Page 78 of The Bright Lands
“Luke was a lot less confused about himself than his mother thought,” Wesley said. And, the minister went on, Luke didn’t waste any time. When things started, Wesley and the boy would meet for lunch at a chain restaurant in Waco, a ninety-minute drive away, and over enchiladas Wesley would try to talk about the Lord, about the value He places on keeping one’s body pure, about all the old promises of retribution for those folks who failed to follow some simple commandments. “He seemed receptive,” Wesley said.
I bet, Joel thought.
Wesley said it was all so quotidian. Things took a turn. Their sessions grew longer, more personal.
Soon Luke was giving the minister little gifts as thank-yous for making so much time for him—a small cross he’d carved at home, a chunk of quartz he’d discovered on a hike with his brother. That was when he’d given Wesley the medal. “He said he remembered how well I played in my day. He said Troy Clark didn’t deserve all the love he got.”
Of course, Luke knew that Wesley was the only person living on this stretch of the Evers family’s subdevelopment. Last Friday, things finally came to a head. Luke had texted Wesley Friday night after the game was over and said he had something he couldn’t wait to ask the minister about.
Joel couldn’t help but say, “And you were shocked when he came over with more than Jesus on his mind?”
Wesley closed his eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like here, Joel.”
“You could leave.”
“Right. Of course. And have you found someone special in the city? Someone to wake up for?”
After a moment, Joel said, “No.”
Wesley gave him a tight-lipped smile: spiteful, and yet with a strange air of relief, like he’d just heard confirmation that he’d made a wise choice back at some difficult time. Joel would never forgive him for that smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“Did Luke mention the ad on Friday night?” Joel said.
“What ad?”
“The one the players were passing around at halftime.”
“The boy doesn’t have friends. It’s why we got along so well.” Wesley gave a tipsy burp. He rounded on Joel, jabbed a finger in the air, suddenly all anger and self-justification. “What we did wasnothingcompared to the shit that goes on in this town, you know.”
Just as he had last night at the dam, Joel felt something large looming in the air, waiting to be said.
“What sort of shit, Wesley?”
“You remember.”
“Let’s say I don’t.”
Rage overcame Wesley. He stared at Joel, eyes black and narrow, and said, “You’re as bad as your fucking brother, you know that? You fucking sanctimonious shit. Who do you think burned down my church? Some meth addicts? No, you fucking idiot, it was your brother and those boys, those goddamn footballers who can get away with anything. They’ve been a terror for years because they know the cops won’t touch them.”
Wesley’s voice grew louder. Here was a man, Joel thought, who could fill a pulpit.
“Most of them are happy to rip off someone’s stereo or a wallet but your brother decided he wanted to save the fucking world and torch a church. Dylan only ever showed up at the service to sit next to Bethany Tanner and keep this town thinking he was their damned heart and soul. Luke figured it out easy.”
Wesley paused to give his lip an angry bite.
“When that mother of y’all’s moved a man into her house over the summer there was a little perplexity why those two couldn’t follow basic protocol. There was talk.”
“Dylan burned down a church because people were gossiping about our mother?”
“He didn’t even bother lying when Luke spotted the kerosene cans in his truck.”
Joel let a long silence settle before he said, “What else was Dylan doing? Where did he and KT go on the weekends?”
Wesley gave an indignant little shrug. “How the hell should I know? They never talked to me.”
This sounded genuine to Joel’s ears. He let it go for now. Something Wesley had said a moment before echoed with something Bethany had told him yesterday:“The cops never bothered Dylan.”
“So Dylan was immune to police investigation? Why isn’t Jamal? He’s on the team too, backup or not.”
