Blake swerved into a filling station and slammed the car into park. The car jumped the curb and rocked in the violent wind. They leapt out of the vehicle and jogged toward the front door. The wind gust knocked Coot from his feet. His shoes slid on the sand beneath him and he fell face forward. Dust and grit stung his cheeks and eyes. He covered his face. Blake lifted him and shoved him through the door of the service station.

Inside were people, lots of them, seated on the floor in clumps. They were listening to a radio on the counter. It was the unmistakable sound of preaching. Coot could hear the familiar cadence of words, a singsong-like delivery. He was drawn to the sound. He found a place near the radio so he could hear it better. Through the static and crackles, he heard the voice breaking through the dust.

The people welcomed Coot and Blake inside and gave them wet rags to hold over their faces. A boy who was Coot’s age held a polka-dot rag over his nose and mouth. He coughed now and then. “This is a bad one,” said the boy.

Coot pressed the cloth over his face. His cheeks stung from the sand, and his eyes were dry and scratched with debris.

The voice on the radio was delivering words in a way that Coot had never heard before. The man wasn’t just yelling, he was firing his words like a sharpshooting rifle. He never paused to think of what he would say next. He never broke the rhythm of his words. His sentences flowed from his mouth like a steady current that could not be stopped.

The people in the room hallelujahed and yes-Lorded in quiet voices.

“Amen, J. Wilbur,” said one man. “Say it.”

“Amen,” said a woman’s muffled voice from behind a rag.

The voice on the radio belonged to J. Wilbur Chaplain. The words, the delivery, the fury made Coot forget all about the storm and feel nothing but wonder. He was mesmerized by the evangelist. He hadn’t expected this. It was like nothing he’d ever heard. And when he looked at the people’s faces, he could tell they were listening just as closely as he was.

When the preaching ended, an organ played, and a few people hummed along.

“Lose all their guilty stains . . . ,” sang one woman. “Lose all their guilty stains.”

“They keep getting worse,” said one old man, clicking off the radio. “You heard what the preacher just said. It’s the Judgment.”

“Worst storm this year,” said another. “Ain’t had no rain since October.”

“God’s wrath,” said another old man.

“Wrath poured out without mixture upon the wicket,” said another.

“All that’s missing is the brimstone,” said Blake.

Twenty-Four
Summer Showers