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

by Stan Hayes

  Price shifted in the seat to talk close to his coach’s ear. “I couldn’t believe it when they started tellin’ me where they’d be coming. At first I shooed ‘em off, but I saw real quick that they knew what they were talkin’ about. Cheerleaders- that’s damn spooky, ya ask me.”

  “Them kids’re strange, that’s for sure. And they’gn go on bein’ strange if that’s what it takes. 16 to 7 over the state champs? I can live with all kindsa spookiness for that. Next week we’ll have our hand signals worked out so you can stand closer to ’em and get the play to the defense a little quicker.”

  Lee Webster set a fresh Red Cap down after a long opening swig as Moses pushed through the Bisque Lunch Room’s swinging doors. “Well,” he said, “Jack and the boys wore ’em out last night.”

  “Yeah,” Moses replied, “I still don’t believe it. I’m sure the boys don’t either. All of a sudden they’re a title contender, after being the joke of the division for so long. Ole Rocky’s got his work cut out for him now.”

  “Yes he has. You talk to Jack today?”

  “Few minutes ago. He said a couple of cheerleaders’d figured out some way to steal Ledbetter’s play calls. Said they knew what they’d do, every time.”

  “You’re kiddin’!.”

  “Nope. He said that by the second half, it was like runnin’ a defense drill in practice, when you know where they’re comin’. Said it was drivin’ Ledbetter crazy.”

  “That’s some story. Wonder what McMillan had to say about it today?”

  “I saw the paper up at the hotel; shoulda brought it with me. He called ’em ‘the baffling Bishops.’ That’s their name. Anything to take the credit away from his favorite target.”

  “Yeah, he’s been on Rocky’s butt since before the war.”

  “Wonder how it started?”

  “Ahh, McMillan’s a horse’s ass. A horse’s ass whose daddy owns the paper. And Rocky’s an easy mark; just plods along, scrapin’ by the best he can, teachin’ a buncha kids a little solid fuhbawl along the way.”

  “Speaking of scrapin’; any idea what’s goin’ on over there across the river?”

  “What river is that?”

  “The Savannah River, Doctor IQ. That government project that Porter wants us to call the SRP.”

  “Shit,” said Webster,”That joint’s shut down tighter’n Eleanor Roosevelt’s Jockey shorts. To hear the public information office tell it, they’re all just gonna be sittin’ over there jugglin’ test tubes for peace. ‘nuclear power research’ is all you’re gonna get outta them, even in th’ face of all th’ bomb scuttlebutt.”

  “Well, you could make another Rhode Island with the ground that’s bein’ moved around over there. Jack and I flew as close as we could last week without actually getting into the airspace, which I know without checking’s gotta be restricted. They must be plannin’ to blow up a shitloada reds.”

  Ralph rapped twice on Moses’ door as he stuck his head into the office. “Ziggy’s comin’ home,” he said, every tooth in his head visible.

  Moses returned the grin, pushing the chair back from his desk. “When?”

  “Friday,” Ralph said, still grinning. “Don’t know what time yet.”

  “Well, don’t be showin’ up around here at all on Friday- ’til you’ve got ’im in th’ car. How long’s he got?”

  “Thirty days- he’s goin’ to recruitin’ duty in Atlanta. Did I tell ya he made Sergeant?”

  Moses’ eyebrows jumped a half-inch. “You did not. When?”

  “Last month. Thought sure I tole ya.”

  “Hey, that’s fantastic! When’s he due in?”

  “His plane’s due into th’ Atlanta Naval Air Station around noon Friday. I didn’t get the chance to ask you yet; I need to take Friday off to pick him up.”

  “Take Thursday too. You’ve got some gettin’ ready to do.”

  “Thanks, boss. I can use it.”

  “How long’s he going to be here?”

  “He’s got thirty days leave, but he’ll be here through Christmas. He’s invited to a New Year’s Eve party in New York.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. What’s the deal?”

  “One of the guys in his outfit’s from there. Got the same leave time as Ziggy; they’re gonna see the New Year in on Times Square, like I did in ’45. He’s gonna stay a few days with him and his family, see a little bit of the city, and get back to Atlanta and report for duty.”

  “Boy, he’ll never forget doing that,” Moses said, smiling. “But we’ll do what we can to compete. Ziggy’s got a lotta friends that’ll wanta see ’im; I’d like to have everybody over to my place one night. Maybe Saturday week. Think he’d like that?”

  Ralph hesitated for a heartbeat longer than he had to. “Sure. I know he’d love it. What time would you wanta do it?”

  “How about eight?”

  “That’ll be great. Thanks, boss.”

  Jack stopped the wagon in front of the Williams house, just down the dirt road from Hamm Foods. He got out and walked up the two concrete-block steps that preceded the walkway of wobbly concrete-hexagon flagstones to the front door. Before he saw the grasshopper-leg of a crack in the lower left corner of the pane of glass that made up most of the door’s upper third, he knocked on it lightly with the backs of his knuckles. The rattle made him jerk his hand back as though he’d been burned. Shadows moving behind the gauzy curtain that was drawn over the inside of the window preceded the sound of footfalls approaching the door. It was opened by a tall, gaunt Ziggy Williams in Marine dress blues, three gold-on-red buck sergeant’s chevrons dominating each sleeve. The vertical red, white and blue bars of the Silver Star ribbon were joined by two rows of lesser decorations on his left breast, along with the crossed rifles of the Rifle Expert and the Maltese Cross of the Pistol Sharpshooter. He extended his hand across the threshold. “Bwy,” he said in a deeper-than-remembered voice. “Git in dis house.”

  Jack, for a long moment, couldn’t respond, beyond surrendering himself to Ziggy’s bearhug. Once released, he’d regained his voice. “Hey, Zig,” he said, feeling his voice pitch a lot higher than he wished. “How you doin’?”

  “Pretty good, buddy. I glad ta see ya.”

  “You too. Some duds.”

  “Well, I gotta get used to ’em; dey tells me recruiters wears dress blues a lot. Whole bunch different than what I been wearin’ las’ coupla years.” He put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Gone take me fo’ a spin ’roun de ole town?” He pushed the curtain aside to look at the wagon. “Dat Mistah K’s cah.”

  “Sho is. Hey, is your mom here?”

  Ziggy laughed. “Bwy, you know she workin’ dis timea day. She comin’ to de pahty; you kin see ’er den.”

  They rolled down the gentle grade, stopping at the intersection where the dirt road dead-ended into the street leading into Bisque’s city park, opposite the lump of bronze-faced granite that memorialized the town bigwigs who were in office when it was opened. “Where to first?” asked Jack.

  “Since we in Mistah K’s cah, le’s go see him first.”

  “Makes sense.” Jack turned the wheel to the left, heading the car north on the park road, which quickly turned into Ninth Street. Unbuttoning a middle button of his blouse, Ziggy withdrew a flat silver flask. Inclining its neck toward Jack, he asked, “How ’bout it?”

  Jack thought for a second or two. “Thanks. I better wait ’til we’re gone from here; don’t think I want Mose to smell it on me while I’m drivin’.”

  Ziggy pondered his reply. Then he opened the glove box and put the flask in. “Thass a good point,” he agreed. “He don’t need to be thinkin’ I’m givin’ you none, either.” Five minutes later they were in the Hamm County Beverage Company’s parking lot.

  Bev Tyler saw them first. They saw her call in the direction of Moses’ office; he joined her in the lobby before they reached the door. “Ziggy!” he said. He moved toward them, arms wide open, as they walked in.

  “Hey, Mistah K!
How you doin’?”

  “The question’s how’re you doin’, Sarge.” Moses took a step back. “You look damn good. Jack gettin’ you around to see everybody?”

  “Zig wanted to come here first,” Jack told him.

  “Well, we appreciate that; we sure do. Let’s head back and see the crew.”

  As they headed out of the parking lot, Jack asked, “Where now?”

  “Lessee,” Ziggy said as he opened the glove box. “How ’bout de sto’? Mist’ Ahchah ain’ gone notice no likker smell. He got his own bref goin’.”

  Evvie Summers, in a departure from her regularly scheduled break from the Winston box office at five o’clock, had taken it today at four. Overcome by a craving for Nelson Lord’s fried chicken livers, she bypassed Lyle’s Rexall Drugs, her usual BLT and large Pepsi for the Bisque Café. Entering by the cash register, she had barely slid into a seat at the counter when she was transfixed by the sight of a black face. Unfamiliar to her at first, sitting as it did under the white halo of a Marine Corps frame cap, she realized within a few seconds that it belonged to Ziggy Williams, and that it had broken into a broad grin that was directed at her, closely followed by a jaunty wave. “Hey, Evvie!” Jack shouted. “It’s Ziggy!” Leaving the kitchen doorway, they walked over to the counter. “Looks a lot different, don’t he?”

  She looked up at them, absorbing the contrast of the blue/red/yellow/white of Ziggy’s uniform with the deep mahogany of the boy’s face. “Yeah, he sho does. How you doin, Zig?”

  “Fine, Miss Evvie, jus’ fine,” Ziggy said with a flash of tombstone teeth. Sho’ niice t’see you again.” He looked around the empty café nervously. “We just stopped by to see Miz Reba an’ ev’rybody in th’ kitchen fo’ a minute. Le’s run on now, Jack.”

  “I’d like to see anybody givin’ you shit about bein’ in here. You’re a hero, goddammit; Bisque’s only hero of th’ Korean war, at least so far.”

  “I know. But ain’no use makin’ trouble. Le’s jus’ ride around some more, OK?”

  “We just came from down at Archer’s,” said Jack. Boy, were they glad to see ’im. He won th’ Silver Star, Evvie!”

  “I know,” she said. “I seen it in th’ paper. Congratulations, Zig.” She stood up just as Reba emerged from the kitchen. “Com’ere and lemme give ya a hug.” She wrapped her arms around the rail-thin Sergeant, looking up at him. She stepped back. “Yeah, I’d say you feel just like a hero. How long ya gonna be in town? They didn’t letcha out already, did they?”

  “Nope. I’m jus’ here on leave for a few days; then over to A’lanna fo’ r’cruitn’ duty.”

  “Really. Thas’ nice. I bet you’ll do jus’ fine, recruitin’, too. You’ll be back home now an’ then, woncha?”

  “Yeah, sure, I guess so. But we gotta go now,” he said, casting an anxious glance at Reba. “Be seein’ you, Mis Evvie.”

  “Bye, boys. Y’all be careful out on th’ roads, now, heanh?” As they moved away, Evvie admired the two slim butts’ withdrawal. Well, well, she mused; Atlanta. I’d definitely do him. What’s that old sayin; fuck a nigger, change your luck…

  “Better run around and crack a few windows, honey,” said Serena, pulling the last of the Bisque Café’s rectangular food pans from Moses’ oven. It’s already gettin’ stuffy, and there’s gonna be a lot more people in here.”

  “OK,” Jack said, taking the pan from her. Finding a place for it among the dishes that were arrayed buffet-style on the dining room table, he opened windows on both sides of the room a hand-width or so, then did the same in the living room and the den to get some air moving through the house, shooting a quick smile in the direction of the guests that stood around the bar opposite the big fieldstone fireplace. It could just as easily be an evening in October, he thought, instead of the weekend before Christmas. We sure as hell didn’t need this fire, but Moses had insisted, saying that it wouldn’t be a Christmas party without a fire. He poked at its base, insuring that the three large pieces of split poplar needed no immediate company. “Let that damn fire be, bwy,” said Ricky, who had come in from his lookout’s post outside the house.

  “If we’re gonna have a fire, it might as well be a good ’un,” said Jack, setting the poker back in its rack. Any sign of Ziggy’n them?”

  “Nope. It’s early yet. Didja get ole Scotty-” he indicated the stocky, fortyish warehouseman currently tending bar- “ta sneak you a little drink?”

  “Hell, no. He knows Mose won’t stand for it. We’ll hafta handle that little job ourselves. It’ll be easier after the room fills up.”

  “Well, nobody oughta hafta be sober at Bisque’s first race-mixin’ shindig,” Ricky said. “Wonder how many just won’t show up.”

  “I don’t think too many; at least not from work. Everybody likes ol’ Ralph, and Ziggy ain’t just Ziggy any more. He’s the only war hero Bisque’s got, so far, from this war anyway. And Mose didn’t ask anybody else much; just people that he knows like ole Zig.”

  “Well, I wish they’d get on over here; who all’s comin’ with him?”

  “Just his mom and Ralph, far’s I know,” said Jack, looking to see who was in the group that had just arrived. “The girls’re takin’ their time; how’re they gettin’ out here?”

  “Trisha said she was gonna pick Terry up. I better run back out and make sure nobody gets th’ guest’v honor’s parkin’ place.”

  Ricky had just gotten outside when he saw Ralph’s car at the end of the driveway. He waved them forward to the reserved parking place under the carport. Ziggy was in the driver’s seat. Walking to the passenger’s side of the car, he opened the door and extended his hand to Arabella Williams. She took it and stepped nimbly out of the car. “Hey there, Ricky”, she said. Looking up at him, she was slender, almost childlike, yet she’d borne these two large sons and two daughters.

  “Uh, hi, Miz Williams. Hey there, Ralph.” Ralph, sitting in the back seat, grinned hello. “Hey, Ziggy. Welcome back. C’mon in; they’re waitin’ for you.”

  Indicating the way to Arabella Williams, Ricky reached behind her to shake Ziggy’s hand. “Hey, buddy,” he said, pumping Ziggy’s long, bony hand. “Congratulations on your Silver Star.”

  Ziggy, natty in the new shirt and slacks that were part of the wardrobe that Moses had him pick out at Larson’s, grinned at him. “Thanks, Ricky. I ’preeshate it.”

  Serena opened the door for them. “Mrs.Williams. Please, come in. Thank you so much for coming.”

  “I’m so glad to be here. Thank you for doing this for Reginald.”

  “For Reginald- oh, yes. Well, it’s a very small thing compared to what he’s done for us. What can I get you to drink?”

  Most of the men circled around the bar, shooting questions at Ziggy, mostly about the war. He answered five or six as briefly as he could with courtesy, then Lee Webster took the conversation in another direction. “So, are ya lookin’ forward to livin’ in th’ big city?”

  The smile that he got in response was the brightest imaginable. “Sho am. I rilly lookin’ fo’ward to it.”

  “How long’s the assignment?”

  “Two years. Dey tole me it could be fo’ two mo, if I be a good r’crooter. An’ if I ships over.”

  “Ships over?” said Ricky. “What’s that?”

  “Reenlist. Give ’em fo’ mo years.”

  “That’s quite a spell,” said Moses. Think you’ll do it?”

  “Dawno. I see if I likes bein’ a Marine dat ain’ gittin’ shot at, ’er frozen stiff. Den we see.”

  “Guess that’s fair. Well, there’s always Bisque.”

  “Bisque?” said Ziggy. “You mean come home?”

  “Sure,” Moses said. “There’re worse places than here to live, if you decide to get out.”

  “Das true. But if I gets out, I speck I be stayin’ in A’lanna.”

  “Well, it’s a big town; plenty of things to do there.”

  “Sho is. First thing I be doin’ is goin’ ta college.”
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  The room got suddenly quiet. “College,” said Moses. “Good idea. Where?”

  “Mo’house, I reckon. If I don’ have no problem wif my high school test.”

  “I doubt you will,” Moses said, looking with what he hoped was veiled amusement around the room. “I expect you’ll do fine.”

  “I hopes so. I got some books ta help me git ready.”

  “But Ziggy,” the voice came from the circle’s fringe- “Ya mean ya wouldn’t rether git on back ta Ko-rea an’ shoot some more a’them gewks? They say ’at college shit’s tough. Yew gotta read- an’ everthang.”

  A forest of heads turned to see who spoke. The source made it easy for them; he spoke again. “Thay teach ya ta read since ya left? Hell, I cain’t b’leeve thay could teach ya ta shoot. Himenny of ’em didja plug in th’ back?”

  Wash Davis was drunk. He was also short, sandy-haired, and sallow, with a mouthful of alarmingly bad teeth. No one at the Hamm County Beverage Company knew him that well, aside from his uncle, Pat Greer. Pat, the company’s third most senior employee, had leveraged his longevity to get Wash hired, despite a spotty, but colorful, employment history that included roofing and concrete finishing. Just the man, Pat assured Moses, for the spot on the loading dock that had opened up when Roscoe Jarvis got drafted. Wash, who’d done a hitch in the army, wouldn’t be called. He’d been on the dock since September, having a lot to say and making no friends.

  Moses put a hand firmly on Ziggy’s arm and looked around for Pat. He wanted Wash out before Ralph Williams could get his hands on him. He caught the uncle’s eye and jerked his head toward Wash, who flashed his luminous teeth to counter the ill will of those closest to him. Pat made a bee-line for Wash, lifting him almost clear of the floor by his upper arm and frog-marching him through the house and out the door. His parting “Silver Star, mah aiess!” was delivered over his shoulder, punctuated by a glancing blow from the door-facing to his head as Pat shoved him through.