The Dirty Parts of the Bible: A Novel Read Free Page A

hear the Plymouth pull back into the drive, I realized that Father was right. I was headed for hell.
    I remembered a word Father had used in one of his sermons: predestination . A small number of people—the elect—are predestined to heaven from the start. And everybody else is predestined to hell, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You know you’re among the elect if you love to pray and read the Bible above all else. But if you love girls more than God, it’s a sure bet you’ve got a one-way ticket south.
    All these years I’d tried to hide my sins and blend in with God’s elect, but it was clear now that I was among the damned. Because of me, my parents were on the brink of divorce, if not murder.
    And so I resigned myself to hell. It wasn’t a great disappointment, though. Heaven, Father said, was one long church service where the saints sang through the Baptist Hymnal again and again, into infinity. Eternal torment by Satan and his minions sounded rosy by comparison—especially if the French Lady was there with me.

 

CHAPTER 3
     
    T HE next morning, I awoke to the sound of a car crunching up the drive. I rolled out of bed and stumbled over to the window. There was a large black auto in the driveway, but it wasn’t Father’s—it was a patrol car.
    When I got downstairs, Officer Radney was already in the kitchen. There was no mistaking him; everyone in town knew Radney Larse, Remus’s one and only lawman.
    “This is the hardest part of my job, ma’am” he said, scanning the kitchen to avoid looking at Mama. “Yes siree.”
    Mama’s face was flushed and her hands were trembling. “Malachi. Is—is he—?”
    Officer Radney fixed his gaze on a basket of biscuits left over from the night before. “Do you mind?”
    Mama was confused. “No, I—”
    “Much obliged.” He sauntered over and bit off a cheekful of biscuit. “Now. You were asking …”
    “Malachi—”
    “Ah, yes. The Reverend.” Radney coughed, spraying crumbs through the air. “Well, he’s seen better days, but he’s still in one piece. Can’t say the same for that Ford.”
    “It’s a Plymouth,” I said. “Brand new.”
    “Ain’t no more.” Officer Radney bowed his head for a moment. “I’ll take you to the church—that’s where it happened.”
    As Mama and I started towards the door, Radney pocketed two more biscuits.

    + + +

    It was a cold, gray morning. Sure enough, I thought, yesterday’s balmy weather was only a fluke. Mama and I slid onto the hard leather seat in back of the patrol car.
    “Lord have mercy,” Mama said, over and over. Her prayers floated up in white clouds of warm breath and flattened into a layer of fog on the cold window.
    Father had never much liked Officer Radney. During Prohibition, Radney turned a blind eye to the stills and speakeasies, giving Remus a reputation as “Michigan’s Whiskey Woods.” Father often had condemned Radney from the pulpit; this must have been sweet revenge.
    It didn’t take long to reach the church. “There she is,” Radney said, turning up the drive. “What’s left of her.”
    A pair of tire tracks spun off the drive and ate through the grass, leading to a gaping hole in the side of the church. The Plymouth’s tail protruded forth. Loose parts were scattered over the ground—hubcaps, headlights, a door, the steering wheel. That car was the one luxury Father allowed himself; he justified it on account of a preacher needing a nice car to lead funeral processions.
    “The Reverend got thrown from the vehicle before impact,” Radney said. “I found him lyin’ over there, passed out. Lucky thing there ain’t parts of him spread all over, too.” Radney laughed but Mama didn’t.
    He hopped out and opened the door. “Follow me—he’s inside the church.”
    It was raining harder now. We stepped over shards of metal, glass, and wood, making our way to the church. At the door, Radney turned to face Mama. “I hate to be the one to tell you,