by Stan Hayes
“Even if you and I agree on alla that,” said Moses, “Gettin’ Georgia people to vote for the party of Lincoln’s gonna take some doin’. I’d say they’d be a lot more likely to object to the Democrats’ way of doing things by votin’ for a states’ rights candidate, the way they did across the river in ’48 for Thurmond.”
“You bring up an interesting point,” Edwards said, pausing as the waiter set bowls of vegetable soup in front of them. “Strom didn’t have any idea of winning the presidency in ’48; his objective was to be recognized as the leader of the country’s states’ rights movement. And he succeeded, at least to the point of being elected to the Senate by write-in votes. And he’s very likely to be reelected this year. But even though he went against the national party in ’48, he’s still a Democrat.”
“That’s my point,” said Moses. “All that happened just across the Savannah River. “What makes you think Georgia voters’ll tolerate a Republican?”
“They’ll not only tolerate Republicans, they’ll do it for the same reason that they tolerated Strom’s bolting the party in ’48. They’ll do it because the Democrats in Washington’re taking away their rights. And if they don’t do it in this election, they’ll do it in the next, or the one after that.”
“You’re willing to wait that process out?”
“Strom was,” said Edwards. “And I’ll tell you something else.”
“What’s that?”
“He’ll be a Republican, himself, before it’s over.”
“That’ll be the day,” said Moses, popping the last crispy-soft bite of pan-fried catfish into his mouth.
“In the meantime, we’re building the Republican Party of Georgia, and we’d like your help,” Edwards persisted. “What can I do to make that happen?”
“Convince me that you mean it. Not that I know how you can. I wouldn’t even mention it to Pap otherwise.”
“I knew you’d be a tough customer when I called you. But if I can convince you, then I’ll know I’m on the right track. Maybe I oughta start with a question; what do you get out of being part of the status quo?”
“If you assume that I want something ‘out of being part of the status quo,’ ” said Moses, “then my answer would have to be ‘not a whole lot.’ I’m no politician, or any kinda kingmaker, either.” Nailing Edwards with a steel gaze the man hadn’t seen before, he asked him, “You wanta know why I backed Browne in the commission elections?”
Edwards did what he could to keep his eyebrows from climbing up his commodious forehead as he returned the gaze. “Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “I do.”
“I just didn’t like you, or the crowd you run with, all that much.”
Edwards’ forcible exhalation produced a gentle flapping of cheeks. “Well, that’s straight enough. And honestly, you’ve never been exactly my cup of tea either, so I don’t guess it should surprise me. We don’t have all that much in common.”
“We’ve got Bisque in common,” Moses said, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. “I think we just handle livin’ here in different ways.”
Edwards regarded the twitch with a seconds-long blank look. Then laughter kicked in, a gentle shaking in his chest that worked its way into his shoulders, oscillating his head side-to-side in a short arc. Slapping the white tablecloth, he went on laughing as he waved a hand for the check, then looked back at Moses. “Le’s have coffee in the bar- Irish coffee, OK?”
“It’s a little hot, to me, for Irish coffee,” Moses said as they stepped up to the bar. “How about a Stinger instead?”
“What’s that?” asked Edwards.
“Brandy and white crème de menthe, shaken. This time of day, they should probably be on the rocks.”
“Make it two, George,” Edwards said to the waiting bartender.
They carried the drinks to the same table in the corner that they’d left earlier.
“That’s pretty good,” Edwards said after his first sip. He quickly took another, then said, “I hear tell you’re quite a pilot.”
“I better be,” said Moses, taking the abrupt change of course in stride. “Gene Debs’n I bought us a fairly hot bird last year. It’ll be my ass if I ever let it get aheada me.”
“You had a pretty good instructor, of course.”
“None better.”
“Think he’d take me on as a student?”
It was Moses’ eyebrows’ turn to climb toward his scalp. “Hard to say. Gene Debs’ business is crop dustin’, y’know.”
“If he would,” Edwards said, gravitas returning momentarily, “how d’you think I’d do?”
“Even harder to say. But I hear tell you were a pretty good ballplayer a while back. Where was that, anyway?”
“Georgia, then Chicago, ’til my knees gave out.”
“Well, I’d guess that you probably have the reflexes and coordination to fly. It takes a lot of time, though; I mean you couldn’t just fly once or twice a month and make any progress.”
“I wouldn’t expect so; I couldn’t do it during this campaign, or if I’m in Congress. But if I’m not in Congress, I’m gonna want something to take my mind off th’ fact that I’m not there.
“Ever thought about motorcycles? A bike’ll give you a lot of the same kind of exhilaration, with a lot less demand on your time- and your money.”
Edwards’ grimace was slight but unmistakable. “No. Doesn’t have the same appeal to me at all. Besides, the town’d be scandalized. To say nothin’ of my wife.”
“Oh, well,” Moses’ grin was openly derisive, “If it’s appearances you’re worried about…”
“I hafta be concerned about appearances,” Edwards interrupted, signaling George for another round of drinks as he did. “No offense, but that’s probably the main thing that puts people off about you, Mose- you mind if we make it Mose and Barry? You just don’t seem to give a shit what people think.”
“I don’t care, Barry,” Moses said, straight-faced. “About people who think that they should, or can, change the way I choose to live. Fuck ’em.”
“I honestly don’t understand how you can say that. You must’ve known what living in a town like this is like, particularly for businessmen, when you decided to live here. Certain things’re expected of all of us.”
“Well, as far as I’ve been able to determine, most of history involves unmet expectations. Not many people around here expected that you’d turn Republican, did they?”
Edwards, exasperated, shook his head. “It’s not the same thing, and I think you know it. Making certain kinds of changes’s OK, because they have the potential of making things better for lots of people. Others aren’t OK, because…”
“Because they just make things better for a few?” asked Moses.
“Yes. Like your motorcycles. They…”
“Actually, I was thinking about the industry you’re a part of. Where management and stockholders live high on the hog, and the lintheads skin by at a dollar an hour.”
“Hopkins Mills pays an average of a dollar sixty-five,” objected Edwards, draining his glass.
“If you can keep them comin’ to work for that, more power to you,” said Moses, catching George’s eye and circling a finger above his head. “But you’re in deep water when you tell me that I should let the opinions of people like you affect how I live.”
“Oh, no, that’s not what I mean at all,” Edwards backpedaled. “I’m just saying that, long term…”
“Long term,” observed Moses, “we’re all dead; and you and I are better than halfway there. Have you had much fun, Barry?”
Edwards looked at him for a long moment. “Fun?” he said finally, the word coming out as a bitter chuckle as George set fresh drinks in front of them. “Fun?” he said again as the Negro withdrew. “You come from the place that I do, fun’s the last damn thing you think about.” His words stretched out as his below-the-Fall-Line dialect surfaced. “You know what you thank about first?” He drank half of the fresh drink in
one gulp. “Survivin’. Survivin’, and puttin’ as much distance as possible between yo’sef and a South Georgia mule’s aiess. I ran away from that sitchashun as fast as I could, carryin’ a fuhbawl, straight outa high school, runnin’ as hard as I possibly could, first fuh one coach, then fuh ’nother. Coach Thomas, Coach Butts, Coach Halas- each one of ’em helped me get a little farther away from ever havin’ t’look that mule in th’ aiess again. Cost me my knees, but fuck it. I’m an All-American, even if it was second team, an’ I can’t eb’m remember what a mule’s aiess looks liike.”
“It’s quite a ways,” said Moses, “from there to here, sure enough. Don’t sound like much fun to me, though.”
“Fun’s for kids, if they’re lucky. You ever hear that scripture, ‘When I became a man, I put away chiildish things?’ ”
“Seems to me I have. But if you put fun in the category of ‘childish things,’ you make a serious mistake. Could it be that, since Consolidated bought y’all out, you’ve conceded what a bore life in this little burg really is, and that succeedin’ somewhere besides the mill culture you married into’d be fun? What the hell’s the good of life if there’s no fun in it?”
“My candidacy’s got nothin’ to with fun,” said Edwards as he set his empty glass on the table, “fuh me fun, if that’s whatcha wanta call it, ’s’in watchin’ my kids growin’ up, makin’ sure they have evythang they need, and bein’ a granddad one day. You got any chillun?”
“That hasn’t been my good fortune, at least not yet.”
“Best get about it, boy; you ain’t gettin’ any younger. Ginny- my wiife- said her friends’s givin’ long odds you an’ Pap’s daughter’d get married, back when y’all bought Harvey Fulford out.”
“Hope they didn’t get too many takers,” said Moses. “Miz Mason and I’re just friends. I think a whole lot of her boy, too. Wouldn’tve minded bein’ his daddy, not one little bit.”
“No, I reckon not; he’s a smart young man. Set out to be a helluva ballplayer, too. That bidness with th’ Terrell kid-”
“Was very unfortunate for th’ Bisque Bears and their fans,” Moses interrupted, but otherwise of very little consequence to th’ fate of th’ world. I’m sorry th’ kids had to live through it, and that th’ adults involved handled it th’ way they did, but Tech signed Terrell outa Taylor just the way they would’ve outa Bisque. And it was a real growin’-up experience for Jack.”
“You pissin’ on my laig ’n callin’ it rain? Fuck Tech,” grated Edwards, his fury sudden and intense. And fuck Taylor, fer that matter. ’At’sa pretty damn hifalutin’ school for a fuckin’ insurance agent’s kid. Buncha Chattanooga pantywaists. “That kid oughta be at Georgia. And would be, if he’da kept ’is dick in ’is pants.”
“There’s plenty’a blame to spread around, far as that’s concerned,” Moses observed. “Anyway, he’s all set to tear ’em up this year.”
“No doubt,” said Edwards, “but he shoulda tore ’em up for th’ Bears. This town’s had one chance in th’ last twenny years t’win a state championship, an’ we went from that t’nuthin overniit, thanks t’some faist movin’ on th’ part of people around Terrell t’get ’im up ’air t’Taylor s’goddam faist.”
“Had to be there in time for spring practice,” smiled Moses.
“An’ now I hear he’s doin’ a little preachin’ on th’side. Well, hangin’ out with Jack Mason, he’ll probly get some more hifalutin ideas- waay more than a kid from aroun’ here’s got enny bidness with.”
“ ‘Hifalutin’? You fucking peckerwood. You better be glad he didn’t go to Taylor himself, and take half the team with ’im. And by the way, that ‘kid’ would kick your fat ass pretty handily, in any kinda fight you can imagine.”
“More bullshit. You start lis’nin ta people like you and that Mammy ’a his, ya miit forget about who th’ fuck calls th’ shots in this here town.”
“This is,” said Moses, “a piss-poor way to get into Pap’s good graces. To say nothing of mine.” He stood up. “Thanks for lunch, Edwards.”
“Where the hell d’you think you’re goin’, Jew-boy?” said Edwards, sneering up at him. “This shit ain’t settled yet.”
“Believe me, it’s settled. Be seein’ ya.”
Moses was a few steps away when he heard Edwards stand up. By the time he’d turned around, the candidate for Congress had gained a good head of steam and was lumbering in his direction, his head sunk between his shoulders. Moses head-faked to the left, then stuck out his left foot. Edwards went down in a heap, the breath knocked out of him. He rolled over on his back, unable yet to gasp for breath.
“Just stay there ’til I’m gone,” said Moses. “I’ve never killed anybody, but a sorry sonofabitch like you could screw up my record.”
Shifting on his stool, one eye out for Jack, Moses reflected on the uniqueness of this Friday afternoon at Ribeye’s. Although the legal drinking age in Georgia was eighteen, today would be the first time that he and Jack had drunk together in public. He hoped, not at all logically, that they wouldn’t have a lot of company this first time. He was still hoping when Jack burst through the swinging doors in tennis whites, which Moses had never seen him in before. “Hey, beer man,” he said, grinning broadly and sliding onto the stool on Moses’ right.
“Hey yourself, Jack Kramer. Didn’t know you did that. And so natty.”
“Shit. Terry got these for me. I woulda changed, but I ran outa time. Think we’ll get outa here alive?”
“Long as we leave early; otherwise we’d better see Ribeye about a coupla pistols. What’ll ya have?”
“One a’those’ll be fine. Been here long?”
“Nah. Glad I got here before you did, anyway. Never can tell when one pissant linthead or another’ll have enough to drink to get up on his hind legs, temporary though the condition may be.”
“Yeah. There’s only one letter between pissant ’n puissant.”
“And only one between en passant and en pissant, for that matter.”
“Touché. And it’s been way too long since we broke out the chessboard. But enough about this pussy outfit.”
“Done. Whaddya hear from Ricky?”
“Called this morning. He’s headed back to Atlanta.”
“Damn. Short career in th’ ministry. What’d he do, sober up?”
“Guess so. But leavin’ wasn’t his idea. Ol’ Shep run ’im off.”
Moses’ eyebrows elevated slightly. “That right?”
“Mm-hmm. Said he didn’t believe Ricky had ‘th’ callin’,’ and gave ’im bus fare back to school.”
“Well, the guy ain’t all bad then. Bus fare. I take it, then, that th’ twins do have ‘th’ callin’.”
“Well, they certainly have sump’m. And I ’magine it’s a damn sight more persuasive than th’ fuckin’ ‘callin’ ’
“Shit, bawey. I can’t teach you nothin.’ “
“Did j’all have a nice cocktail hour?” Serena asked him, running her hand inside his shirt and up and down his back in lazy swipes.
He’d locked the gate to eliminate drop-in company. “It was a lotta fun. He showed up dressed like Don Budge.”
“My god. In th’ Bisque Lunch Room? You must love the boy if you’d see him through that.”
“Well, yeah, I do, now that you mention it. You and Herr Doktor put a pretty good human together.”
“I can do nothing less than agree- up to a point. But with respect to who he is now, we had a major partner.”
“If you mean me…”
“No. I mean Philip Marlowe. Of course I mean you. If it bothers you, we can change the subject. Pass th’ Crosse & Blackwell.” She milked his dick like the extension of an outsize udder, complete with the little twist at the end.
He lay back on the bed. She leaned over him on her left elbow, loosening his belt and the button at the top of his pants. “Ooh, baby, look at that,” she breathed as clear liquid drooled from his dick. Circling it just below the head with her thumb and for
efinger, she caught the stream as it poured down the sides. She brought the snug surcingle of her fingers first up over the head, then down to the base, spreading the slickness over the thick cylinder’s full length. “It always surprises me how much of that stuff you put out.” She kissed the tip, pulling back momentarily to look at it, a wiry translucent thread connecting it to her lips. Returning, she teased the top of the glans with scores of little tongue-tip licks, making the veins swell under the skin so they felt like strands of steel cable. Moses groaned. “Just stay where you are, baby,” she told him. “This is gonna take a while.”
She lay alongside him, face on his chest, one leg between his. They’d dozed briefly, having exhausted each other as thoroughly as they had ever done. Dusk had slipped into dark as early spring crickets scraped in time to their breathing. The thought that this could be their last time sent a shudder through him. “You cold?” she asked.
“A little. Don’t think I turned up the thermostat when we came in.”
“Well, you can be a single-minded sonofabitch sometimes. Thank God.”
“This from the mouth of one who gives up everything for art.”
“You’ve never thought that was much of a deal, have you?”
“No. But it wasn’t my deal. It was yours. How’re you feelin’ about it these days, anyway?”
“Same as I did the day Jack and I left Los Alamos. Hurtin’ but determined.”
“That could be a Kitty Wells song.”
“Yeah, but it’s mine. I’m starting to feel like this century’s Camille Claudel, sans Rodin.”