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A good boy, 1967

Buckley R. Pitank imagined himself Jesse James, even as his jaw was pressed into the red clay roads of Mont Blanc, Arkansas. He spat and tried not to swallow the dirt that swirled into his eyes and nose. He’d eaten enough of this dirt. He choked on it and cried out, but that only made the other boy push his face harder into the cracked earth. The other boy was not one boy, but one of many.

Buckley was one boy born on his mother’s mattress in Mont Blanc, Arkansas, in 1959. Raised by his mother, Abigail, and his grandmother, Winter, he never knew his father.

Mont Blanc, despite its name, had no mountains, not even snow-topped hills. It was a desolate wasteland for Buckley, with buzzing mosquitoes and snakes and jumping spiders the size of his fist. He was miserable, born to these two women: his grandmother, who said there was no time and no need for a hospital—she could manage quite well—and his mother, who said his birth was the worst experience of her life, everything bloody and slimy, her insides torn out, and she might never have recovered were it not for Buckley himself. Her joy.

Even as he struggled under the weight of a shoe in his back and a hand on his neck, he thought his future would be great. He had hopes and dreams, spawned by TV shows like Bonanza—espousing the world’s fairness. In due time, Buckley thought that he would have his reward.

With the red clay of Mont Blanc caked on his two front teeth, Buckley invented epic tales about his father: He was an FBI agent working undercover, and if Buckley knew of his identity, the safety of America and the world would be at stake. He was a ship’s captain who’d met Abigail in port (though when questioned by Buckley, Abigail reported to have never seen the ocean). Returning to sea, the captain promised to write, to come back for Abigail, but he was killed, ambushed by the Reds.

There were stories, endless possibilities. Buckley had faith that all would turn out right with the world. Later, he would stop believing in heroics and let the world do with him what it would.

One man who contributed to Buckley’s loss of faith was the Reverend John Whitehouse. For two years in a row, Buckley had seen Reverend Whitehouse erect tents on Mrs. Catawall’s overgrown acreage and Buckley had stayed clear, but on this Saturday night, red dirt under his fingernails, Buckley hid behind a dying magnolia, catching bits of the reverend’s sermon.

Reverend Whitehouse preached about hellfire, the wages of sin, and the rewards for living a Christ-loving life. Buckley, Abigail, and Winter Pitank did not attend church, but that night, restless and curious about God, Buckley listened to those who filed out of the blue tent. They talked of being filled with the spirit: “I was sad when we got here. You saw me! I was as down as the dirt under these old heels, and now I’m changed! Look at me.” He saw the flock’s bright faces, seemingly oiled by God’s own hands. “I never imagined,” said a squat, freckled woman, her face slick with tears. “I should’ve made John come. He would’ve been glad he did.” Her friend, holding a buckled purse at her breasts, said, “You’d think more people would turn out, but they’re afraid of Jesus’ love. I know if Jerry would’ve come, he’d have stopped the drink tonight. I know it.” Buckley wanted desperately to be changed.

The revivalists lingered before driving away to their respective sinful spouses and neighbors—those who hadn’t met Reverend Whitehouse. They drove with their windows down, the dry Arkansas heat kissing their faces, calling to one another, “You should come for coffee tomorrow,” feeling this kindred spirit that would dwindle as quickly as it came. Mont Blanc was not a friendly town.

Buckley caught the Reverend Whitehouse after the service; or rather the reverend caught Buckley. “What are you doing over there? Come out here, son.” Buckley thought about making a run for it. Instead, he slunk from behind the tree, both hands deep in his pockets. “I said come here.” Reverend Whitehouse was a lanky man in a black suit. He had long arms and a nose bumpy like a summer squash.

The reverend pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead. “You want to make some money?”

It was rare that a grown man took an interest in Buckley. In fact, it had never happened.

“I asked you a question.”

Buckley shrugged.

“Do you or don’t you? This ain’t a trick question. Can’t you speak?”

“I can speak.”

“So what’ll it be? Do you want to make some money?” The reverend blotted his forehead again, leaving a beige stain on the folded kerchief.

“Yeah, I want to.”

“Smart boy.”

Buckley wanted a lot of things, but at the top of his list was for his mother to be happy. It seemed to him that she was always sad. She was a good mom—never a mean word crossed her lips—but like Buckley, she seldom smiled. She was fat, and it was hard for Buckley when they went places to hear people snicker and know she heard it too.

The first night Buckley met the reverend, he tromped along in scuffed cowboy boots beside the towering man over to a Chevy pickup. He could hear people inside the tent and wondered if they were the reverend’s wife and children. The reverend stuffed a bunch of slick folded garbage bags into Buckley’s hands. “Start over there. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Buckley, sir.”

“All right, Buck.” He handed Buckley a flashlight. Looking down at a grease-smeared popcorn container, the reverend said, “Good Christians don’t litter. They know that I, the Lord’s servant, have more important things to do than pick up their garbage.” The reverend looked to Mrs. Catawall’s big house. “The nice lady who owns this land don’t abide trash in any form.”

“Yes, sir.” Buckley fumbled with the trash bags and the light, leaving all but one bag on the ground beside the truck’s tire so he could find them in the dark.

The reverend shook his head. “I do God’s work. What do you do? Are you in school?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When I was a boy, I missed a lot of school. I spent October and November pulling tobacco, and then it was hard to catch up. Education can spoil a boy.”

“Yes, sir, but our teacher says that …”

The reverend held up his hand. “Don’t back-talk me. I’m hiring you to work. Let’s get to it.”

“Yes, sir.”

In truth, Buckley’s teacher didn’t say much to him. It was actually Buckley’s mother who told him, “Education makes a man. Ignorant people don’t count for much.” Buckley’s teacher wrote math problems and vocabulary words on the chalkboard. She collected papers, most of which she never marked, and sat at her desk filing her nails.

Buckley couldn’t even fill the first garbage bag, finding two deflated balloons, thirty or so cigarette butts (some stained with lipstick), and a few hard candy wrappers. He said, “This is all I can find.”

“Keep looking.”

For good measure, Buckley threw some twigs and dead brush in the bag. He didn’t want to disappoint the reverend.

“Let’s get out of here,” the reverend said.

Buckley picked up the leftover garbage bags, wondering if despite his light trash haul this man was going to pay him as he’d said he would. Then again, it didn’t really matter. He hadn’t had anything better to do. It was August. There was no school. Still, his mom had taught him that you judge a man by his word, and the man had sure enough mentioned money.

“I’ll give you a lift home,” the reverend said.

“That’s all right. I don’t live far.” Buckley hiked up his pants. They were from a secondhand shop his grandmother frequented. She bought everything two sizes too big, thinking the clothes would last longer, not caring that Buckley looked like a clown.

“Get in.” The Reverend Whitehouse climbed into the pickup, and Buckley, who did as he was told, followed suit. “So how old are you?”

“Eight, sir. I don’t live far. I can walk.”

“Nonsense.”

Buckley pulled the door shut. He did not want the reverend to come to his house. Even if he was getting paid, he didn’t want the reverend to see his mother. Somehow seeing her gave strangers an advantage over him. He wondered if the empty blue and orange boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese were still stacked in a pyramid on the kitchen table, a testament to her obesity. His grandmother had said last night, “I’ve had enough of this, Abby,” and then his mother had boiled another pot of water on the old gas stove with the timer that no longer timed, and his grandmother swiped the box, adding it to her pyramid. Buckley couldn’t help but think his Grandmother Winter liked his mom fat. Even if she said different, it gave her an advantage.

“You can drop me here.”

“Is that your house?”

“It’s not far.”

“Nonsense, son. I’ll drive you home.” The Reverend Whitehouse tousled Buckley’s coarse locks. His hair was dark like his mother’s.

“Please just drop me here.”

Reverend Whitehouse pulled the truck over in front of a white cinder-block house—Mrs. Smith’s house, not Buckley’s. His house was a pea green cinder block. Mrs. Smith was on the front porch, smoking a cigarette. “Is that you, Buckley?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sweating, he turned to the reverend. “Thanks.”

“No, son. Thank you. Hope you and yours can make it next Saturday.” The reverend reached under the seat for his wallet. He pulled out one crisp dollar bill, then another, popping each one like the money was precious to him, like it had to be displayed. “It’d be good to see you there,” he said, laying each bill out on the passenger’s seat side by side, like a game of solitaire. “You take that, all right?”

Did this man expect him not to take the money, to offer it back to God? Was this some kind of test? “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” Buckley crammed the bills into his pants pocket and ran from the truck. He saw the light from the truck illuminating the black road, his baggy shadow, the diamonds in the road, the trees far up ahead, his own house. He ran as fast as he could. Breathless, with his two dollars tucked away, he pulled open the screen door. He might buy a new GI Joe. He might buy a whole slew of balsa-wood planes and crash them. He liked the sound of the cracking wood, and when they didn’t break, which was rare, he smashed them with his palm or his cowboy boot. Man down. There’s a man down.

“What’s with you?” his grandmother asked.

His mother sat in front of the TV. “You missed Hogan’s Heroes. There’s ice cream.”

Buckley loved ice cream, but if he had to choose between his mother and ice cream, he’d never eat another spoonful. No contest. He’d decided that long ago, back when he first started weighing how much he loved his mother against everything else in the world. She came first. He went to the cupboard for a bowl.

She said, “It’s after ten,” and then Buckley heard a knock at the screen door, his mother struggling to rise from the tattered recliner, the twang of springs, his grandmother saying, “Oh, we didn’t know Buckley got a ride home this evening.” Buckley, frozen in the kitchen with an empty brown bowl in his hand, knew the reverend was at his door, and he knew this gave the man an advantage.