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“She’s petitioning to be sole custodian—”

  “What does that mean, exactly?” Asher asked.

  “Well, if she gains that she won’t have to consult you to choose medical treatment or to make decisions about school, religion. She would even have to give special approval for you to see his grades. It pretty much gives her complete control.” Asher could see that the attorney was in her element now, lining all of this out. “So, what we want is joint custody, which would give you these same rights, and more time with your boy. But there’s no way you’ll get him equal time, alright? I want to be clear about that. Not unless the two of you come to a mutual decision about that. And maybe she’ll come around to that someday. People calm down eventually. Time works wonders in a divorce case.”

  Asher felt disappointment running over him.

  “The good news is that most of these comments are calling you a folk hero.” Fisher shut the laptop and pushed it to the side of his desk. “The bad news is that it looks like those comments aren’t coming from people ’round here.”

  “So you’ll take the case? You’ll help me?”

  Fisher didn’t crack a smile. “Hell yes I’ll take it. I’d be crazy not to.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Fisher laughed as if Asher had said something foolish. “Because this has the potential to be a high-publicity case, to tell you the truth. The way those views are going up on that video. The fact that this happened so close to the Supreme Court decision on marriage equality. I mean, it’s perfect timing.” Fisher put another orange slice into her mouth. “But also, not all of us here disagree with what you said in that video.”

  Fisher spent some time studying the order in detail. “I’m sorry to say that there’s more.” Lydia’s lawyer was insisting on supervised visits. “She says the video proves you’re not in your right mind and prone to ‘outbursts of temper.’ ”

  “But she knows I’m a good father,” Asher said. “She knows I’m not crazy.”

  “Maybe she’s just being vindictive. People lose their minds during divorces. I see it happen all the time. Men and women. It happened to me and my ex in our divorce. Now we’re good friends.” Fisher pushed the papers away from her and put her arms behind her head, leaning back in her chair. “And maybe it’s just a smart move on her lawyer’s part. It establishes there’s a problem so they can deny you joint custody later.”

  “Her mother will testify for me. Zelda Crosby. We’ve always been real close. She’s as close to me as she is to Lydia, her own daughter.”

  “But Lydia is her daughter, Mr. Sharp. And that’s what it’ll come down to, in the end. I would bet you cash money on that.”

  Asher’s visits with Justin took place in the basement of the Choctaw courthouse on Saturdays. The supervisor was a woman who sat in the corner playing games on her cell phone while he and Justin talked or played rummy. The supervisor always wore a gray pantsuit and pulled her hair back in a tight ponytail that made her look like her head was being yanked back.

  “How are you, buddy?” Asher asked Justin. “How are things going?”

  “Just going to school,” Justin said, kicking his heels against the chair legs. “Mom’s going to church all the time and makes me go most of the time. The other night this big group of women came and prayed over me until Granny made them quit.”

  “She did?”

  Justin nodded. “They were speaking in tongues and she told them they were scaring me and took me outside. We sat on the porch until church was over. Mom stayed in there forever. Every time we go she stays after and everybody prays for her like she’s dying.”

  “It’ll get better soon,” Asher said.

  “I want you to come home,” Justin said, tiny globes of tears teetering on his eyelashes.

  “Please don’t get the boy upset, sir,” the supervisor said in a curt little voice as if she was exhausted with Asher. Asher wanted to tell her to kiss his ass. He had never told anyone that in his life and had rarely even had the thought.

  Kathi offered Asher a job at her store, Hoskins’ Grocery, where they had shopped his whole life, and he took it. The store was small and always held the scent of lemon Pine-Sol and overripe bananas. There were only three employees including himself and Kathi. The other one was Cherry Sizemore, who staffed the register and conducted his training.

  Cherry had recently dropped out of high school to have a baby but had worked at Hoskins’ since she was fifteen years old. She had the palest skin he’d ever seen—intricate networks of blue veins plainly visible in her temples and wrists—and was tiny but her belly had started to become very rounded. One evening when she lifted the green smock over her head to hang it in her locker back in the break room he had accidentally caught sight of her bulbous navel peeking out from under the hem of her shirt.

  “I’m only eighteen weeks but already my belly button is poking out and so sore!” Cherry said in her cheerful way, tugging at the edge of her blouse.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, ashamed he had seen this private part of her, but she thought he meant he was sorry for her pain.

  “It’s just part of it, I reckon,” Cherry said.

  He had known her since she was a white-haired little girl playing in the mudholes of the church parking lot after services. Cherry’s mother had kicked her out for getting knocked up and now she was living in a trailer park across the busy highway with her older sister. She walked to work and back every day, one hand on her belly as she eyed the traffic, waiting to cross. Justin had always had a crush on her.

  She taught Asher how to stock the shelves, how to change out the merchandise so that the newest stuff was always at the back. She taught him how to run the little handheld machine that printed out UPC labels for the shelves. She even taught him how to run the register, although he was to do that only in emergencies. “That’s usually my and Miss Kathi’s territory,” Cherry said, in that sweet-as-hard-candy voice of hers that made Asher think how he couldn’t understand anyone—especially her mother—kicking her out on her own.

  Most days he and Cherry worked in happy silence. They were both quiet people and he figured that she was as content as he was to pass the day with little conversation. Only occasionally she said something profound to him that made him think she needed someone to talk to. In the past he would’ve invited this—people always said he never met a stranger, could talk to anybody, which made for a good preacher—but these days he was floating through the world the best way he could. Surviving. Sometimes they both found themselves singing along to the country songs that played through the ceiling speakers.

  One day as they were fixing to go home he wrung out his mop, dumped the gray mop water, and clicked off all the exterior lights. Cherry was already at the door, ready to lock up, and she kept her eyes on him as he came up the aisle to the door.

  “Pastor Sharp,” she said, despite the fact he had asked her many times to call him Asher and to remember that he wasn’t a pastor anymore, “I’ve been wanting to tell you how good it was, what you said on that video.”

  “Thank you, Cherry. Most people ’round here don’t feel that way.”

  “I think more than you realize do, though,” she said, and her brows fretted together, her hand rushing to lay itself flat on her stomach.

  “You alright?” Asher said, putting his hands out toward her arm in case she needed to steady herself.

  But then a smile overtook her entire face. “Yeah, it’s just little Emmaline kicking,” she said. “Lord, about took my breath there for a minute! This gal’s liable to be a football player.”

  They laughed at that and stepped out into the cool, black night.

  “You want me to walk with you?” Asher asked as she told him goodbye and waddled toward the highway. “Make sure you don’t fall?”

  “Naw sir, I’m just fine, I believe,” she said. “Night.”

  There was not much traffic tonight so she was able to cross without waiting but he watched until she had disappeared into the
trailer park. He stood there with his hand on the door handle of his car and looked up at the night sky. Impossible to see many stars under the cluster of streetlamps guarding the lot.

  So many days had passed since he had lived with his own child. Mornings and gloamings. Sunup, sundown. The phases of the moon: waning, waxing, gibbous. The last days of summer had passed now. That glowing green had passed with them. The wildflowers, the Confederate roses, the bluestars: gone. Now the ridges were orange and yellow, the river was narrowing in its autumnal way. The first frosts would happen soon and Cherry’s child would be born and before long he’d know how much he would be allowed to see his own. After a long while he got into his Jeep and drove home.

  15

  The Everything

  The more Justin watched the clock hanging over his teacher’s desk the longer the day seemed to be, the thin, black wand of the minute hand sweeping over the numbers in slow motion. The classroom smelled of dirty hair and the markers the teacher was squeaking across the whiteboard. Justin was trying to follow along and write down what she was posting up there—questions for a quiz about the Civil War—but his eyes kept going up to the clock.

  Then the spitball hit him directly in the ear, miraculously lodging in the curves just above his lobe. He swung his face around and of course that boy with Rabbit was having a laughing fit behind his grubby little hands. His fingernails hadn’t been clipped in ages and black lines of dirt stood under each one. Rabbit brought up the straw he had snuck in from the lunchroom and huffed into it, launching another spitball that stung the middle of Justin’s forehead. Justin didn’t even turn away or react. He kept his eyes on Rabbit’s pink rabbit eyes to show him how bored he was with these daily acts of meanness.

  Mrs. Sherman didn’t catch any of the muffled laughter that was happening behind her now. She continued to write on the whiteboard, the squeak of the marker becoming increasingly annoying.

  When Justin wouldn’t stop staring Rabbit finally thrust his middle finger into the air and mouthed “Your daddy’s a queer-lover,” which was his favorite thing to say these days. Justin turned back to his notes and sighed. Some days Rabbit was such an idiot that no matter what he did Justin wasn’t much bothered by it. Other days it was too much to bear. Most nights he laid awake and thought about ways to fight back.

  Rabbit’s family had been living on the football field here at the school, in the campers the government set up for the homeless, ever since the flood, months ago, so Rabbit thought he ran things now. He claimed to sneak into the school after dark and go through the teachers’ desk drawers. Rabbit had lived in the Cumberland River Court and every one of the trailers there had floated away in a jagged line on the flood. Most folks had been able to move in with family or friends but Rabbit’s parents hadn’t had anyone. Rabbit had been picking on Justin for years now, long before the flood. Ever since first grade. Justin should have been used to it by now, really. But there was no getting used to something like that.

  At recess was the worst. Rabbit took someone’s phone and showed everyone the video of Asher. The kids all gathered close and they had a big laugh together when the video zoomed in on Asher crying out “We’ve got to quit this judgment!”

  Rabbit clicked the phone off right after that and they all turned their heads at once, like a family of owls, to see Justin watching them from his perch on the swing. The December air bit into his face and his nose had numbed from the cold—the teacher had said they could stay out only a few minutes, since it was so cold—but he didn’t mind. The cold reminded him he was still alive and not a ghost-boy spying on the playground.

  Then they were laughing and pointing and some kind of power came over him and he yelled: “Shut up, you stupid-asses!”

  Rabbit ran hard toward him and before Justin realized what was happening, Rabbit had knocked him out of the swing and was on top of Justin, like a wall falling onto someone. He pinned down Justin’s arms and situated his chin on the back of Justin’s head, grinding his face against the soured mulch.

  Most of the other kids were yelling and laughing—Justin could hear one small voice screaming “Quit! Leave him alone!” but he didn’t know who that was. Then Rabbit brought his knee up into the small of Justin’s back and he felt a start of electricity run all the way up his spine and into his neck. He actually saw light at the corners of his eyes. He felt like he was going to pass out but in that brief time he felt shimmering all around him and he could hear everything slowed down and magnified. He could hear the sky moving. He thought how he had lied to his father, because he didn’t believe in God. Not really. This was what he believed in. The Everything.

  But then: “Your daddy’s a queer-lover,” Rabbit whispered into his ear, his breath wet and hot, and Justin could see again, he could hear all the other kids hollering and laughing. Some of them were chanting “Fight fight fight” but their voices trailed away and then Justin was aware of the boy’s weight being sucked away as the teacher plucked Rabbit off him.

  Justin felt like he couldn’t breathe. He willed himself to roll over onto his back and the white light of the winter sky caused him to squint. Someone was bending down over him.

  “Are you okay, Justin?” his teacher was saying. “Honey, can you catch your breath?”

  He managed to roll over onto his side just in time to let a pinkish-orange ribbon of vomit burst out of his mouth and slide down his jaw and neck, running down into the collar of his shirt.

  Nobody was laughing now. Everyone was very quiet.

  After a time Justin stood, without help. He could see Rabbit being hustled away to the principal’s office by one of the other teachers. And Mrs. Sherman was at his arm, asking if he was okay, but he didn’t answer her. He was thinking that he hated Rabbit. He knew you weren’t supposed to hate anybody. His daddy had been telling him that his whole damn life. But he hated them all. He hated all the other kids, too. Not laughing anymore, but trying not to, their hands over their mouths, all those eyes on him. He looked away from them and more than anything he was thinking this: I’m stronger than you.

  16

  Asher was stacking cans of PET milk on a shelf when he caught sight of his son making his way up the aisle toward him. He squatted down and Justin hugged him. He drew in his son’s foresty scent. Over Justin’s shoulder he could see Zelda hovering at the end of the aisle like a lookout. She had to know she was breaking the law by allowing Asher to see him without the supervisor present.

  “Can’t you just come back home now?” Justin said.

  “No, buddy. I wish I could. But I can’t. From now on you’ll have two homes. My house and your Mom’s. Alright?”

  “Things would be so much easier if you’d just come home,” Justin said, and Asher wished that it could be that simple. He put his hand out to smooth his thumb down the side of his boy’s face and then Justin said he had to go and trotted back down the aisle. Zelda raised her hand in a wave, and they were gone.

  “You ought not allow her to do that again, Asher,” Kathi said, standing behind him. “It’ll only cause you trouble if they find out before the custody hearing.”

  Asher bristled but just nodded to her.

  “And you’re not gonna believe this, but there’s a CNN van out front. I need you to get rid of ’em, Asher. I can’t have them interviewing my customers. Enough people are mad at me for having you working here, anyway.” Kathi saw the concern on his face and put her hand up before he could say anything. “If people don’t like it that you’re working here then I don’t want their business nohow. But I can’t have the news people harassing my customers.”

  Asher went outside and asked the news crew to leave. Later, online, he saw that they had set up a film crew at the Cumberland Valley Church of Life. People he had known his whole life were on there saying how they had no choice but to get rid of him, that they didn’t believe “that way,” that Asher had turned into a troublemaker instead of a pastor. They interviewed a man from a protest group who said that Asher no
w represented the “silenced progressives of rural America.”

  Fox News and two newspaper reporters came to his trailer but he dodged all of them.

  One of the journalists seemed taken aback that he wouldn’t want to capitalize on the fame. “Your video has now been viewed by almost four million people, Mr. Sharp.” The man had a five-o’clock shadow and was so disheveled in his suede blazer and Kings of Leon tee shirt that Asher didn’t understand how anyone would take him seriously. The reporter pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose roughly and blinked hard. “Don’t you want to take advantage of that?”

  “It’s not my video,” Asher said. And that was all.

  That weekend, during one of their supervised visits, Justin told Asher he had set up a Twitter account for him because of all the attention the video was getting.

  “You shouldn’t even be online!” Asher’s stomach rolled at the thoughts of what all Justin had seen written about him. “I mean it.”

  “Please don’t raise your voice to the child, sir,” the supervisor said, barely looking up from the video game on her phone’s screen.

  “It’s a tribute page,” Justin said. “Your handle is ‘at folk hero preacher.’ ”

  “What’s a handle mean?”

  “People talk about how the video helped them, mostly.” Justin produced a smartphone from his pocket that Asher had never seen before. “Mom got it for me. I had to promise to only be on it if there was an emergency, unless I’m with her.”

  “You know I think you’re too young for that.”

  Both of Justin’s thumbs were typing in a blur on the phone, then he held out the screen so Asher could see the top message on the account: @folkheropreacher if only ppl would listen to your message and change their hearts. tired of the hatred. #equality #lovewins.

  “You’ve got 36,413 followers,” Justin said, like a little businessman, as he clicked off the phone and slid it back into the pocket of his jeans.

  “I know the kinds of things people say on the internet, Justin. You ought not—”