The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival (19 page)

“Have a little faith,” I say.

At two on the dot, Boudreaux pushes himself out of his lawn chair and walks to his truck. He returns with a game-dressing tripod, which he sets up between the microwave and the crowd.

“Yall ready?” he asks Arcenaux and Thibodeaux, Kenny Wyble and Toby.

“You not even going to check? See if it’s done?” asks Thibodeaux.

“Nope,” answers Boudreaux, pulling asbestos gloves over his raw hands. He orders the lid lifted, reaches in with a length of chain, and has the whole damn cow hoisted up and hanging upside down from the tripod within five minutes. Juices drip off the cow’s snout onto the driveway.

“Roast beasts!” he announces. And verily, the crowd erupts into Hosannas and Hallelujahs to such a degree that I worry God might mistake it for idol worship and smite us all.

Boudreaux waves me over. We stand on either side of the stuffed beast, our backs to the parishioners, like fishermen who’ve just hauled in a thousand-pound meat shark, as the photographer snaps away.

The beast is delicious, a good time is had by all, but most important, on Monday afternoon the photo runs on the front page of the
Daily World
above the fold.

For now, B.P. is vanquished.

It’s a moment I never could have imagined back in Seminary. I’m in front of a church—my church—with an Irish Traveler carnival man on my left and a self-exiled gay priest on my right. We’re measuring for our fair that’s just over a month away. The Lord’s work, indeed.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” says Mark.

“Say what?” I ask, confused.

“You just said it’s the Lord’s work.”

“I did?”

“Sure did.”

Blackfoot spits on the concrete. “I don’t know about all that, but work it is and sure ain’t gonna get done all by its fuckin’ self, now, is it, gentlemen?”

“Fuck no,” says Mark, smiling at his recently found freedom to curse like a sailor in front of laymen.

“That’s the answer I was looking for,” says Blackfoot. “Let’s walk.”

We walk to the northeast corner of the property. Blackfoot hands me a pad and pencil. “Just write down what I tell you,” he says. He hands Mark the end of a tape measure poking out of a monster-sized spool, one of those jobs with a handle on it. “You just stand there lookin’ pretty,” he tells Mark.

“I was born for this job,” Mark says as Blackfoot stomps off through the grass, the tape unspooling behind him.

“Father, you really need to cut this fucking grass,” he says, as if insulted by the state of St. Peter’s lawn. “It’s a fuckin’ sin,” he adds.

“I like him a lot,” Mark says. “He’s just beyond belief.”

“He’s something,” I say, a little perplexed by Mark and Blackfoot. Blackfoot, who’d seemed mostly unwilling to work with Vicky, hasn’t had any problems dealing with Mark over the phone. I’d thought maybe Mark was dialing the gay down a notch, but this morning—the first time the two men met face-to-face—he had it blaring at the usual volume. Blackfoot would have to be blind not to have noticed it. But some people, I guess, have no gay-dar.

“Okay, Mr. Fancy Pants, you come stand right where I’m standing and bring the fuckin’ tape with you,” Blackfoot shouts from the end of his tape.

“Fancy Pants?” Mark says, arching an eyebrow. “I think he likes me, too!”

So much for the no-gay-dar theory. We walk toward Blackfoot, who’s standing about three-quarters of the way toward the tree line. The tape spools back up on its coil as we go.

“How long is that thing?” I ask.

“Three hundred feet, Father.”

“Oooh, that’s a long one,” says Mark.

Blackfoot looks up at him from under his bushy eyebrows. “Always the same thing with you people, ain’t it?” he says, but there’s no anger or disgust in his voice. He seems sort of amused, in fact. “One might be a no-count midway man, can’t read the fuckin’ comics section, and the other’s a fancy-pants college man, taught by the church its own fuckin’ self, but same thing on their minds. Same. Exact. Thing.”

“Well, it is so hard to deny nature, Mr. Blackfoot,” Mark says. Did he just bat his eyelashes? Is he flirting?

“Don’t go that way myself,” says Blackfoot, “but trust me, lad, I know what it is to have a one-track mind about certain things.” He winks at Mark, then looks at me with a crooked smile. “Now, it’s these that don’t have a fuckin’ outlet I don’t quite trust.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Mark says. “He’ll come around one day. For one team or the other.”

Blackfoot takes his spool and walks back toward the trees, chuckling.

“I can’t stand people who laugh at their own jokes,” I say.

“Aww. Did someone get his widdle feelings hurt?” says Mark.

“Shut up.”

But I’m smiling, too. Better they get along than not. In fact, I’m surprised how swimmingly some of this decompartmentalization of my life is going. Mark gets involved with the Rabbit Festival—things flow smoothly. Vicky meets Mark—they like each other. Mark meets Blackfoot—they get along. This keeps up, maybe I can drag Miss Rita out here.

“Five hundred fifty!” shouts Blackfoot.

“Five hundred fifty!” I shout back, and start to scribble on the paper. “Wait. That another five hundred fifty on top of the three hundred or five hundred fifty total?”

“C’mon, Father. Use yer eyes, would you? You got a nice piece of land out here, but it ain’t a fuckin’ landing strip.”

“Sorry,” I shout back, and bend back to the notebook.

“So that would be five hundred fifty total,” whispers Mark. “Just in case you were still confused.”

“Shut it,” I say.

We’ve finished measuring up both the unpaved and paved portions of the property when a bright yellow Hummer with tinted windows drives into the lot and pulls up next to Blackfoot’s ramshackle pickup.

“Who is that?” Mark asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

The passenger door opens and out he hops.

“B.P.,” I hiss.

“That’s him?” Mark asks.

“The one and fucking only,” I answer.

Blackfoot walks up beside us, spooling his tape measure. “Everything okay, Father?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “Everything’s fine.”

B.P. waves, hitches up his pants, and starts sauntering over, that hundred-watt grin of his visible all the way across the lot. B.P. Junior, dressed like a male model, hops out of the driver’s side, waves our way, but stays put by the Hummer.

Mark takes a quick breath. “My God! Who is
that?
”

“B.P. Junior,” I say.

“Dear Lord,” Mark says, “that is a fine piece of man.”

“Don’t even think of going there,” I whisper. “Now shut up,” I add as B.P. gets closer. “And this time I mean it.”

I fix a fake smile to my face and add a dash of false cheer to my voice. “B.P., how the heck are ya?”

“I tell ya, Father, the Good Lord’s been treating me all right. I think He mighta been listening to my son a little harder than me, though, because I sure prayed for the boy not to buy that thing.” He turns and looks at the Hummer, shaking his head. But his consternation strikes me as false. I have a feeling the first chance he gets, B.P.’s going to take that thing off-roading himself.

“Boys will be boys,” I say. Jeez. Every time the man shows up, I find myself in a cliché arms race.

“I guess they will,” B.P. says, and for a split second, he sounds sad or angry or a little of both. But he shakes it off quickly enough. “So what we got going on out here today?” He seems to have forgotten our little standoff at the gumbo fund-raiser.

I make my introductions. “B.P., this is Johnny Blackfoot of the Magical Amusement Company. And this is Mark Johnson, a, uh, friend of mine who’s been staying with me here at the rectory.”

“Is that right?” B.P. says, giving Mark a good look.

“Yup, that’s right,” I say. “Mr. Blackfoot, Mark, this is the Reverend Paul Tomkins of the soon-to-be Pentecostal church just up the road a bit.”

“Yall just call me B.P.,” says B.P., puffing his chest up a bit.

“Pentecostal church?” says Blackfoot.

“That’s right,” says B.P. “That’s one big prayer of mine the Good Lord has seen fit to answer.”

“Well,” says Blackfoot, “I guess congratulations are in order all around, then. That’s something, there. Guess there’s fuckin’ room for everybody out here.” Then Blackfoot does three things. He launches a greasy glob of dark spit onto the pavement. He then sticks his index finger into his cheek, pulls out the wad of tobacco, and chucks it over into the grass. Finally, he reaches into his shirt pocket and produces a crumpled soft pack of Winstons.

“I must say, Reverend, it sounds like you have a little more luck with the Old Man upstairs than old Blackfoot here,” says Blackfoot. “I keep trying to quit these fuckin’ things. Get down on my knees and ask Him for some help. Every damn night. But no fuckin’ doin. They’ll be the fuckin’ death of me, no doubt. But I guess that’s the hand dealt to me.” He lights up and takes a long slow drag, his lips curled around the filter in a smile.

B.P.’s chest deflates just a little and my own smile becomes that much less fake.

And just when I think it can’t get any better, Mark chimes in. “Handsome son you have there,” he says.

For a split second, B.P.’s ready to take this as a manly compliment, but then he notices Mark has his hand to his throat—much the way a woman would—and hasn’t taken his eyes off of Junior.

“He looks familiar, too,” Mark continues. “Does he work in Lafayette? Maybe I’ve seen him around there.”

B.P.’s trying hard to hold the smile on his face. “No. He ain’t got much time to get into Lafayette. Ever. He’s either busy helping me build the church or he’s with his pretty little wife.”

I’ve seen Junior’s wife and she may be many things, but pretty and little aren’t among them.

“So what brings you out today, B.P?” I say. I have to say something, anything to bring this conversation to someplace that doesn’t make me feel like laughing hysterically while dancing a jig.

He seems happy to be thrown a rescue line. “My boy was showing me his new truck and I saw yall out here with the tape measure and was just wondering what yall was up to.”

Yeah,
I think.
And now you wish you’d told him to keep on driving.

“Yall ain’t thinking of expanding?” he tosses in.

“No, nothing like that,” I say. “Our humble little church is all we need. Something big and showy probably wouldn’t fit the parish.”

Take that!

“I’ll give you that, Father. She is a plain one for a Catholic building.”

Ouch.

“Anyway. We’re just making plans for the festival.”

“Festival? So yall still plan on having that little fair?”

Perhaps he thought he’d build his own flock out in the boonies, away from temptation. Now here I am messing the whole thing up. And he’s contributed at least seventy-five dollars to the cause so far.

“Sure thing, B.P. First Annual Rabbit Festival. Rides. Food. Contests. The usual.”

“Well, ain’t that something?” he says.

“And bands, too,” adds Mark. “Lot of live music. Zydeco. Cajun. Country. Couple of teenage rock bands from Opelousas. When the flyers are printed, I’ll be sure to drive by and give you some. Maybe you and your son can get the word out.”

Blackfoot clears his throat. “You know, Father, before I forget…”

“Yes, Mr. Blackfoot.” I can’t wait to see where this is going.

“I was thinking that while the beer garden is a nice touch, what would really spice it up would be a casino night.”

I want to hug this man, but I dig deep and find the strength to restrain myself.

“That might be a bit much, Mr. Blackfoot. Trouble with the gaming commission and all. But a bingo night might be a good idea. It’s not
real
gambling, but we can still give out cash prizes.”

B.P.’s smile is fading again and I know that whatever it is I’m feeling at this moment, it’s a sin.

“So when’s this little festival going to be?” he manages to ask without gritting his teeth.

“First weekend after Easter,” I say, fighting the urge to scream,
“In your face, old man!”

But suddenly his oily smile is back, and watching it creep from one side of his face to the other, I know I’m not going to like what’s coming next.

“You don’t say?” He nods, pretends to count some numbers on his fingers. “Turns out that’s the weekend we’re having a big tent revival up at the property there. Sort of our way of starting things off on the right foot.”

Bastard.

“I guess it’ll be a big weekend in Grand Prairie,” I say.
Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

“Reckon so,” he says. “Of course, I’d already been in touch with the sheriff’s department about redirecting traffic and dealing with parking up on our end. Hope it doesn’t block things up too much for you.”

Oh, you Holy Rolling son of a bitch.
I can just see cars trying to get down from Ville Platte stuck in his little traffic jam or, worse, thinking his boring tent revival is my festival and just turning around and going home. Or worst of all, some of them poking their heads in and catching the Holy Ghost and converting.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say. “Just hope I don’t block things too much up on my end.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that too much, Father. None of my people will mistake a fairground for a revival.”

We’ll see about that. Maybe I’ll park that elephant right in the middle of the road. Or better, I’ll have it stampede the tent.

“Well, I best be off. Gotta go show that truck off some more.”

I’m hoping that Mark says something cute about Junior, but B.P.’s latest move has taken the wind out of his sails. I can tell that his mind’s already working on the ramifications, processing the next move, mapping out alternative routes.

“And just to be safe,” says B.P., “I’d check with the gaming commission about that bingo night. Rules have changed a lot in the last couple of years.”

“I’ll do that,” I say, and wave him off. He and Junior climb into the Hummer and drive off.

“Shit,” Mark says.

I say nothing for a bit. Blackfoot offers me a cigarette. It calms me down a touch, but I’d like nothing more than to stub it out in B.P.’s eye.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say halfheartedly. “We’ll deal with him later.”

We walk over to Blackfoot’s truck.

“Fuckin’ Pentecostals,” Blackfoot says before spitting on the concrete and climbing into the cab. He cranks down the window and waves us closer. He looks around as if someone could possibly sneak up on us out here. He whispers, “I can take care of that one, Father, if you want me to. No extra charge. Just say the word and it’s done. You don’t have to answer now, but there it is. It’s an offer.” He shifts his truck into Drive and moves off, hawking a monster loogie at the stop sign at the end of the drive.

“Holy shit,” says Mark. “That was intense.”

“Yeah,” I say, afraid to admit I’m battling with some very mixed emotions at the moment. I don’t know what Blackfoot meant by his offer, but I had to bite my tongue not to give him the go-ahead.

“What religion are his people, anyway?” Mark asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I do know that I need a fuckin’ drink somethin’ fuckin’ fierce, ya know what I’m fuckin’ sayin’, ya fuckin’ cocksucker?”

“Wow,” Mark says, laughing. “Don’t do that again. Ever.”

I leave Mark and Chase alone in Grand Prairie and drive to Opelousas to file a report with Miss Rita. Overall, it isn’t so bad. Sure, B.P. is trying to make trouble, and if he ruins my festival I might have to let Blackfoot burn down his church. Then again, I have Blackfoot on my side. And the parishioners, for now. Mark, too. And Vicky. Nag that she is, she means well and I couldn’t do it without her. Zipping down the highway on a sunny winter day, I offer up a little prayer of thanks.