music. In the silence, Darrel stood, with a proud tilt to his head as always, but his eyes held something—tears?
“I wanted to tell you all,” he said, “I’m leaving. Unless anyone has something they’d like to say before I go.” His gaze landed on John.
If John asked Darrel to stay, if he spoke the truth, his bar might be boycotted, even set afire. His reputation, his life, ruined. He’d lose his business, his investment, his livelihood. Customers, friends. Everything he knew and built his life around, almost. But if he didn’t speak he’d be dead inside; Darrel would be lost to him forever. The joy—the energy and quickening—he’d experienced these past few months would be gone—a memory gathering dust. Fear trapped the words in his throat.
“We’ll pray for you,” Pastor Clyde said, finally, breaking the silence.
“Pray for me?” Darrel set his bag down, folded his arms, and studied their faces, one by one. John realized it wasn’t tears he’d seen in Darrel’s eyes. It was something fierce, indomitable. Darrel, like a destroying angel, possessed the power to shred their façades and reveal their secrets.
John knew what Darrel could say. Darrel could tell Miss CeeCee, now The Pleasure Chest was closed, how to order her special lubricant online. Could tell Nattie that new batteries for her personal gadget were sold at the watch counter. Could tell Commissioner Buckers if he tired of his current films, a certain website offered a good selection. Could tell Jennifer, who loved to read the kind of books they didn’t carry in the library, where to find more.
Would Darrel reveal their relationship? John was the worst pretender of them all, Darrel’s disciple in love, now too pragmatic—no, too cowardly—to admit the truth.
But when Darrel spoke, instead of anger and judgment, his quiet voice held disappointment: “If you want to pray, pray for yourselves.”
And he left.
Pastor Clyde hummed “Victory in Jesus,” until murmurs buried the solo.
“Darrel sure stared at you like you might have something to say,” Nattie said to John.
John unfroze himself, wiped an invisible smudge from the counter. “He was staring at you.”
Nattie’s mouth popped open. John wanted to cram his rag down it.
“Why would Darrel stare at me?” Nattie asked, her voice elevated. “Why me when it’s you he–”
“Nattie, I could have sworn,” John said, following instinct, “I saw you outside his store last night.”
“I was there for the story,” Nattie said.
“Before then. Hiding in the darkness.” John’s vague recollections of what he’d glimpsed in the shadows outside Darrel’s congealed into solid recognition. “You made the story.”
Miss CeeCee and Pastor Clyde glanced at each other and then back at him and Nattie. Jennifer set down her empty bottle, nearly missing the counter.
“I will not be disgraced,” Nattie said. She clutched her fist against her chest. “Darrel was polluting this town. If you’re going to make accusations, make them against him. You knew him intimately. Do you deny it?”
John’s ears burned. Somehow Nattie knew all about him and Darrel. But John knew this town. And he knew enough about Nattie. As much as the townsfolk liked to bemoan The Pleasure Chest, as loud as they’d howl about John and Darrel’s relationship, they would recognize that an arsonist posed a much greater threat.
“Darrel deserved what he got,” Nattie said.
No. But Nattie should get what she deserved. John put down the bar rag. “The detective,” he said, “will be interested in what I saw last night.”
“John. Nattie,” Pastor Clyde said. “Cool down.” He held his hands up as if in surrender. “Whoever set the fire committed a crime. But they also prevented further damage from that man’s temptations into an eternity in hell. Surely you both understand.” He looked at the detective, immersed in conversation with the commissioner. “I think, in this particular situation, we should agree he—or she—who is without sin should cast the first stone.” He glanced at Miss CeeCee, who pursed her lips.
Nattie stared at John, as if daring him to speak. A minute passed, and the moment to condemn, too, and John felt those unspoken revelations settle like dark stones in the pit of his stomach. He’d made a covenant with Nattie stretching forward, an unvoiced pact—if you ever tell, so will I.
She chugged the rest of her drink. “I’ll take my bill,” she said, and left with the same wiggle to her gait John had observed from his upstairs window as the arsonist retreated into darkness and The Pleasure Chest exploded into flames.
So the witch hunt ended. Not with a burning at the stake, but with a drowning—Nattie in her rum and cokes, Miss CeeCee in her Bloody Marys, Pastor Clyde in his righteousness, and John in his silence.
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