by Jeff Fields
"I wonder what it's like, being in love."
"I wouldn't know. All I ever had was Wylie, and that was more like owning a dog. Who sugared this coffee?"
"I did . . . one spoonful . . ."
"Well, get Farette to show you the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon." She shivered and set the cup on the bedside table. She looked up sharply. "The others haven't met her yet, have they?"
"Not this morning. Didn't they see her when she got in last night?"
"It was past their bedtime. Besides, it's more proper they meet at breakfast"—she threw her feet over the side of the bed and felt for her scuffs—"which, by the way, we don't want to miss."
"Miss Esther, you think it was a good idea letting her come here? I don't know how the boarders are going to take her."
Her eyes narrowed mischievously. "Like a dose of medicine, is my guess. From what Jayell told me about her, and what I saw last night, I'd say she's just what this crowd needs right now. Wake 'em up a little, get their minds off themselves. There's been entirely too much achin' and complainin' around here lately. And havin' a teacher around awhile might do you some good too, from what I saw of your grades last year. Let's get to breakfast."
"Ah—I'm not too hungry this morning. I think I'll run out to the Fundeburk place and let Jayell know she's here."
"He knows. He'll come when he's ready."
"He might have forgot—you know how he is when he's workin' . . ."
"There's a place waiting at table, mister!"
"Yes, ma'am."
I stopped at the door. "Oh, I got Em Jojohn home all right. He's sleeping it off now."
Miss Esther shook her head. "Just try and keep him away from the house a few days. That girl's got enough to get used to."
"Yes, ma'am."
2
I took a deep breath and headed for the dining room.
Places at the table were claimed by the boarders on arrival at Miss Esther's, and held for life. With the exception, of course, of the transient Mrs. Porter. No place suited her, and no sooner was she seated than she was prevailing on someone to swap. The sun was in her eyes. Her chair had a bit of a "rick." Or, couldn't she sit near the hall, as she was expecting a telephone call.
My place, when I was forced to take it, was between Mrs. Bell and Mr. Rampey. Mr. Rampey was a good soul, but a spot finder. On his plate, his glass, the silverware, somewhere at every meal he found a little speck of something and summoned Farette in a rage. She gave up inspecting his dinnerware beforehand because that left the offending speck no place to hide but in the food—and that upset the others.
Still, I was in a more enviable place than the teacher, because she was next to Mrs. Cline. Once Mr. Rampey found his particle he was satisfied, but Mrs. Cline's taste reports went right on through the meal. "Now, I can't taste the beans at all today," she would say, or, across the table to Mrs. Bell, "Can you taste this creamed corn, Lucia? Well, I can't. It just has no taste to me whatever." Sadly, "It's so awful not to be able to taste anything." Brightening then, reassuring us all, "Now I can taste the beets, they're good." Mrs. Cline, our oldest boarder, lived in a room stripped bare except for a bed and a marble-topped night table on which a photograph of her husband in his casket stood surrounded by stalky African violets. She was near ninety now, and fragile-looking as a glass cobweb. She seemed always at death's door, tugging, and just too weak to get it open. At least, that's what we thought, until Em Jojohn, of whom she was terrified, delivered something one day and looked in her room without knocking; she hoisted a heavy potted plant, dirt and all, and splintered the doorjamb above his head.
I saw Gwen about to pass the sausage to Mrs. Metcalf, and tried to warn her, but couldn't get her eye quick enough.
"Oh! My goodness, no." Mrs. Metcalf recoiled in laughing horror. "None of that for me. I'm allergic, you know."
"Oh, really?"
"Why, my, yes, if I took so much as one little bite of pork I'd be flat on my back in the hospital. I can't eat acid fruit, green vegetables, milk or any kind of dairy, and if I so much as touch a piece of beef my ankles swell out to here."
"I'm sorry."
"Listen, last Thanksgiving I tried a boiled onion—you remember, Nadine—well, I couldn't get my breath! Mr. Rampey had to help me to my room! And for days after, I had this peculiar swimmy feeling, and saw these spots. Awfulest thing I've ever been through! I thought it would be all right, boiled, don't you know. But, oh, let me tell you didn't I suffer—ha-ha—from, oh, that boiled onion!"
Gwen looked at the woman's empty plate, empty cup, undisturbed dinnerware. "Well, what can you eat?" she asked.
Mrs. Metcalf folded her hands in her lap and shrugged. "Nothing," she said.
The teacher looked around the table, but nobody else wanted to get into it.
"Awww-riiight!" Miss Esther, announcing her arrival. She nodded good morning to everyone and took her place at the head of the table. "I hope the introductions have been taken care of," she said to Gwen.
"Said what? Said what?" croaked poor deaf Mr. Woodall.
Miss Esther turned to him,
"I said good morning, Mr. Woodall!"
The old man nodded and smiled. "And to you, Miss Esther."
Her eyes traveled around the table and stopped on the allergic and abstaining Mrs. Metcalf. With iron in her voice, she barked, "Eat, Portia!" Mrs. Metcalf jerked upright and immediately began serving her plate.
"Tell us, Miss Burns, have you and Jayell set a date yet?"
"Sometime next summer, if we can decide on a house by that time."
"Oh, then you'll be with us for the winter."
"Perhaps," Gwen said, with a hint of petulance in her voice. "Of course, I haven't heard from Mr. Crooms in more than a week. I assume our plans haven't changed."
Mr. Rampey chuckled. "If you ain't heard from Jayell in the last five minutes the plans could be changed."
"Mr. Rampey . . ." Miss Esther was interrupted by a knock on the window behind her. She leaned back and threw up the sash. It was Wash Fuller, the black man who lived across the road.
"Sorry to trouble you, Miss Esther," he said, "but my dog Jincey is up under your house. Do you mind if I beat on this pan to get her out?"
"Not at all, Wash. Do you want me to stomp on the floor a little?"
"If it wouldn't be no extra trouble."
So Miss Esther got up and stomped around on the dining-room floor as she continued the conversation. "Where was I? Oh, yes, have you decided where you're going to live?"
"No, not yet. I passed a beautiful suburb on the way in last night."
"That would be Marble Park. Jayell figured you'd like it up there." Stomp. Stomp. "Yoooo—Jincey! Get out of there!" Underneath, Wash Fuller could be heard crawling along beating on the pan. "Well, I don't know if they'd let Jayell build one of his houses up in Marble Park. Pretty straight-laced folks up there."
"These grits are flat," said Mrs. Cline, "no taste whatever. She must not have put any salt in them."
"Well," said the schoolteacher, "Jayell and I have differing views on . . ."
"Mr. Rampey, would you swap with me?" asked Mrs. Porter. "There's a naked colored child on that porch over yonder. I can't eat and look at that."
"Marble Park is not bad," said Miss Esther. Stomp. "If you can stand the strain. Too many Joneses up there for my taste, if you know what I mean." Stomp. "Get from here, dog!"
"Ah, ha!" shouted Mr. Rampey, scooping a forkful of scrambled eggs and wavering a long knobby finger. "Look there, now, what is that? Farette!"
The little cook came running from the kitchen, snatched the fork from his hand, replaced it with another one, and retreated without a word.
Gwen closed her eyes and put her napkin to her lips. I forked another sausage patty, beginning to be glad I came.
"Jayell's got different views from a lot of people," chirped Mrs. Cline. "I guess you know by now he's got his . . . ways . . ."
Gwen picked up on that as i
f she had been waiting for it. "All people of exceptional ability have their . . . 'ways.' They only seem curious if you don't understand them."
"You feel you know Jayell well enough to take him on, then, do you?" said Mrs. Porter.
The girl took a sip of coffee. "I know that we're compatible. We lived together almost the whole time he was on campus."
Seven old people turned to stone.
Mrs. Metcalf cleared her throat but nothing came.
Mr. Woodall lived in a world of soft buzzing voices, which for the most part he happily ignored. Only two things got his attention: a sound loud enough for him to hear clearly, and a dead silence. He now cupped a hand to his ear. "Said what? Said what?"
"Is—uh, is that the way they're doing things at the colleges these days," asked Mrs. Porter, "living together before they're married?"
"It's the way they're doing it everywhere," said the girl, "and always have. We're just not so hypocritical about it anymore."
"Well," crooned Mrs. Metcalf, "I've known Jayell since he was a boy. I know he wasn't raised that way."
Miss Esther stood at the window watching eagerly as the tension built. "The thing about Jayell," she said, stomp, "is that he needs to be led. With a good woman a-hold of him, he'll come out of his wildness. How you coming, Wash?" There was a tap on the window and Wash Fuller appeared holding the dog in his arms. He waved his thanks and went away. Miss Esther didn't see him. Her concentration was fixed on the proceedings at the table.
"That's true," said Mrs. Bell, "a good woman's influence can sometimes work wonders with a man."
"That's true enough, especially in Jayell's case," said Mrs. Metcalf. "I know what happened when his mama died."
Mrs. Cline tapped Gwen's arm. "Are you a Georgia girl, honey? You don't sound like a Georgia girl."
"You mean, because I don't have a Southern accent?" said the girl, distracted but obviously pleased. "I know, people tell me they'd never know I was from Georgia. I suppose it's because I'm from Atlanta."
"Atlanta's in Georgia," stated Mr. Jurgen.
"Atlanta is not Georgia," she smilingly corrected him. Then, turning again to Mrs. Metcalf, "What was that you were saying about Jayell's mother dying?"
"Oh, well, like I said, I've known Jayell since he was a little boy. They lived right next door to us, just down by the creek down there. It was a pitiful family. His daddy was a ledgehand at one of the quarries, that is, when he worked. Lay drunk most of the time. If it wasn't for his mother and her sewing I expect they'd all have starved. Jayell was the only child they had, and oh, such a precious little boy. Used to go set and draw while the other mill young'uns was rippin' and snortin' and gettin' in devilment. Day after day I'd see him settin' on the bank in front of his house, that little blond head bent over his tablet, drawin'. And smart! His teachers said they never saw anything like it. Always in his books, and settin' and drawin'. His mama would walk him uptown to check art books out of the library. I remember one Christmas she bought him a whole set of books on art, ordered 'em special from Atlanta, and, Lord, you never seen a happier child! Had to come over to my house and show 'em to me three or four times. I used to brag on him a lot, you know. But then she died, and he just went to pieces."
"Went to pieces?"
"Started to act plumb crazy. He was startin' to high school about then, and at a wild age anyhow, and when she died he cut loose. He'd always had a trigger temper, jumped the man at the furniture store one time for sayin' something hateful to his mama when he wasn't no more'n twelve or thirteen. Busted a lamp over that man's head! Well, when she died. he started gettin' in one scrap after another, he broke windows, he stole things, he took his daddy's car and wrecked it. He got throwed out of school several times, but he always went and begged for 'em to let him back in. His mind was made up to go to college, you see. 'Course, everybody else said he was goin' to jail. 'Specially his daddy. He and Jayell had a time of it. Billy Crooms was always onto Jayell to lay out of school and work. He was plannin' on Jayell quittin' altogether just as soon as he was old enough, but Jayell was having none of that. They got into it time and again over it till finally Billy just throwed Jayell out of the house. Jayell got Luther Pierce to rent him that little place by the creek and started him a fix-it business. You'd see him down there three, four o'clock in the morning fixing somebody's chair or alarm clock and poring over his books. He stuck it out too, and finished high school when he was just past sixteen. Made the highest marks they said anybody'd ever made in Quarrytown High."
"Ah, but a hell-raiser," laughed Mr. Rampey. "You remember that thing about the water tower?"
Mrs. Metcalf put her hands to her mouth. "Oh, I'd almost forgot about that!"
Mr. Rampey continued eagerly. "One night he and some boys had been drinkin', and he got 'em to lower him from a rope on the water tower and painted this great big picture of the school superintendent and his wife, without any clothes on, and he had 'em . . ."
Miss Esther cut in. "I don't think we need all the details, Lester." Stomp.
"Anyhow," laughed Mr. Rampey, "the likeness was so exact there couldn't have been any doubt whose work it was, even if Jayell hadn't been fool enough to sign it."
The table roared with laughter, everybody except Gwen, who sat listening, frowning.
"Farette," called Mrs. Cline, "did this sausage come seasoned or did you season it?"
Farette put her head in the door. "It come seasoned, Miz Cline."
"Well, it's certainly not seasoned enough." She lifted her eyebrows at me. "I can't tell if it's hot or mild."
"I don't think Jayell would have got in half the trouble he did," said Mrs. Porter, "if he wasn't so all-fired cocky. He always knowed he was the sharpest tack in the carpet, and expected folks to take notice of that."
"Now, that's a fact," said Mrs. Metcalf. "I know the time he's accused of gettin' Sheriff Middleton's daughter in trouble, when the sheriff come bustin' down to see him it was Jayell that flew into the greatest fit of temper; he was astounded that anybody would think him that stupid! He took on so the girl finally broke down and confessed it was Harvey Oates's boy that done it." She turned to Mrs. Bell. "Whatever become of them? I know he used to work at the telegraph office."
"What astounds me," said Gwen, sighing, "is that genius is never recognized by those closest to it. That's one reason I chose to become a teacher. To think of the undiscovered potential that must go to waste . . ."
"Oh," said Mrs. Metcalf, "there wasn't no question about Jayell's potential! With all the awards and honors he won? Why, the whole town was behind him. They got him scholarships to go to Georgia Tech—several of the civic clubs raised money. I guess that's why it was such a disappointment to them that he didn't turn out like they thought he ought to."
"How do you mean?''
"A millionaire," said Mr. Rampey, "buildin' mansions for millionaires. They couldn't understand him chuckin' it all and comin' back to the Ape Yard to break his back buildin' houses for sharecroppers and colored folks."
"Well," sighed Gwen, "with a background like that it's no wonder he's never found himself. With a little understanding and proper guidance . . ."
"Oh, he's found hisself, all right," said Mr. Rampey. "Jayell knows exactly what he wants to do—and he's doin' it."
"I don't understand you all," said Gwen, looking around at them. "Here is a man reputed to have the most intuitive head for architectural design since possibly Wright himself, who, when he was on our campus, had students and professors sitting at his feet! And yet he buries himself in this town, wasting his talents on, as you say, sharecroppers and colored people, and you find nothing unusual in that!"
My eye fell on Miss Esther, who stood by the window keyed-up, eyes sparkling, watching closely, still absently stomping the floor off and on for the long-gone dog.
The girl's voice rose. "You all seem to regard him as some harmless but slightly demented creature who's playing some extraordinary game!"
Mr. Rampey cleare
d his throat. "Now, wait a minute . . ."
Mrs. Bell put a hand on his arm. "I think we should change the subject, now, don't you?"
"Young lady, I believe you've misunderstood us," said Mrs. Metcalf.
"I think the misunderstanding has been on your part," the girl shot back.
"Uh—please." Mrs. Bell was leaning forward.
The girl fairly shouted, "Here is an absolute genius, and you talk about him like he's some kind of fool!"
The volume having gotten to a level to attract Mr. Woodall again, he cupped a hand to his ear:
"Said what? Said what?"
"I can't eat." Mr. Jurgen shoved aside his fork.
"Well, come to think of it," said Mr. Rampey, "he's both, a genius and a fool, you just got to know which one you're talkin' to."
"Ohhh . . ." Gwen threw down her napkin.
"Yoo, Jincey!" Miss Esther clapped her hands.
"Have you decided, Miss Burns," Mrs. Bell was saying eagerly, "what kind of house you and Jayell are going to build?"
"I may not wait for that! I might just move in with him at the shop—tonight!"
She shoved away from the table and was getting to her feet when suddenly there was a shout from outside, the back door slammed, and in the next instant a compactly built young man was leaping through the door, his shaggy blond hair flying. Gwen gave a little squeal as he crushed her against his dirty denim clothes and whirled her across the room, burying his sunburned, boyish face in her neck, kissing her lips, her hair, her shoulders.
"Better ease off, Jayell," Miss Esther chuckled. Stomp. "There's coronaries in this room."
"You can quit stomping now," reminded Mr. Rampey.
"Jayell!" The girl struggled out of his arms. "My God—what . . . where have you been!"