John Roy Speaks

It is a burnt offering, an offering made by fire, an
aroma pleasing to the LORD.

John Roy Wilkins knew the smell. It was that old deep, dank purple aroma that rolled off of the hills, slid over the soybean fields and swamp marshes, sank into his nostrils, and whirl-pooled through his sinuses, down through his belly and into his bones where it buried deep. John Roy closed his eyes for a moment, watched the smell vibrate and flicker on the red-dark of his eyelids, listened to its low hum, before hastily tossing his squirrel gun into the bed of his old Chevy, jumping into the cab and roaring down the dirt road.

The smell had intensified during the trip to the point that its roaring drowned out the gasping of the old Chevy’s six struggling cylinders. The overwhelming purpleness of the smell had overflowed into his other senses. The steering wheel felt purple under his calloused hands, the purple sun illuminated a purple Earth, on the surface of which John Roy Wilkins snaked through three counties in a headlong rush to reach his Nana.

Two hours later, John Roy and his Chevy slid sideways into the gravel front yard of the isolated, modest shanty that had been the homestead of the Wilkins’ family for five generations. Nana was on the front porch waiting for him like she always was. She was wearing the same robe, the same slippers, sitting in the same folding chair she had been when he’d last seen her. She was different though. She was a little more thin, more careworn, her black hairs had lost the battle against the greys; her last tooth had seemingly lost its fight as well. No matter. John Roy was home.

“Thank God, John Roy, I know’d you’d come.”

The purple smell rolled out as quickly as it had rolled in. It was replaced with the moist, green, fecund aroma of late June.

“How long this time, Nana?”

“It’s been two years past since I saw you, boy. Two years and more.”

“And Paw?”

“Couple of months. But that ain’t why…”

“I know,” John Roy cut in. “How many this time?”

The last sparkle shrank from those eyes as she near-whispered, “Five, JR. They’s five of ‘em come this time around.”

“Damn it to hell I was only…”

“Don’t you blaspheme, John Roy Wilkins. Come in and have some beans. Then we got to find your Paw.”

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Cleman Wilkins knew many things.  He knew that the first killing frost always came six weeks after the locusts started singing, he knew that moonshine that smelled like rotten apples was more like to leave you blind than drunk, he knew that a horse born under the light of the full moon could outrun Jesus himself,  and he knew that purple smell.

“Cursed women, cain't let me have no peace.”

Truman Belvins finished dealing and gave Cleman a long look.  “You havin' a spell or what?”

“My momma's callin'.”

Nothing could bring silence to a room full of half drunk card players faster than the mention of Cleman's momma.

Truman looked at Cleman over the top of his whiskey glass.  “She ain't comin' here is she? No disrespect to you or  your ma, but I cain't have no witchery in my...”

In a flash, Cleman was out of his chair and behind Truman, his straight razor tight against Truman's neck. Cleman's voice was a hiss as he pulled Truman's ear to his mouth.  “Say one more thing about my momma, boy. It'll be the last thing you say, and I won't use this razor neither.  You KNOW what I'll do.”

Truman stuttered, “I'm sorry, Cleman, you know I didn't mean nothin' by it.”

Cleman lifted his eyes from his prey and surveyed the room.  “Anyone else got somethin' to say?”

Cleman Wilkins was usually an affable drunk, well liked if not particularly trusted. But no one could face Cleman when he was angry. 

None of the other men in the room could bring themselves to meet Cleman's cold eyes.  It was rumored that those eyes could see in the dark, and could see right through a man into his soul.

Cleman pulled Truman's hair hard, forcing him to look into those slit eyes.  Cleman's hand released the razor, took the whiskey glass from Truman's trembling hand and downed the contents.

Cleman's tongue flicked twice as he smiled at Truman. “Put it on my tab.”

And, in a flash, Cleman was gone.

Truman jumped to his feet, ran across the room and locked the door.

Slumping back into his chair, Truman did his best to regain his composure.  “Billy, you got any more of that snake root salve your momma used to make?”

Billy Jenkins snorted, “Truman, you know that shit don't work on Cleman Wilkins.”
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The reverend Josiah Hayes was a godly and worldly man who loved both Creator and creation with equal gusto.  Reverend Hayes was fond of pointing out that God made food, so would it not be a sinful thing to ever refuse  a proffered morsel?  And, in a like manner, God made whiskey.  And women.

No doubt that God's bounty was sometimes as much a curse as a blessing, and, try as he might, the good reverend could not recall what the Lord had provided last night that caused him to wake up this morning naked in the baptistry with a black eye and raging headache.  There was no time to reflect on this issue this morning, however, since he had the itch.  And the itch meant trouble was coming.

Reverend Hayes heaved his 300 pound frame out of the holy baptismal chamber and made his way to his back office.  When the itch came, trouble was never far behind, and the reverend believed in meeting trouble head on.  He pulled his large, worn bible from off the shelf and placed it, closed, on his desk. 

“Dear Lord, please reveal to me the nature of this coming tribulation.  In Jesus' name, amen.”

The reverend closed his eyes, let his hand open the bible to a random place, and then moved his finger across the page until the Lord told him to stop.  When he opened his eyes, his finger rested on Matthew Chapter 7, verse 10.

Reverend Hayes ran his hand over his abundant brown beard in contemplation, letting the Lord's words wash over him, trying to glean their meaning.

Comprehension came swiftly.

“God damn it!  Cleman!” the holy man bellowed as he jumped out of his chair, grabbed his shotgun off the wall, and sprinted out of the office, through the worship hall, and to the large wooden double front doors, which he kicked open.

The reverend plunged the double barrels of his shotgun under the chin of a surprised Cleman Wilkins.

“Damn it to hell, Cleman, you know you ain't welcome here!  I'm givin' you two seconds to git your skinny ass off church property before I send you straight back to the devil.”

Cleman grinned.  “Howdy Preacher.  You been expecting me?  And why are you nekkid?”