Read Online Blue Hole Back Home: A Novel by Joy Jordan-Lake - Free Book Online
Authors: Joy Jordan-Lake
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exactly. Regina Lee Riggs never said howdy—she was much too refined. She would’ve asked, in deep Virginian, to convey mah regahds to y’all’s mangy pack.
Jimbo stabbed his fork into barbecue. “And the good Reverend Riggs,” he tipped his head toward Farsanna, “that’d be my daddy—was receiving his weekly word from the Lord.” Bo reached for the hot sauce, the one marked with the flames, and raised it to Emerson and me like a toast. “He’s calling it ‘Rescue the Perishing and Yeah, That Means You.’”
“Bo’s referring to our father,” Emerson said to Farsanna, who sat beside him, between him and Bo. “Dad’s what you might call the village atheist.”
L. J. nodded. “Every village benefits from a modicum of intellectual dissent.”
Welp nodded too. Though he probably hadn’t heard what he was nodding about.
Emerson jerked his head in my direction. “Me and Shelby Lenoir take after the faith of our father, you might say.”
For a moment, L. J. stopped sneering. “Which reminds me,” he groaned, “have you all seen my daddy’s new sign?”
I leaned in to my brother. “What sign?”
“Outside his daddy’s Feed and Seed,” Emerson answered, laughing. “It’s a new marquee, three lines, a good five feet across and lit up so as the blind couldn’t miss it: “Fresh Bait—”
His head dropping to his chest, L. J. supplied the next line: “Cold Beer—”
Jimbo snagged the last line for himself: “Jesus Saves!” And Bo began the lines again, chanting with Em: Fresh Bait, Cold Beer, Jesus Saves! He gave L. J.’s shoulder a friendly shove. “Me and the good Reverend Riggs drove by it yesterday, and even he chuckled up some.”
L. J. shook his head. “Your daddy laughed?”
“Said he reckoned you’d be embarrassed as Kentucky Fried Cherubs.”
“Well he’s right. He said that?”
“‘Least that’s what he meant .”
That went without saying. The good Reverend Riggs, we all knew, never said what he meant, for fear of offending—but, now, that didn’t make the opposite true. Nobody doubted he meant what he said, his sermons all variations on being nice because God was so nice. But Truth was something the Good Reverend liked to hand out soft and slow and sweet-smelling—which, some people said, was why the Baptists had kept him so long, their having run off the preacher before who’d liked his iced tea and his gospel unsweetened.
Bobby Welpler leaned across the table to Farsanna. “What about you, Sri Lanka? Your daddy got himself forty wives and a girl god with snakes for hair?”
L. J. covered his face with both hands. “Good Lord, the ignorance one has to endure here.” He turned on Welp. “Sri Lanka primarily practices Buddhism, and secondarily Hinduism. Although,” he cocked his head at Farsanna, “although …”
“My father’s family,” she offered quietly, “are Muslim. And Moor. Although we do not regularly—”
Welp interrupted: “What do them Arabs call their Bible?”
“Sacred text,” L. J. corrected, one hand massaging his forehead. “And it’s called the Koran.”
“Yeah. Koran. Or maybe your daddy’s done some of that island voodoo, huh, Sri Lanka?”
The new girl received this without flinching. “This,” she told him, “is for us home now.”
Just like that. No explanation.
But Welp muttered, “That don’t make no sense,” and I’d no intention of agreeing with him in public.
Jimbo was gnawing his way through his third corn on the cob, this last one from off my plate. He shrugged cheerfully. “You got a God-given right not to make sense in the Home of the Brave—what makes this country so big-dirty-dog great. Don’t nothing got to make sense, and our Constitution protects it.”
Welp pouted. “She still ain’t answered my question.”
“You,” I said to Welp, “haven’t asked one worth answering yet.”
Emerson slapped two quarters on the table. “Welp, Big Dog here’s needing a drink.” She
Jimbo stabbed his fork into barbecue. “And the good Reverend Riggs,” he tipped his head toward Farsanna, “that’d be my daddy—was receiving his weekly word from the Lord.” Bo reached for the hot sauce, the one marked with the flames, and raised it to Emerson and me like a toast. “He’s calling it ‘Rescue the Perishing and Yeah, That Means You.’”
“Bo’s referring to our father,” Emerson said to Farsanna, who sat beside him, between him and Bo. “Dad’s what you might call the village atheist.”
L. J. nodded. “Every village benefits from a modicum of intellectual dissent.”
Welp nodded too. Though he probably hadn’t heard what he was nodding about.
Emerson jerked his head in my direction. “Me and Shelby Lenoir take after the faith of our father, you might say.”
For a moment, L. J. stopped sneering. “Which reminds me,” he groaned, “have you all seen my daddy’s new sign?”
I leaned in to my brother. “What sign?”
“Outside his daddy’s Feed and Seed,” Emerson answered, laughing. “It’s a new marquee, three lines, a good five feet across and lit up so as the blind couldn’t miss it: “Fresh Bait—”
His head dropping to his chest, L. J. supplied the next line: “Cold Beer—”
Jimbo snagged the last line for himself: “Jesus Saves!” And Bo began the lines again, chanting with Em: Fresh Bait, Cold Beer, Jesus Saves! He gave L. J.’s shoulder a friendly shove. “Me and the good Reverend Riggs drove by it yesterday, and even he chuckled up some.”
L. J. shook his head. “Your daddy laughed?”
“Said he reckoned you’d be embarrassed as Kentucky Fried Cherubs.”
“Well he’s right. He said that?”
“‘Least that’s what he meant .”
That went without saying. The good Reverend Riggs, we all knew, never said what he meant, for fear of offending—but, now, that didn’t make the opposite true. Nobody doubted he meant what he said, his sermons all variations on being nice because God was so nice. But Truth was something the Good Reverend liked to hand out soft and slow and sweet-smelling—which, some people said, was why the Baptists had kept him so long, their having run off the preacher before who’d liked his iced tea and his gospel unsweetened.
Bobby Welpler leaned across the table to Farsanna. “What about you, Sri Lanka? Your daddy got himself forty wives and a girl god with snakes for hair?”
L. J. covered his face with both hands. “Good Lord, the ignorance one has to endure here.” He turned on Welp. “Sri Lanka primarily practices Buddhism, and secondarily Hinduism. Although,” he cocked his head at Farsanna, “although …”
“My father’s family,” she offered quietly, “are Muslim. And Moor. Although we do not regularly—”
Welp interrupted: “What do them Arabs call their Bible?”
“Sacred text,” L. J. corrected, one hand massaging his forehead. “And it’s called the Koran.”
“Yeah. Koran. Or maybe your daddy’s done some of that island voodoo, huh, Sri Lanka?”
The new girl received this without flinching. “This,” she told him, “is for us home now.”
Just like that. No explanation.
But Welp muttered, “That don’t make no sense,” and I’d no intention of agreeing with him in public.
Jimbo was gnawing his way through his third corn on the cob, this last one from off my plate. He shrugged cheerfully. “You got a God-given right not to make sense in the Home of the Brave—what makes this country so big-dirty-dog great. Don’t nothing got to make sense, and our Constitution protects it.”
Welp pouted. “She still ain’t answered my question.”
“You,” I said to Welp, “haven’t asked one worth answering yet.”
Emerson slapped two quarters on the table. “Welp, Big Dog here’s needing a drink.” She
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