She ain’t the only one who’s less than pleased by Bellflower’s arrival.
I’m defying Granny by being here. It don’t feel right, but my curiosity’s too strong to deny. I snuck out while she was napping, a sprig of rosemary tucked behind my ear and a handful of dried sage in my pocket. Simple wards, just in case she was right and there’s more to Bellflower’s tent revival than a few hymns and an altar call.
I push through the crowd and duck beneath the open oilcloth flap. The tent is packed with people. Their excited talk hums fierce as a nest of mad wasps. The heat from outdoors is only made worse by the kerosene lanterns set along the walls. Sweat rolls down my temple and drips onto my dress.
May came in hot as August this year, and she ain’t showing no signs of letting up.
Aunt Val’s in the front row, batting the sultry air with a paper fan, all eager to get her first glimpse of the famed Josiah Bellflower.
What the hell kind of name is Bellflower, anyway?
I slump next to Val, arrange my dress over my knobby knees, and pray she won’t rat me out to Granny.
Somehow, Val’s gotten herself all dolled up between leaving Hosea’s fields and now. Folks talk. They say Val don’t work at sharecropping as much as she works in his bed. I wouldn’t be surprised, knowing Val. She scowls at me, her lips rouged up like a floozy. “What are you doin’ here?”
I shrug. “I’m just as curious as you. Figured I’d come see the signs and wonders.”
“You know this is a religious service, Gracelynn.”
“Yes’m.” I smirk. “Maybe there’s hope for me yet.”
Just then, Calvina and her mama step into the tent. Ma Watterson is looking poorly. Her legs shake with every step, ankles swollen below her rolled stockings. She’s leaning heavy on Calvina’s arm. Her arthritis is the worst I’ve ever seen it.
I gesture for them to come sit by us, and Calvina waves me off. Ain’t nobody wants to sit in the front row of a camp meeting unless they’re crazy or stupid, what with folks flopping around like they do and getting slain in the Spirit. Good way to get a broken toe. Yet, here I am.
A swell of music comes from the back of the tent. It’s an accordion, grinding out a tune that sounds more sideshow rag than hymn. A man swaggers up the aisle, his collar-length hair a dark sandy blond, his nose as sharp as the blade on a combine. He’s tall and wiry, arms knotted with lean muscle beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves. He’s dressed in fine town clothes that flatter his broad shoulders and narrow hips. Some of the women go all moony as he passes by.
Naturally, Aunt Val is one of them.
I cross my arms over my chest and lean back in the wooden chair. The chair squeaks in protest. He turns at the sound. Our eyes lock, and I swear his widen, just the slightest bit. He smiles, and the jagged scar beside his mouth raises one side of his lips higher than the other. Something akin to indigestion flutters in my belly.
People start to clap along as Bellflower works his squeeze-box with long fingers, expertly coaxing music from its bellows. I finally recognize the tune—“Trust and Obey”—only it’s sped way up. He comes to the end of the song and shrugs off the accordion. It wheezes out a long, sorrowful note as he places it on the straw-covered ground.
He makes a circle around the front of the tent, his dark, long-lashed eyes flirting with the crowd. Looking for the greenest rube for his tricks, no doubt. “Good people of Tin Mountain,” he begins, his drawl as deep and honey-rich as bourbon. He’s a Kaintuck, then, like my worthless daddy. “I have lately been to western Oklahoma, where the fields were withered to dust and the unfortunate folks there labored long in the day, to no avail. To those people, I brought a message of hope and prosperity. A message of redemption. Within weeks of my arrival, children with hollow bellies grew fat with plenty. Folks who had not walked a step for years ran. Barren fields grew fecund and thick with green corn.”
What the hell does fecund mean?
“I can promise the same to you, brothers and sisters.” The tent goes so quiet I can hear the rustle of hot wind blowing through the alfalfa outside. A smug smile plays over Bellflower’s lips. He’s got these people where he wants them. Already. His eyes fall on Aunt Val and narrow. He ceases his pacing and stops in front of her.
Val pokes at her hair, which she’s brushed into rippling waves, the ends touched with gold from the sun. The color is coming up high under her freckled tan. She looks as pretty as she can for a woman near fifty who’s had it hard in life.
“Sister,” he coaxes, “what is your name?”
“Val . . . Valerie Doherty,” she stammers like a schoolgirl. “I sure am pleased to make your acquaintance, Reverend.” It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.
“Valerie.” His voice slithers over every syllable. I can see the goosepimples come up on Aunt Val’s skin. He takes hold of her hand, his fingers splaying over her skinny wrist. “I have a message for you, sister. The Lord sees fit to bless you. An unexpected calling will fall upon you soon. A calling that will bring prosperity, and much abundance.”
Aunt Val gasps. Her arm starts quivering. “Praise Jesus! I can feel the power!”
I just bet she can. Hogwash. Every bit of it.
The tent echoes with a chorus of hallelujahs. Aunt Val lets loose of the preacher’s hand. Tears spring to her eyes. She’s still shaking as Bellflower goes back to the front of the tent, opening his arms wide. “Come forward, brothers and sisters. Pray with me and receive your own blessing from the Lord.”
The townsfolk start rising from their chairs, drawn forward by Josiah Bellflower’s velvet promises. An excited murmuring flows through the tent like a wave. One by one, Bellflower places his hand on their foreheads as he speaks in tongues over them. There ain’t a single message or Bible verse being preached—just a never-ending carnival line of needy, desperate people, dropping coins into the offering bucket so Josiah Bellflower might touch them. People I’ve helped Granny cure. With every plunk of a quarter or a silver dollar into Bellflower’s tin pail, I think of how lean our own pockets are gonna be if he stays the whole summer revival season. When you can pay ten cents for a healing miracle, who needs our kind of mountain medicine?
Still, I can’t fault people for wanting to believe in something bigger than poverty and sickness, even though I suspect Bellflower’s promises are just as empty as our cupboards.
Calvina and her mama are last in line. Bellflower reaches out and covers the neat coil of gray braids atop Ma Watterson’s head with his hand. At his touch, her legs start trembling. I spring to my feet. This damned fool ain’t gonna push an old lady to the ground and claim it’s God. I rush to her side, ready to help Calvina catch her if her knees buckle.
As he closes his eyes to pray over her, his thin lips muttering low, I take a step closer. There’s something funny about him—unnatural. Up this close, there’s a brutality to his rangy good looks. My skin crawls. As if he can feel my eyes on him, Bellflower turns to me, his pupils widening until they swallow up the inky brown around them.
A low hum starts in my ears and reverberates all through me. My head pings with sudden pain and the light in the tent flickers like a candle. The congregants’ voices fade to silence. Where Josiah Bellflower should be, I can see only spinning shadows—a writhing blackness with nothing human at its heart. I ain’t never had a real vision, only dreams, but I think I’m having one right now. Granny was right. There’s more to Josiah Bellflower than a Holy Roller preacher who likes big words. Fear crawls over me like a scorpion. I panic, clawing my way back to the real world and away from this darkness.