by Jeff Fields
Time after time Gwen demonstrated her complete and absolute faith in the system; she stuck to her guns and left discipline entirely up to the court no matter what, even when it became obvious that things were getting out of hand. As for the class, we were convinced that self-government was a wonderful thing indeed. By the approach of spring we were doing anything we wanted in class; cheating was rampant, spitballs and erasers showered the air, and students wandered in and out of class at will. I enjoyed the respect of my classmates that I had never had before, policemen were getting extra desserts at lunch, and it was virtually impossible to convict anyone on any charge whatsoever: all in all we were enjoying about as corrupt and lawless a society as could be imagined anywhere.
Swish.
The sound came from somewhere behind me, beyond the hedge. I paid little attention to it, and went back to sipping iced tea and reading my Captain Marvel.
It was Saturday, and one of the first days of reliable warmth. Spring in Quarrytown, that high in the foothills, was always an uncertain thing. The sun had been standing out brightly for weeks, and looked inviting enough through the windows, but when school let out, those who broke for the buses with their coats under their arms and sweaters knotted around their waists were likely as not soon wearing them on their shivering backs.
But that day it was warm. Down the road, Wash Fuller's martin gourds hung motionless in the sky, disturbed only by the intermittent landings and departings of martins busily bringing straws for their nests. Wash's dog, Jincey, could sleep quietly at the step without having to move around the corner every time the wind shifted.
It was quiet in the yard. Insects worked in the scuppernong arbor and buzzed among the fruit trees, and beyond, to the left of the house, old Aaron Tim clucked softly to his brown, bony-shouldered mule as they broke ground for Mrs. Bell's garden.
It was decidedly spring.
I began to drowse and the print started running together. Then, from over the hedge there came a light slap, as of someone swatting an insect, followed by another swish of cloth on cloth, and I realized someone was in the hammock. Mr. Woodall often sunned himself there as soon as the weather permitted, but I knew he was inside listening to a ball game. You could hear the radio a block away.
"Damnit!" There was an angrier slap, a rustle of the hammock, and Gwen came around the hedge, dressed in white short shorts and a halter. "Oh . . . well, hello!" She watched me a moment, tucking in the ends of a towel she had wound into a turban. "I didn't know anyone was back here."
"I . . . I was just sitting here, reading." I felt the need to explain somehow, about being there. She had that look in her face.
A slow smile spread over her face. "It's all right," she said. "I'm flattered."
"Huh?"
"Don't be ashamed, Earl, it's perfectly normal at your age." She stepped closer and looked down at my comic book, standing so close I was aware of the tiny beads of perspiration on her long, shapely legs. "Back to your old habits, I see. Doesn't your aunt care about your reading those things?"
"Not when they don't cost anything. I traded this one off Fred Wygart, who gets 'em free at his daddy's drugstore."
She sat down beside me and took a cigarette from a blue case and lit it with a matching lighter. "I don't know why I keep trying, I really don't. I beat my brains out, and I-just-can-not-get-through!"
"I'm sorry."
"Ah, I'm just upset about that civics class thing, I guess. I had another conference with Mr. Guest yesterday, and as of Monday, our court is permanently adjourned and I'm back to teaching the Constitution . . . the Bill of Rights . . . de-dah, de-dah, de-dah . . ."
"Oh, that's too bad."
"Well, school will be out soon. Maybe next year will be better. There's one happy note, at least. Thelma Martin's just discovered she's pregnant and she's arranged for me to take over as drama coach next year. Thank God and George Martin for that!" She turned and looked at me, blinking her eyes slowly, thinking.
"I can't act," I said quickly. "I couldn't even remember the lines! Miss Esther sends me to the store for two things, she's got to write 'em down, and, and clumsy? I can't even walk across a room without knocking things over . . ."
"Oh, stop it, Earl. What's the matter with you anyway? You have got to be the strangest kid I have ever come across. It's like pulling teeth to draw you out of yourself, and yet when I forced you into that lawyer part, you came on like gangbusters! You've got to learn to assert yourself, have a little confidence, or you're never going to have any friends."
"I've got friends," I said.
"Well, I've never seen them. You skulk around that school like you're afraid somebody's going to say 'boo' to you. Don't you have any special friends you hang around with?"
"Sure, there's Em, Tio, the shop boys . . ."
"Not these colored people, for heaven's sake. I mean white friends, outside of this—niggertown. You've gone to school all these years, surely you've developed a few white friends along the way."
"Yeah, but when school let out they went uptown and I came back to the Ape Yard."
"But there must have been class parties, little dances and hayrides and things."
It was hard to explain. "Oh, sure but, well, they all knew each other, they went to church together, they invited each other to join clubs, their folks went out together. Nobody knew me, they didn't know my folks, and when I came around it was always said, 'oh.' Not good—not bad, just, 'oh.' I guess I just got tired of that 'oh.'"
"Well, you can't bury yourself down here for the rest of your life, even Jayell has finally realized that. At some time, you've got to come to terms with the real world."
In that moment, for the first time, I think I got an inkling of what was in Gwen's mind, of the way she saw things. "This," I said, waving a hand toward the Ape Yard, "this is not real to you?"
She thought about it a moment, and laughed. "You know, now that you mention it, the whole place does have an unreal quality about it: look at your aunt, prodding those old people around like she's going to make them live a hundred years; old man Teague and your friend Tio, constantly patching up and slapping paint on that run-down grocery store as though they're going to turn it into a supermarket, and Jayell, creating those splendid little houses—for trash to live in! Even that horrible Indian you tag around after, undoubtedly the most grotesque, worthless caricature of a human being that ever drew breath, and he acts as if he were king of the world! I swear, not one of them has even the faintest grip on reality! Maybe the heat in this depressing hollow and—and the awful fumes from that quarry, do something to the brain after a while. At least there's hope for Jayell, if I can get him out of here in time. And you too, Earl, if you get out of here, and with the right kind of people."
"But I like the people down here. Tio's brighter than I am, at least he makes better grades, and Em—well, he's free and independent, that's his way, but if he liked you, and somebody tried to hurt you, he'd kill 'em, without even thinking about it. Have you got a better friend than that?"
"Earl, you're fantasizing again—and that's exactly what I'm talking about. Listen to me, very shortly you'll be leaving all this. Nature forces change, whether we want it or not. You're growing up now, soon you'll want to move out of this hollow and start a life of your own, meet a girl . . . how about that," she asked, turning to me, "haven't you begun to notice any changes lately?"
I didn't say anything.
She took the towel from her hair and ran it down her legs, wiping off the perspiration. "How about girls, Earl? Surely there's some little girl at school you've taken a shine to by now."
"No."
"Oh, come on, you have begun to notice girls, haven't you? I don't know, you've had such a strange upbringing, it wouldn't surprise me if . . . you do know about sex, don't you?"
"Oh, back'ards and forwards!"
"Thank you."
"Huh?"
"My legs," she said, smiling, "you were staring at them."
"Oh, no, ma'am! I . . . I
was just . . ."
"And you were watching me through the hedge, weren't you?"
I rolled the comic book and set my chin on it.
Her voice was firm. "Now listen to me, Earl, there's nothing wrong with a healthy interest in sex, but there's a great deal wrong with not being honest, with me, and with yourself. Now, you were looking at me, weren't you?"
I closed my eyes and nodded.
"There. And for being honest, and for the compliment to me, I thank you." She looked at me, shaking her head. "Lord, would you be a case study for Dr. Fenworth! He was my professor in Early Childhood Development." Suddenly she stubbed out her cigarette and got to her knees and heed me. "Tell me, what sports do you like. Football? Baseball? Basketball?"
I shook my head to each of them. "Don't you like sports at all?"
"I like swimming—and Tio and I wrestle a lot."
"Oh, reea-ally!" She studied me closely. "Do you ever . . . ah, dream about girls?
Not especially."
"Let's analyze some of your dreams. Quick, what did you dream last night?"
"I don't remember."
"Ah, hah. Earl, I can't help you if you won't cooperate. Now, I want you to think carefully before you answer—and trust me. Do you ever dream about boys?"
"Oh, sure, lots of times."
She leaned closely, our noses almost touching. "And what boy do you dream about most?"
"Tio, I guess."
She straightened. "Oh, my God!"
Taking a moment to compose herself, she set her jaw and said. "Earl, look at my breast!" And to my utter disbelief, she yanked down her halter top.
I broke out in a clammy sweat.
She waited.
I checked the clouds.
"Earl, you've got to try! Look at my breast!"
"Uh, which one?"
"My God you can't even—the left one, then, the left one! Look at it!"
I slowly lowered my eyes.
"Quick," she panted, "what are you thinking?
"Miss Esther . . ."
"Ah, hah!"
"If she caught me at this she'd skin me alive. I've got to go."
She pulled up her halter and placed her hands on my shoulders. "You've got problems, Earl. I tell you what, why don't you and I go on a picnic."
"Do what?"
"Just the two of us, we'll go down to the lake and just sit under the trees and talk. I've got this book . . ."
As I was debating between faking a stroke and making an all-out break for the hedges, the sweet music of salvation touched my ear, the ragged piston bang of Jayell Crooms's pickup.
Right away I knew something was up. The truck bed was filled with grinning shop boys. Jojohn waved from the cab. Jayell got out and came limping across the lawn in a new sports coat and tie, stitching with nerves. "Come on," he said, "get in the truck."
"What's all this?"
"I'll show you. Come on."
"But shouldn't I at least get dressed first?
Never mind," said Jayell, "get in, get in!"
Em was crawling in the back with the others. They hoisted me over the side.
"What's he want all of us along for?" I asked.
"Must be scared to go it alone," Em said.
"Well, I hope she likes it," said Skeeter. "I ain't goin' through that again!"
We drove out to Marble Park and up past the postage-stamp lawns, heads lifting from putters, from car washings and mowings, Gwen watching but not saying anything, fighting to control her hair. Jayell turned up the final hill and stopped before the house.
It was beautiful, framed there under the trees. Clean, massively built, but light as a song. We waited as Gwen got out and walked around the hood and stood looking at it.
"I came up here at sunrise," Jayell said, "and when I looked at it, I knew I'd done something special. I just walked around and around it. I'd turn away and then try to look at it fresh, and each time it looked new to me. Crazy." He looked at me and grinned. "Not sleeping and eating right, I guess. It's simple, not like anything I've done before—but I've never built anything better. That's me, with love. Boy, you think I'm crazy?"
"Everybody says so."
Jayell laughed. "Let's show her inside."
Gwen moved into the house stiffly, hesitantly. She stopped in the high-ceilinged living room and slid her hand over the marble mantlepiece. "It's beautiful, Jayell," she said, "perfectly beautiful."
But was she just complimenting him? There is a feeling you have when something is shared, a feeling that doesn't need bright smiles and glittering eyes. As yet, that feeling wasn't there.
"We carried them fireplace stones from the Mahew plantation," said Skeeter eagerly, "but there's two ton of rock in there."
"Come sit in this chair," said Carlos, standing behind the brass-studded easy chair. "That's real leather, you know, ain't no vinyl." She sat in the chair, and sprang out with a laugh when it rocked. "I'm not ready for the knitting-needles bit yet, Carlos."
"That door's solid oak," said little Jackie James, "talk about a bother to hang! But, look here, moves like a feather . . ."
"Boys . . ." said Jayell. So we hushed, and followed her through the house, past the effort screaming to be noticed, the thousand small perfections hidden in simplicity, our teeth raw with wanting to speak, eagerly watching her face.
She liked the spacious kitchen, the abundance of cabinets. Perhaps they could hire somebody until she learned to cook. She was as terrible a cook as her mother. We trooped up the carpeted stairs, past the hand-rubbed miles of paneling. Skeeter dragged a rag along his brightly varnished banister rail. She was tickled with the nursery with its miniature furniture, done in blue, but teased Jayell that her family ran to girls. I stood by the crib admiring the dowels in the railings. A pure misery drilling those holes to equal depths. In the guest room even Jayell couldn't resist. He stamped the board planking of the floor, "That's real wooden pegs in there, you know. You don't see that anymore."
"Jayell," she said, "I just can't believe it. It's like a dream . . . like a dream." She was turning, really looking now, as if gradually recovering from shock. "The colors, everything, it's like you looked inside my head and . . ."
"Wait," said Jayell nervously, "wait a minute." And he pushed open the door to the master bedroom.
Gwen entered the room softly, her shoulders close, like a little girl.
If the rest of the house was wrought with meticulous effort and careful attention to Gwen's tastes, this room was Jayell's masterpiece. Gwen stood taking it all in, the gleaming mahogany, the dark beams soaring over the thick, luxurious carpet, the delicate ivory handles and elegant curving mirrors, the paintings, the drapes. It was Gwen, even I could see that, as much of her in line, in tone, in texture as can be said of a person in inanimate things. It sparkled around her, the love, the effort, the backbreaking devotion that only Jayell could give so completely, and not leave a trace of himself. She rested a hand on the post of the canopied bed and turned to look at him, her eyes moist, the sunlight striking gold in her hair.
A little electric pulse ran through the crowd in the hall. We were turning, grinning at each other. Jojohn slapped his hands. I wanted to shout! I could have grabbed her and kissed her and danced in the middle of the floor!
Then I caught Jayell's eye. He was smiling at us; he made a small motion with his head. Carlos nudged us, backing into the hall. He pulled the door to and we tiptoed softly down the stairs.
13
The wedding was set for the seventeenth of April, and it was to be a church wedding. Jayell wanted a quick civil ceremony, but since Gwen and her mother had conceded to his refusal to have the wedding in Atlanta, he felt he had to give in on that point.
Gwen's mother came to town a week prior to the wedding, and after one visit to the boardinghouse, put up at the Marble City Hotel and took her daughter with her. From the time she arrived, Mrs. Burns was completely in charge of the wedding plans. She was a butterfly general, flitting about, spluttering
over this, swooping down on that, teary-eyed and always looking at the point of collapse, but always perfectly in command. On her arrival, Jayell disappeared, and stayed gone until the day of the wedding.
Gwen's father showed up the morning of the wedding with a sizable delegation of relatives. A tall man with Gwen's coloring and close-set eyes, he stood about smiling nervously through his hornrimmed glasses, trying to keep out of the way, and looking as though he would like to become part of the furniture until the whole affair was over. Seeing his discomfort, Mr. Rampey and Mr. Burroughs took him around the church for a pass of the bottle and became his constant companions for the duration. Gwen's younger brother, Larry, a pre-med student at Emory, whom she had insisted be best man, blew into town around noon in a Thunderbird convertible emblazoned with fraternity decals and immediately made it clear that he preferred his own company to anyone else's. He stood apart twirling the wedding band on his little finger, a ring Gwen had allowed her mother to select in Atlanta, and watched the boarders troop by with a bemused expression as though he were cataloguing a parade of diseases.
The little Episcopal church was filled to overflowing. The whole boardinghouse had turned out for it. Funerals were old hat to our crowd, but a wedding fetched the lot. Miss Esther brought some of her church friends. Even Mr. Teague dressed up and came. We loaded up the groom's side of the aisle and the boarders out-cried the blood kin.
The Hendersons from Marble Park were there, plus many of Gwen's friends on the faculty at Quarrytown High, including Thelma Martin and her husband, George. "If somebody's getting Jayell Crooms to the altar," he was saying, "I don't want to miss it."
There was an uncommonly long wait, it seemed to me, in getting the proceedings started. Chafing in the hard collar of a new white shirt, I sat next to a window, which was closed, as they all were, lest a breeze disturb some of Mrs. Burns's decorations, I suppose. The new sports coat Miss Esther bought me was stiflingly hot, which wasn't surprising. It was a hundred percent wool. But it was on sale.
After a while I became aware of a mild commotion in the church foyer. Nothing much, a very subdued wandering in and out, and whispering, the way it might be when a theater is afire and they're trying to decide how best to break It to the people. The minister went out. Then Mrs. Burns.