She stood. It was a newspaper wrapped in twine. There was a picture of a woman on the front. And a headline: “Harlot Raises Man from the Dead.”

She looked at it for a few moments. Then she tossed the newspaper aside.

She stared at the full moon until she fell asleep.

Eighty-Seven
First Times

Coot sat beside Marigold on the jail cell cot. They held hot tin mugs of coffee that burned their hands. The steam rising from the coffee gave Coot a fresh surge of energy.

The announcer on the radio read the news in a voice that sounded too urgent. He spoke about the price of corn, and the president sending troops to Korea. When the news announcer said that J. Wilbur Chaplain had arrived in Alabama, the deputy turned up the volume. The deputy’s face lit up when he heard this. It was as though Santa Claus had just come into the room.

“J. Wilbur Chaplain,” the static voice said, “is officially in Mobile, Alabama. His train arrived last night and was welcomed into the depot by the mayor and a loyal crowd of . . .”

When the news ended, the music on the radio began. Soft orchestras played ballads with enough rhythm to dance to. The sounds of muted horns and swelling violins seemed unfitting for a jailhouse somehow, but they dulled the harshness just the same.

It had been a long night. Coot hadn’t slept at all. He’d sat beside Marigold in the darkness. She asked him to remain nearby. And it was the first time a woman had ever asked Coot to stay close. Ever. No woman acting of her own volition and free will had ever wanted Coot beside her for safety. This alone made Coot feel that his shoulders had become ten times broader, and his voice dropped four octaves too.

The deputies stood beside the entrances to the jailhouse, and the sheriff slept seated in a desk chair, mouth slung open. Joseph was snoring in the cell beside Coot and Marigold.

Marigold clutched Coot’s hand in hers. There was something about this woman that made Coot believe in sincere things again. He didn’t want to leave her; she was so easy to be near. She had an intensity to her. Looking into her eyes was like leaning forward to look over a cliff. They had a gravity in them.

“Is it true what they say about you?” he asked her. “Are you some kinda mystic?”

“No,” she said. “I’m just me.”

“What about your gift, though?”

“No gift. All I do is sorta touch someone and hope for the best.”

“If that’s all there was to it, everyone could do what you do.”

“Well, maybe they can.”

“And what, just hope for the best?”

She shrugged her shoulders and sipped coffee. “Maybe.”

He glanced at her hand, which rested on his. “Is that what you’re doing now?”

“That’s all I ever do.”