Sarah by J.T. LeRoy Page A

of the truckers wave their Bibles, some their logbooks. They all cheer.
    His eyes are hazel like the pliant bark of a slippery elm. I am five feet in front of the welcoming arms of the squatting man, and it is only Le Loup’s loud clearing of his throat that keeps me from bolting the rest of the way into the man’s arms.
    I take my steps, moving forward steadily, gracefully as we had practiced before at Le Loup’s.
    Two more steps and I will be in his arms and nothing will matter anymore. I will forgive his long absence, I won’t even ask why he left, or if he ever thought of me or missed me the way I missed him.
    The jubilance of the crowd is masked by my heart surging in all its electrical currents toward him. I take one more step onto the dry land and he is there in front of me. Le Loup shouts a loud ‘Hallelujah!’ I open my arms to the man as he suddenly pops up and turns from me to slap hands with some of the other truckers. ‘You lost that one, buddy!’ he says. ‘You owe me two hundred dollars now!’ He high-fives some hands and whoops ‘Hallelujah!’ and ‘Fuckin’ A!’
    Logbooks get pressed into my hands. ‘I rode straight for a solid week without a break. Please bless this falsified logbook!’ petitions one trucker on his knees.
    ‘Me too!’ another pleads.
    ‘Gentlemen!’ shouts Le Loup, instantly hushing the crowd. ‘You may have an audience with Saint Sarah back at the church.’ The church was Le Loup’s barn, now stripped of the fur and the wet-animal scent. The wood floor had been spread with sawdust, and urns of imported incense burned on little plywood mantels. The satin zebra sheets had been replaced with bedding more fitting for a saint. Even the 3D picture of the Pope was removed, with apologies muttered by Le Loup. ‘Too confusing to the various Christ-loving factions,’ Le Loup explained.
    Lymon wraps a big towel around me and starts to turn me away from the crowd. I look for the man over my shoulder and see him taking money from another man’s hand.
    ‘You did it, honey,’ Lymon mumbles into my ear and kneels down to tenderly dry my feet. His fingers lovingly glide over my toes, picking off the bits of the sphagnum moss that made my walk on water possible. For the first time I am not overwhelmed to the point of nausea by his strong onion-garlic ramp smell.
    I touch him back. I let my fingers run through the hard loofah-like surface of his crew cut. He lets out a subdued moan, stops moving, and presses his arms against my calves. I move my fingers to his shoulders and along the stringlike tendons that seem stretched to their limits as he drops his neck to my thighs. His hands tremble and he peers up at me with flat timid eyes filled with tears.
    ‘It’s been so long…’ he whispers.
    ‘I know. And I’m sorry I left you,’ I say and caress his cheek.
    ‘You two lovebirds better get a move on,’ Pooh whispers behind us, ‘before he sees…’ She gestures at Le Loup behind her.
    ‘Pooh. I didn’t know you were here,’ I say, surprised.
    ‘We don’t usually get this much holy fire until the Ramps Festival.’ Pooh winks at me, and Lymon scurries away silently. ‘Couldn’t miss it. Let’s get you back.’ Pooh puts her arm around me and leads me through the marshy ground to Le Loup’s Trans Am.
    ‘Pooh, I’m really sorry this all got so…’ I suddenly feel a strong desire to reach for her hand, but it’s playing with some necklace under her shirt.
    ‘Oh, now don’t you worry yourself,’ she says. ‘Things have a way of working out.’ She smiles and I think I catch a hint of slick animosity under her wide grin. Pooh takes her hand out from beneath her shirt and pats my hand.
    ‘Oh, been meaning to show you…’ She reaches inside the neck of her shirt. ‘I got something I’ve been wanting you to take a look-see at.’ She slowly pulls up on a leather thong. ‘Check this out.’ At first I think it’s a furless rabbit’s foot, then my eyes focus