Rodney Wilson was raised a churchgoing man, yet brought up to believe the most sacred commandment was that of the South: Politeness before all.
If he had lived in a dusty era of stiff collars and brimmed hats, he would not have been a speck out of place. As it was, nobody tipped or even wore hats anymore, so Rodney contented himself with showing everyday politeness in a friendly smile or a held door. He had been known to take up collections at the church for various good causes, whether it be a fundraiser for a local school or to raise some money for the new family in the congregation. Churchgoers and neighbors knew you could call on Rodney to help with just about any task - moving, gardening, cleaning out the garage, doing the shopping for the elderly members of his church. Rodney was quick with a smile and a helping hand, and you never could catch him in an ungracious mood.
Yes, Rodney was a polite young man, exactly as his mother had envisioned him to be. Even on this sweltering July summer, he still thought of others before tending to his own comfort.
"May I get you anything?" he asked his house guest, smiling down at the bound woman on the smooth concrete floor of his cellar. "Some water, or would you like me to turn on a fan? I'm afraid these Georgia summers are something you'll never get used to. Why, even this cellar is no match for the heat, wouldn't you say?"
His guest didn't respond - couldn't, more like, with her mouth gagged - but her pleading eyes communicated her wants quite clearly.
"I'm afraid I can't let you go," Rodney said softly. "So there's no point in asking for that, ma'am."
The woman blinked up at him, blue eyes welling with tears. Rodney felt a pang for being the one to cause her grief, but he had to admire the delicate effect of her watery blue eyes.
"You are quite pretty, you know that? I'm glad I chose you. I think you'll do just fine. Shall we get started?"
The woman made a low moaning sound and tried to move, but she was quickly learning that the more she struggled, the tighter the knots became.
"There's no need to be frightened! I have no intention of raping you, if that's what you're thinking. I need your ears. I need you to listen. And tell me what you hear."
If the woman felt any comfort at these words, she did not show it. Rodney couldn't even be certain that she heard him, as she was crying in earnest now, desperately trying to talk behind the duct tape over her mouth. Rodney leaned down and ripped off the tape in one motion, causing her to cry out.
"Please! God, somebody help me!" The woman screamed. Rodney sat down on a stool he had placed some five feet away from the woman, and waited. Waited for her to stop screaming. Waited for her to realize that nobody could hear her.
"I made this cellar soundproof some years ago," he said conversationally. "It took a time, I can tell you. I couldn't ask anyone to help me, and this was before the 'do it yourself' trend that has overtaken the country. Still, I think I did a satisfactory job."
The woman would not look at him, but she stopped shouting and began to whisper.
"I like that you say please. I like a woman with manners. Shows you were raised right. Did you have both your parents growing up?" He asked suddenly, leaning forward.
A pause, then: "Yes, sir."
"I knew it. I can always tell. Me, I only had my Mama. And she was a difficult woman, although she loved me very much. She's been dead seven years and I miss her every day, but I can tell you, my childhood would have been better if my father had stuck around."
The woman said something, but Rodney wasn't listening to her. He looked around him and saw his mama and the ghost of himself, from when he was about eight.
"Tell me, what five good things did you do today?"
"I helped you wash the dishes. I took Jax out for a walk. I asked Mr. Cook if he needed any help with the weeding. I helped Mrs. Cook carry her bags in. I...I..."
"Yes?"
The little boy bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Mama. I can't think of anything else."
"Four good things, my little Rodney. You might think that's enough. But I can hear your soul, and I know it needs more than that to be saved."
"Yes, ma'am."
She opened her arms to take him in for a hug, and he ran to her. She hugged him tight for half a minute, then yanked him by his hair and dragged him to the closet.
"You're sleeping here tonight. No supper tonight, no breakfast tomorrow. End of tomorrow, I expect you to find five good deeds to tell me about."
Rodney blinked himself back to the present, then looked at the lady on his floor.
"My apologies, ma'am. Were you saying something?"
"What do you want from me?" the woman whimpered. "Please, I have children."
"I know you do, ma'am. I know you do. That's why I picked you. See, I think you're a good mother, and I am in need of a good mother. Someone like my own. You look like her and my hope is that you'll share some of the same talents as her."
He stood and walked towards his guest.
"You're a musical sort, yes?"
She didn't answer, but she didn't need to. Rodney had been watching this one. She played the piano and was teaching her five-year-old son how to play as well.
Rodney squatted, resting his elbows on his thighs, and stared into the woman's eyes.
"I need you to tell me what sound my soul makes."
The woman looked up at him, saying nothing.
"Do you understand me?"
"N-no."
"There's no point being coy. I know you're musical. You can play it. You can read it. You surely can hear it. So you must be able to hear the sounds of souls."
The woman began to cry again, which infuriated Rodney, but he took a deep breath and resolved not to lose his temper.
"Five good deeds. Tell me."
"I helped Mr. Cook paint his porch. I helped Mrs. Cook make a pie. I walked and bathed Jax. I helped you do the dishes this morning. I picked up Susie Miller's books when she dropped them."
"Why, Rodney, I knew you could give me five good deeds! Mind you do the same tomorrow. We'll fix your soul right up. I'll know when we've done enough. I can hear the sounds of souls, can hear them singing. Can you hear them, my sweet boy?"
"No, ma'am. What do they sound like?"
"All souls sound different. Your father had one that sounded like a beating drum. Mine is gentle, like a harp. Mr. Cook has a lovely bass soul, and his wife has a soul that sings like an angel choir. Oh, Rodney, how I wish you could hear the sounds of souls. Then you would understand."
"You have to listen," Rodney growled. "You haven't been listening, but now you're going to. You'll tell me what you hear. No talking. I'll gag you again if I have to, much as it pains me to cause you any discomfort. Just tell me what I want to hear, and then you'll be fine."
He walked back to the stool and sat down calmly. It appeared the woman was not going to waste any more time with her foolish cries of help, so Rodney pulled out his pocket book of Psalms and read his favorite, Psalm 98.
Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth: make a loud noise, and rejoice, and sing praise. Sing unto the Lord with the harp; with the harp, and the voice of a psalm. With trumpets and sound of cornet make a joyful noise before the Lord, the King. Let the sea roar, and the fullness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein. Let the floods clap their hands: let the hills be joyful together
Rodney meditated on these sweet verses for some time, lost in the thought of what a glory it would be when he could hear the music he had been longing for since childhood.
He felt rested and calm when he turned his attention back to the lady before him.
"Well now?" he smiled kindly. "What can you tell me about the sounds of souls?"
"I'm sorry," she croaked, voice dry from a mix of heat and exhaustion. "I can't. I can't. Pease, let me go."
Rodney was in disbelief. "You must hear them! You must! It says right here, right here in this book, ma'am, that even the hills and the sea make a noise. Now, I know that if the hills can make a noise that the Lord hears, then my soul must make a louder, grander noise. My mama, she tried to teach me, but I could never hear properly. You know music, ma'am. So tell me what my soul sounds like. You tell me right now, and we can all be on our way."
"It sounds...it sounds like..."
"Yes?" he said eagerly, leaning forward.
The woman's voice sounded a bit stronger. "Your soul sounds like an organ. Like a church organ. It's deep and strong, surrounding everything with its reverberating tones."
Rodney leaned back against his stool and let out a deep breath.
"You're quite sure?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, voice clear and strong. "Your soul is an organ."
Rodney smiled at his guest, then got up and walked smoothly towards her. He squatted down beside her once more, brushing some wheat blonde hair out of her eyes.
"You're a liar," he said. He grabbed her by her hair, lifted her head, and brought it down against the concrete floor.
"Do you know why I have you do five good things a day?"
"To be polite?"
"That's half the reason, my little one. You are right, it's important that you act real polite to everyone you meet. Makes me proud when you do that, makes me look like a good mother. But it's not enough. Your soul sounds wrong, Rodney."
"I'm sorry, Mama."
"I know you are, sweetheart. And you and I, we're gonna fix you right up. You keep doing your five good deeds, and your soul will be as sweet as the morning birds. Wouldn't that be nice?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I've always said you can hear people's souls, if you listen real careful like. And your soul, my sweet son...your soul is like the clanging of church bells. Sounds real sweet, but them bells are empty on the inside."
"I am sorry, Mama. If souls have sounds, then I guess I'm tone deaf."
Rodney Wilson walked away from the freshly dead woman on his cellar floor. Disappointed as he was that this woman had been unable to help him - for how could his soul sound like a strong organ when he had failed to do five good deeds that day? - he felt optimistic about the next time. He already had his eyes on a young lady in the church.
Soon he would find someone who could hear the sounds of soul, and they would tell him that his soul was no longer an empty bell, but something better. Something that could carry him to heaven with his mother when his time came.
If he had lived in a dusty era of stiff collars and brimmed hats, he would not have been a speck out of place. As it was, nobody tipped or even wore hats anymore, so Rodney contented himself with showing everyday politeness in a friendly smile or a held door. He had been known to take up collections at the church for various good causes, whether it be a fundraiser for a local school or to raise some money for the new family in the congregation. Churchgoers and neighbors knew you could call on Rodney to help with just about any task - moving, gardening, cleaning out the garage, doing the shopping for the elderly members of his church. Rodney was quick with a smile and a helping hand, and you never could catch him in an ungracious mood.
Yes, Rodney was a polite young man, exactly as his mother had envisioned him to be. Even on this sweltering July summer, he still thought of others before tending to his own comfort.
"May I get you anything?" he asked his house guest, smiling down at the bound woman on the smooth concrete floor of his cellar. "Some water, or would you like me to turn on a fan? I'm afraid these Georgia summers are something you'll never get used to. Why, even this cellar is no match for the heat, wouldn't you say?"
His guest didn't respond - couldn't, more like, with her mouth gagged - but her pleading eyes communicated her wants quite clearly.
"I'm afraid I can't let you go," Rodney said softly. "So there's no point in asking for that, ma'am."
The woman blinked up at him, blue eyes welling with tears. Rodney felt a pang for being the one to cause her grief, but he had to admire the delicate effect of her watery blue eyes.
"You are quite pretty, you know that? I'm glad I chose you. I think you'll do just fine. Shall we get started?"
The woman made a low moaning sound and tried to move, but she was quickly learning that the more she struggled, the tighter the knots became.
"There's no need to be frightened! I have no intention of raping you, if that's what you're thinking. I need your ears. I need you to listen. And tell me what you hear."
If the woman felt any comfort at these words, she did not show it. Rodney couldn't even be certain that she heard him, as she was crying in earnest now, desperately trying to talk behind the duct tape over her mouth. Rodney leaned down and ripped off the tape in one motion, causing her to cry out.
"Please! God, somebody help me!" The woman screamed. Rodney sat down on a stool he had placed some five feet away from the woman, and waited. Waited for her to stop screaming. Waited for her to realize that nobody could hear her.
"I made this cellar soundproof some years ago," he said conversationally. "It took a time, I can tell you. I couldn't ask anyone to help me, and this was before the 'do it yourself' trend that has overtaken the country. Still, I think I did a satisfactory job."
The woman would not look at him, but she stopped shouting and began to whisper.
"Please don't kill me," she said. "Please, please, God, please don't kill me."
"I like that you say please. I like a woman with manners. Shows you were raised right. Did you have both your parents growing up?" He asked suddenly, leaning forward.
A pause, then: "Yes, sir."
"I knew it. I can always tell. Me, I only had my Mama. And she was a difficult woman, although she loved me very much. She's been dead seven years and I miss her every day, but I can tell you, my childhood would have been better if my father had stuck around."
The woman said something, but Rodney wasn't listening to her. He looked around him and saw his mama and the ghost of himself, from when he was about eight.
"Tell me, what five good things did you do today?"
"I helped you wash the dishes. I took Jax out for a walk. I asked Mr. Cook if he needed any help with the weeding. I helped Mrs. Cook carry her bags in. I...I..."
"Yes?"
The little boy bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Mama. I can't think of anything else."
"Four good things, my little Rodney. You might think that's enough. But I can hear your soul, and I know it needs more than that to be saved."
"Yes, ma'am."
She opened her arms to take him in for a hug, and he ran to her. She hugged him tight for half a minute, then yanked him by his hair and dragged him to the closet.
"You're sleeping here tonight. No supper tonight, no breakfast tomorrow. End of tomorrow, I expect you to find five good deeds to tell me about."
Rodney blinked himself back to the present, then looked at the lady on his floor.
"My apologies, ma'am. Were you saying something?"
"What do you want from me?" the woman whimpered. "Please, I have children."
"I know you do, ma'am. I know you do. That's why I picked you. See, I think you're a good mother, and I am in need of a good mother. Someone like my own. You look like her and my hope is that you'll share some of the same talents as her."
He stood and walked towards his guest.
"You're a musical sort, yes?"
She didn't answer, but she didn't need to. Rodney had been watching this one. She played the piano and was teaching her five-year-old son how to play as well.
Rodney squatted, resting his elbows on his thighs, and stared into the woman's eyes.
"I need you to tell me what sound my soul makes."
The woman looked up at him, saying nothing.
"Do you understand me?"
"N-no."
"There's no point being coy. I know you're musical. You can play it. You can read it. You surely can hear it. So you must be able to hear the sounds of souls."
The woman began to cry again, which infuriated Rodney, but he took a deep breath and resolved not to lose his temper.
"Five good deeds. Tell me."
"I helped Mr. Cook paint his porch. I helped Mrs. Cook make a pie. I walked and bathed Jax. I helped you do the dishes this morning. I picked up Susie Miller's books when she dropped them."
"Why, Rodney, I knew you could give me five good deeds! Mind you do the same tomorrow. We'll fix your soul right up. I'll know when we've done enough. I can hear the sounds of souls, can hear them singing. Can you hear them, my sweet boy?"
"No, ma'am. What do they sound like?"
"All souls sound different. Your father had one that sounded like a beating drum. Mine is gentle, like a harp. Mr. Cook has a lovely bass soul, and his wife has a soul that sings like an angel choir. Oh, Rodney, how I wish you could hear the sounds of souls. Then you would understand."
"You have to listen," Rodney growled. "You haven't been listening, but now you're going to. You'll tell me what you hear. No talking. I'll gag you again if I have to, much as it pains me to cause you any discomfort. Just tell me what I want to hear, and then you'll be fine."
He walked back to the stool and sat down calmly. It appeared the woman was not going to waste any more time with her foolish cries of help, so Rodney pulled out his pocket book of Psalms and read his favorite, Psalm 98.
Rodney meditated on these sweet verses for some time, lost in the thought of what a glory it would be when he could hear the music he had been longing for since childhood.
He felt rested and calm when he turned his attention back to the lady before him.
"Well now?" he smiled kindly. "What can you tell me about the sounds of souls?"
"I'm sorry," she croaked, voice dry from a mix of heat and exhaustion. "I can't. I can't. Pease, let me go."
Rodney was in disbelief. "You must hear them! You must! It says right here, right here in this book, ma'am, that even the hills and the sea make a noise. Now, I know that if the hills can make a noise that the Lord hears, then my soul must make a louder, grander noise. My mama, she tried to teach me, but I could never hear properly. You know music, ma'am. So tell me what my soul sounds like. You tell me right now, and we can all be on our way."
"It sounds...it sounds like..."
"Yes?" he said eagerly, leaning forward.
The woman's voice sounded a bit stronger. "Your soul sounds like an organ. Like a church organ. It's deep and strong, surrounding everything with its reverberating tones."
Rodney leaned back against his stool and let out a deep breath.
"You're quite sure?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, voice clear and strong. "Your soul is an organ."
Rodney smiled at his guest, then got up and walked smoothly towards her. He squatted down beside her once more, brushing some wheat blonde hair out of her eyes.
"You're a liar," he said. He grabbed her by her hair, lifted her head, and brought it down against the concrete floor.
"Do you know why I have you do five good things a day?"
"To be polite?"
"That's half the reason, my little one. You are right, it's important that you act real polite to everyone you meet. Makes me proud when you do that, makes me look like a good mother. But it's not enough. Your soul sounds wrong, Rodney."
"I'm sorry, Mama."
"I know you are, sweetheart. And you and I, we're gonna fix you right up. You keep doing your five good deeds, and your soul will be as sweet as the morning birds. Wouldn't that be nice?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I've always said you can hear people's souls, if you listen real careful like. And your soul, my sweet son...your soul is like the clanging of church bells. Sounds real sweet, but them bells are empty on the inside."
"I am sorry, Mama. If souls have sounds, then I guess I'm tone deaf."
Rodney Wilson walked away from the freshly dead woman on his cellar floor. Disappointed as he was that this woman had been unable to help him - for how could his soul sound like a strong organ when he had failed to do five good deeds that day? - he felt optimistic about the next time. He already had his eyes on a young lady in the church.
Soon he would find someone who could hear the sounds of soul, and they would tell him that his soul was no longer an empty bell, but something better. Something that could carry him to heaven with his mother when his time came.