The Promise of Rest

by Reynolds Price

  Ivory looked puzzled.

  “Did his eyes fail too?”

  The milk had begun to bubble and steam. Ivory drew it off the burner, poured it slowly on the toast and looked to Hutch. “My brother never really got too desperately sick—just a long succession of small but wearisome intestinal infections, nerve parasites, then a rush of lost weight, then finally a patch of Kaposi’s sarcoma in the midst of his forehead like an Indian caste mark. At first he laughed that it made him a Brahmin. His doctor said he could have survived for months or years longer. He seemed to be one of these rare lucky people who somehow manage to keep the virus at a near standstill. No, I honestly think Wyatt Bondurant died from watching what he’d done to Wade Mayfield. He was sure it was him that gave AIDS to Wade; he never said why. Wade was grown when they met. Anyhow when the parasites got to Wade’s eyes, Wyatt asked me here—here by this stove—if the two of them could count on me.”

  Ivory took ten seconds to think her way onward. “I took him to mean would I see them through to peaceful deaths. I’d have rather been asked to kill a new baby, but I told him Yes. Wyatt was the last of my generation. We’d seen each other through a South Bronx childhood, losing two sisters along the way; I couldn’t leave him now. At the time I didn’t know he meant to check out and leave Wade with me. But that was his plan. He got his own business matters in order, left a short message for me to read to Wade—the last sentence was ‘Now you’re in safe hands.’ That had to mean me; there was nobody else, that was safe anyhow. Then he found a short alley between here and the river and took himself out with a gun I forgot our father had brought up north from Virginia, sixty years ago. A schoolgirl found his body, coming home at dusk from band practice.”

  It was simple as that then, in her eyes at least. Ivory Bondurant had made a deal with her brother; she was sticking by it now he was gone. She set a plastic spoon in the soaked toast, took up the tray and went toward the bedroom.

  Hutch said “You’re bound to be a saint.”

  Ivory thought about that and searched Hutch’s eyes but found no clue to what he might mean, so she said “I’ve had my own good reasons. It’s been painful as anything I’ve ever known, but I don’t claim any public-health medals. It was what I wanted to do, while I could. Wade mattered to me too.”

  Hutch heard her past tense; but he mouthed the words Thank you, knowing his debt was too great to pay or to speak of here in these parched walls. When Ivory watched him but gave no answer, Hutch realized Straw was not there with him. He turned and called his name.

  “In here.” Straw had found the spare bedroom.

  Hutch had assumed that Ivory was living in this space now; but when he entered the one spare room, he saw it was crammed with cardboard boxes, crates and two steamer trunks (one of them was the trunk Hutch had carried to Oxford near forty years ago).

  Straw was seated by the river window on a solid box, and his face was bleak. In recent years he’d wept too often, always when sober; but he’d shed all the tears he had for this place and the sights it had seen—his eyes were dry. In silence he reached into a shoe box beside him, gathered a thick handful of letters and held them toward Hutch.

  Hutch said “No, they’re Wade’s.”

  Straw said “There you’re wrong. They’re yours and Ann’s—every one of them are recent letters from you two, addressed to Wade and all of them sealed, the way you sent them.”

  “Strawson, Wade’s blind. We didn’t know that.”

  Straw whispered hard. “That woman can read.” He pointed through the wall to Ivory.

  Hutch worked a slow path in through the crates and stood by Straw, looking down toward the river. A barge so rusty it seemed in the act of quick dissolution, an orange sugar cube; a big white dog like the hero of some Jack London story overseeing the battered stream, a woman with honey-colored hair who took what were almost surely two lobsters—giant live lobsters—from a pail and pitched them far out over the river. They sank like plummets, and Hutch asked Straw “Would you rather be boiled to death in a pot and eaten by humans or thrown back live to the mercy of a river of human shit?”

  Straw had seen the woman. “I vote for the river. I’ve eaten my share of mammal manure; it hasn’t stopped me yet.”

  Hutch said “You vote for leaving today?”

  “What about Wade’s doctor? We should notify whoever’s been seeing him anyhow and ask for his charts to be mailed home. You settled the business with that smart woman?”

  “She does seem fine—no, we didn’t get into details yet. She’s feeding Wade.”

  “Has she got a job, other than here? A few sticks of furniture can’t have brought them much capital. Maybe she’s well-fixed on her own.”

  Hutch said “She and Wyatt were from the South Bronx. Or so he told me one hateful night, and she just confirmed it.”

  “Then you want my suggestion? I think I should go out and get us some breakfast—a big hot feed for you, me and her. You make your final arrangements with Ivory, she tells us what we need to take, we make Wade a decent pallet in the car and head for home.”

  Hutch was still facing the river and the white dog. More than ever, its size and patent vigor seemed the answer to a lonely boy’s prayer—a perfectly faithful creature who’d understand every thought you had. At last Hutch laid a hand at the back of Straw’s broad neck. “Whose home, old friend?”

  Straw reached back and briefly covered the hand. “Well, he grew up where you live; you’re rattling around there in too much room. Ann’s place is likely temporary. Emily and I will take him in a heartbeat—we’ve got plenty of room, never sleep. But you make the choice, or ask Wade to choose.”

  Hutch stayed quiet till he heard Ivory walk toward the kitchen again. Then he quietly said “My place, no question.”

  “You know I’ll come there and stay to the end—just say the word.”

  “The end could be a long way off.”

  Straw said “You saw him. He’s looking at the grave at fairly close range.”

  Hutch felt a strong need to say Straw was wrong, but quietly again he said “People do that sometimes for years.”

  Straw laughed. “Yes, Doctor, the human race for a start—”

  The laugh had been short; but Wade heard it somehow and called out “Godfather, come laugh in here.” Weak as his voice was, its youth carried well.

  Straw went at once.

  Hutch followed him as far as the kitchen.

  Ivory was rinsing the milk pan and bowl. “I’ve got to get on to work, I’m afraid.”

  “Excuse me but are you living here?”

  At first she looked offended; then she understood. “Oh no, I was in this building long before Wade and Wyatt. With my ex-husband, two floors down.”

  Hutch heard the contradiction of what she’d said a short while back—that she hadn’t lived here through most of Wade’s tenure. But at the same moment, he first saw the wedding band on her left hand—a ring at least, plain platinum—and decided not to question her story. “Where do you work?”

  “Far downtown, an art gallery in Soho.”

  “I’d be glad to drive you.”

  She smiled, a glimpse of a whole other person—one not seen in these walls for months or years. “No you wouldn’t” she said. “You get in morning traffic with me, and you’ll never want to see Ivory again. I take the subway five days a week.”

  Hutch said “You know I want to take him home.”

  Ivory said “I’ve prayed you would. You know he couldn’t ask.”

  Hutch believed her but he had to ask this last soul alive a question that only she might answer. “Why has he been so set against me?”

  “My guess is, mainly pure loyalty to Wyatt.”

  Hutch shut his eyes and agreed.

  With no sign of vengeance, still she pressed ahead. “You know Wyatt hated you and all you stand for—all he could see; Wyatt trusted his eyes.” She was suddenly splendid as any oak tree lit by lightning.

  Hutch managed h
alf a smile. “I’m glad Wyatt knew so well what I stand for. I’ve yet to solve that mystery in more than six decades; and I’ve really tried—Wyatt may have spent, oh, twenty conscious hours in my presence.”

  Ivory was free to laugh in relief. She’d launched her attack on behalf of her brother; now she was free of that final duty (not that she’d ever thought Wyatt was all wrong).

  But Hutch was not finished. “Was it just the fact that I’m white and Southern?”

  “That was part; Wyatt was radical back in college. So was I but I got my edge dulled as time passed, and Wyatt never did.”

  Hutch said “Oh he was keen with me.”

  “Maybe you earned that?” Though Ivory’s voice had made it a question, her eyes confirmed that she fully believed the answer was Yes.

  Hutch waited “Did he think I condemned the way they lived?”

  “He knew you did; you told him so.”

  Hutch said “Wyatt may have thought I did. We had a bad meeting, the last time I saw him—all three of us badly lost our heads on the subject of race and sex and all else. But no—God, no—with the life I’ve led, I’ve got very slim rights of condemnation over the worst soul alive on Earth.”

  “But you never contacted them again?”

  “I didn’t, no—not the two together. I was standing on form, I was Wade’s only father, he was past twenty-one and he knew my address. Even so, I wrote him a good many letters that he never opened.”

  Ivory took awhile to grant Hutch’s premise. “They were much too close—I could see that myself. They were all but Siamese twins, most days. They doomed each other, is what it came to.”

  To Hutch there seemed only one question left. “How did Wyatt’s hatred for so many white people part and make way for Wade?”

  Ivory said “My brother would pick at that subject, fairly often—right here in Wade’s presence. Wade always laughed and said he was the master Wyatt wanted, deep down. Wyatt would blare his hot satanic eyes and say ‘Dream on, sweet honky—little white sugar-tit. I’ll get you yet.’” She held in place and watched the words pierce Hutch: and for the only time today, her eyes nearly filled.

  So Hutch only waited till she’d got her grip again. “We’re hoping to take Wade home today. Any reason why not? Anything or anybody we need to consult, any bills to pay?”

  Ivory said “His volunteer comes at ten to bathe him. All his medicine’s in the bathroom cabinet; he usually understands what he takes and why. If not, the bottles are clearly labeled.” She pointed again to the composition book. “I’ve kept a record of all he’s been through—the names of the illnesses, the doctors and dates. You’ll need that with you. There’s a big box of Wade’s papers in the spare bedroom; better take that too.”

  Hutch said “You think he can stand the drive—eight or nine hours?”

  “Mr. Mayfield, Wade’s so up and down, I really can’t tell you. Some days he has the strength to dress himself and walk with me around the block, very slowly. We got as far as the river last week, then sat down awhile and came back with even a little strength to spare. Other times he’s too weak to raise his head, and I have to diaper him three times a night. His eyes are either three-fourths blind or fairly sharp, depending on circumstances I’ve never fathomed; and as you know from your call last night, his mind’s not reliable. Some days he talks like a lucid gentleman. Other days, and a lot of nights, he’s flinging way out on spider thread. No harm in him, though. Never says a mean word, not to me at least. Begs my pardon all day—”

  “That’s a Mayfield trait.”

  “He’s told me as much; he’s a kind-natured man. I can tell you I’ll miss him—” No tears fell but Ivory’s dark eyes widened further, and she bit at her lip.

  Hutch said “Please don’t take this the least bit wrong, but we must owe you substantial money.”

  “Thank you, I never doubted you’d be fair. May I write you about that later on?”

  “Any day you’re ready.”

  Ivory said “It won’t be anything steep—less than three hundred dollars, little odds and ends.”

  “Is there anything left here that you want or can use?”

  Her attention was already moving toward her job; in another few minutes she’d be seriously late. “May I also think that over awhile?”

  “By all means, please. I’ll just pay the rent till I can come back up and clean things out—if that’s ever appropriate.” Hutch could hear his refusal to face death’s nearness.

  Ivory looked round the bare room again. “I’ve kept it as neat as I knew how.” No ship’s galley was ever cleaner.

  Hutch said “You’ve done a magnificent job—I wasn’t complaining. If I start in to thank you finally today, I’ll just go to pieces.”

  She was in the same fix. “Let’s both of us wait till we’re ready. There’s the phone and the mail; we’ll communicate.” She’d taken her black coat off a wall hook.

  Hutch helped her put it on, concealing the bright dress. “Then Strawson and I will likely clear out here before you’re back. I guess we’ll wait till the volunteer comes—will she know details like the doctor’s number?”

  “It’s a he, Mr. Mayfield. Yes, he knows more than me—details anyhow. He’s the saint you mentioned.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jimmy Boat—we call him Boatie. He’ll be all the help you need.” She was leaving; she put out a long hand in parting.

  Hutch took it for maybe a moment too long. “Wade may have told you that I’ve spent my life writing, when I wasn’t teaching college. I’ve seldom felt at a real loss for words—” He bowed and pressed his forehead to her hand.

  Ivory held in place, uncertain of how to use the old gesture or whether to refuse it. When she knew, she said “I’ve read every word you’ve published, I think. I’ve had hard times of my own to weave through; you’ve been some help. I promise a letter in the next few weeks.” She moved toward the hall door.

  “Did you tell him goodbye?” The moment it left Hutch, he was sorry he’d said it.

  Ivory held in place at the door a long moment, her strong shoulders squared. But her face, when she turned, was the ground plan of pain. Her mouth moved to speak but nothing came, so she shook her head No and went her way.

  In his mind, Hutch barely heard his own last thought as she vanished through the door. Wade was loved, all ways.

  10

  THEY’D eaten the breakfast Straw brought in from two blocks east; and they had Wade propped up, in his robe, in the rocker when the volunteer let himself in with a key at ten o’clock. He came in, back first, carrying a satchel; so at first he didn’t see the company; and when he faced the room, he yelled out “God on high!” He was tar black, maybe five foot six, built like a reinforced concrete emplacement in a World War II antitank defense; and his reddish hair was high in an old-fashioned Afro arrangement above a round face, no neck at all and a silver-gray and spotless jumpsuit.

  Hutch and Straw got to their feet; but before they could speak. Wade said “Boatie Boat, this is my father Hutch and my godfather Straw.”

  Boat said “I thought both of you were dead.” But he set down the satchel and strode on toward them for crushing handshakes. Then he stood back and studied Wade in his chair. “You’re resurrected, child! I told you you’d live.” To Hutch, Boat said “Wade called me last night, told me you were on the road; and he made me promise not to let you see his frozen corpse.” He touched Wade’s wrist. “You’re still beating anyhow. No icicles yet.”

  Wade said “Boatie, these men are kidnaping me south. Next time you see me, I’ll be warm as toast.”

  Boat said “South got too hot for me.” He put out a flat hand and felt Wade’s forehead. Then with both hands he lightly probed Wade’s throat; the lymph nodes there were hard as kernels. “No fever in you today at all. Sugar, you’re cooling down.”

  Straw asked Boatie “Where you from in the South?”

  “Take a flying guess.”

  “Socie
ty Hill, South Carolina.”

  Boat laughed. “Way off.”

  Hutch said “Social Circle, Georgia?”

  “Getting closer but wrong.”

  Straw said “Where exactly?” He was only indulging the common need of country dwellers to place everybody they meet on a map of the actual ground.

  But Boat slid into minstrel-darky tones. “You honkies still hunting us runaways down—lay back, white man; we free at last!”

  Straw grinned and raised both hands in surrender. He’d been involved in no such complex racial theatrics since Martin Luther King opened so many eyes.

  Despite his kidding-on-the-level, though, Boat showed no malice. For blind Wade’s sake, he was eager to jive. “I’m from Little Richard’s hometown—who know where that is?”

  Hutch said “Macon, Georgia—the cradle of rock and roll, birthplace of Little Richard, all-time king!”

  Boat folded both hands. “Amen, pink Jesus.”

  Wade crossed himself. “Mother Mary, Amen.”

  By then Boat was combing Wade’s hair with his fingers and neatening his robe.

  Wade accepted the service as a small welcome pleasure. He shut his eyes and, for a long instant, assumed unconsciously the look of a boy-pharaoh on his gilded barge, borne toward death and endless judgment, very nearly smiling.

  Boat looked to Hutch. “You taking this lovely friend out of here?” In the course of eight words, his voice had changed again—realistic now and sober.

  Wade’s eyes were still shut; he still looked serene but a wiry snake’s voice came from his lips. “Don’t let this bastard here lay a hand on me.”

  Boat laughed. “Which one?—there’s three bastards here.”

  Wade’s eyes found Hutch. “This main man, grinning like nobody’s gone.”

  Hutch thought That’s me—he’s struck the truth finally: Wyatt Bondurant’s truth.