The Last Blue

by Isla Morley

These gestures seem to earn no small tally of Buford’s trust. Addressing Massey, he says, “I wonder if you would be interested in a tour of my land.”

  “I want to come, too, Pa,” says Willow-May, gazing up at Massey.

  Buford orders his eldest daughter to change the dressing on Havens’s foot and fix him a plate of food. “I should think you’d want to go easy today,” he tells Havens.

  “We’ll trade notes later,” Massey whispers in Havens’s ear before following Buford and Levi out the back door.

  Too busy attending the lyrical tone of her voice, Havens misses the first part of what Jubilee says and catches only the apology for nearly getting him killed.

  “Killed? No, you saved my life. I’m the one who must apologize.”

  Jubilee brings a fresh dressing, a basin of water, and a small wooden crate, and indicates for Havens to prop up his foot.

  “You don’t have to do that. I can do it.”

  She ignores him and unwraps the bandage.

  He cannot stop staring at her. It takes him much too long to break the silence. “It must have been frightening to have two strange men chasing after you.” She keeps at her task. “I am very sorry for the distress we caused you, but we meant you no harm.” Havens wonders how he can even have the gall to say this last part, as though there exists only one kind of harm.

  Her tone gives away nothing. “Blues are used to being chased and we don’t scare near as easy as you think.”

  Havens is alarmed by everything in that sentence. “You call yourselves Blues?”

  She shrugs. “We call you chasing-types Right-coloreds.”

  Remembering what Ronny Gault said about blue coon hunting, he wants to ask her exactly what she means by chasing so she can tell him that those bullet holes and her condition don’t have anything to do with each other. A dozen things he wants to know, but he asks, “Why are you being so kind to us?”

  Now she looks up. “You think we aren’t capable of being decent like other people?”

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that. He fumbles his apology. “You’re very kind. Very decent.”

  She inspects his bare foot, which is scabbed at the site of the puncture and discolored and swollen more than twice its normal size. Embarrassed by the smell, he tells her again that he will take over the task, but she daubs the wound with a wet rag. “Mr. Massey told us you’re from Cincinnati. What’s it like?”

  “A typical city, I guess.” It occurs to him that she may not have any idea what he means by this. “A lot of tall buildings, crowded, busy, not terribly exciting.”

  She wraps a fresh bandage around the gauze. “I bet a person never gets lonesome in a city.”

  “On the contrary.” He wants to tell her about being invisible and ordinary, that whatever uniqueness is not bred out of a man is trained out of him. “Where I live, a man can fall down in the middle of the street and people will step right over him.”

  “Would you step over someone?”

  “No.”

  “Has anyone ever stepped over you?”

  “Well, no.” And just that easily, she lets him know his struggles don’t come anywhere close to hers.

  Jubilee returns the basin to the kitchen, assists him back to the room, and puts his camera on the table beside him. “Mr. Massey says you make your living with this.”

  “Not a lavish living, but yes.” He doesn’t want her to leave. “But I also take pictures for my own benefit. Sometimes I see something that interests me and I use my camera to try to understand it more.”

  She walks to the door, turns around, and says, “I don’t want you to aim your camera at me again.”

  * * *

  “It’s not enough that this family is treated like lepers when clearly they’re not contagious, they also have to contend with vandals.” Having returned from his walk with Buford, Massey describes the scene of Buford’s sorghum field to Havens. “About a third of his crop has been hacked to pieces, and the stalks weren’t even three feet high. I was ready to march down to the sheriff, but Buford just lit his pipe and kept looking at his crop like he was way past getting angry about it.”

  “Does he know who did it?”

  “He didn’t name names, but I got the sense he knew.”

  Havens reports on the bullet holes, the reinforced front door, and Jubilee’s remark about having been chased before.

  “Bigots,” says Massey. “Except they’re not motivated by socioeconomic status or race. It’s bigotry based on medical factors.” Massey wags his finger. “That’s going to be my angle.”

  Up until this very moment, Havens has held the position that a journalist is never to serve the subject he documents but rather the public, and beyond the public, he is to serve the greater good—the democracy afforded by a free and inquisitive press. Now he isn’t so sure. “What if we endanger this family by proceeding with this story? What if it gets printed and they wind up getting hurt?”

  Massey counts off his fingers. “One, there is no ‘if’ about getting the story into print. Two, whenever journalists don’t report stories because they want to protect their subjects, they collude with the perpetrators of injustice, and three, we have a shot at helping this family by flipping the beast over and revealing its underbelly, which means there’s a good chance the cowards will back off.”

  “Yes, but can we be sure it won’t make things worse for them? You print a story, and the bigots decide they’ve been unfairly portrayed—who do you think they’re going to retaliate against?”

  Massey scoots his chair closer to the bed and lowers his voice even more. “I’m not contradicting you, but we’re here. We’re exposed to this story. There isn’t a perfect choice, but as professionals we are obligated to tell it.”

  Havens isn’t ready to concede. “You told Buford we would drop it.”

  “He’s no different from any other reluctant source. Once I get him to trust me, I’ll make the case for the story, and if he still drags his feet, I’ll offer him anonymity.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “Come on, name one occasion when a source turned me down.”

  “That editor at Hearst who wouldn’t go on record about being ordered to downplay the economic crisis.”

  “Okay, but that guy was a jerk.”

  “How about the boxer who was bribed to throw the fight against Primo Carnera, but backpedaled before your article went to print?”

  “All right, all right.”

  “I’m just saying it would be easier if these people hadn’t saved my life.”

  “Hey, a dead photographer is only slightly less useful than a morally conflicted one.”

  “Plus Buford’s daughter ordered me not to point my camera anywhere at her.”

  “Of course she did; she doesn’t trust you. You’ve got to let her get to know you. Open up, talk to her, be yourself.”

  “Oh, God.” Havens stares at his friend.

  “Right, good point. Pretend you’re me, then.” Hearing his name called, Massey turns around and waves at Willow-May.

  “You said you’d come and see my chickens.”

  Massey rises. To Havens, he says, “When she brings you food, talk to her. It’s not that hard.”

  Jubilee knocks before she enters, then sets a glass of water on the bedside table and hands Havens a plate of cornbread. “Do you need something for the pain?”

  The sensation is of being scalded toe to knee. “I’m fine.”

  She lingers while he scrambles for something to say. “I looked for you earlier. Your mother said you went to your aviary. You keep birds?”

  “Injured ones only. I mend what can be mended, and turn them loose when they’re ready to make their own way. Sometimes I tend bigger critters.”

  From experience, he knows the chance of rehabilitating any injured wild creature is low, but birds in particular, and he’s lost count of the baby birds he tried to hand rear only to bury them in his backyard. Somehow, it’s easy for him to picture her
in such a setting. “Do you have any training?”

  “Learning the hard way.”

  He expresses interest in other animals she’s rescued, and she lists foxes, jackrabbits, ’possums. “I saved a young bobcat once. Pa said I made him too tame to be much good out there on his own, but I see his footprints once in a while.”

  “I tried to tame a frog once.”

  She doesn’t permit herself to smile. “I’m not partial to frogs.”

  “Well, if you were a kid spending another summer sick in bed while other boys were at the swimming hole, a frog would make a fine friend.”

  “Frogs won’t eat what you give them; they’re stubborn about catching their own food.”

  “As I discovered too late.” Havens gestures to the chair. “Won’t you sit down?”

  She doesn’t move. “What ailed you?”

  The few times he’s discussed his childhood illnesses with anyone he’s ended up being pitied. “It wasn’t just one thing.”

  “How long were you sick?”

  Havens spent what should’ve been the best part of his youth in bed watching the shadows creep across the walls, the tree outside drop its leaves, and icicles form prison bars across his window. He shrugs. “A while.”

  “Did you have to go to a hospital?”

  “A couple of times,” he answers, subtracting four visits.

  “I don’t care for doctors.”

  “A miserable lot,” he agrees. “Next time I’m sick, I’m going to insist on a veterinarian. Those guys pat their patients’ heads and scratch their chins and tell them what good boys they are.”

  This time she does smile.

  Before she leaves, she says, “Don’t tell my sister the frog story or you’ll have a family of them hopping around in here.”

  “Perhaps I won’t need a frog for company,” he suggests.

  * * *

  After dinner, they hear music coming from the porch, and Massey assists Havens down the breezeway to where the Bufords are assembled—Buford playing a dulcimer and Levi a guitar. Jubilee, her mother, and her grandmother are singing, and Willow-May is twirling from one end of the porch to the other. Though not fully dark, two oil lamps bathe the front of the house in golden light, setting the family as though in amber, ornaments of another era.

  “Pull up a bench,” Buford says.

  “Where I come from, everyone listens to the radio at night, but this is much better,” Massey comments. “What was that song you were playing? It sounds Irish.”

  “Levi made up that song himself,” Gladden beams at her son.

  “You’re a songwriter?”

  Levi shrugs off any admiration. “You can’t walk a mile in these parts without bumping into a songwriter.”

  His mother protests. “Most folks sing what their grandsires sang and their grandsires before that, but Levi’s songs are all from his own head.”

  “Would you play us another one?” asks Havens.

  “Play my favorite, ‘Gander Goes A-Courtin’,’ ” insists Willow-May.

  “You’re too old for nursery rhymes,” Levi says, but the girl will have her way and launches into the verses complete with hand gestures, which she insists Massey learn.

  “How about you fellas? We’ve got Grandma’s old banjo inside, if you’re inclined.”

  “I have enough trouble clapping my hands. Havens, though, whistles a mean tune.”

  All eyes swing in Havens’s direction, and Buford asks for a tune, prompting Havens to admit he’s not one for an audience.

  “We’re not your audience,” says Buford. “We’re your friends.”

  “Go on, Havens,” Massey urges. “Don’t be coy.”

  “All right, my mother’s favorite,” he relents. After whistling a couple of bars of “Red River Valley,” Levi joins in on guitar, and Willow-May takes Massey’s hand and swings it side to side. All the while Havens keeps Jubilee in the corner of his eye. After he’s done, the Bufords applaud his meager offering. Feeling pleased with himself, he allows himself a discreet glance at Jubilee, who steps from the dimmest recess of the porch into the light.

  JUBILEE

  Mama blocks Jubilee’s passage onto the porch, saying, “You’re not bringing that bird in the house.”

  Jubilee’s early trip to her aviary was meant to avoid exactly this. “It’s to cheer up Mr. Havens. Please, Mama, I won’t let him out of his cage, and I’ll take him back this afternoon.”

  “If I see one dropping.”

  Jubilee rushes along the breezeway and taps on the bedroom door several times before she hears the invitation to enter.

  Propping himself on one elbow, Mr. Havens rubs his eyes and grins. “What a pleasant way to wake up.”

  Jubilee holds out the cage. “This is Thomas. He’s shy at first, but he’ll warm to you soon enough, and he’s much better company than a frog.”

  Mr. Havens pats his lap. “Put him right here.” He peers through the slates. “A northern flicker, and a very fine specimen at that.”

  He knows birds. She unlatches the cage door so he can get a better look.

  “Well, aren’t you a dapper fellow.” Mr. Havens acts like Christmas has come early. “Won’t he fly off?”

  “He could if he wanted to, but he won’t. He’s been ready to leave for weeks already, and I can’t figure why he won’t even try to fly.”

  “What happened to him?”

  She explains the treatment for a broken blood feather. “But I think he’s lost his nerve.”

  “You don’t know if you’ve got the stuff anymore, is that it, buddy? Not sure you want to go back out there and risk your neck again? I know the feeling.”

  Jubilee clears a place on the desk for the cage. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” There aren’t any chores that can’t wait, but she uses this as her excuse to leave instead of the real reason, which is she’s already exceeded the limit of what to say to a stranger and can’t think of anything else to add.

  Mr. Havens thanks her, and says, “I hope you’ll come back soon to check on us.”

  Out of sight, she lingers on the other side of the door, just barely able to make out what he says to Thomas.

  “I bet I know why you haven’t left. You’ve become just a little bit smitten with your nurse, haven’t you?”

  * * *

  Out on the porch, Mama darns Pa’s socks, Grandma dozes in the rocker beside her, and Jubilee finishes churning the butter. It’s the fourth day since the men arrived and already their presence is beginning to have the feel of routine. Pa has taken a liking to them, especially to Mr. Massey, who is now out checking the traps with him, and if Mr. Massey didn’t know anything about hunting and farming before, he’s well on his way to becoming an expert. Mr. Havens spends less time in bed and more time in the front room or on the porch with Thomas, who has been given consent to stay another night. When he’s not giving Thomas his attention, Mr. Havens watches everything she does, even the smallest chores. Don’t people do chores in the city? Even now, he watches her through the living room window. Finishing her task, she takes the butter to the cellar and goes into the front room, where her sister has fetched his camera and is pestering him to show her how it works.

  “Put that thing down, Willow-May!”

  Her sister swings the camera at her instead. “I’m going to take your picture.”

  “Stop, I said!” Jubilee grabs it and shoves it at Mr. Havens and orders her sister outside. “Go scare up some ants for Thomas’s dinner.”

  “Don’t be cross with her,” Mr. Havens says. “It’s my fault for bringing out my photographs.” He lifts a stack of pictures from the side table and says, “I thought you might be interested to see what it’s like in a big city.”

  She takes up next to him and scans the first picture he hands her, a crowded station platform that must be a mile long, passengers leaning out of train windows, a man hoisting a trunk up the train’s stairs. The next picture is of a streetcar crammed with so many people it�
�s a wonder no one ends up on the pavement. Buildings five times as high as any tree, a bridge that crosses water surely too wide to be a river, and a row of men hunched in front of sewing machines—everything is so foreign.

  “Is that a radio?” Two old people sit on either side of a big wooden box in a tidy carpeted living room.

  “Yup.” He points to the man turning the dial. “My father’s tuned into Walter Winchell, and my mother is frowning because she doesn’t like having her picture taken.”

  A camera nosing in on Jubilee’s irregularity is enough to make a person squirm, but why would it bother a lady as nice-looking as Mr. Havens’s mother, in her neat dress and those pretty pearl earrings? If Jubilee were right-colored and dressed this way, she could imagine sitting for a picture being a pleasant experience.

  “I like her hair.” Nobody around here wears her hair that short. It must save her a lot of bother. Jubilee would like to study his parents and their home for clues about Mr. Havens, but her focus is pulled suddenly to his nearness, to his breathing, and the awareness that he is watching her. She feels the heat in her cheeks. “Mr. Massey said you won a prize for one of your pictures.”

  “I didn’t deserve it.”

  She shuffles through the other pictures. “Which of these is your favorite?” she asks.

  He plain will not look at the pictures. “I haven’t taken it yet.”

  Outside, someone hollers a greeting and Jubilee rushes to the door in time to see Uncle Eddie lumbering up the path, his lopsidedness making him look like a river bank about to collapse. His left foot is bandaged again on account of the gout, which means he will be in a worse temper than usual, and there’s no telling how he’ll act around their guests, but if he’s liquored up, it’ll take a tractor to pull him out of here should he get situated.

  “Send him away, Mama. Say we’re busy.”

  “You just stay out of his way and don’t go provoking him.” Mama’s soft when it comes to Uncle Eddie because he was raised as her brother, though he’s really the orphaned child of Ma’s dead sister, Adeline. Even though he’s kin, Uncle Eddie has it in for Blues. According to him, Blues are to blame for the town drying up, for the job he lost, the wife he can’t find. When they lay out a coffin for him, he’ll blame blue before getting in it.