William “Wim” Rogers Murray looked to his left to see nowhere, to his right to see nowhere in particular. There was nothing outside his window but dirt and there was never going to be anything but dirt. He’d bet against the odds and lost. His marriage was over, the land was dead, and his will to still his spirit from spirits was gone. He had a single dollar, a can of peas, and a pig.

He spent the dollar on a bottle of whiskey. Listening to the wind whistle through the chinking in the walls like a wailing ocean in a seashell he gave up his sobriety and half the can of peas to the pig. He sang sea shanties to the pig. He cussed the pig. At one point he went to kick the pig but slipped on what was left of the peas, landing on the floor on his back looking up at the rafters. He watched as the light of the full moon cast itself through the roof, flickering as a bit of the tin waved in the cool night’s dusty wind. He decided he’d sell the pig and buy a ticket to somewhere. Somewhere else.

In town Wim Murray sat in the shade of the general store porch. He desperately wanted a soda, and had the money to buy one, but his fear of not being able to leave this town – literally a one horse town because the rest were sold at auction or died of thirst in cracked pastures, eyes caked with the only kind of mud to be found for thousands of miles – blood and dirt – the fear of not being able to leave got the better of him.

Thin music floated down the porch from The Norse Hall – a two-bit whorehouse posing as a dance hall.

“Heaven, I’m in heaven

And the cares that hung around me through the week

Seem to vanish like a gambler’s lucky streak

When we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek”

Out the door tripped a thin balding man, buckling the belt over his slacks. Black suspenders on a black shirt, clerical collar flailing about in the man’s quick gestures to get his pants straight in a moot effort to save dignity.

“Melissa, please, you must listen to me,” the man implored, “there’s a place called Lurleen, we can go there! There’s honest work there. You won’t have to be a whore any more…”

She pushed him to the ground.

“Listen hear, Pastor Goodhope, you been comin’ here for two years and aint paid but a handful of times. I caint pay my debts with salvation and redemption…” – there was powerful sarcasm in the words “salvation” and “redemption” – “… and I’m certain what you paid me with is what we all threw in the offeratory on the occasional Sunday we attended, you little rat bastard weasel of a no-good…”

Her diatribe trailed off behind Wim Murray as he made his way to the train station.

Lurleen. What would it cost him to make it to Lurleen?

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