“I’ll never forget it. I saw this young man preaching on the stage, wearing all white. He was wild, theatrical. Before I knew it, I found myself walking down the aisle for salvation when the music played, almost against my will. That’s how good he was.”

Joseph adjusted himself against Coot. The old man released an aroma that filled the car and caused Coot to roll down the window.

“Anyway,” said J. Wilbur. “When I got to the altar that night, long ago, I saw that this young preacher was about my age.” He laughed. “I could hardly believe it. A man my age, making such a difference in the world, commanding an audience for the cause of goodness and charity and Christian kindness.

“The man prayed for me, and it did something to me. It changed me. He told me his name was E. P. Willard. Beautiful man. Beautiful man, your father.”

The words stung Coot’s ears.

“Are you sure it was him?” said Coot.

“We were friends for a few years after that. He taught me how to be who I was always meant to be.”

J. Wilbur Chaplain closed his eyes. “I turned Saint Louis down. I was afraid I was doing the wrong thing. I’d never been so scared in all my life.”

“And what happened?”

“I joined the revival troop for sixteen dollars a week. I changed my name. And that was the end of Lulu the Lefty.”

“So J. Wilbur isn’t your real name?”

“No, sorry to say it isn’t. All the preachers back then were using initials instead of names.”

“So what’s your real name?”

“Herman Pickles.”

The car neared the courthouse. Coot could see the crowds of people gathered like bees around a honeycomb. And he could see a change in J. Wilbur’s persona immediately. The man went from being relaxed to assuming the personality E. P. had once used—only this was no act. It was the man he’d heard on the radio. A man who had inspired a country during times of war, pestilence, and famine. The man removed his eyeglasses and handed them to his driver.

“Bill,” J. Wilbur said to the driver. “Pull right up onto the lawn of the courthouse. These people wanna revival, let’s give ’em what they want.”

The car leapt over the curb and jostled Coot and Joseph from side to side. Joseph was startled awake with a snort. He looked around and said, “What’s going on?”

“We’re here,” said Coot.

“Already?”

“Yes.”

“I musta fallen asleep. What’d I miss?”

Coot shushed him, then said, “I ain’t never gonna let you eat another pinto bean in your life, old man.”