The windows on the car were all rolled down. The humid air blew Emma’s long brown hair around in a swirl. She laughed and reached her hand across the seat and playfully slapped him on his thigh. “Roll up the windows, Bobby. We’re on the interstate. It’s dangerous!”
“You’re the one who’s dangerous,” Bobby laughed.
Bobby watched the skinny red line bobbing gently between 70 and 80 on the dashboard, then reached down to press the button on the power windows he had insisted on as an option on his brand new 1965 Impala. It was his first new car, gleaming proof of the upward trajectory of his new life.
“Look at that. One touch and all the windows come up, just like that!” Bobby beamed.
“Slow down, baby.” Emma insisted. “We’re only a couple hours from Shreveport and the service doesn’t start until 7:00.”
“I’m just keeping up with the flow of the traffic. Slide over here and give me some sugar.”
It had been a whirlwind two years for Bobby Thibodeaux, erstwhile pastor of the First Baptist church of Natchitoches, Louisiana. When he was hired by First Baptist he became the youngest senior pastor in the entire history of the State at 27 years and seven months. In less than four years the place was bursting at the seams. His powerful and passionate sermons along with his matinee idol good looks had tripled the sleepy church’s membership and placed Bobby’s name on the lips of every leader in the convention. The kid was going places. At the peak of his powers the invitation had come from The Baptist Bible College in New Orleans to speak to the four hundred preacher boys at their Friday morning chapel service. It was the biggest crowd the old building had ever seen, standing room only, and Bobby had preached the sermon of his life. When he was done his suit was run through with sweat, his face red with the strain of his histrionics, and the alter was covered with four hundred repentant preacher boys on their knees confessing secret sins of every carnal desire known to plague mankind. Such was the power of Bobby Thibodeaux’s spoken words.
Everyone knew that Natchitoches wasn’t big enough to hold him. But the end of his tenure came sooner rather than later, brought on by a scandal that would have destroyed any man with lesser talents. Bobby Thibodeaux had walked out of the pulpit one bright spring Sunday morning after announcing that he needed to step away from the ministry for an unspecified personal reason. Only later, when the church discovered that Bobby had left town unaccompanied by his wife, but in the warm embrace of the church pianist, Emma Landry, did the full depths of his fall from grace become known. Many tears were shed, both in Natchitoches and throughout the State, at the diminishment of so bright a light.
His immediate shunning by nearly every Baptist church in the south, didn’t surprise Bobby, but neither did it worry him, because he had his eyes on the future, a vision of greater things on the horizon. Eventually, his vision began to take shape after an invitation was extended for him to speak at a regional meeting of Pentecostal Holiness churches in Mississippi. Bobby stood in the pulpit as a hush fell over the congregation—no small feat with Pentecostals. The first words out of his mouth were ones of contrition. He had sinned gravely against the church and against the laws of God, he admitted, the consequences for which he would suffer for the rest of his life. Then he leaned over the edge of the great wooden pulpit and raised his voice to its famous trebled pitch and spit out the words, “Our father only reproaches those he loves. Wherever sin abounds grace abounds even more!” Most of the women in the crowd leapt to their feet, followed soon after by the men, lifting their hallelujahs to the rafters. But an hour later, everyone in the assembly, exhausted by the emotionally fraught message they had heard, were now silent as a stone listening to Bobby Thibodeaux’s final story…
“Back in ancient times, there was an English king beloved by everyone in his kingdom. He rallied his people against the invading Vikings. Unlike the habit of most leaders, he didn’t lead from the rear, from the plush safety of the royal tent. This King led his army into battle with power, courage and conviction. But on this day the battle was not going well for the English. The Viking invaders were too strong and savage. As the sun began to set in the western sky, the King’s body entered the camp laying across his royal horse. His lieutenants removed him from the steed as the army gathered around, defeated and heart broken. The King’s top general stood to address what remained of his army but could hardly speak. Then suddenly the general threw himself down on the ground beside the King, took out a knife and slashed open the King’s chest, reached in and ripped out his heart and held it up high, letting the blood soak down his arm. The gathered army all gasped in horror. Then the general took the King’s heart and placed it in a wooden box and secured the box into the cradle of a catapult, then launched the box into the air, spiraling deep behind the enemy’s lines. Then the general found his voice, raised his sword in the air and cried, “Who among you will fight for the heart of the King??”
Bobby, took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wiped the sweat from his face as silence held the room in a vice grip. Then he took his time folding it back up slowly placing it back into his pocket. In an exhausted voice not much louder than a whisper he looked out across the crowd and said, “The heart of our Lord and Savior has been thrown into the middle of a dead and dying civilization, my friends. Which of you will fight for the heart of the King?”
Once word of his sermon got out the invitations started pouring in, at first from other Pentecostal churches, but soon from the Assemblies of God and finally the Baptist. He was now an evangelist, freed from the drudgery and boredom of church work, and freed from the economic restraints that came with it. As a sought after revival speaker, the money poured in as well. Life on the road required reliable transportation. He had paid cash for the Impala.
Emma’s life too had been a whirlwind. She had been swept off her feet by the mesmerizing man sitting across the bench seat from her, his Carolina blue eyes flashing in the afternoon sun. He was her French Creole, silver-tongued Adonis, but her devotion to him came larded up with guilt. It had been her mother who had dared to call her what she was—home wrecker. “They had no children, Momma!” She had protested. “There was no home to wreck.”
But she knew in her heart that her mother was right. But all the guilt in the world didn’t have the power to draw her out of his orbit. Emma loved the man with all she had. She travelled with him from revival to revival, hanging on his every word, even though she could feel the burn of everyone’s stares. They all knew that she was the woman Bobby had left his wife for, and everyone had an opinion. The only one that mattered was Bobby’s and he made her feel like a queen.
But she had started to notice a change in him when he preached, a missing gleam in his eyes. The energy was still there, the perfect cadences, the sharp wit, the whiplash inducing segues from laughter to tears. But something was different. Maybe she was the only one who noticed. The people sure didn’t. They all loved him. He always left them broken in pieces, ripped down to the studs, and they adored him for it. He would stay long after the closing song, shaking hands and signing bulletins. They wouldn’t get back to their hotel until midnight, then he would need some bourbon and energetic sex to calm him enough to sleep.
The church in Shreveport was the biggest Baptist church he had booked since the divorce and he seemed unusually nervous. Emma brushed the hair away from his eyes with her soft hands. “Are you alright, Bobby? You look anxious.”
“What do I have to be anxious about?”
“I don’t know—you always seem more nervous in the Baptist churches and this Shreveport place is a pretty big deal.”
“I’ll say they’re a big deal. They are paying us $500 plus half of the love offering for the week! I mean, can you believe that, baby? We liable to make a thousand dollars for one week’s work. That’s more than I would have made in two months back in Natchitoches.”
They drove on in the high heat of the day listening to the radio. A Beatle song came on and Bobby turned up the volume. Day Tripper.
“I’ve gotta go to the lady’s room. Can we stop soon?” Emma had become unnerved by his silence and used the bathroom stop as an excuse to get out and stretch. Bobby pulled off at the next exit which had a brand new Stuckey’s. He rolled down the power windows and stayed in the car, waiting for Emma, but it was too hot. He got out of the car and walked across the parking lot watching the 18 wheelers whiz past on Interstate 20 in the distance. Emma found him there lost in thought. She slid her arm around his waist.
“I don’t think I believe it anymore,” he said.
Emma felt a rush of heat in her chest, the constriction of her throat. “…what?”
“That’s why I might look a little anxious, I guess.”
“…you don’t think you believe what anymore?”
Bobby kept staring at the Interstate, no change in the expression on his face. “All of it maybe? No, that’s not right. I still believe in God, the big picture stuff. But I’m not so sure about the rest of it like Jesus and sin and hellfire judgment. It just isn’t adding up anymore, Emma.”
Emma wasn’t equipped for dealing with spoken doubts, especially coming from the greatest preacher she had ever heard. She struggled with her words, each of her responses sounding dumber than the last. “What isn’t adding up? You don’t believe all them sermons you preach?”
“No…I mostly believe them. I think its possible to believe in the idea of a thing but not believe the actual thing itself.”
“That makes no sense,” Emma replied.
“Sure it does. Think about it. If I preach to a church full of people all week and half of ‘em end up quitting drinking, cheating on their taxes and became more kind and forgiving to their neighbors, does it even matter if I don’t believe every word I said? A man could do an awful lot worse than following the teachings of Jesus.”
Bobby instantly regretted his outburst of candor. He could see the panic and disappointment in her eyes.
“When did this all happen?”
Bobby did what he always did when faced with a difficult question. He asked one of his own.
“Do you still feel guilty about the two of us?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Stick with me here. It has everything to do with it. Answer the question.”
Emma hated to think about Alice. They had been friends. Alice played the piano whenever Emma sang a solo. They enjoyed each other’s company. But Emma’s affections for Alice were always eclipsed by her passion for her husband. The ecstasy she felt upon her consumation with Bobby had been enough to banish the overpowering guilt she felt for the betrayal…but not by much. Bobby knew of her struggles and had said it would pass in time, but he had been only partially right.
“Yes, I do.” She answered. “Not as bad as it was at first but yes…not a day goes by when I don’t think about Alice and what—we—did to her.”
“I thought that’s what you would say.” Bobby smiled and reached for her hand. “And therein lies the crux of the problem. I feel none of that. No remorse. Not a scintilla of guilt.”
“Bobby, that’s a terrible thing to admit. How can you feel no guilt for leaving your wife for another woman?”
“Why should I?” Bobby knew at this point that he was not going to be able to walk anything back so he might as well let it all out, all of the thoughts that had been circulating in his mind every night with the bourbon.
“What has happened since the day I left her? What has happened to us since the day we first made love at that Motel 6? I’ll tell you what—we have won the lottery, baby. I am the most in-demand evangelist in the state, we are making more money than I ever thought possible, we’ve got a brand new Chevy, we stay in fine hotels, make love damn near every night, eat the best food—and all I have to do is what I was born to do. And what of Alice? I set her free from being a preacher’s wife, tied to a small town full of small people with small ideas. She’s still a young woman. She has her entire life ahead of her. She used to be beautiful and she can be beautiful again. All she has to do is lose some weight and take better care of herself. You know, I bought her one of those fat-shaking belt machines for Christmas a while back and she never once used it. Thing cost me $150 and just sat there gathering dirty clothes. What I’m trying to say baby is that leaving her and hooking up with you was the single best decision I ever made. Why should I feel bad about something that has made me so happy?”
“But it was wrong what we did. The Bible says so.”
“The Bible says lots of things are wrong, Emma. But you can’t run a world on judgment. That’s what I’ve come to understand. There is no judgment except the judgment we heap on ourselves. If judgment was a real thing, why are the two of us on top of the world right now?”
“But, if you really believe that, how can you preach the way you do night after night?”
“I’m still working it out in my mind. I won’t preach the rest of my life. There’s other things I can do. I just need plenty of seed money to expand into other things. We’ll keep on doing revivals until we can bankroll the future. I could write a book or something like that. Look, the bottom line is, you just need to trust me. I’ve got a vision and a plan on how to make it all happen. Its gonna be one hell of a ride. You just need to trust me. Can you do that?”
Emma looked at him and saw that the blue sparkle had returned in his eyes. She knew that despite her confusion and guilt, she had to trust him. Besides, he had been right about everything so far. She managed a smile. Bobby smiled back and pulled her close. “I still remember the first time you sang a solo back in Natchitoches. Alice had told me that your voice was beautiful. There you were standing up there in that pink sundress singing In the Garden, and all I could think about was how glad I was that we had a wooden pulpit instead of one of those flimsy glass ones because when you were finished I had a raging hard on!”
Emma laughed and covered her mouth in embarrassment, smacking his chest playfully—“You are incorrigible, Bobby Thibodeaux!!”
Bobby steered his sleek Impala back on Interstate 20 as Emma snuggled up tight as his side. He turned the radio back on. Another Beatle song. Ticket to Ride.
Emma’s internal struggles with the contradictions of her life began to fade as the sun lowered in the sky. She looked at Bobby and said, “Speak some French to me, Baby.”
Bobby laughed. “I can’t just speak French driving down the road, woman. I’ve got to be properly inspired first.”
Emma playfully smacked him on the head. “Well, you can forget about that Mister. We aren’t about to make love going down the highway at 70 miles an hour!”
“A man can hope, can’t he?”
“You need to get them carnal thoughts out of your head and replace them with some holy ones. We’re getting close to Shreveport. Why don’t you recite some scripture to me. Is it really true that you have the whole New Testament memorized or is that just part of your legend?”
“Every word,” he answered.
Emma had been continually amazed at Bobby’s encyclopedic recall of scripture. She considered it a sign of some kind of intellectual genius. In their many days and nights on the road they would see billboards with scripture references written in big letters without the verses. Bobby made fun of them, accusing them of being terrible marketing. “What do these people expect someone to do when they see Romans 8:28 on a billboard for god’s sake? They think they’ll have a Bible with them while they’re in the car? Do they expect them to remember the reference when they finally get to where they were headed and look it up in the Gideon’s Bible at the motel? Dumb!”
Still, whenever they saw one Emma would ask, “What does that one say?” And Bobby would answer immediately in his deep baritone preaching voice, reciting it from memory, making it sound like poetry.
Then one appeared in the middle of a cow pasture in the distance…Gal. 6:7. Emma pointed at the sign, “So what does that one say, smarty-pants?”
Bobby squinted at the sign in the distance. “Galatians 6:7…”
Suddenly he felt the rear of the car losing grip with the road, then a loud thumping sound. He battled the steering wheel and wrestled the Impala onto the shoulder of the interstate. “Are you kidding me?!” He screamed. “This car is brand new! Those are brand new tires!! What the hell?”
Bobby waited for a tractor trailer to go by before getting out to find that the left rear tire was completely flat as a pancake. Emma heard him scream out the Lord’s name in vain. She had never heard him say those words before and it scared her for a minute. Then he took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and smiled at her through the driver’s side window. “We picked up a nail, looks like. Brand new tire too. Don’t worry, we got a spare and it won’t take me a minute to change it. You stay inside. It won’t take me long.”
While Bobby got the spare out of the trunk Emma reached over and got Bobby’s preaching Bible off the back seat. As she turned the pages looking for Galatians she felt the jack lifting the car click by click. She found Galatians and was thumbing down to chapter six when she felt the entire car shake like an earthquake. There was a loud noise like the sound that a shot gun makes then the sound of a mighty wind. She saw a flash and the silver streak of an 18 wheeler flying by trailing a big black chunk of hard rubber, then a pounding sound on the roof like a bowling ball had been thrown on it and was now rolling towards the windshield. Then a brown-haired ball sliding down the windshield trailing blood and spinning like a top on the hood of the Impala. When it stopped spinning Bobby’s eyes were wide in horror and all the blue had drained from them. When the truck driver finally made it back to the car Emma was still screaming as she held Bobby’s severed head in her lap at the side of the road.
