The Life and Adventures of Lyle Clemens

  “Don’t ask me anything! Nothing. Don’t ever question me!”

  She turned to walk away from him.

  “Sylvia! I have to talk to you. Why did you say that I could be Armando’s son?”

  She whirled around. “Because you could be!”

  “You’re lying, you just want to—”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Don’t ever question me! Don’t you understand what I said?”

  “I don’t understand you at all, Sylvia.” He felt only anger now. “Nothing you do makes sense. Nothing!” He relented. “Why, Sylvia, why did you do stuff like that?”

  Anger smeared her face. Her lips parted, about to shout fierce words. Then her shoulders sagged and her lips closed.

  “Why, Sylvia?” Lyle pled.

  “You can never understand.”

  “Never … understand?” Lyle whispered to himself.

  “Never,” Sylvia said. “You can never feel what I’ve felt. You can never understand.”

  6

  Has Lyle the First returned?

  “Am I still pretty, Lyle?” Sylvia asked her son. She stood unsteadily in the pose she would have adopted after she would have been named Miss America. Might still be? After all, she was only thirty-seven, and—

  The sad wistfulness of her once-familiar question—withheld for long—swept away all the anger Lyle had gathered in the past days. “You’re more than pretty, Sylvia,” he said. “There’s no one more beautiful than you,” he added, because she seemed more desperate than usual to be assured.

  Sylvia touched the smile on her face, as if to assure it was there and that he would see it. She stumbled, holding on to the staircase.

  He led her to her favorite chair in the living room. “That’s what the cowboy said, that I was the most beautiful woman—and then he left me.”

  “My goddamned son-of-a-bitch father shouldn’t’ve done that, he was wrong to do that,” Lyle said.

  “How wrong was he? Tell me.” Sylvia almost didn’t recognize her own voice, that’s how husky it had turned. Sitting on the chair Lyle had bought her when she complained that she had to sit on the bed of her apartment to watch television—and remembering that time—she closed her eyes and touched her breasts briefly, remembering, remembering, the way the cowboy who made love with his boots on used to touch them—remembering—his long, lanky body lying next to hers and—remembering—how he would throw off any covering, even when it was cool.

  “My goddamned father was real wrong to leave you.” Lyle seldom thought about the fact that the cowboy had also left him. He hated him for what he had done to Sylvia. For him, he was an absent presence. “I bet he regrets leaving you, regrets it every goddamn day of his goddamn life.”

  “Regrets? Oh, yes, tell me how much he regrets—“ Her eyes still closed, Sylvia leaned back on the chair. She swallowed from the bottle on the table beside her chair, long swallows, welcoming a warming haze, a warm, dark haze. “Come over here and tell me, tell me about regret.”

  Lyle moved toward her, thinking she was falling asleep. He reached to take the bottle gently from her before it fell to the floor.

  She grasped his hand, held it close to her, to her chest.

  He looked down at her, puzzled.

  “Go ahead, go ahead and tell me,” she sighed and kept her eyes closed, and parted her lips to Lyle Clemens the First, who was there now within the darkness her shut eyes had converted into a warm night, who was back, full of regrets for leaving her. He stood there, in the soft darkness of her memory—Lyle the Cowboy, Lyle the First, yes, he stood there, within that blur of her vision, a blur that gradually cleared within the sealed darkness, and, yes, he stood there, oh, yes, becoming clearer, taking full form within that gentle darkness, stood there so tall and handsome, and she held his hand to her chest. “I love you, Lyle,” she sighed.

  Lyle was startled, not by the words—his heart clasped them eagerly—but by the knowledge that she had never spoken them before. “I love you, too—“ He longed to say, “I love you, too, Mother,” but must not. “I love you, too, Sylvia.”

  “Kiss me, Lyle,” she said to the man who had finally returned after all those years of her waiting.

  Lyle tried to ease his hand away, kindly, from her increasing grasp.

  “Kiss me, Lyle.” When he did, it would all disappear, all the cruelty of long years, the memory of a single white rose, of a brutal letter.

  Lyle bent over and kissed her on the cheek, lightly.

  “Lyle—” she said to the man who had left her, and had returned, the way he did often in her dreams, but she was awake now and he had come back to tell her he loved her, couldn’t live without her, and he had just kissed her, the way he did, lightly before they made fervid love, and so she held his hand gently, guiding it to her breasts so that again she could feel him making love to them, could feel his mouth there, the moisture of his tongue, and then afterwards, they would—

  He would—

  She would—

  Lyle yanked his hand away.

  Sylvia opened her eyes. “Oh, my God!” she screamed.

  Lyle staggered back.

  “What the hell were you doing?” she shouted at him, at her son, who stood before her, where, only moments earlier, within the lucid darkness she had courted, Lyle the First had stood.

  Lyle shook his head. “I wasn’t doing anything, you told me to kiss you, you—”

  “Goddammit, how dare you accuse me? How could you even suggest that I—?” She brushed her body urgently with her hands, as if to push away the contact that had occurred, had almost occurred. Her body shot up, flung itself against him. Her hands lashed out at him, striking him over and over. “Damn you, damn you, damn you!”

  When she released him, her body collapsed on the chair.

  Mother, he wanted to say, but the forbidden word would not form. “Sylvia—” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  7

  A return to the Gathering of Souls with Brother Bud and Sister Sis.

  “You can’t go there, it’s a pit of horrors,” Clarita told her when she realized that Sylvia was not only going to the Pentecostal Hall but that she intended to take Lyle. Clarita had thwarted this once before; could she again? The two women stood on the stairway, Clarita on the bottom landing, prepared to block Sylvia’s passage.

  “I have to.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to face my sins.”

  “Go to confession, then; speak to a priest.”

  “It has to be there, at the Revival Hall. Get out of my way, Clara!”

  “Estás loca!” Clarita retreated. She saw another woman now, a crazy driven woman. She had even dressed to look different, in a dress she had never seen before—Eulah’s!—loose, dark, and she was pale, even paler without makeup. The fact that she had been drinking all day and could still speak with such determination added to Clarita’s fears.

  “It has to be there,” Sylvia spoke now as if only to herself, “where Eulah cursed my sinfulness, before she said I killed her, cursed my sinfulness for everyone to hear!” The words echoed in her mind, strange, dark, hers. “That’s where it has to be faced, for everyone to hear and know that I have sinned gravely, that I am being punished for my sins. There—and with Lyle.”

  8

  Amid frenzy a star emerges.

  Home from his job and lugging his guitar to practice on later tonight, Lyle had surrendered himself to Sylvia’s demands that he must come with her. He did so, willingly, to be with her, wherever she needed to go, during this time of terror that was etched on her wracked face, emphasized by the drab clothes she wore. What had occurred, that earlier time between them, had mystified him, and he had not yet sorted out what exactly he had done, but he suspected that her urgent pleading that he come with her now had to do with that. Clarita had followed them for more than a few steps, pulling at Sylvia’s sleeve, shouting that she was surrendering her soul to hell by going to “that gathering of locos.” Sylvia had moved along, now silent, L
yle beside her as she hurried—at times stumbling and he helped her up—down the streets of Rio Escondido toward the Pentecostal Hall.

  They entered the huge hall, swarming with hundreds of souls who had come from all around, as far as El Paso, as far as Albuquerque, a contingent from Dallas, another from Georgia, all forlorn, crying even when they smiled, young and old, men and women, children, their arms held out, hands reaching, bodies swaying—and a dog was running around under the seats howling in terror to the cacophony of hallelujahs and praise-Gods.

  Television cameras scoured the auditorium, electronic eyes glaring at the audience, capturing the most enraptured, the most tortured.

  Against the backdrop meant to suggest a rectory but looking more like a room in a gaudy motel—a happy picture of Christ in resplendent robes pasted against a wall—a gray-haired preacher jerked about, shaking and thrusting, then walking backward in short, jerky steps, then hopping forward, ranting unintelligible words punctuated now and then with a shouted, “Do I hear an amen?”

  “Amen!” Near the gray man, and dressed in frilly ruffles and wearing a huge blond wig, his wife shook and shook, her formidable breasts about to pop out of her red-ruffled blouse. Every time the gray man paused to gasp, she slapped her tambourine and interjected: “Hallelujah, praise Jee-zuss!”

  Sylvia recognized the gray man and the blond-wigged woman who had hovered over her dying mother years ago. How was it possible that Sister Sis had not changed during that long interim?—no; she had changed, had camouflaged her age with even heavier makeup. Brother Bud had only grown grayer.

  A chorus of black and white men and women in robes hummed over it all. Apart from them—as if purposely separating herself and wearing a much more regal robe than theirs—was an imposing, heavy black woman with a glittery gold crown.

  Attempting secretly to loosen his tight corset to allow freer struts as he hip-hopped back and forth, Brother Bud waved a Bible in one hand and clutched a microphone in the other.

  “Let’s hear it for the Lord-uh!” He bumped at each “uh!” “Do I hear an Allelu-jah-jah!” He bumped twice.

  “Allelujah!” “Allelujah!” “Allelujah!” the audience screamed. “Tell it to us, Brother Bud!” … “Tell it like the Good Book says.” … “Cast Old Satan back into the Pit!” The congregants waved their hands to intercept the preacher’s words, then clasped them to their hearts, to bury them there.

  Shaking, swaying, Sylvia pitched herself into the enraged spirit of the congregation.

  Lyle clenched his guitar, as if the greedy fingers about him might tear it away, fingers that seemed to be scratching at the air. He glanced at his mother, and then away from someone he had not seen before, a strange agitated woman clawing at the air like the others here, her eyes closed, lids quivering.

  Brother Bud shouted, “Take sides, all you who hear the Word, for the time is at hand and those who wait shall find no salvation out of the flames of hell!”

  “Praise God’s harsh judgement on those who do not repent!” Sister Sis joined. The mountain on top of her head did not budge.

  “Amen, amen!” … “Praise Jesus!” … “Tell it to us, Sister Sis!” screamed the congregation.

  “Give and it shall be given to you,” Brother Bud said, jack-hopping forward, then back. “Give as he has given to you.”

  “Let your gifts match your abundant love for him!” Sister Sis spoke into her own microphone. Tears streaking her cheeks sparkled with unglued glitter. Then her sobs broke into girlish giggles that she muffled by jiggling her tambourine.

  Glaring at her, his heavy gray eyebrows entangled into a frown, Brother Bud intoned, “Give, give, give!”

  The congregation responded, plopping bills, coins into baskets passed among them by somber attendants who looked like morticians.

  “Let’s hear it for the Lord!” Brother Bud accepted the largesse.

  Lyle saw the black woman with the crown shake her head.

  “Now come, shed your sins, give yourselves up to the Lord. Come!” Brother Bud summoned.

  “Be saved, be healed! Be slain in the spirit!” Sister Sis beckoned, between sobs.

  “Cleanse me!”

  Who had screamed that out so violently? It was Sylvia—no, a woman Lyle tried to recognize as Sylvia Love, his mother, a woman with her hands raised tearing at something invisible that must be brought down. Lyle tried to hold her hands, coax them back down. But her body, every limb, was rigid.

  From all over the hall they rose, some quickly, some slowly, some shoving away others, some hesitant, being shoved, some ambling along on crutches, others running, others pushing quivering beings on wheelchairs, all flowing in a tide of pain toward the stage, where Brother Bud, flanked by four husky guards in suits, awaited the approaching procession.

  Sylvia took Lyle’s hand. He surrendered it to her.

  Brother Bud shoved his palm against the head of each congregant begging salvation. “Be cured!” … “Speak!” … “Walk!” “Be slain in the spirit!” Each fell back, cradled by the attendants. “I can walk!” … “I can see!” … “I can hear!” They trudged and crawled and ran, to applause and hallelujahs—and to the maddened tinkling of Sister Sis’s tambourine.

  Lyle marched forward with Sylvia, clutching his guitar. He would walk with her, stand with her, help her. Whatever she needed that might break the terrible sadness that drenched their house, he would try to provide. He moved, close to her, protecting her, breathing the heavy stench of alcohol that had become her perfume.

  No question about it. The black woman with the crown was glowering fiercely. At him? At Sylvia?

  “Lubyah misque ilyalon!” Brother Bud lapsed into tongues at the enormity of his miraculous cures—and more to come. “Not my cures, the Lord’s,” he had asserted to applause.

  Lyle echoed the sounds he had just heard—“Lubyah misque ilyalon.” He located his guitar in front of him. “Lubyah misque,” he repeated, “ilyalon—lubyah misque ilyalon.…”

  Sylvia surged forward, those in her path parting to let her pass.

  Now she stood with Lyle before Brother Bud on the stage. Sister Sis moved in for a closer look at Lyle. She shook her tambourine and cried, “Lord, Lord, Lord!”—and slapped her thighs spiritedly.

  Lyle felt the stare of the black woman on him. “Uh-uh,” he heard her say in loud disapproval. “Uh-uh.”

  “Hmmmmmm, Lord, hmmmmmm—” the chorus translated.

  Sylvia looked beautiful in this light, the shadows that liquor and pain had dug into her face absorbed by the cleansing glare of light.

  Sister Sis held her gaze on Lyle and made a loud smacking sound with her lips, accompanied by several jiggles of her tambourine.

  “Uh-ummm.” This time, Lyle was sure, the black woman’s harsh disapproval was being directed at him—or Sylvia.

  “Hmmmmm,” the chorus sang.

  Sylvia Love grabbed the microphone extended to her. “I am here to be purged of my grievous sinfulness!”

  “No, Sylvia!” Lyle protested. He turned, now entreating, toward the woman with the glittery crown, as if she might help them. She only shook her head in even more emphatic disapproval.

  Sylvia Love shouted: “Cleanse me!”

  Before the readied palm of Brother Bud could strike her forehead, Lyle plucked an assertive chord on his guitar—stopping the motion. Another chord, another. “Lubyah misque,” he sang the weird words he had memorized. “Lubyah ilyalonnnn—lubyah misque—” He struck more chords, sweeter ones, and then—thinking of Sylvia there beside him, trying to punish herself in front of all these people, and for God-knows-what—he plucked sad notes, sadder ones, and sang, “Lub-yah mis-que il-ya-lonnnn!”

  “The Lord’s Cowboy is singing in tongues!” The excited word spread through the congregation.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  1

  Eulah’s curse at bay? Lyle does the preacher-strut, guided by Rose.

  All he knew as he sang was that he had to stop Sylvia from shouting
out harsh judgments on herself.

  So he sang Brother Bud’s tongued words, and as he sang them, they changed—“Love-ya, miss-ya, all alone”—and he plucked out a riffy rhythm that became urgent when Sylvia seemed about to resume her harsh declarations. The congregation buzzed and hollered, “Hallelujah!” and “Praise God!”—and, look, the black woman with the golden crown was clapping in rhythm to his song, encouraging him as he added words from songs he had been writing, until now mostly in his head:

  Never seen the ocean,

  Never touched the sky,

  But if I keep a-movin’

  I know that I can fly—

  He was stumped for a word to rhyme. He extended the last one:

  Fly-uhhhhhh, fly-uhhhhh—

  Nothing more came. He strummed and sang a refrain:

  Lub-yah mis-que il-ya-lonnnn!

  Love ya, miss ya, all alone—

  “All alone—” he stumbled, “all alone—” What next? Quick!—because Sylvia was about to start up her tirade—clasping a microphone to her mouth—before the befuddled, angered faces of Brother Bud and Sister Sis. Wait! Sister Sis was slapping her tambourine to his rhythm; a trill of giggles had stopped her sobs.

  “I was trapped in a prison of lust!” Sylvia cried out, and Lyle sang louder, much louder:

  Never seen the ocean,

  Never touched the sky—

  What had he rhymed with sky? He filled in with a few twangs of the guitar, heartened by the nodding and spirited clapping and swaying of the black woman. He hummed, repeated words, uttered sounds, echoed Brother Bud’s tongued words, stretched notes, lonely notes, strong notes, assertive notes, sad ones, lots of sad ones, sorrowing ones for Sylvia, and his voice was deep, then soft, and then it resonated.

  Sylvia looked at him in bewildered anger. “What the hell do you think you’re—?”

  The annoyed voice he recognized was back. Never mind that she was angry. Her quivering had stopped. The Sylvia he was used to was back!