Suttree

by Cormac McCarthy

A preacher in shirtsleeves stood waistdeep in the water holding a young girl by the nose. He finished intoning his chant and tilted her over backwards into the river and held her there a moment and brought her up again all streaming and embarrassed and wiping the water from her eyes. The preacher was grinning. Suttree moved closer to watch. An old man nodded to him. Howdy. Howdy. The girl had nothing on beneath her thin dress and it clung wet and lascivious across her cold nipples and across her belly and thighs. You saved? said the old man. Suttree looked at the old man and the old man looked back with eyes smoky and opaque. No, he said. The old man unscrewed a jar of dark brown liquid he held in his lap and spat into it and put the lid back again and wiped his mouth. Say you aint? he said. No, Suttree said. He was watching the girl clamber out of the river. The old man nudged another near him. Here’s one aint saved. Says it hisself. This old man looked past the first one’s shoulder toward Suttree. Him? Aye. Been baptized? You been baptized? Just on the head. Just on the head, he says. That aint no good. It wont take if you dont get total nursin. That old sprinklin business wont get it, buddy boy.