Southern Cross Read Free

refrained from checking the rearview mirror again.
Solomon settled in, her feet tapping, for the rest of the journey.
     
    It
was just past one in the afternoon when we got where we were going. The sun had
vanished behind a blanket of thick, menacing grey clouds, and the temperature
had dropped a good fifteen degrees since Louisville. I tried not to view that
as a sign of impending doom, but considering Solomon and my luck in the past,
it was hard to write it off completely.
    Justice
is a one-streetlight town on the Mississippi that was booming up until the
1970s, when levees rerouted the river. Since then, the population has held
steady at about 1,500, with the bulk of those people working in neighboring
towns. Visitors are greeted by a sign that reads simply JUSTICE FIRST as they
cross the town line. Just beyond that was a sign that hadn’t been there when
I’d left five years before, however.
    “
‘Hell is real.’ ”  Solomon read the flaming orange letters aloud. “Or at least
it is according to Reverend Jesup T. Barnel. Well, there you go. One
theological debate ended.”
    Ten
feet later, a second sign appeared. “ ‘Repent all ye sinners. The fire awaits,’
”  Solomon read. Her voice was light enough, but she was doing the
knee-bouncing thing that usually means she’s either nervous or she has to pee.
When it’s the former, the knee-bouncing is accompanied by an endless,
one-sided, rambling dialogue, which is how I knew this was anxiety and not just
an overactive bladder.
    After
another ten feet, the largest sign of all appeared—ten feet high, maybe twelve
across. On it was a picture of an overweight, elderly white man with a white
beard and a cowboy hat.
    “There’s
a tent meeting tomorrow night,” Solomon said. “In which Reverend Barnel will
purportedly ‘Set the clock ticking: forty-eight hours ‘til the End is Come.’ ” 
She looked at me speculatively. “Look at that—we made it just in time for
Armageddon.”
    “Of
course we did,” I said dryly. “This is you and me we’re talking about.”
    “Good
point.” She shook her head as we approached the center of town. “So, this is
Justice. I can’t believe you lived here for three years. It’s not really how I
imagined it.”
    “What
were you thinking?”
    She
had to think about that for a minute. “Kind of a cross between Dodge and that
town in Footloose.”
    “Actually,”
I said after some thought, “you’re not that far off.”
     
    The
town of Justice consists of a main stretch of boarded-up storefronts and a few
diehards still managing to hang on, despite Walmart’s chokehold on the local
economy: the Justice Qwik E Mart, True Value Hardware, and Martin Feed &
Grain. Across the way, you’ll find the historic Justice City Hall, built in
1862, flanked on one side by the local police station, and on the other by WKRO
Radio and the old Twin Cinemas movie theater.
    It
took five minutes to leave Justice proper behind. From there, I took River Road past churches and shacks, For Sale signs posted at every third house or so, and
then turned onto a pitted dirt road shrouded by old oak trees. We trekked through
a mile of mud and deep ruts until Wyatt’s house came into view. The sky
darkened further as I pulled in behind a twin-cab 4x4 parked in the driveway.
    Dogs
barked. Einstein barked back at them. Roosters crowed. Three goats and a donkey
eyed us curiously from behind wire fencing off to our right. I stopped the car,
but made no move to get out.
    “You
all right?” Solomon asked.
    It
was an excellent question. I only wished I had a good answer. “Not at all. But
what are you gonna do, right?”
    She
took my hand in hers—carefully, like she was taking hold of a live wire. Her
hand was cool and dry, soft and strong. Her eyes met mine, a frown tipping the
corners of her mouth. “I really am here,” she said. “Whatever you need. It’s
what we do, right?”
    We
stayed that way for a minute or more before she let go. It