Beach Music

by Pat Conroy

  “Call my house at six tonight,” I suggested. “We can use Dallas’ office as headquarters during the day. Where’s Dad?”

  “Drunk,” Dupree said.

  “Gee whiz. I’m shocked,” Dallas said. “My papa overindulging. It’s so unlike him.”

  “He drinks when there’s pressure,” Dupree explained.

  “The only other time he drinks is when there’s no pressure,” I said.

  Though much can be held against the smaller states like South Carolina, they provide a sense of intimacy and balance to their citizens. In less than twenty-four hours, the whole state was on the lookout for a 1985 red Cadillac Seville driven by a mental patient carrying a terribly weakened woman who had completed only two fifths of her latest chemotherapy treatments.

  While Tee was checking hotel and motel reservations around the state and Dallas called all the sheriffs in the most rural counties, I sat in the newsroom of the News and Courier in Charleston making calls to editors trying to get front-page space describing Lucy’s disappearance. When Dupree returned to Columbia he began searching out friends of John Hardin’s in the scruffy speakeasies located on the fringe of the university. Alcohol was the first hermitage John Hardin sought when his mind grew disfigured and gauzy. In bars, he found nonjudgmental friends who listened to him patiently as he listed the forces arrayed against him. In those mirrored rooms, there was comfort in the vacancy of strangers adrift in the same fool’s paradise John Hardin retreated to when panic-stricken or broken by the free-falling suffering that was his birthright.

  Dupree knew about John Hardin’s night circuit and had often answered calls from bartenders when his brother had drunk too much to walk home. Dupree was always moved that John Hardin had discovered a community of mislaid, churlish men and women who had also found life unbearable at times. When they heard about John Hardin’s disappearance with his mother, they opened up to Dupree and gave him the telephone numbers and names of other friends. On the third day, Dupree found the one friend who could tell him where John Hardin had gone and how to find him.

  Vernon Pellarin was wandering among a lineup of drugged depressives bumming cigarettes two hundred feet from Dupree’s office on the grounds of the state hospital. Vernon was light-headed with his own drugs and he cheerfully told Dupree that he had given John Hardin the keys to his family’s fishing lodge on the Edisto River. He thought it was about two weeks ago at Muldoon’s bar near the capitol that he gave him the keys. The lodge belonged to Vernon and his brother, Casey, now that his father had died, but Casey lived in Spokane, Washington. John Hardin had revealed that he needed to find the most private, secluded spot in America because he wanted time to compose an essay that would change the course of contemporary society. Vernon was anxious to further a brave advance in American letters. The cabin was clean, simply furnished, and comfortable. However, it could only be reached by boat.

  The following morning we put two bateaux into the Edisto River just downstream from Orangeburg. Tee and I were in one, Dupree and Dallas in the other. We needed to get Lucy back to the hospital, but we had to make sure that we did not hurt our most fragile brother in the process—or get hurt by him. When John Hardin turned to violence, he could terrorize an entire town, a fact that Waterford knew well and had experienced many times.

  We let the current take us down the swift, rain-swollen Edisto. Oaks on the two shores leaned out over the water, touched branches, and exchanged birds and serpents, passing them almost hand to hand from one to the other. Water snakes eyed our two boats as we passed beneath the low-hanging trees. Dallas counted seven snakes wrapped around branches of one water oak we passed under.

  “I hate snakes,” Dallas said in a subdued voice. “What kind are they?”

  “Cottonmouth moccasins,” Tee said. “They’re deadly poisonous. They bite you and you’ve got thirty seconds to make your peace with Jesus.”

  “They’re water snakes,” Dupree said. “They’re all right.”

  “I don’t like going under a tree and noticing fifty living creatures sizing me up for a meal,” Dallas said.

  “The snakes’re fine,” Dupree said. “John Hardin’s our problem.”

  “Maybe we’ll catch him in a good mood,” I said. “Tell him we’ve got great tickets for the next Rolling Stones concert.”

  “I doubt it,” Dupree said. “He’s late for his shot. He’s probably been drinking and he’ll be agitated because he thinks the doctors’re trying to kill Mom. We’ve got to be flexible when we see him. If we can talk him into letting us have Mom back, that’s great. But we’ve got to get her back to the hospital one way or the other.”

  “You think he has a gun, bro?” Tee asked.

  “Probably,” Dupree said.

  “You know who’s the only crack shot in the family?” Tee asked me.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “John Hardin.”

  “He could trim a gnat’s pubic hair at fifty feet,” said Dallas. “The boy can handle a gun.”

  We passed four landings leading to small, nondescript houses before we rounded a curve of the river and saw a dock downriver fifty yards. John Hardin’s boat was pulled up high into a weed-covered backyard. We tied our boats to the dock and, according to the plan we had devised the night before, made our way toward the cinder-block house in two groups, keeping well hidden by the deep woods on either side of the house. A plume of black smoke curled above the chimney in the windless morning. The air smelled of mildew and swamp cabbage. Deer tracks pocked the soft ground, scrolling an odd set of hieroglyphics on the forest floor.

  Dupree remained the single legitimate outdoorsman among us. He raised bird dogs, kept the engine to his boat in repair, and made sure both his hunting and fishing licenses were current.

  Tee and I watched Dupree as he moved with speed and quietness out of his hiding place to the side of the house, where he disappeared from our line of sight. Then we saw him low-crawling on his stomach to the front of the house, where he crouched on a makeshift porch, then peered into the bottom pane of a greasy window. Having trouble seeing, he moved on his hands and knees to the next window, rubbed it with his palm, and looked hard inside. He rubbed the window again and put one eye against the clean spot he made with a saliva-dampened finger. He did not hear the door open or see John Hardin until the deer rifle barrel touched his temple.

  As Dupree raised his hands above his head, John Hardin marched him out into the center of the grassless, weedy yard. He forced Dupree to kneel down with his hands behind his neck as John Hardin’s eyes scanned the forest for signs of the rest of us.

  “Come on out or I’m gonna shoot Dupree’s dick off and feed it to the raccoons,” John Hardin shouted, and his voice echoed off the walls of huge trees.

  “He’ll make us get naked again. Tease us about our little dicks. Make us swim for the bridge on Highway 17,” Tee whispered, but I motioned for him to keep quiet.

  Dallas broke first and emerged from the woods on the opposite side of the house trying to bluff his youngest brother with all the prestige of his profession.

  “Just give it up, John Hardin,” Dallas yelled authoritatively, waving a piece of paper. “This is a warrant for your arrest, little brother. It’s been signed by three law enforcement officials in Waterford County and your own father. Dad wants you arrested and behind bars. He wants them to lock you up and melt down every key that fits your lock. I’m your only chance, John Hardin. With me as your lawyer, I promise I’ll get you out on bail quicker than a trout farting in mountain water.”

  “A trout farting in mountain water?” I whispered. “Where’d he come up with that?”

  “When he’s scared, no metaphor’s safe with Dallas,” Tee explained. “Listen to his voice. He’s terrified.”

  “You’re wanted by the law in three states, John Hardin. There’s a nationwide search on for you. An all-points bulletin. It’s going to take brilliant legal work to keep you from doing hard time. A man who finished in the top ten in his law school class
. A top-notch barrister who can charm a jury, reason with a judge, who can take a case that’s an egg and turn it into an omelet.”

  “Get on your goddamn knees,” John Hardin said, “before I blow your head clean off your neck.”

  “I hope your lawyer sucks,” Dallas said, sinking to his knees. “I hope your roommate in prison’s a huge, black gay rapist who’s the captain of the prison basketball team.”

  “That was racist,” Tee whispered.

  “It sure was,” I agreed.

  “I could blow you guys apart. Right here. On your knees,” John Hardin said. “And never serve a minute’s time in prison. You know why? Because I’m crazy. I got the papers to prove it. Both you guys teased me when I was just a little kid. Who knows? That might be the whole key to my schizophrenia.”

  “Who knows?” Dupree said. “It might’ve been Mom’s cooking.”

  “Shut up,” John Hardin screamed. “Don’t you say one word against our beautiful mother. Maybe she wasn’t perfect. But look who she married—our horrible father, who didn’t deserve to even know such a saint, much less to marry her. She had dreams, our mother did, big dreams, and you don’t think she was disappointed having four asshole sons in a row? I admit I’ve disappointed Mom too. But she says that I was too sensitive to survive in this dog-eat-dog world. Her whole life was sacrificed to Dad and you smelly cocksuckers. Mom understands me like no one else.”

  “Then why are you killing her, John Hardin?” Dupree asked, matter-of-factly.

  “Don’t say that again. Don’t you dare, horrible Dupree. Horrible, worthless, good-for-nothing Dupree.”

  “He’s right,” Dallas said. “Her only chance’s the chemotherapy.”

  “You ought to see what it’s doing to her,” said John Hardin, and there was true horror in his voice. “She can’t keep food down at all. Mom won’t eat anything because she throws it right up. It’s taking everything out of her. Killing her from the inside out.”

  And then Tee made his move toward the clearing. He entered in mid-scene talking wildly and with exaggerated hand motions like a sailor trying to flag down a passing ship. His Southern accent deepened and grew shrill during crises, and when John Hardin pointed the rifle at him, Tee began to sound like a mule skinner in a Southern stock production.

  “Bro, bro, bro, bro,” Tee began barking at John Hardin, his voice rising in pitch like a lapdog. “Bro, bro, bro.”

  “What in the hell do you want, Tee?” John Hardin asked, leveling the rifle at his brother’s heart. “I heard you the first time. How many times do you have to say ‘bro’ before you think I get it?”

  “I was nervous, bro,” Tee said.

  “I hate being called ‘bro,’ ” John Hardin said. “Say it one more time and I put a bullet in your heart. What’ve you got to be nervous about anyway?”

  “My mama’s dying. My brother’s crazy. I got someone threatening to shoot my young ass,” Tee wailed. “This ain’t like lying in a hammock, bro.”

  “He said ‘bro’ again,” Dupree said. “Shoot him, John Hardin.”

  “You shut up, Dupree,” John Hardin warned.

  “I’ve got an appointment back in town,” Dupree said, looking at his watch. “I’ll lose my job if I don’t make it back.”

  “You, a job?” John Hardin laughed. “You work at an insane asylum, locking up innocent crazy people like me.”

  “I’m meeting a client,” Dallas said. “Big money’s involved.”

  “You’re nothing but a brown-shoe, two-bit lawyer who wears cheap ties and doesn’t even own a fax machine,” John Hardin said. “Dad may’ve been a drunk, but he had a great legal mind. He changed the world with his legal opinions while you fix traffic tickets for Puerto Ricans who get lost on I-95.”

  “That’s a fairly accurate summation of my career,” Dallas admitted and Dupree laughed.

  “Always joking,” John Hardin said. “Everything’s a big laugh to you guys. But real humor is lost on you guys. What you love is humiliation, character assassination, ridicule …”

  Tee said, “That’s Dupree and Dallas, bro. My humor’s just like yours, John Hardin.”

  “Thanks, Tee,” Dallas said. “Nothing like a united front to get us all through this.”

  “We’ve got to take Mom back to the hospital,” Dupree said, rising to his feet.

  “Get back down on your knees,” John Hardin demanded, striking the back of his brother’s knees with the rifle butt.

  By this time, I had seen and heard enough, and more out of sheer frustration than a moment of sudden valor, I charged out of the woods making as much noise as was humanly possible. I did not even cast a glance at John Hardin or the others, but ran directly up the unpainted steps of the cabin as John Hardin screamed at me from behind. I heard him yelling to halt as I entered the house and found my mother, frail and barely conscious, in a sweat-soaked sleeping bag by a wood-burning stove. I put my hand to her forehead; I don’t think I have ever felt a higher fever on a human being. Lucy opened her eyes and tried to say a few words but she was delirious, lost to the voraciousness of her fever. Lifting her up, I was furious and unstoppable.

  I walked out into the sunlight and went carefully down the ill-made stairs, moving toward John Hardin, whose rifle was pointed at my eyes. As I approached I prayed that John Hardin’s basic sweetness would break through the disfigured latitudes of his madness. The death of my mother is driving me nuts, I thought, so why should it surprise any of us that John Hardin’s having a hard time?

  “Put my mother back where she belongs or I’m going to send you on an all-expense-paid trip to heaven.”

  “Then you can raise Leah for me, John Hardin,” I shouted, nearing him. “You can tell her you shot her father down dead in the woods and you can tell her bedtime stories the rest of her childhood and put away money for her college education. Shyla’s already killed herself, so Leah’s used to not having a parent around. Of course, after killing Mom, leaving her in this condition, I don’t care what you do to me. Just get out of my way, John Hardin. Mom must have a fever of a hundred and five and she’s going to die in the next hour if we don’t get her to a hospital. Are you trying to kill Mom?”

  “No, Jack, I swear to God. I’m trying to save her, to help her. Ask Mom. Wake her up. She knows what I’m trying to do. I forgot to pack aspirin. That’s all. I love her more than anyone. Much more than any of you guys. She knows that.”

  “Then help us get her to someone who can save her,” I said.

  “Please. Please,” said Dallas, Dupree, and Tee, and John Hardin lowered the rifle.

  Even after we got her to the hospital Lucy remained in the involuntary country of delirium. Again we hovered over her and whispered “I love you, Mama” a thousand times in a litany of endless valentines to ease her solitude and suffering. Beside her bed, the clear, foul-smelling chemotherapy once more dripped into the vein in her right arm. It burned as it entered and killed every blood cell it touched, good and bad. It eased its way along the highways that connected her organs like distant cities. Down again it took her to the sacristies of death. Her body turned inward on itself and her vital signs wavered as her young doctor monitored each step of her descent. He took Lucy all the way down to the point of death, then stopped the chemotherapy treatment forever and left her withered, tormented body for Lucy herself to save.

  Though Dr. Steve Peyton thought Lucy would die in the hospital on the first night of her return, he underestimated the strength she brought to the task of survival. Hers was a body that had endured five hard labors and produced five baby boys who each weighed over eight pounds. Twice, that first night, she almost died, and twice she came back.

  At the end of the second day, Lucy opened her eyes and saw my brothers and me surrounding her. We cheered and screamed so loudly that nurses came rushing in to quiet us. Disoriented, she could not understand all the commotion we made, but she winked at us. Then she slept solidly for another five hours, then awoke again to our shouts of encouragem
ent.

  After the second awakening, a distraught Tee slipped out of the room. I followed him out the back door of the hospital, into the clean air, and joined him on the bank of the river, above the green fringe of spartina grass. Tee was crying softly when I reached him.

  “I’m not ready for this, Jack, I swear I’m not. There should be classes in this shit. A book needs to be written to tell me how to act and feel now. Every move I make seems phony to me. Even these tears seem fake, like I’m pretending to care more than I do. She shouldn’t have brought us in the world if she knew we were going to have to sit around and watch her die a little at a time. It’s not that I love her ass so much either. I think you older boys got the best of Mom. I really do. Somewhere along the line, she quit being a mother to us. Okay, so she ran down. No big deal. But this is killing me and I don’t know why. I even blame her for the way John Hardin is. I think she didn’t raise the little bastard. Just watered him enough to grow. I’m sorry. I have no right to think any of this.”

  “Say anything you want,” I said. “I think that’s probably the best thing we can do while we’re losing her.”

  “She loves John Hardin more than me for one lousy reason,” Tee said. “Because he’s mentally ill and I’m not. Is that fair? I’m jealous because I’m not a goddamn schizophrenic. I get psycho-envy every time I think about it.”

  “John Hardin needs Mom to love him most,” I tried to explain. “He’s a special case.”

  “He’s a nut bag,” Tee said. “He practically kills Mom and we pretend everything’s fine just because John Hardin forgot to keep his date with the Thorazine clinic.”

  “He did what he could,” I said. “I envy John Hardin. We sit around saying prayers to a God we know won’t listen to us. But John Hardin kidnaps the woman he loves more than anyone on earth, takes her out of harm’s way, and brings her to a make-believe castle in a hideaway that no one else knows about. Mom knows the rest of us love her in theory. But poor crazed, lunatic John Hardin steals away with her in the night and has the whole state on the alert looking for her. We hand our love of Mom over to the doctors. John Hardin takes her down the Edisto River, cooks her bass that he set a trot-line for, builds her fires, and feeds her by hand in a half-abandoned fish camp that you can’t reach except by water. Like everything else, love’s not worth much without some action to back it up.”