Page 33 of Brimstone Hollow

“You don’t like the snake milking either, I take it.”

“I think it’s a good service they provide and itdoesbring a little extra money in to the church but… I always said if Ezra wanted to handle those snakes, well, that’s his own business, but Will’s had enough troublein his life without him sitting in that house trying to pull venom out of a snake’s mouth.”

“He told me that Ezra healed him,” I say. “When he was younger.”

She nods as she drinks her tea, looking down into the cup as if there’s something she wants to say but knows she shouldn’t. I try to give her time to come to it on her own, but when she doesn’t, I ask, “What is it, Thelma?”

She puts her cup down and sighs before finally saying, “It was a long time ago.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I’m not from here so all the old news is new to me.”

“It’s not my place to say, honey, but… Will was having a real bad time at home. His daddy was a piece of work and then Will… you know he was always a moresensitivetype. Veryarty.”

She looks at me meaningfully.

“Will’s gay,” I guess.

“Well, we never knew for sure, did we? I knew he was having trouble. His daddy didn’t like the way he was turning out. Tried to put Will in football, get him to toughen up. But Will was sort of—My granddaughter says it’s calledemo, but back when my daughter was younger, they called itgoth. Always wore black, always looked like someone stole his ice cream cone. He was just a little wisp of a boy, poor thing. He got a job at the florist’s shop in town and his daddy didn’t like that one bit. But he was real good at it. Still is. He does all the arrangements for the altar. But you know how people can be; the way they talk.”

I nod my understanding. Not long ago I got a message from a friend I’d graduated high school with telling me our alma mater had elected its first queer Prom King. But, when I was a teenager, there wasn’t a single openly gay kid in the school. Even ten or fifteen years ago, a kid like Will—especially if his homelife included a homophobic dad—could easily have been miserably closeted his entire high school career. Tiny conservative towns like this one are held up as the poster children of bigotry and homophobia, but it happens everywhere. I’ve seen it all over the world.

Thelma exhales a deep breath and then says, “Anyway, one summer—I think Will must’ve been about fourteen or fifteen—he had a breakdown.I came in to church one morning and he was at the altar just crying his poor little eyes out. I asked him what was going on and he wouldn’t say. I tried to be subtle but let him know he could trust me. My son, Ralph, is gay and it don’t make no difference to me. He’s a good man and I’m proud of him.”

She pauses to take another drink and I watch as she rattles the ice in the bottom of the glass, her gaze pensive, regretful.

“Anyway, Will wouldn’t say nothing to me. I went and got Brother Ezra from the parsonage to try and talk to him. Next thing I knew, Will was gone.”

“Gone?”

“He went off to some summer camp somewhere. It was only later I heard from Ralph that it had a reputation for—Well, have you heard the termpray the gay away?”

“Yeah,” I say, my stomach turning over. I remember how, the night before, Will had mentioned that Ezra had paid for him to go to a special faith-based camp. Now I understand even more. Will perceives Ezra as having saved him from his own sexuality or, the way he sees it, from his own sin.

“After that,” she says, “Will was dead set on Bible college, a wife, kids… all of it. He stopped wearing black and he even signed up for baseball, but I think he never actually got to play. In other words, his life was easier on the outside. And he really became attached to Brother Ezra—not, I should say, in any way that ever seemed untoward. Will thought of Ezra as a father and Ezra always showed the boy kindness, even if it was at arm’s length. That’s more than can be said about Will’s own daddy.”

“Do you think your church would accept a gay preacher?” I ask. “If Will ever…”

She opens her mouth to answer and my phone buzzes in my pocket.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, pulling it out. “I’m waiting for a call about the case.”

I expect to see Tina’s name on the screen but, instead, it’s a text from Leo.

Here’s your F-150 driver. Let me know if you need anything else.

There’s a DMV record for the truck and a copy of a driver’s license for a guy named Dean Griffon, along with a quick overview of his rap sheet:drunk and disorderly, theft, a few drug arrests, and charges for possession and intent to sell. However much Leo had told me to temper my expectations about finding this guy on a holiday weekend, he somehow always manages to work miracles.

“Huh,” I say, looking at the man’s mugshot. He’s a stocky guy with bulging eyes and a hawk nose. I feel like I’ve seen the guy before, but I can’t place him.

“Oh, that’s Dean,” Thelma says, not bothering to hide the fact that she was craning her neck to get a look at my phone.

“You know him?”

“Of course,” she says. “He drives the truck for Ezra’s tent revival stuff. He’s had a hard way to go, poor thing.”

“What do you mean?”

She tilts her head a little, as if considering how much to say, and then leans a little closer.