Chapter Five

Ransom turned to make his way back to the car and noticed Mayor Barton grab Baker's shoulder. The two men turned away from him for their own private conversation. He had no problem giving the men their privacy and in fact was thankful to be returning to the inner workings of his own uninterrupted thoughts.

As he neared the rental, he noticed an old man walking up the sidewalk. Ransom stopped to speak to the man, guessing him to be quickly approaching his upper eighties. The old man leaned on a cane for support, chewing on a wad of tobacco watching Ransom’s movement toward the car. Ransom approached.

“Hello there! I’m J.C. Ransom, I'm a reporter from up North. I came to Bethlehem to do a story on your high school athletes.”

“You mean you know about it?” The old man seemed incredulous. Ransom learned long ago that the best way to garner information was to simply play along.

“That's why I'm here.” He takes out a yellow pad and pencil to jot down some notes. It was probably best to get what he could, while he could, especially since Mayor Barton and Reverend Baker were busy.

“Reverend Baker says the BLT is a gift from God.” The old man looked intently as he answered. There was a look of both shock and awe in the old man’s face as he spoke. Ransom’s instincts kicked in once more, recognizing the beginning of a potentially great story.

“What did you say is a gift from God?”

The question seemed to have caught the old man off guard. “The BLT. That's why you're here, right?” As the old man stammered a moment, Ransom took a step back as the smell of something foul and long since dead caught his nostrils unawares.

“Yeah, the BLT. That is how your teams win every game isn’t it?”

Across the street, Mayor Barton and Reverend Baker continued their conversation, well out of earshot. Barton took the dominant role in the dialogue, and Baker did what all good reverends do: he listened as if sincerely interested. Reverend Baker knew that the truth was Barton had only half his education and more often than not, nothing at all to say. He learned quickly during his tenure in Bethlehem that a pastor should seldom speak outside the pulpit. This degree of silence likely kept him employed as the town’s only minister for the past decade.

Once and one time only, Baker challenged Mayor Barton. It was when the community church built a new platform in front of the baptistery. The statue of Jesus was hand-carved by a local just after the civil war and placed in the church, spanning the entire distance of roof to ceiling behind the pulpit. The church, led largely by its head deacon (none other than Paul Barton himself), decided it would be best to trim bottom of the cross, and even a small section of the heels of the crucified Jesus with a wood saw in order for their gracious deity to remain at the front of the sanctuary unblocked by the new platform, which would indisputably hinder the view of the cross and be difficult to construct without some alteration to the Master’s feet. Baker objected, and it nearly cost him his job. So they went ahead, cutting the feet of Jesus near completely off, and the church got its platform.

Barton’s guttural voice stirred Baker from the memory. “We got to be smart here, if we get stupid then every one of them will want to be touching it... rubbing up on old man Philpot just to change their luck. I'd soon shoot them as look at them… damn Yanks toot around here asking for country music like we've got no class-- what's next? That ‘Michael Jackson’ character? Let me tell you this, no colored boys are ever going to touch that tumor! Not while I'm the Mayor. No pinky little Floyd homos either. I can see all the gays now, rubbing on his belly getting turned on by that cancerous thing.”

“You're worrying, Paul. God has protected us all this time. He will not fail us now.” Baker responded in his usual calm.

“Yes, yes, God. Well just in case, will you call the school? Tell Coach Anderson I'm bringing Ransom over this afternoon. Make sure he doesn't mention the BLT.”

Control. That’s what it always boiled down to around here, thought Baker. The town ran so smoothly that it was really hard for him to be too critical. He had played along all this time and saw no reason to rock the boat today.

“Oh Christ!” Baker heard the shout and turned his head to follow Barton’s gaze. The two men watched as Ransom scribbled furiously in his notepad.

Paul took off toward the two men and Baker followed instinctively. The mayor walked vigorously and head-strong right into the middle of the conversation. As they got closer, it was obvious that Barton had every reason to be concerned.

“Why are you avoiding my questions?” Ransom asked insolently.

“None of us much like to talk about that.” The old man responded. To this point, Ransom had learned the man’s name, but not much else during his brief visit.

“Buck! What the hell are you two talking about?” Mayor Barton’s voice crashed over the interview.

“Nothing Paul; I swear it.” Buck looked scared.

“Well, go on home now; our new friend Ransom here doesn't need any of your crazy stories. He's here to do a real story on our teams.”

“Alright, Paul.” The old man hobbled off and Ransom turned his attention to the mayor.

“So what is this BLT? He wouldn't speak of it.”

“BLT?” Mayor Barton answered.

Ransom continued. “Yes, he was saying something about—

“Oh, I'm real sorry you had to listen to Buck. He's a little…” Ransom watched Barton take his pointer finger and make circles around his ear, the old middle school method for indicating someone was crazy. “That's nothing for you to worry about Ransom. He's simply the town joke. Well, one of them.”

Ransom wasn’t content to let the first lead he had drop by the wayside. “I thought it maybe it was some special sandwich the kids ate before the game.”

“Sandwich? Forget that! Let's get up to the old homestead and eat some meatloaf! We should still be able to finish it off before Coach clears the field. He'll be able to tell you how we'll pull off a win in the L.A. championship game on Friday!

“L.A.?” Ransom asked, completely puzzled.

“Lower Alabama, son. We mean lower Alabama.”