The Dirty Parts of the Bible: A Novel (12 page)

“In every age,” he said, “in every time and place, there are those who live on the margins of civilization. Outcasts, wanderers, searchers, hoboes—call them what you will. They stand outside of society, living by their own code. Knights of the road.”

He threw some fresh twigs on the fire. “Out on the road, you meet all types of people—young and old, black and white, rich and poor, pious and depraved. And you begin to see that—at the core—we’re all alike.”

“How’s that?”

“Ever seen a play?”

I shook my head. “My father wouldn’t allow it. He says the theater is the devil’s playhouse. Besides, Remus doesn’t have one.”

“Then you’ve never seen a movie?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I’ve snuck out and seen plenty of those.”

“Well, imagine a movie—a vast production with kings, fools, knights, ladies, peasants, preachers, prostitutes—every sort of person you find in the world. When the actors take off their costumes, they’re all equal. So it is with life. When death strips us of our roles, we’re all equals in the grave.”

“So where do hoboes fit in?”

Craw poked the at fire, sending up a shower of sparks. “It’s easy for actors get to caught up their roles. So much so, they often forget that they’re actors at all. Kings start believing that they have a divine right to their position. The rich start lording it over the poor as if its their right. But hoboes stand on the fringes, refusing to put on any costumes. We reject the gold and silk and finery of this life, preferring to stand as signs of contradiction—witnesses to the truth.”

That made me think of my father. He’d always enjoyed playing the role of preacher, looking down on everybody else from his pulpit. But then his costume got torn off, and now he didn’t know who he was anymore.

Craw leaned towards me, flames flickering against his face. “Remember this, my boy. The two greatest men who ever lived—Jesus and Socrates—were both hoboes.”

It was strange to hear Craw mention Jesus. I didn’t know much about the other fellow, but I remembered one thing from school—“They killed Socrates, too, didn’t they?”

“That’s right, my boy. Society always tries to enslave, imprison, and execute its greatest men, those who dare to stand apart and rise above.” He scratched his chin. “That’s why I’m keeping a low profile—so the bastards don’t get me.”

+ + +

Before we stretched out on the ground to sleep, I picked up the catfish carcass on a long branch and carried it towards the river. Gutted, it still weighed at least twenty pounds.

“Hold it!” Craw said. “I’m not done with that.”

“But we picked it clean,” I said. “There’s not a morsel of meat left.”

“It ain’t meat I’m after.”

When I dropped the carcass, Craw knelt down and picked through the innards with his hook. Then I realized what he must be doing. I moaned. “Don’t tell me …”

“Scoff if you will, but there are more cures in a catfish liver than in a whole hospital. It’s nature’s best kept secret.”

“It won’t be a secret once the coyotes catch a whiff. Leaving fresh fish guts around the campsite—you might as well send them an invitation.”

“Tobias, my boy—haven’t you learned?” Craw spread a handkerchief on the ground, set the organs on it, and tied the corners together. “This world is full of wonders,” he said, hoisting his treasure. “You just need the eyes to see them.”

“And a nose to smell them,” I said. “Do you realize how bad that’s going to reek tomorrow?”

Craw reached up and tied the top of his handkerchief to a tree branch. “That’ll keep it out of reach of animals. And don’t you worry about the smell—it’ll be dry by sunup.”

T
HE
next morning we crossed the trestle over the river—luckily, without meeting a train along the way. When we reached the other side, Craw broke out in song:

The stars at night

Are big and bright

“That’s your cue,” he said. “Start clapping.”

I looked at him crossways. “It isn’t night. And there’s not a star in the sky.”

“Don’t you know where we are, boy? This here’s the Red River. That means we’re—

Clap-clap-clap!

Deep in the heart of Texas

“Well, not exactly deep in the heart,” he added. “But we’re over the threshold.”

Texas
. Craw might as well have told me that we’d just entered the Land of Oz. It was a mythical place for me—the land of cactuses and cowboys, the land of my ancestors. I couldn’t believe I was really there.

We had to hitchhike the rest of the way. After the boxcar fire, Craw explained, bulls would be searching every train between Oklahoma and Fort Worth.

“Bulls?”

“Railroad cops.”

“They’re mean?”

Craw nodded. “And the meanest of them all is Texas Slim. He’s killed at least twenty hoboes, some only boys. He’d pinch his own mother if she hopped a train.”

And so we started along the highway, holding out our thumbs and choking on the dust kicked up by every passing car. After a couple of miles, I started wondering whether anyone would ever stop for two ragged hoboes. The pavement was baking hot and the air reeked of dead animals. Funny thing was, I couldn’t see any dead animals—I just smelled them.

Then I realized what it was. “I
told
you it would smell.”

“What?”

“Those catfish guts.”

“I don’t smell anything.”

“That’s because you never bathe. Your nose has lost the
ability
to smell.”

Another car roared past.

“Nobody’s going to pick us up with that stench,” I said.

Craw stepped into the middle of the road. “Have some faith, boy.” In the distance, a truck came into view. The closer it got, the faster it came—still, Craw didn’t budge. Finally, about twenty feet away from turning Craw into roadkill, the driver slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched and swerved. As he passed us, the driver leaned out the window shaking his fist and cursing.

Craw tipped his hat, then turned to me and shrugged. “If I’d have known he was a doctor, I wouldn’t have tried to stop him. He must be rushing to an emergency.”

“Doctor? What are you talking about?”

“Sure—didn’t you see the side of the truck? Doctor Pepper, Waco, Texas.”

I shook my head. ”All I saw was a soda pop bottle.“

“Some day, my boy, Doctor Pepper might come to your rescue.”

+ + +

Eventually, the Texans took pity on us. We hitched our first ride in an empty livestock trailer headed to the Fort Worth stockyards—which gave us our second opportunity in as many days to ride on a bed of straw and shit. From there, a produce truck carried us to Granbury. Then, a Ford wagon brought us just outside Glen Rose, right up to the Henry family farm.

As the sun sank behind the hills, we walked up a long dirt drive, past some small houses, rows of apple trees (the apples were still green, but we couldn’t resist picking a couple), animal pens, a rusty tractor, and a truck with “Henry Farms” on the door.

I looked over at Craw. “Remember—no one’s supposed know about what happened to my father.”

“My lips are sealed,” Craw said.

Rounding a patch of scrubby trees, we found the farmhouse—a two-story limestone building with a wooden porch. The white stone was beautiful against the wide purple sky, and lights were burning in the downstairs windows. My heart leapt.

Up till that moment, I hadn’t given any thought to how we looked. Two bums—one black, one white, and both so dirty you couldn’t tell which was which—drenched in sweat, clothes torn and burnt, reeking of cow shit and rotting fish, gnawing on stolen apples. How the hell was Wilburn supposed to know that I was his nephew?

Before we even reached the steps, a man in striped overalls kicked open the screen door and stepped onto the porch, rifle in hand. “No handouts here, fellas. You best be movin on.”

A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He was taller and stronger than my father, with a ruddy, weathered face. “I’m looking for Mr. Henry,” I said.

Without saying a word, the man slowly raised the barrel of his gun.

“I’m his nephew,” I said. “Tobias Henry. From Michigan.”

Wilburn’s jaw dropped open and his cigarette fell to the ground. “Well I’ll be damned!” Then he lowered his gun, shook my hand, and slapped my shoulder. “Damn it all if you ain’t Malachi’s spittin image …”

He turned and eyed Craw. “Now don’t tell me you’re kin, too.”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” Craw said with a bow. “Cornelius McGraw, carpenter extraordinaire, at your service.” It was the first time I ever heard his real name.

Uncle Will looked suspicious. “He’s my guide,” I said. “Without him, I’d have gotten killed—at least twice.”

Craw kept his hook in his coat pocket. He held out his left hand to shake, but Wilburn ignored it and turned back to me. “What in tarnation are you doing in Texas?”

“Well,” I said, “not much happens up in Remus, so Father sent me out to see his homeland and get some life experience.”

Uncle Will gave a sharp laugh. “Last I knew, Malachi didn’t have much use for life experience.”

“He thinks I’ve had it easy,” I said—and that was no lie. “He says it’s time I learned to work the land and earn my own keep, the way he did growing up.”

“The way
he
did?” Wilburn laughed again. “The only things Malachi ever worked at was singing songs and chasing skirts. Course, that was before he went off to preacher’s school.” Uncle Will leaned against the porch railing and lit up another cigarette.

A woman’s voice called out from the house. “Wilburn? Wilburn—?”

“That’s my Millie,” he told me. Then he yelled back, “It’s all right, darlin. Come on out here and meet the new hired hand—your nephew Tobias.”

Millie pushed open the door, saw me, and gasped. “Why—Malachi’s boy? Don’t just stand there like an ass, Wilburn—draw some water for a hot bath.” She patted the front of my shirt, sending up a cloud of dust. “And fetch some fresh clothes out of Johnny’s closet, while you’re at it. I’ll put some biscuits on—you boys must be famished.”

“Boys?” Wilburn laughed, pointing at Craw. “That’s the oldest boy I’ve ever seen.”

Millie squinted her eyes, looked Craw up and down, and pulled Uncle Will inside the house. I could hear her through the screen door. “He’s not setting foot in this house.”

“But Millie—he’s kin.”

“Not Tobias. I’m talking about that nigger.”

“Don’t worry,” Wilburn said. “I’ll take care of it.”

I hoped that Craw hadn’t heard. If he did, he didn’t say anything.

A few minutes later, Wilburn stepped out to explain the arrangements. “You can sleep in Jimmy’s room,” he told me. “He’s our youngest. Room’s been empty since he ran off to Fort Worth last winter.”

“What about Craw?” I asked.

Wilburn gazed out over his fields. “We don’t have any other rooms,” he said. I looked up at the house in disbelief—there must have been four bedrooms on the top floor. “But there’s the barn,” he said. “Or the shed.”

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Craw said. “But” —I held my breath, expecting him to decline the offer and take his leave—“I’d better take the shed. Otherwise, I might disturb your cows with my snoring.”
Whew
.

Just to be sure, I asked Uncle Will directly: “Does this mean we have jobs for the summer?”

“I ain’t as young as I used to be,” he said. “Will Junior, my eldest, does most of the work now. Johnny ran off to Fort Worth last winter. I’ve got a hired hand, but he ain’t worth shootin. So—I suppose you can take that as a yes.”

“Craw, too?” I asked to be sure.

Wilburn glanced over. “He ain’t as young as I used to be, either.”

“But I promised to help him. He saved my life.”