The Dark (51 page)

It took some time for Able to make himself clear. Seemed he wanted John to come with him to one of Finney’s sermons so that John could pray with those who were with the holy spirit. Seemed that Brother Able was taking John on as a personal cause. “C-Come with me. N-No man can l-listen to R-Reverend F-Finney and n-not be c-convinced.”

“And how damn many you converted? I mean, you personally?” John asked slyly.

Able shifted his feet. A tannery stink wafted in on an iced wind. February sleet splattered on the deck. “N-Not a one.”

“Hah, that’s ’cus you don’t offer any enticements.” John scratched at his cheek. “Here, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll go with you to this here fucking sermon and if I ain’t convinced, you got to buy me a gallon, no, two gallons of whisky. I’m damn clean out of money, see.”

Able stammered a protest.

“If you’re so cunt-certain no one can resist this Finney, what were you fussing about? Mayhap he’s not all he’s damned lathered up to be.” John enjoyed watching Able flinch after each foul and blasphemous word. But wasn’t expecting him to stammer out, “A-All right.”

“All right? That what you said?”

“Y-Yes.”

“And?”

“A-And?”

“You got to drink the whisky with me. Don’t fancy this damned drinking alone. Even your sorry company might suffice. Not that you’ll have to. I’m gonna see the light, ain’t I?”

Brother Able swallowed. “A-And y-you’ll pray w-with us?”

“On my fucking knees, as is the fashion.”

Able stammered out that they could make it to the sermon by ten if they walked briskly.

John-Before studied the grey-lit sky. “Ten? I’ll be buggered. Is it morning?”

Central Presbyterian on Plymouth Avenue was crammed to its naves. Able guided John into a back pew and sat aside him as if to stop him bolting. John was a filthy, stinking wretch and the congregation cast the two men grouty looks. And not just for the stink, John knew, but for his stubborn, cross-armed slouch, his disdainful glances at the cross above the pulpit. The Reverend Finney wanted only those who were on the cusp of conversion. His was not a Broadway show that one attended out of curiosity or for a lark, but a revelation of God’s will. So John had heard, and so John couldn’t give a rotter’s arse.

John yawned and closed his eyes as Able stood and was greeted by those Rochesterians who had seen him attempting stump preaching. On the walk over Able confided how he preached every day, no matter the weather, but that it was hard to hold a crowd, what with
his impediment—at least, John supposed this is what he’d said. John’s mind had been too pre-occupied by thoughts of whisky, by the certainty that Finney could not possibly move him to contemplate his own navel, never mind God’s grace.

The church fair steamed with expectation. A hush fell as Reverend Finney strode in.

In short order Finney was hurling up his arms as if to raise a whirlwind and dropping his finger down, down to show the descent to Hell, at which the congregation gasped. He spoke softly,
persuasively, then thundered out the message: constant prayer would cause a change of heart. It would cause you to be saved, for you were the agent, the genesis. Man was not passive afore a vengeful, capricious God. There was no elect, as the Calvinists would have it. Even that word
elect
reeked of brimstone.

The congregation sniffed in terror as if smelling brimstone for themselves. John roused himself awake and picked his teeth with an overlong thumbnail.

God’s intentions were clear, Finney insisted. He loved every soul. And even the most recalcitrant soul could be pried open to God’s mercy. In America any man or woman, no matter their past, no matter how poor, could lift themselves up and be saved.

“It was a fair show,” John admitted when Finney was done. He and Able were waiting in an alleyway that was troughed with cold. The back door to a warehouse stood ajar.

Able was a sad huddle within his large coat. John was nearly cheerful. “My, my, all the shakings and hallelujahs. And that ‘anxious bench’ was a nice touch. Even the naming of it. Gets people all, all, well, damned anxious, don’t it? My knees, mind, are damned sore from all the kneeling. Worse was my throat.” John rubs it theatrically. “All that praying. Sure need some damned lubrication, that I do. Ah, here’s the good man now. Milk containers? Swell idea. That way we won’t be attacked by the God-fearing. Pay the man, will ya, Able?”

Able did so, complaining weakly that it was all the money he had.

“God will provide, Able my boy, just see if He fucking don’t.”

Back at the
Morning Star
, John-Before grubbed up two glasses. Able perched on the stool beside the stove. The last of the coal was burning hot, but Able still clutched his great coat about him. “I—I’ve n-never imbibed a-anything s-stronger than a-ale. And that j-just once.”

“Horseshit. Musta drank cider like any child. Musta had some brandy. Who ain’t had that for sickness?”

“My m-ma didn’t h-hold with e-even weak spirits. We d-drank water.”

Water? John admitted that women could be peculiar. He poured a full glass for both of them. Felt elated. He had nearly begun to
shake in the church—not from the Holy Spirit; only from the lack of more familiar spirits. Finney’s words had coursed round him like midges, annoying but hardly lasting. He was immune to it all. Inoculated by stubbornness, he supposed.

“D-Do you n-not worry about y-your soul in H-Hell?” Able asked. He sipped his whisky. Spluttered and made a face.

“Those are tales to scare children into behaving,” John said, though in truth his imagination never stretched up to Heaven nor down to Hell. It only reached to the bottom of an empty bottle, which was hell enough for him.

“Toss it back now. Like so. It’ll make the burn less. That sipping will be naught but a sister-fucking torment.”

Able sighed, then nodded with an abrupt determination. Drained his glass. He coughed, eyes streaming. John couldn’t recall enjoying himself more. Convert John Fox? The whippersnapper would find his own self converted for his impertinence, and to the worship of Libation.

Able shook his head like a dog shaking off water. Chuckled. “My brother, Willing, he used to pull chairs out from under me. Bam! Down I’d go howling like a banshee. Never learned. Think I woulda … Well, gosh darn, eh?”

They were both stunned to silence. Able ogled his glass. Cautiously opened his mouth again. “I’ve never spoken clean like that. Like now!” He thrust the glass at John, who obligingly filled it.

Able drained his second glass, then a third, a fourth. Stood and swayed, his head knocking on the low roof. “I can talk! I can talk!” And talk he did. In a torrent. Told John of his father and how when drunk he’d beat his children, but was in general a kind man, and that he’d lost all he owned to drink and left his wife and children penniless and they had to live above a butcher shop and his mother had to work as a maid, though she was not born to such work, and she died only a year ago from labouring so hard. “So when Mr. Bearcup saw me and told me you were a wayward, drunken husband and father, I thought of mine own pa, and I knew I had to keep on trying to save your mortal soul as mine were saved, and that started with my brother Willing’s death a while back. See, his dying turned our ma
near lunatic with grief, but I wasn’t troubled. No sir! I even knew some relief and, my wordy word, but I felt terrible for that. That’s about when I started turning to God. I’m gonna tell you a secret. Mustn’t tell a soul, promise like an honest Injun? I didn’t start praying ’cus I felt sorrow, it was ’cus I
didn’t
and I was sure my soul would roast in Hell’s fire because of that. Willing would make fun of my talk, see, be right mean about it. He always called me Bother Able, and I thought he was saying Brother, but he wasn’t. Bother. Bother. That’s what I was. But I liked Brother Able, that’s why I kept it, not ’cus I’m a monk or damned papist. Oh, Willing! If you could hear me now! Listen. Hear me talk like anyone else!”

Able was shouting by now, and cutting a shuffling jig in the confined space. John made no move to shush or stop him. There was no one close by these cold days to hear, not that he gave a tinker’s damn if others were irked by drunken ranting.

Able wagged his finger at John. “You’re a good man, Mr. Fox, yes, you are. Here I thought you were the worst kind of bastard, ’scuse me. Here I thought you were even some kind of evil man who’d blanked out God,” Able whispered. “I even considered you might be the Devil himself, or a minion of him. No real man could be so stubborn, could he? But I was wrong, wrong, wrong, wasn’t I? ’Cus you’ve cured me!”

Able dropped back on his stool. Held out his glass. John eyed him warily. He’d never seen anyone get so drunk so quickly, but then it was new to the boy. He filled Able’s glass only halfway, but Able jiggled it angrily, so he filled it to the brim. Able tossed back the liquor as if he’d been drinking all his born days.

“Now I can preach! Hah, I’ll find me the highest soap box! Nobody’s gonna stare at their pocket watches because I’m looking like a fish caught on a hook. You know, I spent three months on the canal byways talking and preaching, but your crew was the only one who even let me aboard. But I didn’t convert even a one of yous. It were other auspices, as they say. I haven’t converted a single soul. But I will now. Hah! I’m gonna be alike to Finney himself with words flowing out like the river of Babylon!”

“Babylon, sure, sure,” John said. He’d begun to wonder at the soundness of his plan. Drinking alone was hardly that bad. And
the stripling was drinking more than John wanted to spare. He was considering on how to get Able off the boat, when Able grabbed the water bucket, his cheeks bulging. Eyes frantic.

“Christ and all his fucking cronies!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Able said, over this bucket of his own vomit.

“Get up! You’re needing the air. Me too. Fuck, what a reek!” He grabbed Able under the armpits and after some stumbling and falling, got him up the ladderway and onto the deck. He went back for the bucket and hurled the stinking contents into the canal. It was later afternoon now. The wind and sleet had stopped; it was warm enough. “You need to be walking. It’ll clear your head some. And try being quiet, will you? Enough babbling about fucking devils and minions.”

Able nodded dreamily. John used his sleeve to wipe the vomit off Able’s chin. It was a gentle gesture, but then he supposed he should take some responsibility for Able’s tottering condition.

He decided against leading him along the towpath, though that would have been easiest. He’d had enough of a lark getting the boy sheeted, and even John wasn’t heartless enough to allow Able to be spied by gossiping bible lovers and reap humiliation. Nor did John wish to be harped upon for Able’s state. And so he took Able in the opposite direction, over a frozen, rutted field, grasses aright as flat-nails. In the near distance was a small wood. Beyond, under a reddening sky, were the jagged outlines of Rochester’s warehouses and factories.

Able sagged against John, mumbling incoherently, and it took all of John’s wiry strength to keep him upright. The boy was not stuttering, though. Still not stuttering. Of a sudden he scrabbled at John’s arm and shouted, “Willing!” then veered away, staggering in the ruts.

John cursed and ran after him. Caught hold of his flapping coat. Hauled him up from where he’d fallen. Able’s face was bluish and sheened with sweat. His breath puffed out in clouds.

“Here, take it slow. We’ll get to those trees, then rest, then walk on back. You’ll sleep it off. Hell, you can sleep aboard the boat. Doubt anyone will miss you wherever you’re fucking holed up. And I could use the company, I suppose. We’ll get you on your feet tomorrow.” John affected the sort of heartiness he had heard Erastus use to cajole drunken acquaintances, but his teeth were clenched in
worry and annoyance. Able’s feet dragged heavy. His head flopped on his scrawny neck and his little black hat fell off and sat in the midst of the field like a hunched crow.

Then Able stared at John with rolled-up eyes as blank and white as a statuary’s.

John slapped him. Once and then again, much harder. Able’s tongue slid out of his mouth and he puddled to the ground. They were but twenty yards from the shelter of the woods. Cursing and pleading, John dragged Able to the base of a giant oak and propped him against the gnarled trunk. “Fuck. Fuck. You’ll be right now. You’ll be right. Just take a breather. Take a rest. Guess it were a lot for you. Next time we’ll take her slow, all right?”

Able retched out curdled whisky onto his vest. He moaned and his arms flopped up as if worked by some disinterested puppeteer.

“Guess your belly ain’t full. Should have seen to that, before the whisky. I’ve heard drink doesn’t go down well for some if they ain’t recently dined.”