The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival (5 page)

This guy’s a mountain of a man, central casting’s idea of a Midwestern farmer: barrel-chested, beer-bellied (though if he’s Pentecostal, he doesn’t drink), a long-sleeve plaid Western shirt poking out from his overalls and wisps of blond hair sneaking out from under his camouflage baseball cap. The cap is the kind with the mesh back, the kind worn ironically by cool kids in big cities. But irony isn’t in this man’s vocabulary.

He’s probably well on the other side of fifty, but despite his age and his size, he hops spryly from the tread of the bulldozer and meets me halfway, offering his hand as he approaches.

“How you doing?” I say.

“Hoo-boy, I tell you. If things got any better, it just might kill me,” he answers in a twang much more traditional Southern than the local Cajun. His eyes practically twinkle. He gives my hand a vigorous shake. “I’m Reverend Paul Tomkins,” he says.

“Reverend? Is that right?” I say, smiling like an idiot.

“Well, soon to be. Once this here church is finished.” He waves his hat back at the bulldozer and mound of dirt behind him as if it’s all just some little task to finish in an afternoon, like cleaning the attic or emptying out the garage. “But you can just call me B.P. Brother Paul. That’s what the brothers and sisters back in Church Point called me.”

“Is that so?” I respond.

“Yup,” he says, casting an eye out over the property and hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. “Oh, shoot,” he says. “I’m plumb forgettin’ my manners today. I didn’t even ask your name.”

Now it’s my turn. “Father Steven Sibille. From St. Peter’s just up the road in Grand Prairie. Everybody just calls me Father Steve.”

The smile remains fixed on his face but something changes in his eyes. He’s examining me now. I’ve gone from a potential member of his flock to some sort of alien species.

“Is that right?” he says. He looks over at the men working farther back in the field, as if I might run back there and snatch their souls. He turns back to me just as quickly and asks, “Where’s your uniform at?” The joke seems to put him back in his good mood.

I force a chuckle. “I left it back at the church.”

“Afraid to get a little dirt on it?” he asks.

What’s that supposed to mean? I look at him. I can’t tell if he’s joking or if he’s making a statement about the Church. “All that black gets a little hot,” I respond. “Besides, I find it makes introductions a little stiff, makes people a little nervous.”

“Yeah, funny how that works,” he says. He’s still smiling at me. I wonder suddenly if he was born Pentecostal or if he’s an ex-Catholic with an ax to grind. I smile right back at him.

“Anyway,” I say, trying to brush off his comment, “I don’t make my way out here that often, but I saw your daughter in the woods behind my house the other day and didn’t know quite where she’d come from.”

Storm clouds gather in his eyes and suddenly I regret ratting on the child. She’ll probably catch a beating tonight. Corporal punishment is one of the few things not forbidden by the faith. Spare the rod, spoil the child, and all that. But his eyes clear up and the smile’s back on his face. “Oh, Cindy-bell? She ain’t nothin’ but a goat sometimes. I swear, that girl will wander all the way to Baton Rouge one day if we don’t keep an eye on her. I hope she wasn’t botherin’ you none.”

“Oh no. Absolutely not. She just ran off. I think I might have scared her.” I’m starting to realize just how ridiculous this might sound. “And I saw her head out this way, so I followed.” Ridiculous or dirty. “So I drove out here to…” To what exactly? “To, um, make sure there was somewhere she was running back to.”

“Is that right?” he asks, not really expecting an answer. “Just so you know, you don’t have to worry about her. She’ll always find her way back home no matter how far she wanders. But I can tell her to stay away from there if you want me to.”

“No, not a problem at all. She’ll just want to watch out in them woods with squirrel season going.”

A real smile comes back to his face. “Heck, Father. I’d bet that’s what she’s doing back there. Practicing.”

“Is that so?”

“I’ve been taking that girl hunting with me since she was knee-high to a grasshopper. And this is the first year I’ll let her use her own gun. Her mama ain’t too happy with me. But it was pretty much the only way I could get her to move from her little friends in Church Point without her pitchin’ a fit and hatin’ me for the next six months.” He shakes his head. “But that’s family for you,” he adds.

“Yeah, that’s family for you,” I say, as if I have any clue at all what he’s talking about. Family. So I try to change the subject. “Pretty impressive progress you’re making out here.”

“You ever hear of the Amish, Father?”

“Certainly. I went to seminary up in that part of the country.”

“Ever seen them throw up a barn?”

“Yeah, pretty impressive stuff,” I say. In fact, I’d done just that one day. A Catholic farmer down the road from the seminary told us he’d hired a crew of Amish to build a stable and he invited us over to watch. We woke up at dawn and drove down to the site to find them already working. Sunup to sundown with a half hour for lunch. Hammers pounding all day. It was exhausting just watching them.

“I like to tell people we’re just as good as the Amish, but twice as fast because we use power tools.”

“Well, it definitely isn’t a union schedule,” I add.

We both laugh, and I hope we’re done trying to one-up each other. I don’t know if I can compete.

“So what are you planning out here?” I ask. “You building a trailer park?”

“Certainly looks like that, don’t it? Just family, though. Me and Christine in that trailer, there. My oldest son and his wife and baby in the next one. My sister and her family in the next. And her oldest son and his wife in the next. On this side of the street, it’s going to be Christine’s family.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of family,” I say, impressed and maybe even a little jealous.

“Certainly is. We drive each other crazy every now and then, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I bet,” I say, but really I have no frame of reference for the things coming out of his mouth.

“That’s my boy and some of his cousins getting the slabs ready. And I’m just leveling ground for the church. Once everyone’s set up and comfortable, we’ll get rocking on that.”

“And the church?” I might as well get all the bad news at once.

“Nothing too big or fancy,” he says. I see the twinkle back in his eyes and I know what he’s going to say next. “Just a little bit bigger than yours, I guess,” he says, and gives me a light punch on the shoulder.

I’m sure his laugh is much more sincere than mine. And who is this guy to be touching me, ten minutes after meeting me?

“But seriously? About enough room for six hundred people.”

Six hundred people? I whistle. I can’t help it. That’s a lot of people. A lot of Pentecostals at any rate. I try running my own numbers. I know what the books say. Of the 500 people known to be living in Grand Prairie, I have 475 either baptized or confirmed at St. Pete’s. The church only holds 250. Not all of the 475—not even close—actually go to Mass, and those that do are spread out over the three services. A Pentecostal church, of course, would have to be big enough to hold them all at one time because the services are all mandatory. But still.

“Wow. Six hundred. Pardon me for asking, but are there that many Pentecostals back here?”

“Not yet,” he says, again offering one of those half-joke, half-gibe responses. “Got quite a few on this end of Ville Platte. Another handful creeping out on the north end of Opelousas, near Washington.” He pauses. “Got some others from Church Point and Melville buying up some property in these parts.”

“Is that right?” I ask.

“That’s what I hear,” he says. “Don’t know if that’ll make six hundred. But I’m an optimist.”

“Best thing to be,” I say, hardly meaning it. I’ve got a parish full of old people. I’m afraid I’d lose half of it if a flu epidemic swept through.

“After that,” he adds, “you never know who’ll walk through the door.”

And that remark, I know, isn’t a joke at all. They took Timmy. They’ll take more.

I head over to Easy Time to let Miss Rita have a go at me. Of course, that means I have to bring offerings. Whatever Jesus may have thought about pork, Miss Rita is a big fan of the pig and all of its parts. “Everything but the oink,” is her summation of the edible nature of the animal. “I’d eat that, too, if they found a way to cook it.”

Sadly, the only pork that finds its way onto the menu at Easy Time Nursing Home are the tiny flecks of pink they sprinkle into the split-pea soup. In her first years at Easy Time, Daddy would sneak in pork every once in a while. The baton then fell to me. When I went off to seminary, it fell to Teddy, Miss Rita’s favorite grandson. But Teddy was sloppy and got busted by the attendees at the front desk.

Happily, Miss Rita has found another supplier. One who takes the time to double-wrap the pork—once in foil, once in plastic. One who then puts the now less-odiferous offering into a sealable plastic container, which then goes into that official-looking black leather satchel of mine.

The white collar helps as well.

I walk past the front desk, which has now sprouted a crop of little Christmas trees, and offer today’s receptionist—a humorless Nurse Ratched sort—my best smile. She waves me on.

I stop outside Miss Rita’s door and put my ear to it. I can hear her cackling with laughter to some comedian on television doing a bit about the difference between black people and niggers—a favorite topic of hers.

In the time it takes me to push the door open, she’s dropped her chin to her chest and gone into one of her fake stupors. Today she’s wearing a shirt that reads
Hi Hater.
I don’t know what it means and I’m certainly not going to ask.

“It’s just me,” I say. “And I still don’t understand why you do that.”

“ ’Cause if it’s one of them attendees, I don’t feel like them walking in here then wanting to talk to me. I figure if they gonna treat me like a baby half the time, I might as well act like one. Besides, bad enough I have to entertain you today.”

“Go on,” I say. “You keep that up and I’m not going to share.”

She locks her eyes on me. “Don’t even play around with me, boy. I might have one leg, but one’s enough to kick your ass.”

I never get tired of that line. It gets a chuckle out of me every time.

“Yeah, go ahead and laugh,” she says, smiling now, her eyes bright with anticipation. As I reach into my bag, she wheels over to her secret stash and produces her bottle of Crown Royal. “Getting low,” she says. “Don’t forget next time.”

“What about Teddy?” I ask as I remove the hunk of pork shoulder from the container, then peel the wrapping from the pork roast.

“Teddy? Ha! Teddy don’t drink. Doesn’t approve of it. Don’t know where he picked that up. That boy’s lucky he’s family because otherwise I wouldn’t let his little butt in here.”

The pork, tender enough to break apart with a plastic spork, is still warm. I put it on a paper plate, then produce two smaller plastic containers, one full of rice and gravy, the other full of black-eyed peas with chunks of real bacon.

“Oh my, oh my, oh my,” she says, fanning her face. Her eyes well up with tears. “You know what they fed me last night? Steamed chicken with steamed broccoli. Chicken breast!” She spits the words out as if they were bits of the offending food. “White meat!”

I get the food plated, put the plate on a tray, and just as I’m sliding the tray onto the arms of Miss Rita’s wheelchair, the door pops open. I freeze. Miss Rita, who’s just raised the bottle of Crown Royal to her lips, freezes as well, her eyes grown big for a split second. But just as quickly, she swallows the whiskey, wipes her mouth, and hisses.

“Timeka, get in here and close that door, girl.”

I stand slowly and turn around to find a petite black woman—she might be five feet tall if she wore heels—dressed in the white uniform of the attendees. Great.

“Miss Rita!” she stage-whispers. “And, Father. Shame on you! Getting this old lady drunk.”

“Don’t pay her any mind, Steve,” Miss Rita says. “She just came in here to snoop.” But her usually blustery tone slips a little. “You not gonna tell on me, are you?” she asks, suddenly serious.

“I should,” Timeka says, looking at me. “But I don’t like that old cow supervising today. Besides, you made it this far in life. I don’t see how it’s going to matter now what you eat and drink.”

“Amen to that,” Miss Rita says, raising the bottle and taking a swig. “Steve, this Timeka. Timeka, this Steve.”

I offer my hand. Hers is cool and dry and small in mine. “Hi.” She pauses. “Father.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, casting a glance at Miss Rita, who’s watching us both intently.

“Well, I best be seeing about my rounds,” Timeka says, and just as quickly as she’d come, she’s gone.

As the door closes shut, Miss Rita suddenly becomes very fascinated with her food and won’t look up. Still, I can see the prankster’s smile reaching up to grab her ears.

“Really, Miss Rita. You have to give up this foolishness about me getting a woman.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. But without looking up she adds, “But I hear she has a thing for white boys. Especially ones in uniform.”

“Just stop it. You’re wasting your time.”

“All’s I got is time,” she says. “Might as well use it to help you.”

“I appreciate it, but I don’t need your help.”

“No, you need a woman.”

I look at her. She looks at me. It’s been playful so far, but she’s gauging me to see if she can keep pushing it.

“Forget you,” she says, finally. “Just keep bringing me my little presents and I’ll quit meddling.”

“That’s so nice of you, Miss Rita,” I say. “But we both know that’s not true.”

She looks up at me, somehow managing to smile while gumming a huge mouthful of pork. She swallows and points at me with the spork. “You right about that. But do us both a favor, boy.”

“What’s that?”

“Hang around some people your own age. All this time with little old ladies? The rest of it sitting alone out there in the woods? That can’t be good for you.”

“That’s the path I’ve chosen for myself.”

“Well, you better find another one before you end up someplace bad. I’m telling you, go find some friends your own age,” she says. “Now, let me eat my food in peace,” she adds before turning her full attention to the pork.

“Wonder what them little old white ladies would think, they knew their prize pork roast was going to some old negress?” she says to signal that she’s done and ready to get back to minding my business.

“I’m sure my parishioners wouldn’t mind at all. There’s not a racist bone between them.”

“Yeah? Ain’t that nice? How many black people yall got back there in Grand Prairie?”

I don’t say anything.

“How many they got in Opelousas? About ten thousand? And in little tiny Plaisance? About six hundred-fifty out of the seven hundred people live there? And Grand Prairie? Not a damn one. Boy, I live around here a lot longer than you. Don’t be fooled just because it looks hunky-dory back there now.”

“Miss Rita—” I start, but she cuts me off.

“Don’t Miss Rita, me. Tell me something. They still got that man back there? He’d be pretty old by now. But he spends most of his time hunting squirrel in the woods.”

“That describes about half the old men in Grand Prairie.”

“Oh, I know that. But come on, boy. You smart. Think about their names. There’s one of those names that sticks out.”

Part of me wonders how she could possibly know any of the old coots back there, but I start listing out the names in my head. Earl Vidrine. Butch Lafleur. Lem Landry. T-Chew Vidrine. Harold Fontenot. Poot-poot Arcenaux. Then I have it.

“Noose?”

“Funny name, huh?”

“I’m sure it’s just a name, Miss Rita.”

“Yeah? How you sure? That’s an odd name just to get. And certainly no mama’s going to name her baby that, even if she’s in the Klan.”

Noose? The one or two times I’ve talked to him, he seemed like a nice quiet old man.

“They mighta drawn up their truce a long time ago,” she says, “but if black people staying out of a town, there’s always a reason for it. Might be safe now. And I’m sure confession ain’t exciting as it used to be, but black people are scared of ghosts.”

“Should I even ask about anything else?”

“Not if you want to look those people in the eyes every Sunday.” She pauses. “But I’ll eat their food anyway. They still know how to cook.”

I think she might even get more pleasure out of it knowing that it was prepared by an old white woman who’s never had a black foot step across her threshold.

“So,” she says after taking a nip from her Crown Royal bottle. “What about that old priest’s little girl? She should be about your age.”

“How do you know about Vicky?” I ask.

“Steve, everybody but the pope knew about that child. Vicky, huh? That her name? Nice name. She pretty?”

“Stop it.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yeah. Sure. She’s pretty. You happy?”

“Be a lot happier if yall start…well…you know.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” I say in exasperation.

“Boy, you know you’re not supposed to talk like that.”

“It’d be a lot easier if I didn’t have you driving me crazy all the time.”

“Hmmph,” she says. “Seems to me if you don’t want to be driven crazy, you could find someplace else to go hang out.”

“Believe it or not, you’re not the only thing driving me crazy, Miss Rita,” I say.

“Oh yeah? That Vicky girl getting after you?”

This time I just stare at her, refusing to say anything.

“Fine, then! Deny an old lady her dreams. Now go on. Tell me what’s the matter this time.”

I tell her about Brother Paul and the Pentecostal invaders, that I’m worried about him coming after my flock.

“I heard about that man.”

“You have?”

“Oh yeah. They talking about him all over town. He start out as Baptist, but kept butting heads with people that run that show. So he jumped to Pentecostal.”

“So he’s not all that great,” I say.

“Oh, he is. When he went Pentecostal, he took about a hundred Baptists with him. They say when that man talks, ladies start fainting in the church. I heard him on the radio a few times. That man got a silver tongue. I could practically feel the Holy Ghost coming into the room. I guess he made himself too popular for the Pentecostals, too, because they run him off. Either that or he just took off. But he took his hundred Baptists plus another hundred Pentecostals.”

“So, wait, he’s not Pentecostal?”

“I don’t know what he is. I guess he can call himself Pentecostal. Not like there’s a Pentecostal pope gonna go out there and tell him to stop.”

“So he doesn’t answer to anyone?”

“Just himself and the Lord.”

“Great. Now what am I supposed to do? He’s building a six-hundred-person church.”

“Probably stick in a community center and a bowling alley or something, too,” she says.

“Shit.”

“Hey, boy,” she says. “You know better than to talk like that around me.”

“Sorry.”

She falls silent for a moment, giving my problem serious thought. She sucks on her bottom lip while she thinks.

“You need you a fair,” she says finally. “A festival or something.”

“What?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Something to keep your people busy with your church so they don’t go running off to his. You gotta give them more than a talking-to on Sunday mornings. And the Good Lord knows you ain’t offering them the Holy Ghost. So give them some work to do. Show them a good time.”

“In Grand Prairie?” I ask, as if this is a remotely realistic idea.

“If them boys in Plaisance can fill a soybean field with all them people, on the hottest day of the year, for that zydeco festival, you oughta be able to do something with the space you got. You know people around here just looking for an excuse to get drunk and have a good time. You get ’em drunk and play ’em some good music, they might remember all them things the Pentecostals don’t let you do.”

“I don’t know. That sounds like a lot of work, Miss Rita.”

“And that’s a bad thing? Work keeps a man out of trouble. And trouble sounds like the direction you’re heading in.”

“Well.”

“Just be sure you have it in the fall after things cool down.”

“I don’t know if I can wait that long, Miss Rita. He’s already building a town back there.”

“Well, you can’t do it in the summer. Somebody gonna catch a heatstroke and die. Guess you better make it in the spring, right after Easter, when everybody had it up to here with being holy. They want to let loose after Lent.”

I look at her. She takes a sip out of her fresh bottle of whiskey.

“What?” she asks, pleased with herself.

Vicky’s clearing the table after feeding me her version of shepherd’s pie: instant mashed potatoes spread over ground beef, canned corn, and canned green beans.

“You can pretend to be a drunken Irish priest,” she told me when she served it. Now she’s telling me that my mother must have dropped me on my head when I was a child.

“A festival, Steve? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I follow her out to the patio, beer in hand, protesting along the way. The truth is, I do need something to focus on, something to occupy my time and distract me from the fact that the world moves on with or without me.

“It’ll be something to do. Bring people to Grand Prairie.”

“But why? It’s not like we even have stores here to draw business to.”

I tell her about B.P., that I’m worried he’s going to start raiding the flock.

“Steve, you’re being ridiculous,” Vicky’s telling me. “You think this guy will build his church and suddenly everyone’s going to abandon St. Peter’s and rush over there? I’m pretty sure these old Grand Prairie farts are set in their ways.”

“You haven’t met this guy, Vicky. He’s smooth.”

“Smooth?”

“Yeah, smooth. He could probably talk you out of your pants.”

“Is that right?” she says, shooting me a look I can’t quite translate.

“Look, I don’t know. I’m just trying to figure out a way to build a community. A festival seems like a good idea. Besides, it’ll be fun,” I say.