“E. P.!” screamed one woman in the crowd. “You’ve lost your mind!”

E. P. kept the gun steady. Coot watched the big man rock from foot to foot like he did when he was preaching the Good Word. He knew E. P.’s stamina was wearing thin. He knew the man had taken too many hits to be fresh. E. P. was no prizefighter.

It was an impulse, and Coot knew it. He had one chance to get it right. Coot drew in a sharp breath, crouched low, closed his eyes, and ran forward. He did it so fast it took a moment for E. P. to realize what he was doing. He rammed his shoulder into the big man’s waist. Coot felt his shoulder pop on impact. His momentum lifted E. P. from his feet. The deep thump of E. P.’s massive rib cage when he hit the ground was loud.

People in the crowd circled around them.

Coot yanked the gun from E. P.’s hand. He felt a stabbing pain in his collarbone. He remembered being slapped with the big man’s belt when he was a boy. He remembered the bone in his neck that E. P. chipped long ago. For most of Coot’s adult life he had fantasized about this moment, when he would overpower E. P. But he didn’t feel like he’d imagined. It was not triumphant. It felt pathetic and sad.

Coot felt a hand on his shoulder. “Look, your friend is . . . ,” said a man behind him.

A woman in the crowd was leaning over Joseph, listening to his chest.

He ran to Joseph and fell to his knees. He dropped the gun. “Oh, Joe, hold on for a little while longer.”

Joseph opened his mouth and said, “I told you to run, boy. Why don’t you never do what I tell you?”

He coughed a few times. Then he let out one large breath. And Joseph was gone.

Seventy-Three
On the Bus

The two holy rollers arrived at Cowikee’s in the late afternoon driving a white van with chrome bumpers and white tires. They were dressed in full suits, wearing crimson ties and linen shirts. They had sweated through their shirts so that their neckties were bleeding onto their shirts. They stood before the vehicle’s open doors waiting for the girls, who were busy fanning themselves.

When the girls stepped off the porch, the eyes of the young men became as big as washtubs. Rachel wore a low-cut blouse. Laughing Girl wore a lace and floral dress that might as well have been painted on her body. They walked with short steps, careful not to stumble in their tall heels.

The young men swallowed so many times they looked like choking victims.

“What’s the matter?” Helen asked. “Ain’t you never seen a girl before?”

The man nodded. “The Lord be with you, ma’am,” he said.