by Robert Inman
“Aunt Alma,” Trout said.
She turned to him. “Yes?”
“I can unpack my things, but I think maybe the rest oughta wait ‘til Daddy gets here. He’s kind of peculiar about moving.”
“Peculiar.”
“Yes ma’am.”
She nodded. “Yes. I suppose he is. Under the circumstances, who wouldn’t be.”
Trout gave her an odd look, but he didn’t say anything. Aunt Alma, as Joe Pike would have said, had a burr under her saddle. But Trout figured that until Joe Pike got here, it was best to keep his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut. Or as Joe Pike would have said: head up, fanny down. An old piece of Bear Bryant wisdom. Joe Pike was full of Bear Bryant wisdom. It had the ring of scripture to it.
While the men emptied the truck under Alma’s watchful eye, Trout wandered about the grounds taking stock. There was a single expanse of front lawn that took in both parsonage and church. The parsonage had the same dark red brick and cedar shake roof as the church, making them all of a piece. But the parsonage, being smaller, had room for a nice back yard, separated from the rear of the church by a low hedge. There was a brick barbecue pit, a swing hanging by chains from a big limb of a spreading pecan tree, a bird bath, a small frame garage that doubled as a storage shed, a plot of broken ground where the previous occupant had been preparing a garden.
Joe Pike would like that. He liked to dig, plant things, fuss over them, eat the fruits of his own labor. There had been a garden somewhere on the grounds of whatever parsonage they lived in for as long as Trout could remember. When Trout was a small child, Joe Pike had always set aside a corner of the plot where he could dig about, sifting the cool, damp earth through his fingers, while Joe Pike hoed and watered nearby. One year, Joe Pike gave him a single tomato plant. It was his to care for. He cared for it too much, poking and prodding and watering and digging about the roots. It died. Joe Pike said the tomato plant was like a young’un. You had to know when to leave it alone.
There had been no garden at the Ohatchee parsonage this year. Joe Pike had been too busy with the motorcycle. But there was still time to plant, and here was the broken ground, waiting for him. If Joe Pike planted a garden, that would be a good sign.
Trout sat down in the swing and pondered that for awhile. He was still there when Alma came around the corner of the house and sat down next to him.
“Do you need anything for the night?” she asked. “Toothbrush, pajamas?” Trout gave her a blank look. “You’ll have to stay across the street with your Uncle Cicero and me.”
“I’ll be all right over here,” Trout said. “I’m used to…” He broke off. He didn’t want to say too much. Head up, fanny down.
“Yes,” Alma said. “I know all about that.”
“Well,” Trout said agreeably, “I’ll stay with you and Uncle Cicero.” He stood up. “I’ll just get some stuff…”
“Fine,” Alma said. “Then I want to show you something.”
* * * * *
Trout and Alma drove to the mill in her marvelous automobile, a 1928 Packard that Leland Moseley had bought when he took over management of Moseley Mill after Broadus’ death. It was an important car -- broad-shouldered and powerful with gleaming chrome, huge white-sidewall tires and a black finish so highly polished it was like looking into a deep well. For as long as Trout could remember, it had hunkered under the porte cochere at the white-columned house across the street from the church, off-limits to children. As small boys, Trout and his cousin Eugene, Alma’s son, would stand well back and admire the car and talk about what it would be like to get it out on the highway at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. But they never touched it. Trout wouldn’t have dared. He was by then an obedient child. Eugene would, but Aunt Alma had put some sort of terror into him about the car. Now, it was understood in the family that since Alma ran the mill, it was Alma’s car. She drove it once a week, usually out toward Atlanta a few miles to exercise the engine, rarely to the mill. But on this May evening she said to Trout, “We’ll take the Packard.” It was the first time Trout had ever been inside the car. It had a cavernous interior and it smelled of age and old leather. Like going for a ride in someone’s parlor.
Moseley Cotton Mill was still in the two-story red brick building that Broadus Moseley had built at the other end of town, surrounded now by a high chain link fence with a padlocked gate. Alma handed Trout a key and he unlocked the gate and swung it wide while Alma eased the car into the deserted lot and parked it next to the building. “Best lock it back,” she called as she climbed out, and Trout closed the gate and joined her.
They went first through a small office area, an open space separated into cubicles by opaque glass partitions, each with a desk and file cabinets. Then down a hallway past a closed door with a brass plaque on it that read: ALMA MOSELEY, PRESIDENT. Finally through another door and into the mill itself.
It was a long, narrow, high-ceilinged cave, crowded with row upon row of machines stretching back through shafts of late afternoon light that danced with dust motes that filtered through tall dingy windows. The machines were squat gray hulks, each with several small white cones on top, identical except for the bold black numbers stenciled on the side of each. Trout thought suddenly of war, the staging area for some giant battle. He stood there staring for a long moment, trying to imagine the mill in operation, the machines rumbling and clattering, people scurrying about. But there was nothing but a hollow quietness here, a dappled blend of light and shadow. Trout took a step toward the nearest machine, bent to peer at the white cones, saw that they were spools of thread.
“Cotton,” Aunt Alma said quietly at his back, startling him. Trout turned with a jerk.
“One day, this will be yours,” she said.
“Mine?” Their voices sounded hollow and distant in the great expanse of the room.
“Yours and Eugene’s. You’re the last of the Moseleys. And I don’t believe there will be any more, not of your generation.”
“What would I do with it?”
“Make cotton. That’s what Moseleys do. You know all about that.”
“No ma’am.” And he didn’t. Joe Pike didn’t talk much about the family.
Alma’s eyes swept the great room slowly. “Well, you will. Your great-grandfather came down from Carolina and built this mill and this town from scratch. For nearly a hundred years, this place has made the finest cotton yarn in the South.” Her voice was soft, reverent. It, too had the ring of scripture about it.
“The Moseley men…” she started on, paused, gave a tiny impatient jerk of her head… “well, most of the Moseley men…” Then she looked straight at Trout and fixed him with narrowed eyes. “We’re going to get things back on track, Trout. At long last. We’re going to start all over. Do you know what I mean?”
“Not exactly,” he said.
“Well, you will.” She started to go, then turned back to him suddenly. “There are three things I want you to remember, Trout. One, don’t ever forget who you are. Two, be careful of these wild-as-a-buck young’uns out here in the mill village. And three, stay away from your Great Uncle Phinizy.”
Trout didn’t have the foggiest idea what she meant by that – the thing about Phinizy – and he didn’t think it would do to ask. The questions he had, Aunt Alma couldn’t answer.
* * * * *
Trout woke abruptly in the night. The statue. It was still in the front seat of Joe Pike’s green Dodge, parked now in the parsonage driveway. He sat up quickly and remembered that he was in the big four-poster bed in what had been Eugene’s room on the second floor of Aunt Alma and Uncle Cicero’s house. When they were growing up, Eugene was the only youngster Trout knew with a four-poster bed. Eugene was a good bit older and he lived now in Atlanta. But the four-poster stayed behind. You didn’t take things out of Broadus Moseley’s house.
Trout swung his legs over the side of the bed, found the floor, flicked on a bedside lamp. He dressed quietly, then turned out the light, opene
d the door and padded barefoot down the carpeted stairs and out the front door, carrying his shoes.
He sat down on the top step and put on his shoes, then sat there for a moment, elbows on knees. Here, in late May, the night still had a bit of an edge to it, a breeze making the leaves dance, the outlines of objects still finely drawn in the light of the street lamps -- empty street, church and parsonage across the way. Another month and the night would blur with heat and haze, the concrete of the sidewalks still warm to the touch long after midnight, the air still and close. In late May, you could still feel a sense of expectancy. By late June, whatever you were expecting had either come or it hadn’t . A month. School would be out, Joe Pike would be settled into whatever he wanted to make of his ministry. Trout would give it a month, he thought. And then… And then what? Did a sixteen-year-old near-orphaned preacher’s boy have a lot of options? Hah. Anyway, he would give it a month.
He stood and started down the steps and then the voice from the shadows of the porch grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
“Where you going?”
“Shit!” He turned with a frightened jerk, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up.
“Shit?” the voice asked. “That’s a mighty big word for a little old preacher’s boy.”
Trout stared into the shadows, and as his eyes adjusted he made out the form slouched in one of the porch rockers, the glowing end of a cigarette. Then the tinkle of ice in a glass and the faint, sweet smell of whiskey. He thought for a moment it might be Uncle Cicero. But Cicero didn’t smoke or drink. Out of respect for Aunt Alma, it was said. And besides, Cicero was in Texas, or at least on his way back. “Who are you?”
A low, rich laugh, like a diesel engine rumbling to life. Suddenly, Trout knew exactly who it was. Without ever having cast eyes on the man. And he heard some deliciously…what…wicked? quality in the voice that explained why Aunt Alma had said stay away from…
“Great Uncle Phinizy.”
“You were expecting Basil Rathbone?”
Trout moved closer, his eyes beginning to adjust to the light from the street lamps. He could tell that Phinizy was a small man, small and thin. “What are you doing here?”
“Why, I live here.”
“I thought you lived in Baltimore.”
“I resided for some time in Baltimore. There’s a difference.”
Trout felt his heart rise in his throat, his pulse quicken. Phinizy. The other son. Over the years, Trout had heard bits and pieces from Joe Pike. About the time of Broadus Moseley’s death, there had been a falling-out of some kind. Leland took over the mill, Phinizy left. As far as Trout knew, he never came back. Joe Pike was the only one he kept in touch with. When Joe Pike spoke of Phinizy, it was usually with a laugh and a shake of the head. Something akin to awe there, but entirely different from the way it was with Bear Bryant.
Phinizy took a long drag on the cigarette, the end of it glowing bright orange, then flipped the butt into the bushes at the edge of the porch, exhaled a long stream of smoke. “I’m out back. Upstairs over the garage. Drop in when the notion strikes you.”
Trout started to speak, but thought better of it.
“Did Alma warn you about me?” Phinizy asked. Trout nodded. “I would have been surprised if she hadn’t.” He took a long pull from his glass and smacked his lips appreciatively. “I’m rather infamous, I think. Black sheep. Embarassment to the family, or at least Alma’s notion of the family. But I rather like being infamous. If you’re a nobody, you’re just a nobody. If you’re famous, they erect a statue of you and pigeons crap on your head. But if you’re infamous, you’re somebody without having to put up with pigeon crap.”
Suddenly, Trout had a notion why Joe Pike Moseley had stayed in touch with Great Uncle Phinizy all these years. There was, in his raspy whiskey-and-smoke voice, a hint of some kind of hidden knowledge that he might, if he liked you, share. And without a lot of bullshit. Trout had the strange but inescapable feeling that he, too had known Phinizy for a long time. Or maybe just wished he had.
“Alma’s a pickle,” Phinizy said. “She can’t help it. Too much like her father.”
Before he could stop himself, Trout blurted, “And who’s my daddy like?”
The raspy laugh rumbled out of Phinizy’s throat again. “I don’t think he’s figured that out yet. We’ll see. Now go on about your business, whatever it is at three o’clock in the morning.”
“And what’s your business at three o’clock in the morning?” Trout asked.
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“To see what’ll happen.”
Trout stared for another moment, then shrugged, turned and headed down the steps. He heard the click of Phinizy’s lighter, turned back for an instant to see the gnarled face in the brief flicker of flame, a grimace as he sucked air around the edges of the cigarette.
* * * * *
The statue was about eighteen inches high, heavy plaster, a boy and girl in peasant garb. They stood close together, the boy’s mouth next to the girl’s ear. It had a name: The Secret. Trout didn’t know its origin, but it had been with them for as long as he could remember, as familiar as underwear. It was chipped in a couple of places and the plaster had broken on one of the fingers of the boy’s hand, revealing a piece of wire underneath. That had been Trout’s doing when he was perhaps three or four. In the parsonage where they lived then, the statue had resided on a tall fern stand, and Trout had reached for it one day and pulled it over. It barely missed his head, landing with a thud on the rug. He screamed with fright and Irene rushed in, grabbed him up, examined him frantically for damage. “What were you doing?” she cried. “You could have been killed!” And Trout blubbered, “I wanted to hear the secret.” After that, the statue was always kept out of Trout’s reach. When the Moseleys made one of their periodic moves, Irene would wrap the statue in a blanket and lay it carefully on the seat of the car between her and Joe Pike. And when they arrived, she carried it straightaway into the house and found a good spot for it. That meant they had taken proper possession, as much as you could possess a parsonage.
The front door of the parsonage was unlocked, as Aunt Alma’s own door had been. Nobody seemed to lock anything around here except for the mill. Trout turned on the living room light, unwrapped the statue, stood in the middle of the room holding it, looking for the place Irene might have chosen if she were here. He briefly considered the mantle, but it was filled with bric-a-brac, some lacquered plates, a Chinese bowl, a clock, all new stuff. The old statue would look out of place. So Trout took the statue to his own room and set it on top of the chest of drawers. Not perfect, but it would do. He stood looking at it for a moment, then on impulse he leaned close and put his ear next to the plaster girl’s. Nothing. He straightened quickly, looked around, felt his face flush. HEADLINE: BOY HEARS SECRET OF LIFE FROM STATUE. VISITS POPE TUESDAY.
Trout looked at his wristwatch. Three-thirty. He was wide awake now. Might as well get a few things done. He found the church unlocked too, and toted several boxes full of Joe Pike’s preacher stuff to the study. It was empty except for a mahogany desk, an electric typewriter on a stand, a coatrack on which Joe Pike could hang his robe, two walls of built-in bookcases. Trout left the boxes in the middle of the floor, unopened. When Joe Pike got here, he would want to arrange and rearrange to suit himself, filling shelves with books, moving furniture about, hanging framed certificates and photos on the wall (including an eight-by-ten of himself in Texas A&M football uniform, massive and poker-faced in a three-point stance), fussing with everything until there was a comfortable, rumpled feel about it. Joe Pike was very territorial about his office. Church members might barge right on through the front door of the parsonage anytime they pleased, but they (and for that matter, Joe Pike’s own family) would never think about entering the pastor’s study without knocking. And if Joe Pike didn’t want company at the moment, he might boom out, “I’ve got the Lord in here right now. We’re
transacting business. Come back later.”
So Trout left the boxes unopened, then went back to the parsonage and unpacked his own things, stowing away clothes and books and personal items. He put his tennis racquet on the top of the dresser along with his trophy from the Valdosta Junior Invitational. And he took down the picture of the praying hands from over the desk and replaced it with his Jimmy Conners poster. He put the praying hands on a high shelf in the closet. Go ye into your closet and close the door and pray to the Lord which is in secret…
Finally, he wandered into the master bedroom. The men from Moseley Mill had hung Joe Pike’s and Irene’s clothes in the two closets and left a stack of boxes on the floor next to the bed. These, too would wait for Joe Pike.
Trout sat on the bed and began to think about all that had turned his life upside down. Losing both parents to one disaster or another, feeling the hot flush of embarassment over being an oddity at the very time in life when you wanted to fit in, being uprooted from school and friends, driving up through Georgia into a past he knew precious little about. Standing in the great empty mill building, hushed like church except for Alma’s voice. We’re going to get things back on track, Trout. Start all over. What did that mean? Trout didn’t want to start all over. He wanted to pick up where things had left off, when they had suddenly fallen off a cliff. He wanted his father back from Texas and his mother back from the Institute and the Atlanta oldies station playing on the radio in the kitchen and Joe Pike prancing about in some sort of celebration or another. It hadn’t been all good back then, but it was better than now, better than empty stillness and yawning uncertainty. Better than all this strange newness, all these rules about who you could and couldn’t talk to, all this mystic Moseley-ness. Better than having damn little you could count on. Better than this hollow feeling at the pit of his stomach that had been with him for a good while now.