“Well Jump, where was it they were from?” Mr. Chamblee asked him.
“Didn’t neither one of them say,” Jump told him back.
“The tags, Jump,” Mr. Newberry said. “Where were the tags from?”
And Jump said he never noticed the tags, said the gas tank was on the right rear fender so he never had call to circle round behind the car.
Then Coley Britt said, “They sounded like they were from West Virginia, didn’t they, Jump?”
“I guess so,” Jump told him. “What’s that sound like?”
And Coley Britt made another observation about negroes that was a little meaner and a little more vicious than the first one.
Mr. Russell Newberry came away from Mr. Bill Covington’s Gulf Station when me and Daddy came away from it ourselves and Jump Garrison went back to hosing down the bathrooms while Mr. Covington excused himself into the service bay, which left Mr. L.T. Chamblee and Coley Britt on the bench out front against the stucco wall where Mr. Chamblee got back on his palmetto tree almost immediately and Coley Britt leaned forward with his forearms across his thighs and appeared set to strike in on the history of his reading habits whenever the moment presented itself. And though Mr. Chamblee and Coley Britt still could not agree as to whether or not it was South Carolina or West Virginia they both appeared considerably relieved at the withdrawal of Louisiana from the proceedings. As for Mr. Newberry, he told me and Daddy he was not so thoroughly convinced it was Louisiana after all but was dead certain it had not been South Carolina or West Virginia and so had automatically volunteered Louisiana which was ever prominent in his mind on account of his sister’s husband who hailed from Natchitoches which Mr. Newberry could never say the same way twice. Then Mr. Newberry stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, braced himself, and told me and Daddy Natchitoches two times fast which Daddy said sounded like both sides of a heated argument in Portuguese.
Between the two of them, Daddy and Mr. Newberry decided we had best head on over to Commander Tuttle’s Heavenly Rest and put an end to this license tag business forever which worked out exceptionally well since that seemed to be where we were going anyway. But we hadn’t hardly set foot on the far side of the boulevard when a green Buick with a black vinyl top turned out from a sidestreet and passed us almost before we knew it was coming. I don’t believe I ever saw the front end of it and I don’t imagine I’d have ever seen the back end of it either if not for Mrs. Pettigrew heir who turned out to be Mrs. T. Fay Rackley, the “T.” being the survivor of something her daddy had burdened her with that she could not in good conscience dispose of entirely but had very nearly cancelled out anyway. Mrs. T. Fay Rackley was riding with her window rolled all the way down into the door and her head partway out the opening when Mr. Pettigrew heir drove her up the boulevard past me and Daddy and Mr. Russell Newberry. And along about when the front view of the Buick was becoming the side view of the Buick, Mrs. T. Fay Rackley laid the back of her head down next to the vent window and said, “Well, Sugar!” in one of those high unbearable voices that usually bypasses the mouth and exits through the noseholes. Naturally the sheer unpleasantness of it caused me and Daddy and Mr. Newberry together to seek out the guilty party who Daddy and me saw was riding in a green Buick and who Mr. Newberry saw was riding in the green Buick, so Mr. Newberry was the only one of us to turn around quick enough to see the license plate but of course he was the only one of us who couldn’t hardly see anyhow which meant we could still be sure it wasn’t South Carolina or West Virginia and could remain reasonably certain it wasn’t Louisiana either but could not say precisely what it was.
So between the two of them, Daddy and Mr. Newberry decided we had best not head over to Commander Tuttle’s after all since there was no longer much call to pay the commander a visit, and instead me and Daddy and Mr. Newberry swung around in the opposite direction and made for wherever it was the Buick had made for which we figured had to be the Pettigrew house since there wasn’t much else in Neely worth coming all the way from Louisiana or West Virginia or even South Carolina to see. And although we swung around in pursuit of that Buick a time before it got wherever it was it was going we weren’t hardly the first people to catch up with it once Mr. Pettigrew heir pulled up alongside the curb by the imported wrought iron fence and him and Mrs. T. Fay Rackley let themselves in through the gate and poked around in Miss Pettigrew’s flower beds for a spell before they climbed the front steps up onto the porch and beat on the door. By the time we arrived, Aunt Willa had already let them into the foyer, and out on the street that car was thick all around with admirers who circled it from frontside to backside and from backside to frontside and puzzled over every little attachment and embellishment like they had never seen such a contraption as a Buick before. Even Coley Britt and Mr. L.T. Chamblee beat us to the license tag and we came up on the two of them stooped over it in the midsts of a fiery exchange. “That’s what I thought it was all along,” Coley Britt said. “I told you that’s what I thought it was.”
“I’ll be goddammed if you did any such thing,” Mr. Chamblee told him.
“L.T. I said clear plain if it weren’t West Virginia that’s what it would be.”
“The hell you did,” Mr. Chamblee said.
“They’re near about the same place, L.T. You can stand in one and spit into the other.”
“But they ain’t the same place.”
“Well at least neither one of ’em has a thing in the world to do with a palmetto tree.”
“I tell you I seen a palmetto tree on this exact car,” Mr. Chamblee said.
And Coley Britt asked him, “Well where is it then, you jackass?”
And when it looked like Coley and Mr. Chamblee were just about set to flail each other to death, Daddy stuck his head square between the two of them so as to get to the license tag himself. “Yep,” he said. “Just like I told you, Russell. Kentucky.” And then he drew his head out again and grinned at Mr. Coley Britt and grinned at Mr. L.T. Chamblee, and I do believe if the both of them had not been all frozen up and transfixed with rage they would have made a very sincere attempt to take Daddy apart entirely.
But then Aunt Willa turned the monkey out so everybody forgot about the Buick and forgot about where the Buick was from and took to the fence. Me and Daddy and Mr. Newberry got us a place right up next to the gate, and I guess there was a dozen people flanking us on either side when Aunt Willa hooked Mr. Britches into his tether and turned him loose. Of course he shot directly up the flagpole and stood on the knob at the top looking thoroughly self-possessed and satisfied and wearing the exact same outfit as the day previous except for the - sneakers, one of which was under a chair in the front hallway and the other of which Sheriff Burton had confiscated in the name of conscientious law enforcement. And as we all stood there at the fence watching the monkey perched there on top of the flagpole watching us, Aunt Willa went back up onto the porch and into the house but left the front door standing open and consequently we all heard Mr. Pettigrew heir say, “What’s this here?” which drew us off from Mr. Britches who had himself commenced to surveying the horizon. You really couldn’t see on into the foyer, you really couldn’t see clear up to the back of the porch on account of Miss Pettigrew’s awning and the shade it threw everywhere, but it seemed you could hear well enough, so we all sucked in our breath and waited to find out what Mr. Pettigrew heir’s this here was exactly, but no matter how still we held ourselves and no matter how hard we listened all we could hear was a kind of flat, bothered silence that turned out to be Aunt Willa’s response. “But what’s it for?” Mr. Pettigrew heir said, and Aunt Willa droned at him for another spell until Mrs. T. Fay Rackley opened up both her noseholes and shrieked, “Why Bugs, look at that yonder.” “Where?” Mr. Pettigrew heir asked her. “Right yonder,” she wailed at him, and apparently right yonder was somewhere other than the foyer and took the three of them on into the back of the house because that was all the talking and all the droning and even all the screeching we
heard for awhile.
So in the meantime for amusement most of us watched Mr. Britches, who had fairly much doused the flagpole and who was squatting on the knob engaged in picking at the fur on his belly which was just the sort of undertaking to undo most everything a blazer and a porkpie hat might appear to accomplish. Then a portion of the crowd grew weary of watching Mr. Britches be a monkey and went back to circling the green Buick that was very nearly from West Virginia, and just when it seemed like the Pettigrew house had gone ahead and swallowed up Aunt Willa and Mrs. T. Fay Rackley and Mr. Pettigrew heir, a window sash on the far end of the first level sailed up with a thunderous rattle and Mr. Pettigrew heir himself stuck his head outside and sucked at the afternoon like he’d been under water for a quarter hour. Of course the whole time the window was open we could all hear Mrs. T. Fay Rackley exercising her noseholes over a floorlamp that had been made from a butter churn and the only thing in the world she wanted was for Mr. Pettigrew heir to look at it which he did not seem the least inclined to do right up to the moment Mrs. T. Fay Rackley fetched him away from the window with one hand and slammed the sash down with the other. So we all went back to watching the monkey and pondering the Buick and Daddy and Mr. Newberry leaned backwards against the fence and smoked Daddy’s Tareytons off Mr. Newberry’s matches until finally a second floor window went flying up with about as much fuss and rattle as the other and Mr. Pettigrew heir popped out clear down to his midsection and siphoned off considerably more of the afternoon than he’d been able to manage previously. As far as we could tell, Mrs. T. Fay Rackley was working her noseholes over a bedstead this time and she could not seem to decide whether it was an oak bedstead or a fur bedstead or a walnut bedstead or a loblolly pine bedstead, so she asked Aunt Willa who apparently did not know or would not say because after the spell of silence that was Aunt Willa’s response, Mrs. T. Fay Rackley set in to screeching at Mr. Pettigrew heir about it and allowed him to protrude into the afternoon for only a short while longer before she caused him to disappear a little prematurely again.
We didn’t see Mr. Pettigrew heir for a considerable while after the bedstead episode, which is what folks were beginning to call it, and we didn’t see Aunt Willa or hear from Mrs. T. Fay Rackley either, so understandably interest in the monkey and the Buick proceeded to erode some and I do believe even Daddy and Mr. Russell Newberry were growing somewhat weary of the Tareytons by the time Mr. Pettigrew heir showed himself high up in the gable of the house behind a little round attic window. Of course we all watched him try to get it open, first by tugging at it, then by pushing on it, then by beating it with the heel of his hand, then by tugging at it again, but no matter what he did short of putting his foot through it the little round attic window wouldn’t budge, probably because it was never meant to. And then Mr. Pettigrew heir was gone from sight again for what turned out to be a while just as considerable as the one previous, but we all bore it a little more bravely this time since Mr. Paul Needham and his daddy little Buford had been away to the drugstore after a Coca-Cola during the entire of the attic window episode, which was what it was getting called all around, so everybody got to take a turn telling the both of them just what it was they hadn’t seen and the process kept us all thoroughly occupied until near about when Mr. Pettigrew heir himself scampered on out the front door and down off the porch into the yard which turned out to be a reasonably rare thing to witness since Mr. Pettigrew heir did not appear to have the architecture for scampering.
He brought with him into the afternoon a long-handled shoehorn that he’d grabbed up somewhere and right off he shook it at Mr. Britches who was still squatting on top of the knob on top of the flagpole but was too busy picking at himself to notice. Then Mr. Pettigrew heir and his long-handled shoehorn continued on up the sidewalk to the gate where me and Daddy and Mr. Newberry were still holding the fence up, and once Mr. Pettigrew heir stopped to fumble at the gatelatch Mr. Newberry took the opportunity to tell him, “Lovely day,” which seemed to be just enough to set Mr. Pettigrew heir off and he let loose of the latch, wagged his shoehorn in the general direction of the Pettigrew house, and said, “Whole goddam place smells like monkey clean up to the rafters.”
“You don’t mean it,” Daddy said.
“Yes sir, I do. Some people just ain’t worth a happy shit, can live any old how and stand the stink just fine, not to mention the hairballs up there the size a melons, and it ain’t like you could air the place out. Hell, half the windows are painted shut. Just between you and me,” Mr. Pettigrew heir said, and indicated Daddy with his shoehorn, “you’d think a woman with her kind a money would have the great good sense to hire herself a nigger with some gumption stead a that thing she’s got. I’d as soon take that monkey for my wife as take that nigger for my house-keeper.”
And Daddy and Mr. Newberry glanced at each other quick and sideways before Daddy smiled at Mr. Pettigrew heir ever so slightly and asked him, “Are you a full-blooded Pettigrew?”
“No sir,” Mr. Pettigrew heir told him, “I’m a Rackley, Conrad Rackley. Her daddy’s sister was my momma.”
“But you get the whole load, do you,” Mr. Newberry said.
“I guess so,” Mr. Rackley told him, “but ain’t much of it worth having.” Then he laid his backside against the fence, crossed his arms over his chest, and studied the front of the house up and down until he arrived at a piece of dental molding that had pulled away from the eave and was sagging somewhat pathetically overtop a second-story window. “Look at that there, ain’t that the sorriest mess. Who built this heap anyway?”
“Your uncle, I believe,” Daddy told him.
“Ain’t surprising,” Mr. Rackley said. “He never was worth a big goddam.”
And Daddy and Mr. Newberry looked at each other again but before either one of them could conjure up any sort of polite remark Mrs. T. Fay Rackley herself came scampering out the front door and down the steps and along the sidewalk with both her noseholes at full flare. “Bugs! Bugs!” she screeched, “look what I got,” and she arrived at the fence cradling in her hands a small porcelain figure of a hobo sitting on a stump.
“Get in the car, Momma,” Mr. Rackley told her.
“Ain’t this the most divine thing,” she said. “Ain’t this just about the most divine thing you’ve ever seen.”
“Surely,” Mr. Rackley told her. “Now get in the car.”
And Mrs. T. Fay Rackley along with her noseholes and along with her porcelain hobo and his porcelain stump underneath him slid into the front seat of the green Buick while Mr. Conrad Rackley circled round to the far side where he managed to get hold of the doorhandle before Coley Britt came up behind him and said, “Excuse me, but wherebouts you from in Kentucky, the West Virginia end?”
And as Mr. Conrad Rackley turned to answer, Daddy put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Louis.”
“Yes sir,” I said back.
“I want you to take a good hard look at that man there,” he told me. “That’s what we call an asshole.”
So I paid some considerable attention to Mr. Conrad Rackley, who had laid his backside against the car door, and to Mr. Coley Britt, who was once again talking about spitting into West Virginia, and then I looked back at Daddy and asked him, “Which one?”
“Pick,” he said.
iii
Momma wore her navy dress with the little white speckles all over it and her blue scullcap, the one with the veils and the plumage, and on account of the seriousness and sheer gravity of the occasion she. fished out from her jewelbox the diamond broach Grandmomma Benfield had presented her with on her wedding day and pinned it to the left side of her collar. This was by no means a frivolous bauble studded all over as it was with precious and semi-precious stones in no readily describable design, though Daddy was given to insist it put him in mind of Rhode Island, a likeness which Momma did not particularly hold with. She said it was one of your free-form abstract broaches with some considerable substance to it which made it an appr
opriate item for particularly weighty occasions like viewings and funerals and Mrs. Estelle Singletary’s autumn harvest brunch. So Momma pinned the broach to the left side of the collar of her speckled navy dress and it hung there about as light and dainty as a railroad spike. As for Daddy he started out in his brown slacks and his green and brown striped necktie and his gold poplin sportcoat that was not pure gold exactly but was nearer to the color of butterscotch candy, and he wore the entire ensemble out of the bedroom, up the back hallway, and into the living room, where Momma met him and sent him to the bedroom again on account of the combination of brown and green and butterscotch which she found wholly inappropriate for the occasion. Momma said this sort of thing called for a dark suit, so Daddy changed into his grey one and came out of the bedroom, up the back hallway, and once more into the living room, where Momma complimented him on the improvement before she took him by the arm and escorted him down the back hallway and on into the bedroom again so as to personally relieve him of his brown and green striped necktie, his gold socks, and his oxblood wingtips.
A Short History of a Small Place Page 31