The Constellations

On alternate Saturdays

on alTErnaTE saTurdays the First Baptist Church hosted a flea market in the parking lot. Cowell always set up a table of treasures bought at estate sales and through the classifieds. Once in a while he sold something. When Phyl brought Eric from his baseball game to the church lot, she found most of the sellers— Cowell called them merchants—sprawled in lawn chairs, defeated by the heat. She pulled out without shopping. As a rule she divided flea market merchandise into two categories—junk and too expensive. Worst of all, one of the younger men set up near Cowell had covered a table with the most offensive collection of bumper stickers—marijuana leaves, When this Van’s a Rockin’ Don’t Come a Knockin’, OPEC Can Kiss My Ass. She couldn’t believe anyone was allowed to sell those kinds of things at a church. As Eric approached, Cowell introduced him to Reverend Harlond . The reverend, an older man, wore a light-blue shirt, plaid pants, and a white belt with matching shoes—what Roy called preacher clothes. “I’m looking into gold,” the reverend said to Cowell. “They’re legalizing the sale of it at the end of the year. I expect it’ll be a good investment.” “Gold’s always valuable,” Cowell said, scratching at his hairierbad -than-usual jaw.“Only one letter away from The Man himself, eh?” He slapped the reverend’s shoulder. “Gold’s mentioned in the Bible,” the reverend replied. “The stock market isn’t, not that you’d know.” “The print in those Bibles is too small for me to read. The end of the year, you said?” “You should look into it.” The reverend thumbed toward the parking lot. “If business isn’t too heavy, Cowell, I wondered if I could prevail on you to look at my radiator.” Kevin Cunningham 83 The flea market seldom netted Cowell any cash, but he dispensed a lot of valuable advice on automotive repair. He ordered Eric to watch the table and, still talking gold, shambled alongside the preacher in the general direction of a gray Buick. When he returned, Eric claimed he had an idea. “You should answer questions about cars and make people pay you,” he said. “Yeah, probably,” Cowell said. “But sometimes it’s good to drum up a little goodwill. It’s hot.Why don’t you dig out the deck of cards from the cashbox, and we’ll move to the shade. Business is going into a recessionary spiral anyway.” Eric dealt out a hand of Go Fish. To help with the heat Cowell pulled a couple of bottles of Dr Pepper from his Styrofoam cooler. “Promise you won’t cheat,” Eric said. “That hurts my feelings,” Cowell said. “You do cheat.” “Never have.” “How come you always win, then?” “I’m just a good card player.” Eric could barely hold seven cards, and it never took long for him to tip them forward enough for Cowell to see. They went back and forth a few rounds, Cowell guessing wrong on purpose. “Is Aunt Phyl leaving tomorrow?” Eric said. “The car’s all packed up,” Cowell said. “Do you have any kings?” “Go fish.You looking forward to your Aunt Deb coming in?” Eric concentrated for a moment on his cards. “Every time Aunt Deb comes there’s a lot of arguing. Her and Dad, I mean. She’s always bossing me around, too.” “She’s trying to civilize you.” “What’s that mean?” “So’s you don’t eat with your hands the rest of your life.So’s you don’t go cutting farts at the movies. So’s you’re not a grown man going to smoky places with fast women or running off on those around-the-world voyages you read about.” “Is that stuff bad?” Eric said. 84 The Constellations Cowell laughed and sat back.“There’s hope for you yet. What I mean to say is, that’s the sort of stuff you have to get out of your system before you can get domesticated.” “What’s that?” “Domesticated means you take something wild and beautiful and make it behave.You’re showing me your cards again.” Eric jerked his hand close. “See, when you’re a man, you go through a crazy period in your life. It usually starts when you’re, oh, about sixteen. Your Aunt Phyllis calls it...