The Life and Adventures of Lyle Clemens

  Did he mean Brother Bud and Sister Sis? Lyle walked up the stairs to the second floor. Over the stairway hung a chandelier that would have been dazzling if it had not been coated with years of dust forcing it to struggle to shine. On one wall was a painting of soldiers bearing the flag of Texas. A few years back, Sister Matilda would not have been welcome here, although Lyle was sure she would have pushed her way in if necessary.

  “Come in, I heard you,” the Golden Voice responded to Lyle’s knocking.

  She had left the door unlocked for him.

  Sister Matilda sat on a high-backed, carefully pillowed chair. She faced Lyle in a room that, like the hotel, seemed out of a distant time, old prints of trains, landscapes, a four-poster bed, even a washbowl on a table, and faded velvet drapes. She wore her gospel robe, carefully arranged to flow to her feet. And her crown. Did she ever take it off?

  “Go ahead, sit down there. It’s a wooden chair, that’s all they got here except for this one I bring with me. I put some pillows on yours for your rump, not that you have to worry—you cowboys got such flat butts on you.”

  Lyle located his boots carefully under the chair so that if she got up she wouldn’t stumble over them. He sat straight, to emphasize his respect.

  “Young man, I called you here to warn you that you may be in a heap of trouble, even danger, if you don’t watch it.” She shifted her body, slightly, carefully, exactly, so that a streak of light from the window transformed her crown into a halo that added authority to her voice. “And to try to teach you how to sing.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  1

  Considerations about what constitutes grace. When is it amazing? Intimations of a secret fraught with danger.

  The urgent note in Matilda’s letter to Lyle, and, just now, a clear warning of trouble, were either forgotten or to be kept in abeyance, Lyle realized as, leaning back on her throne—Sister Matilda converted whatever she sat on into a throne—she asked him:

  “You got black blood in your background? Any Negro blood?”

  “I’m of mixed blood,” Lyle said. That’s what Sylvia had told him, about herself, although she had not clarified what the mixture was. Still, it seemed to be an answer that might please Sister Matilda.

  It didn’t. “If you don’t, how was it you sang those soulful tones? Not all singers can, cowboy.”

  Absolutely no need to remind her that he wasn’t a cowboy. “I’m not a singer.”

  “Maybe you could be,” Sister Matilda rendered her verdict. She raised her hand as if testifying to the fact. “You put soul in your song.” Her eyes looked up toward Heaven, as if to verify her finding. “I heard pain, saw it when you looked at … that lady with you—”

  “Sylvia,” Lyle said. “My mamma.…”

  “Your mamma,” Sister Matilda said, remembering the forlorn woman on the stage. “She’s got a load of pain, and you were trying to save her from pouring all that hurt out before those two—” She stopped herself, looking at him as if to gauge how much to say now; she substituted words with a harsh sound.

  “You understood what I was doing—right away—and you helped me,” Lyle said. He was about to thank her, but she raised her hand, rejecting gratitude. “Will you teach me to sing?” he asked her. From her huge smile he could tell she was willing.

  But the smile was smothered by a frown. “Can’t teach soul!” she snapped. “You got it or you don’t. Maybe you got it, cowboy. Maybe.” She hummed, deeply, beautifully, darkly. “God granted me a voice people remember.” She looked away from him, lowered her regal head, as if in regret. The crown did not slip. “Maybe now and then I’ve squandered it.”

  “My mamma heard you once, you sang a song she loves.”

  “I bet I know what song a hurting lady like her would love.”

  “What song?” He longed for her to know, because then she might provide a clue to the mystery of Sylvia.

  “‘Amazing Grace,’ of course,” Sister Matilda said easily.

  “That’s it!”

  “Know why she loves it?”

  “I wish I did.”

  “Because it offers grace. Listen!”

  Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,

  That saved a wretch like me,

  I once was lost, but now I’m found,

  Was blind but now I see.

  “What is grace?” Lyle asked her. “Is it a burst of light?” That’s what had augured Clarita’s miracle in Chihuahua.

  “Yes. A great burst of beautiful light, yes,” Sister Matilda agreed, “but it’s more than that. It happens when the Lord extends grace to give everyone who seeks it, the strength to carry the loads life heaps on us. Now why is that amazing?”

  Lyle shook his head; he neither believed nor disbelieved in God; and if He existed, why would he heap heavy loads on anyone in the first place?

  “What’s amazing is that grace provides hope that the heaviest loads will lighten. Sometimes, cowboy, that’s enough to get you through life. Hope.”

  “Hope. …” Lyle wanted to retain the word, to ponder the whole matter later.

  “Know who wrote the song?” Sister Matilda had waited for moments for Lyle to search his thoughts.

  “A black man,” Lyle guessed.

  “A white man,” Sister Matilda corrected, “name of John Newton; he was a captain, a slave-trafficker. A vile wretch!” Anger spilled out of her voice. “Dealt in tradin’ flesh, human flesh.” Her words assumed a deep Southern tone not usually there, and she spoke the words as if she was singing them, finding rhythm here, extending it there, accentuating it all with a soft moan. “Brought slaves, black slaves, to sell, split up their families, husband from wife, children from mother—families treated worse’n dogs, and no dog deserves to be treated like that. … Give me an amen to that, cowboy.”

  “Amen,” Lyle said.

  “Then, one day—”

  Lyle closed his eyes and saw it all as Sister Matilda conveyed it, almost singing parts of her account.

  Cap’n Newton looked into the eyes of a shackled black man he had brought on his ship to sell with many others in America, and he looked into those black eyes, and the slave’s pain pulled him in, farther in, farther, farther, deeper, the black unblinking eyes of the chained man not letting go, not letting him out, pulling him even deeper, deep, deep, deep into his soul, dragging him in there and tossing him around, and there, in the black man’s soul, was a pool of hurt and anger and indignation at what was being done to him and the others, and Cap’n Newton sank still deeper into that pool of sorrow, down, down, into the black man’s suffering, and he thought he understood it, feeling the hurt as much as he could, and understood at last what it is to stop hoping, and the blackness he was about to drown in burst with a blast that threw him back on the deck of the ship, and still the black slave’s eyes were on him, as the blackness exploded again, again, again, exploded into a white radiance that was the Lord’s Grace!

  “It was only when he understood—and tried, just tried, to feel the other’s pain, to understand it”—Sister Matilda spoke with her eyes closed, as if to share the darkness that had burst into light—“it was only when he understood that man’s pain that Cap’n Newton was able to write the song that lavished grace on both of them.” She opened her eyes on Lyle. “Do I hear an amen to that, cowboy?”

  “Amen, Sister Matilda,” Lyle said. His mind was echoing words: Feeling the hurt as much as he could and understood it.

  In a voice that trembled and soared, Sister Matilda sang:

  Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,

  That saved a wretch like me,

  I once was lost, but now I’m found,

  Was blind but now I see.

  ’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,

  and grace my fears relieved,

  How precious did that grace appear,

  The hour I first believed.

  Through many dangers, toils, and snares,

  I have already come;

  ’Tis grac
e has brought me safe thus far

  And grace will lead me home.

  “Now, cowboy,” she said, “you sing the words with me and give them even more grace with your guitar.”

  “No.” Lyle slung his guitar back over his shoulders, refusing to join her. “You said Cap’n Newton was able to write that song only when he understood the slave’s pain. That song means a lot to Sylvia, and I don’t understand her, don’t understand her pain. So I can’t sing it.”

  Sister Matilda nodded.

  2

  A necessary dramatic pause before an abrupt interruption.

  There was a loud shuffling outside the door, loud, as if somebody wanted to assert a presence, without knocking.

  “They know you’re here,” Sister Matilda said calmly.

  Brother Bud and Sister Sis, Lyle understood.

  “Gotta watch ’em carefully, remember all you see,” Sister Matilda said to Lyle. “You saw that candy jar?”

  “I think they tried to hide it from me.”

  More shuffling at the door, louder still.

  “Remember what you saw in it,” Sister Matilda said.

  “Jelly beans, orange and black?” Lyle was baffled anew.

  The unlocked door opened.

  “Look who’s here, the dandy cowboy!” Sister Sis trilled.

  “Lord if he ain’t,” Brother Bud said.

  Both faced Sister Matilda. “Teaching him how best to serve the Write-a-Love-Letter-to-Jesus Campaign?” Brother Bud tried to sound friendly.

  “Precisely. Come again, Lyle,” Sister Matilda dismissed him, “we’ll talk some more. Serious talk.”

  3

  An invitation from the Lord sent through Brother Bud and Sister Sis.

  Outside, Lyle continued toward the stairs, away from Brother Bud and Sister Sis; but they were pursuing him.

  “Whatya been doin’ with Sister Matilda, cowboy?” Brother Bud said to Lyle.

  Lyle stood on the stairs, under the chandelier. To divert himself from them, he raised himself on tiptoes, blowing away the dust on it.

  “So whatya been doing with her?” Sister Sis insisted.

  “Learnin’ to sing.”

  They detoured about him, blocking his way down the stairs, to face him.

  “No denying that Sister Matilda has a golden voice,” Brother Bud offered expansively.

  “Still, you gotta know that sometimes she babbles, babbles mean stuff, too, untrue stuff,” the voice under the towering blond wig said.

  “She been babbling such to you?” the gray evangelist said.

  “No. … Excuse me.” Lyle dodged past them.

  They followed him. “We had a clear message from Jesus,” Sister Sis said, reverentially draping the heavy lashes over her eyes, “we get them real often, but this one was emphatic, the Lord told us to refresh our proposal to you, because, cowboy, he wants you.”

  “We’ll be flying back to the Lord’s Headquarters in California in a coupla days,” Brother Bud informed him, “and if you join us, remember the Lord lavishes rewards on those he calls.”

  “Lots and lots of rewards,” Sister Sis emphasized.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bud, Miz Sis. I’ll keep that in mind,” Lyle said before hurrying away.

  Brother Bud shouted out: “You just keep our friendly invitation in mind, ya hear?”

  4

  The matter of Maria is resumed; a frightening possibility is reconsidered.

  Lyle put it all out of his mind, Sister Sis, Brother Bud, the jar of jelly beans, and—

  No, he could not banish Sister Matilda. He longed to return to her, to hear more, learn more, but that would expose him to Brother Bud and Sister Sis and expose her to … what? She indicated danger involving them and her, and his presence appeared to aggravate it.

  Besides, there was the matter of Maria to tend to now.

  In his lot, the two sat against the unfinished wall. At a farther edge of the lot, in a small patch, wildflowers had begun to grow, perhaps because often, in his hurry to come here, Lyle would not wait to go to the men’s room, but would sprinkle the dry ground there before rushing away to wait to see whether Maria would join him. Though he often studied the tiny flowers even on the weeds, noting their special beauty, today he had focused on the sadness that was gathering around him. The day, which was bright, seemed sadly bright. The grass, which was green, seemed sadly green; the sky, which was blue, looked sadly blue.

  And Maria, who was beautiful, looked very sad as she rested on her school satchel, Lyle beside her on an unfinished step.

  “If you are my brother, and we—you know—fucked—what now?” Maria said.

  “I’m not your brother, you’re not my sister, my mother lied.”

  “Don’t say that, God will punish you, say a prayer, mothers don’t lie. If it’s not true, then she believes it, that’s all there is to that, but mothers don’t lie, but what if you are my brother?”

  “It isn’t true, and I doubt that she believes it.”

  Maria shook her head, emphatically. “Mothers don’t lie, Lyle.”

  “Look, I don’t even resemble you, nor do I resemble your father. I’m tall, and he’s—” He didn’t want to be mean.

  “—short, very short,” Maria finished. “That’s why he’s always stretching, to appear taller. I think he’d like to believe that he’s your father because that would mean something about him is tall—you. Still, he says an uncle of his was very tall, and that would account for—”

  To settle everything, Lyle leaned over and kissed her hotly on the lips, rubbing his mouth all around hers, probing with his tongue.

  She allowed it, responding, then she shoved his tongue out with hers. “What if it’s true—?”

  “Your father lied, and I told you my mother lied.”

  “And I told you that mothers never lie, and it’s a sin to say they do. Besides, if it’s true, our children—”

  “You don’t make children by kissing,” Lyle told her.

  “I know, I meant what we already did.”

  “Look, Maria, I love you.”

  “And I love you, Lyle.”

  “Then there’s no problem, is there?” He resumed his kissing, even hotter.

  She responded, even more passionately. Then she shoved his tongue out forcefully. “But what if?”

  “Stop it!”

  “What if it was true and we had children and then they were puny like the children of incestuous kings and queens?” She covered her face, tears seeping through her fingers. “Oh, life, oh, life, oh! How strange, how very, very strange!”

  “God-fuckin’-dammit! You’re not my fuckin’ sister, will you get that out of your goddamned silly head?”

  “Oh! Oh!” Maria stood up. “Oh! You cursed me!” She made a sign of the cross. “But I know you didn’t mean it, and so I forgive you.” She looked at him forlornly. “But if it’s true, oh, Lyle, if it’s true then we shall be damned forever!”

  “Knock it off, Maria, you’re really being stupid, you know?”

  “Stupid! No more, no more!” she screamed and ran away a few steps and waited, expecting him to coax her back. When he didn’t, she called out, “I shall always love you, just like I promised—whoever you are!” She waited long moments before she ran away sobbing.

  Lyle kicked disconsolately at the dusty lot with his boots. He hadn’t run after her because he knew she would just start again with “What if,” and he didn’t want to explain again, didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to consider any such thing. Didn’t want to remind himself that it was Sylvia who had allowed this terrible situation.

  5

  A persistent ghost returns, even more powerful.

  There are times in life when something horrible seems finally to have been laid to rest, times when a deep wound seems cauterized and new flesh is welcomed to erase the scar entirely. That is how it had seemed to Sylvia Love that evening at the Gathering of Souls, after her assertion that she deserved damnation, that she acknowledg
ed Eulah’s curse, thwarted by Lyle’s song. She told Clarita as much. The silly curse had no more power, her frenzied drive for “repentance” had been ridiculous; she saw that now. “I made a damn fool of myself.” She laughed, remembering the bizarre scene.

  Slowly at first—so slowly that she was not aware of it—and then so quickly that there was no pause, it all returned. She was sure that Eulah was back, although her appearance was always hazy. Sylvia would raise up her glass of liquor to the specter, at times as an offering of peace, at times in defiance of her. Once, trying to stare down the ghost, she dozed for a moment. When she woke, she felt Eulah’s white sheet being flung over her body, exactly like on the day that had begun her torture.

  She stumbled to the mirror. Nothing was clinging to her shoulders. When she turned away, she felt it again, a gauziness.

  “Goddamn you, Eulah Love! You let me be!” she shouted out once. Clarita ran in, soothing her, easing away the bottle she clutched in her hand as urgently if it were her salvation, her substitute for salvation at such a young age.

  Lyle was aware of all that.

  6

  A grave decision.

  Lyle sat forlornly in his room, his boots beside him, his feet tucked under him as he sat on the floor. He held his guitar, looking at it as if to locate the mystery that allowed it to make notes.

  When she ran into him, Maria cried. She no longer joined him in his vacant lot. Sylvia stayed in her room most of the time. When she would come out unsteadily, she would stare at him as if to locate him within a haze. She might place a tender hand on his shoulder, and then pull it away.

  What else but to leave when his presence added complications for everyone involved? Leave for Maria’s sake, for Sylvia’s sake. How to leave, quickly?

  7

  The true color of Jesus.

  “You could join a rodeo,” Sister Matilda sat on her throne-chair at the Texas Grand Hotel.

  “Dammit, I don’t know how to ride a horse,” Lyle said. “Listen, Sister Matilda, you don’t understand, joining the campaign is the only way I know to get away, and I got to get away.” Didn’t she understand it meant he would go along with her, too? Didn’t that please her? Her reaction was annoying him, adding to his depressed mood.