“Coot rounds the bases and waves at his fans, folks! This home run moment is brought to you by Dan’s Hardware, folks! Don’t forget to visit Dan’s for all your hardware needs!”

The entire tent started hollering words that weren’t words at all. They were syllables. Speaking in tongues, they called it. It was still a new thing to Coot’s ears. But whenever this happened, Coot knew he had them where he wanted them.

Coot recited a Spanish poem that E. P. had taught him long ago. He told Coot to use this poem whenever a congregation started tongue-talking. After this, Coot recited a limerick in Russian. This was a real crowd-pleaser, because Russian has a lot of weird sounds in it. He had no idea what the poem was about, but he liked the way it felt on his tongue.

Coot preached for thirty minutes. He shouted. He quoted long, intricate passages from the gospel of Matthew, the book of Revelation, and even something from Aesop’s Fables. Twenty-three people came down for salvation. Ten walked out of the tent in disgust. Fourteen claimed to be healed.

One woman claimed she’d regained her hearing. Another man threw his walking stick away. One young woman from Syracuse asked Coot to cast a demon out of her husband, who was a well-known jerk. Coot had never done this before, but he figured it was easy enough.

The service was a success. Still, these were poverty-stricken people, poor as dirt farmers without much in their pockets, and these were hard times. The ushers only collected six dollars and ninety-two cents from the crowd. It wasn’t nearly enough money to make E. P. happy. It wasn’t even enough to pay rent on the field the tent was in.

E. P. beat Coot with the buckle end of his belt until it chipped a bone in Coot’s neck.

Five
Two Men and a Baby

Vern’s big hand was twice the size of the baby’s head. The baby was a newborn but already had more red hair than most babies have.

“Yours?” shouted Paul. “You big, stupid man. You can’t raise a baby!”

Paul didn’t have the patience or the maternal sensitivity to have this kind of conversation.

“We have a half-shingled millhouse that needs finishing and painting,” said Paul. “And you wanna start feeding babies?”

“She all alone, Paul.”

“That ain’t my problem,” said Paul. “Besides, she probably belongs to somebody who ain’t gonna be too happy when they find you stole her.”

“They left her.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me.” Vern rocked the baby and stared the little girl in the eyes. “She mine now.”

Paul removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his head. “How’re we gonna paint Mister Dreyfus’s millhouse by tomorrow morning if you got a baby latched on your teat?”

“She need me. She mine.”