The Rough English Equivalent (The Jack Mason Saga Book 1)

by Stan Hayes

  “Just barely, I reckon,” said Moses. His big brother told me he’s finished infantry training at Camp Pendleton, and will be going somewhere soon. He’s afraid that it’ll be Korea.”

  “His big brother?” said Terrell. “Who’s that?”

  “Rupert Williams. One of my warehouse guys. He’s a vet himself.”

  “Camp Pendleton- that’s a Marine base,” said Pap.

  “Yep- ole Ziggy’s a leatherneck,” said Moses. “For better or worse.”

  “And they always go in first,” said Terrell.

  “Well, Ziggy’s always been good for a surprise.” said Serena.

  “You ever see him ride that bicycle through traffic?” said Marsh. “That little coon’s the closest thing to fearless that I ever saw. I didn’t know they took colored people, though.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” asked Moses.

  “Well, you hear about them being an ee-liite force and all. You just figure unless you’re white and six foot tall or better, they’d turn you down.”

  “From what I’ve seen of Marines,” said Moses, “Ziggy’ll give a nice boost to their average IQ.”

  “Hey, that’s right- you were in the Navy, werncha?” said Terrell.”

  “Yeah. A long time ago. Before the war.”

  “Didn’t ever run across Gene Debs, didja?”

  “Nope- spent most of my hitch down in Cuba. Guantánamo Bay.”

  “That must’ve been pretty nice,” said Marsh.

  “Not bad, if you don’t mind heat and bugs,” said Moses.

  “See there, honey,” said Jolene Marsh, standing beside Serena. “We didn’t miss a thing but heat and bugs. He wanted to go on this trip down there, to Havana, that Parker Pens set up last year, but it was in June and we hadta go to my cousin Margaret’s wedding in Mobile.”

  “Talk about heat and bugs,” said Marsh through his teeth.

  “Here, Jolene,” said Pap as he got up. “You sit down right here.”

  “Uh-uh, thanks- I came out to get Ríni . She promised to get a couple of her high school annuals for me. I’m in charge of getting out the invites to our class’s 20th anniversary reunion, and mine’re nowhere to be found.”

  “Oh yeah- let’s do get that out of the way,” said Serena. Mandy said that she thought she could find them, but she may not have had time to look yet, so it might take a little while.”

  “Twenty years,” said Pap as they left. “Hard to imagine y’all’ve been out of school that long.”

  “Longer, for some of us,” said Terrell. “I would’ve graduated in ’29, and Freddy- when? ’27?”

  “Yep,” said Marsh. “And I can remember it like it was yesterday.” He paused to watch the ascent of an aerial bomb, the WHUMP of its launch promising a significant explosion. It shook the porch as a Hudson convertible pulled into the last available space in the driveway. “Well,” he said, smiling as he returned Cordelia Redding’s over-the-windshield wave, “look who’s here.”

  “Who’s that with ’em?” said Terrell.

  “Don’t believe I’ve ever seen ’im before,” Marsh said. “Got some suntan, whover it is.” Young, about twenty-four, Marsh guessed. He’d vaulted from his spot in the back seat to the driveway beside the Hornet’s passenger door, opening it for Cordelia with a bright smile and a little bow. Buster Redding got out under his own power, with a little less style but comparable enthusiasm. They made their way to the house, sporting the know-it-all grin of drunks the world over.

  “Hiidy, folks,” said Buster, gap-toothed grin widening in the bright-pink face. He put an arm out to encircle Cordelia’s waist, letting her lead the way onto the porch. “We brought a guest along; figured there’d be plenty. This here’s Poncho; struck out seven in a row today for th’ Bullets.”

  “Well, welcome, sir.” said Pap, extending his hand. I’m Lawton Redding. It’s my party, and welcome to it.”

  “Sank you,” said the tan young man, shaking hands with a bashful smile and another small bow. “Francisco Jesus Herrera y Brancusa.”

  “An’ that’s why everybody calls him Poncho,” said Buster. “Fine lookin’ bawey, ain’tee? Whatchall drinkin’?”

  “Does it make a difference?” asked Serena, her eyes on Cordelia, who had casually slipped her arm around the tan young man’s waist.

  “Pour your guest a julep, Buster,” said Pap, waving a hand at the pitcher. “Unless he’d rather have something else,” he said, eyeing his daughter-in-law’s hand on “Poncho’s” hip.

  Deep-gold afternoon sunlight, shimmering through filmy curtains, pooled on the bedroom’s oak floor. “Looks like you could move right back in here and catch th’ bus to school on Monday,” said Jolene, letting her ample frame collapse onto the four-poster bed’s white satin spread. She lay back on one of the pillows and examined the ornate molding that separated white ceiling from walls of robin’s-egg blue.

  “Huh?” Serena shouted from inside the closet as she pulled books out of a maple hope chest.

  “I said,” Jolene raised her voice, “That it looks like you never moved outa here.”

  “I can’t keep all of this junk at the hotel,” she said, dropping two large flat books on the bed. “I could throw most of it away, I guess, but it’d take a day or two, and I just keep shoving it down on the to-do list. Plus it’d probably upset Daddy.”

  “Doncha be doin’ that,” said Melinda Terrell, stopping to lean against the door frame. “Your daddy’s way too niice to be gettin’ him upset.”

  “Hey,” said Jolene. “We were just talkin’ about how much Ríni’s room looks like she still lives here.”

  “Some days that’d suit me fine,” said Melinda as she sat down at Jolene’s feet. “Being back in Bisque High, I mean. Remember how much of a hurry we were all in to get outa school?”

  “I remember,” Serena said, “and I think we were right. Jolene, you almost made me laugh when you said ‘catch the bus on Monday.’ That ghost-bus can just pass this house right on by, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Just like it did back then,” said Jolene, looking at her over the cover of the 1931 edition of the Bisque High School, annual, the Beacon. You never rode the bus anyway. Hey, here’s old Kenneth Morris. Somebody said he was goin’ to Hollywood. Wonder if he did?”

  “Did or didn’t,” said Melinda, “I doubt he’d come back here, even for a 20th reunion. People were so nasty to him; callin’ ’im ‘Sister Kenny’ right to his face.”

  “I wonder if he’s been in New York all these years,” mused Serena. I heard he came up the year after I did, but I never heard from him.”

  “I ’magine he had all he could do just stayin’ alive up there,” said Melinda. His folks couldn’tve helped him all that much, even if they’d wanted to.”

  “What was that girl’s name- his cousin, once removed, or something?” said Jolene. She was in your class, wudn’t she?”

  “Dotty Rawlings,” said Melinda. “That’s right. Haven’t seen her in a coon’s age. She’s out in th’ country somewhere.”

  “Gee, Dotty. That’s right,” said Serena. Married Perry Adams. Remember that time we were riding around in that old Packard of Martha Jennings’, and she and Cynthia Baker got into a cat fight? She barfed all over Cynthia. The back seat was covered in puke, all vi-anna sausages and creamed corn from the lunch room. Oooo…. I can smell it right now.” They were laughing so hard that Jolene collapsed into a coughing fit. “I bet we could get Information to find their phone number,” Serena said when she’d caught her breath. “Want to?”

  “Wanta what?” Cordelia’s julep-richened voice preceded a conspir-ator’s smile as it crept around the edge of the door. “Whatchall doin’, anyway? Pap sent us to check on y’all. We broughtcha fresh drinks, ya been up here so long.” She took a step into the room, her left hand gripping the Julep pitcher and her right the Hispanic pitcher. “Didjall all meet Poncho?” she asked, dragging him into the room behind her. “Say ‘hey’ to the ladies, hon. How do ya say ‘
hey’ in Spanish, anyway?”

  “Ju say ‘hóla’,” he said, embarrassed but determined to meet the challenge. “Hóla, señoras.”

  “Hóla, Pancho,” said Serena, standing and offering her hand. “Somebody should’ve warned you; Cordelia kidnaps people.” The pitcher’s demeanor relaxed somewhat, but since he wasn’t sure of what she’d said, his fixed smile, like that of someone arrested and awaiting classification, remained. “Are you gonna pour us a drink, Cordelia, or are you gonna make him do that too?”

  “I’ll pour, Miss Priss; just stick out your glass. Jolene, Melinda? There you go,” she said, setting the pitcher down on the top of the chest-of-drawers. “What’s in the ol’ Beacon? Y’all lookin’ at old boyfriends, or what?”

  “Gotta track all these people down for th’ Class of ‘31’s 20th reunion,” said Jolene. “What class were you? ‘35?”

  “ ’37, thank you. Two years behind Buster.”

  “We’ve done got old,” observed Jolene. “This boy’s trapped by a buncha matrons.”

  “Well, y’all matrons better come on down an les’ eat before y’all’s chillun blow up th’ place,” observed Cordelia, bridling at any suggestion that the label applied to her.

  “I guess so,” said Melinda. “But cradle-robbers first. After you, Cordelia.”

  “Hey, Pancho,” said Cordelia with a lazy grin, “How do you say ‘Piss on you, Melinda.’? Never mind. C’mon, darlin’.”

  As the couple hit the steps, Serena shook her head. “I wish they’d get outta here. That girl drives me crazy sometimes with her teasin’. That poor boy doesn’t know whether he’s comin’ or goin’, and a couple more Juleps down th’ road, he won’t care.”

  “Teasin’, hell; zebras can’t change their stripes, darlin’,” observed Melinda. “Don’t let it worry you. I know Buster’s your brother an’ all, but he’s th’ one that decided he could put hobbles on that filly.”

  “You’ll excuse me if I don’t pursue that with you,” said Serena. It reminds me too much of people tryin’ to box Miz Rose in. Just let her be, if you don’t mind.”

  Melinda flushed. “I wasn’t ever part of that, Ríni. Neither were my folks, and you know it. And if you’re telling me that you believe we were, I better just leave right now.” She stood up; Serena caught her arm as she tried to walk past her.

  “Wait, Melinda. Listen. When something happens to bring that shit back to me, I can’t always control what I do. I wasn’t accusin’ you of jumpin’ on Miz Rose; I know exactly who’s who as far as that’s concerned. But I get protective about Cordelia when she does things outa desperation. Her girlhood’s slipped away in this little red-clay pisshole, and Buster ain’t much help to her as far as that’s concerned. If holdin’ hands with that kid does something for her, we oughta just smile and go on about our business. Comeer and have a drink with me,” she said, putting her arm around Melinda’s still-rigid shoulders and steering her toward the sweating julep pitcher. “Here’s what I’ll never forget,” she said as she filled their glasses. “After the funeral, when Daddy and I were walking up the aisle, I was crying so hard that when I looked up and saw you, you were just a blur. You left the pew, put your arm around my waist and walked out with us. You never said a word; when we got to the car, you just squeezed me tight around my waist and walked away. Do you think I’ll ever forget that? You think you could ever be anyone to me but my best friend in all the world?”

  Melinda looked at her for a long second. Tears sprang from her eyes so abruptly that the first ones cleared her cheeks and fell straight to the floor. She put her hand on the back of Serena’s neck, pulling her forehead to her own so that they touched. “Ríni. Ríni. Ríni. Baby. What they did to y’all. I’m so sorry, baby.” She sobbed uncontrollably; in moments, Serena and Jolene did, too.

  “You missed sump’m today,” Jack told Ricky in a subdued voice as they set up another large aerial salute, alone for a moment in a corner of the yard.

  “Whassat?” asked Ricky.

  “Mose slapped the ever-lovin’ shit outa Pissant Grant.”

  “What? No shit.”

  “He dawno I saw him. Ole Pissant staggered a couple of steps back, but he stayed on ’is feet.”

  “Why’d he do it?”

  “Pissant was talking sassy to him. ‘Get that shitheap into line,’ sump’m like that. Guess he thought that parade marshal’s armband packed enough weight to let ’im get away with it.”

  “Where were you?”

  “On the way to th’ Co’cola stand. He sent me over there to get a couple, but it was just to get me away. I walked around behind a car and stuck my head back out. And a coupla seconds later, Mose let ’im have it.”

  “Serves the fucker right,” declared Ricky. “Nobody likes that shitass anyway, ’cept ’is fella creeps, Cat an’ Chili Dog. Wonder if he’ll try to get back at Mose?”

  “Not if he knows what’s good for ’im. Mose just backhanded ’im today. You know what he could do to a guy like that if he got serious...” He stopped, seeing the girls heading their way. “Y’all waita minute,” he said, “this thing’s goin’ up.”

  “Well, hurry up and light it, then,” said Lynne Browne, who assumed a position of authority based on being two years older than everyone but Trisha, and her possession of a “learner” driver’s license. “Who made you the big firecracker specialist anyway?”

  “Bitch,” grunted Ricky under his breath. “I’d like to shoot it right up her fat ass.”

  “Don’t piss her off so she’ll run off with th’ car,” said Jack. “I wanta get Terry in there and make out after we eat.”

  “Fat chance,” Ricky shot back as the rocket whooshed away. “She’s gotta be home before dark. That learner’s license’s only good for daytime.”

  “Yeah, and she’s supposed to be ridin’ with somebody that has a real license, too. I don’t see anybody like that around. She’ll do whatever she wants to. Terry says she tells her folks what to do.”

  The rocket exploded in a shower of red and green light. “Who’s gonna be first, buddy?” Ricky asked with a knowing grin.”

  “First to what?”

  “First to get some pussy, what else? You wanta wait ’til you get to college?”

  “Nossir; near as I can tell,” said Jack, looking up at the voiceless conversation Cordelia and Pancho were conducting on the porch, “as far as fun goes, ain’t much gets in fronta fuckin’. I ain’t countin’ on bein’ aheada you, though; you got too much of a head start with Trisha. Ol’ Preston’s gonna be sorry he was gone this summer. I thought you slipped it in last night.”

  “I tried, but she wouldn’t let me. I got blue balls like I never had before. I gotta get her to where she’ll at least jack me off. Once they swell up, even that hurts.”

  “Good thing Freddy told us about how to fix that,” Jack said, smiling as he shook his head. “Otherwise we’d still be tryin’ to get to sleep with ’em hurtin’. Didja get some rubbers?”

  “Yeah. Now I gotta figure out how to use ’em.”

  “I bet old Ziggy’ll be learnin’ all there is ta know about rubbers, if he hab’mnt already, “ said Jack. “He ’us out in California all ’at tiime, even before headin’ out ta Korea.”

  “Yeah, I imagine he was able to find all kindsa colored girls out there in California.”

  “Well, who says they gotta be colored? California’s a lot different from the way it is around here, let alone in Japan and Korea.”

  “You think Ziggy would fuck a white girl? He'd never do that.”

  “Well, he's gonna be fuckin’ the next thing to ’em when he gets over there. And he's not a bad lookin’ guy, for a nigger.”

  “Well, he better never let me hear about it, “ said Ricky. “ I'd hafta whip ’is ass when he gets home.”

  “You gonna whip a Marine’s ass? You better start workin’ out now. He’ll’ve whipped some asses of his own by the next time you see ’im.”

  “Well, I'll see what I can do ab
out it, anyway,” Ricky said, his jaw set. “I don't believe he’d do it in the first place.” Looking over Jack's shoulder, he said. “Watch it.”

  Mandy, Pap’s housekeeper, much-ventilated chenille slippers flapping, stepped ponderously down the porch steps into the back yard, carrying a plate of pork in one hand and bags of buns and potato chips in the other. “Mistah Jack,” she called to him on her way to the picnic table, “wouldjall git de cawn and slaw an’ dat big pitchera tea so y’all kin git stahtid? Oh, and dat stacka cups.”

  The picnic table sat in the shade of an old water oak, about a hundred feet away from the house. The girls sat on its benches, arranging the plates they’d brought from the kitchen. “That’s smelling so good,” said Trisha, “I bet I could eat all that barbeque myself.”

  “Robert stay up all night wid dat ol’ pig,” said Mandy as she turned back to the house. “You know it be good. An’ if you eats alla dat, honey, dey be about fawty pound mo’ in de house. Watch out fo’ dem rosh’neers, honey. Dey hot as dey kin be.”

  “Well, you sho’ won’t have forty to put up,” said Jack, sliding in beside Terry. “Oooh, I gotta have a piece a’that corn riit now.” Picking up the salt shaker, he shook it liberally on the ear of hot white corn-on-the-cob.

  “Jack.” Terry said. “I already put butter and salt on it.”

  “That’s OK,” he said, chewing. “Can’t be too salty. God, I love this Silver Queen. Yella corn can’t touch it.”

  Lynne hastily swallowed a mouthful of barbeque to bridle, “You shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Jack.”

  “Whatchoo talkin’ about, Lynne?” said Ricky, grinning as he reached for the potato chips. “That was th’ blessin’.”

  The adults sat around the Redding dining room table, made long enough by Mandy’s insertion of both its extra leaves, the fresh linen tablecloth contrasting starkly with the two sets of massive, carved triple legs that thrust clawed feet out underneath it. Cordelia had seen to it that Pancho sat between her and Buster; seeing this, Pap said a blessing so cursory that some heads were still bowed when he asked, “How’s th’ racer comin’ along, Buster?”