over his shoulder. “Sorry bout your ol man, Pickett.”

  “You and Jim Beam,” Pickett muttered.

  Matt looked back as Kemp drew him across the room. He shrugged apologetically.

  Pickett took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly through pursed lips; he allowed his gaze to wander from one side of the crowded room to the other, until it reached the glass wall behind him. A handle fitted to the section of glass he leaned against opened, and Pickett slipped out into the damp night air.

  He stood in the middle of a flag stone patio surrounded by a waist high hedge. Three stone steps led down to the lawn. Pickett went down the steps and to the left, out of view of the glass wall, and onto another patio. The limbs of a large oak swept over the flag stones like an awning. Moss melted from the limbs into the half light below, turning in the warm air like ragged pennants. The air was thick with the sweet-sour smell of the water's edge.

  Pickett barked his shin on a cast iron lawn chair, swore under his breath, and then sat on it.

  The lake was grey with the full moon. In an easy syncopated rhythm, waves slapped at the dock pylons. The party's hum disappeared beneath the thrum of tree frogs, crickets, and the occasional cry of a coot.

  “Lake Anna…”

  At the sound of his own words, Pickett smiled—as if this were the name of an old friend, one he'd not seen for a very long time. His eyes followed the shoreline into the tangle of bougainvillaea and palmetto palms that bordered the lawn on the right. A tunnel of moonlight passed through, glinting off the surface of a canal. In Belle Haven, one was never much more than a hundred yards from a lake or one of the canals that connected them.

  “It is lovely, isn't it,” Jan's words echoed, though not her voice.

  Pickett started and looked to his left.

  Deeper in the shadows, the darkness moved. A voice, light and weary, continued: “But it's not real, you know. It couldn't be.”

&nbs
p; Amy Mooring sat on a cast iron two-seater at the foot of the oak, arms around her knees. Pickett stepped farther into the shadows and sat down beside her. Her eyes glinted as she glanced at him. Bringing her knees up to her chin, she turned back to the lake. Her black dress fell down around her thighs revealing long, womanly legs covered in black.

  “It couldn't be real, could it?”

  “Why not?” Pickett whispered; still, it was as though he were yelling, as though his voice were coming from some other world than Amy's.

  “Good things are never real.”

  Pickett wrinkled his brow. He said nothing in reply.

  Amy looked at him, then away. “You were at the Temple today, weren't you?”

  Pickett nodded.

  “And the donut shop.” Amy paused. “Are you following me?”

  “I dunno. Maybe.”

  Pickett looked down at his feet, then to the lake, and back again to Amy. The air had picked up a trace of magnolia. His brow knit above a nervous mouth. “Should I be following you, Amy? Are you in—”

  “How do you know my name?” Amy's voice shook, slightly.

  “I'm a friend of your father's.”

  “My father…” She tested the words, how they sounded. Her face blank, naked, she looked from the lake to the man next to her. “I have no mother, you know. Did he tell you that? No mother and no father.”

  “Amy, if you're in some sort of trouble…”

  “Did you know that I was born again? Well, I am. Born again… washed in the Blood of the Lamb.”

  She put her feet back to the flag stones, and she turned. As if asking the time of day:

  “Do you think I'll go to heaven?”

  Pickett stared at Amy in silence, his brow twisted. His tongue ran quickly over his lower lip, and he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, Amy answered.

  “I don't. Do you want to know what I do think? I think that I'll rot in hell.” She spoke as though she knew the place. “Know why?”

  Pickett shook his head.