by Robert Inman
He waited for reaction, got none, pulled up the shorts and turned around again. She was deep into the drawing pad, paying him no mind. He put on his tee-shirt. To hell with her.
Fifteen minutes later they wobbled toward home together in the noon heat, she on crutches, he following on rubber legs. Following because there wasn’t room for both of them side-by-side on the sidewalk, and he was afraid if he walked ahead of her she would run over him. From behind, he could get a good look at her incredible, crazy gait – legs, hips and body galloping off in several directions at once. There was a sort of crazy rhythm to it. Music. It needed music. Something with a strong, solid beat, lots of bass and drums. Oooga-chuckka, oooga-chuckka. Fats Domino, maybe. I’m walkin’, yes indeed and I’m talkin’… She tacked back and forth, and Trout began to get into the beat, doing a little juke motion with his hips, snapping his fingers, making jive sounds with his mouth.
“I hear that.”
“Hear what?”
“That stuff you’re doing with your mouth.”
“What stuff?”
“That’s the thanks I get. Sit out there in the hot grass with chiggers crawling up my butt while you run around like a crazy person.”
“Hey,” he protested, “I didn’t ask you to come. I wish you’d stayed home.”
“Well, I didn’t. So shut up.”
The sketch pad was tucked protectively under her left arm, pencils sticking out of her rear jeans pocket. The sketch pad was part of her, lurching along in counterpoint. Oooga-chuckka, oooga-chuckka. It bounced around inside his head, vibrating down into his spinal cord. Jive therapy. He could feel some of the strength returning to his legs, but the agony of the grandstand was still strong in his mind.
“Want me to carry that for you?”
“What?”
“Your sketch pad.”
“No,” she said flatly.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get it sweaty?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” she snapped. And that, he thought, was probably the Gospel Truth.
A small kid on a bicycle approached, head down, elbows on the handlebars, just lazing along, paying no attention to anything but the cracks in the sidewalk. She waited until he was almost upon them and then she yelled, “Hey! Watch where the hell’ya goin’!” She raised a crutch menacingly and the kid jerked his head up, eyes wide, and veered into the street, tires bumping off the curb. He struggled with the wobbling bike, almost losing it, finally gained control. “Fuck you, Keats!” He shot them a bird and pedaled off down the street. She launched out again down the sidewalk. The sketch pad had not moved a centimeter.
“You’re afraid I’ll see what’s in it,” Trout says.
“It’s none of your business.”
“Of course it’s my business. I’m in it.”
“No you’re not.”
“I saw you down there by the concession stand, watching me and scribbling on that thing.”
“It’s not scribbling. It’s drawing.”
“You give me the creeps.”
They were at the corner where the street from the football stadium intersected with Broadus Street, the main drag. She stopped dead in her tracks and turned on him with a flurry of arms, legs, crutches. It was amazing, watching her turn around like that. She pointed a crutch at him, holding it straight out. Her arms were very strong. The crutch didn’t waver. “You’d better be nice to me,” she said. “I’m the only non-Moseley under the age of eighty in this town who’ll give you the time of day.”
“Don’t bother,” he said mildly, and made the oooga-chuckka sound with his mouth again.
She lowered the crutch and looked at him for a long time and then her mouth curled in a sneer. “How’d it make you feel when they took your mother off to the looney bin?”
He could feel his jaw drop open.
“And how about when your crazy old man rode off on his motorcycle?”
“Screw you!” he blurted, flushing with anger.
Then her face relaxed into a smile, all wicked sweetness. “Aw, poor thing. Are you mad? Well good. I never saw anybody that needed to be pissed off worse than you, Trout Moseley.”
Then she turned with a disgusted shake of her head, dismissing him, and lurched away toward the east end of town, toward the mill village. Trout watched her for a moment, tried desperately to think of something brilliantly hateful to shout at her lurching back, and finally gave up with a shrug of defeat and headed west toward the parsonage.
* * * * *
Joe Pike was mowing the grass when Trout got home. He was intent upon it, stalking back and forth across the sun-hardened lawn of the parsonage. The lawnmower bounced ahead of him, rushing to stay out of his way. Joe Pike was clad in an ancient undershirt with the armpits eaten away, a pair of seersucker bermuda shorts, a battered Texas A&M baseball cap, black wing-tip shoes, no socks. His massive belly cascaded over the frontside of the shorts like an avalanche. He was drenched with sweat, face flushed under the brim of the cap. And smoking a cigar.
He looked up as Trout turned down the walk toward the house, waved, stopped and cut the lawnmower back to idle.
Trout looked down at Joe Pike’s shoes. “You’re gonna rub blisters on your feet like that.”
Joe Pike stared at the shoes, then took the cigar out of his mouth. “I couldn’t find my tennis shoes. I guess they’re still in a box somewhere.”
“Why didn’t you…” Never mind. Instead, he said, “You don’t smoke cigars.”
“I used to,” Joe Pike said. “Coach Bryant used to pass ’em out in the locker room after the game. When we won.”
“What happened when you lost?”
“We tried to hide.”
“Well, it stinks.”
Joe Pike took a long look at the cigar. “There is something faintly spiritual about the combination of sweat and cigar smoke. I’ll bet the Israelites smoked cigars when they got through smoting the Philistines hip and thigh. I’ll bet God passed out cigars and said, ‘Y’all went cheek to cheek and jaw to jaw, boys. So light ’em up.’” Then he jammed the cigar back in his mouth and gazed out across the lawn. The path left by the lawmnower looked like a snake, with splotches of uncut grass Joe Pike had left in his wake. When Trout mowed, he tried to keep his lines neat and straight, guide the wheels of the mower along the indention left in the grass by the previous pass. “Looks like it was done by a drunk Meskin on a blind horse,” Joe Pike said around the cigar. Not Mexican, Meskin. Something else he had brought back from Texas.
“Yeah,” Trout said. Late in the afternoon, when it was cooler, he would get out the lawnmower and repair the damage. Neat lines and all that.
They both stood there and surveyed the mess for a moment and then Joe Pike reached down and cut the lawnmower off and the engine died with a whimper. “Let’s clean up and go get some lunch.”
“The usual?”
“Sure.”
Joe Pike ordered a foot-long hotdog with chili for Trout, three for himself. They sat in the car in front of the Dairy Queen and ate, watching the lunch crowd ebb and flow around them. When they had finished the hot dogs, Joe Pike went back to the window, and brought Trout a huge tub of vanilla ice cream and a red plastic spoon.
“If you’re gonna play football, you’ve gotta put some meat on your bones,” he said.
Trout looked into the tub. There must be a gallon of it. The ice cream made a little curly-cue at the top where the machine had cut off the flow. “Don’t you want some?”
Joe Pike patted his belly. “Not me. I’m trying to watch it.”
Trout spooned off a white glob of ice cream, let it slide down his throat where it came to rest on top of the foot-long hot dog. He remembered the grandstand steps, the merciless sun. He felt sick, a little light-headed. “I can’t eat that,” he said, and put the tub of ice cream on the dashboard. Moisture beaded on the outside of the tub, trickled down onto the vinyl. They both stared at it for a moment. Then Joe Pike gave a great sigh and reached
for it. “Waste is sinful.” He looked at Trout, shrugged. “The starving children in China, you know.”
Trout watched, mesmerized, as Joe Pike ate the whole thing, working the spoon around the inside edges of the tub where it was beginning to melt, carving like a sculptor and lifting it lovingly to his lips. He seemed lost in the ice cream, as if he were down inside the tub somewhere, an infant in its womb, doing forward flips and backward rolls, surrounded by its rich cold creaminess. He finished finally, scraped the bottom of the tub, licked the last drops off the plastic spoon, smothered a belch. Then he tidied up, gathering all their trash and taking it to the big barrel at the corner of the building. He came back to the car, slid under the wheel, cranked it up, rolled up the window and turned on the air conditioner. There was a broad dark band of sweat down the back of his shirt and his collar was soaked. He would go home now and take another bath. Joe Pike took lots of baths in the summer. Trout realized they hadn’t said a thing for perhaps ten minutes.
All the regulars were there at the Dairy Queen. The old woman ordering her cup of ice cream with crushed pineapple on the top. The two guys in the ACE PLUMBING truck. Joe Pike and Trout Moseley in their old green Dodge.
“I got to thinking today, “Joe Pike said, “we should have some theological discussions, Trout. I don’t believe we ever have.”
“No sir. I don’t remember any.”
“Imagine that. Me a preacher and you sixteen years old and we’ve never gotten beyond ‘Jesus Loves Me.’”
“I guess not.”
“Divine intervention, angels on the head of a pin, virgin birth – do you ever wonder about any of that stuff?”
“Well, it’s not anything I’m worried about,” Trout said. “It’s not like acne or anything like that.”
“If you were to ask me a theological question, what would it be?”
Trout shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Come on. Something really profound.”
Trout thought about it for awhile. He really wanted to go home and take a nap and then sit in the swing in the back yard. But Joe Pike seemed insistent. Maybe this was a game, too.
“Why are you a preacher?” Trout asked.
Joe Pike hung fire for a long moment, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Hmmmmmmm,” he said finally.
“Well?”
Joe Pike put the car in gear and started backing out of his parking place, craning his neck and making an intense thing out of looking out the back window of the car.
“Well?” Trout said again.
“Let me sleep on that one.”
* * * * *
Trout drifted out of sleep the next morning to hear voices. Joe Pike. A woman. He jerked awake.
Grace Vredemeyer. They were sitting at the kitchen table, each with a coffee mug, the Mr. Coffee burbling on the counter, drippng a fresh pot. Grace Vredemeyer had a thin, tinkly laugh, like cheap wind chimes. She was wearing a summer dress, bare at the shoulders, lots of flowers and vines. Trout thought of draperies. Her back was to Trout. Joe Pike looked up, saw Trout standing in the door, frowned, made a little wave with his hand, shooing Trout away. Grace saw him, turned and stared at Trout, then giggled. “Oh, my.”
“Trout, don’t you think you should put some clothes on?” Joe Pike said.
Trout looked down at himself. Boxer shorts. His face flushed. He started to go, but then something -- he couldn’t say exactly what -- stopped him. “What are you doing here?” he asked Grace Vredemeyer.
She didn’t bat an eye. “I brought my column for this week’s church bulletin,” she said, holding up a sheet of paper. “Grace Notes.”
“Trout…” Joe Pike started.
“Can I read it?” Trout asked.
“Of course,” Grace Vredemeyer said.
She held out the piece of paper, Trout took a couple of steps toward her, plucked it out of her hand.
GRACE NOTES
by Grace Vredemeyer
Choir Director
You may have asked yourself from time to time how the hymns for each service are chosen. Well, there’s more to it than just selecting a few numbers at random out of the hymnal willy-nilly.
First of all, I like to get the service off to a sprightly start with a good, upbeat number. Something to get you “Jumping for Jesus,” to borrow a phrase from Reverend Moseley’s new aerobics program (Wednesday afternoons at five).
I like to think the second hymn should be slower paced, reverent and prayerful, coming as it does right after the Pastoral Prayer and just before the Offertory.
‘And then the third hymn, which precedes the sermon, should…
Trout handed the paper back to Grace Vredemeyer. “I’m going out for football,” he said.
“Oh, that’s nice.” She threw Joe Pike a glance. “Another football player in the family.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He stood there for a moment longer looking at Grace Vredemeyer, definitely not looking at Joe Pike. Grace waited him out. She seemed to be a woman of infinite patience. Finally she said, “Have you found a girlfriend in Moseley?”
“Not yet,” Trout said. “I’d really like to have one, though. Sometimes,” he took a deep breath, “I wish I were a brassiere.” He cupped his hands, held them in front of his bare chest.
This time, Grace Vredemeyer didn’t giggle. She snorted.
Joe Pike leaped out of his chair. “Trout!”
“Yes sir?”
“Apologize!” he thundered.
“Sorry, Miz Vredemeyer.”
“Go to your room! Put some clothes on!”
“Yes sir.”
He heard the front screen door bang shut a few minutes later and then Joe Pike stood, filling the doorway of his room, breathing hard, color high. “What in the hell was that?” he demanded.
“Grace Vredemeyer.”
“Don’t you smart-mouth me, buster!”
Trout ducked his head, stared at the floor. He might be pissed off, but he wasn’t ready to be pissed off and look Joe Pike Moseley in the eye at the same time. “Why did she come here?”
“This is the parsonage, Trout. You know what a parsonage is. It’s an extension of the church. People are in and out all the time.”
“She could have taken it to your office.”
“I wasn’t in my office. But I’m going to my office now. And by the time I get back for lunch, I want you to have your attitude in gear. Understand me?”
Trout nodded.
Joe Pike surveyed the room. “Clean up. Put some pants on.” Trout nodded again.
“I’m getting a little tired of your moping around, Trout. I can’t help it if you lost the tennis match. I can’t do anything about where we live. I’m trying to make the best of the situation. And I don’t need you muddying the water.” Trout looked up at him finally and Joe Pike’s hard glare softened a little. “Just hang in there with me. Okay?”
And then Trout said, “Mama didn’t like people coming to the parsonage all the time. It really bugged her.”
Joe Pike looked as if he’d been hit hard in the stomach. Or maybe lower. He stood there for a moment, then turned and left. The back door slammed, and after a couple of minutes, Trout heard the motorcycle start up back in the shed. Then it roared around the side of the house and took off down the street, heading out of town.
Trout spent a wretched hour, imagining Joe Pike growling along west on I-20, the nose of the motorcycle pointed again toward Texas. And all Trout’s fault, for getting pissed off (as Keats had told him he should) and invoking the name that seemed to be Joe Pike’s most implacable ghost-demon. Mention Irene, and Joe Pike went into a psychic three-point stance, the old defensive lineman digging in and waiting for onslaught. What was he so afraid of? She was such a small, quiet thing -- especially now, sitting over there in the Institute in Atlanta, deep inside herself. Did she have any idea how she haunted this place and its inhabitants? Did she think of them? Did she think at all? Was she lost forever? Was she lost on purpose?
The silence, Irene’s insistent silence, drove Trout out of the house and he sat huddled in the swing on the front porch for awhile. He thought of going to Phinizy’s bare rooms. But what to say? I ran Daddy off. No, that didn’t sound too good for either of them. Big old Joe Pike Moseley, he of stout body and mostly-stout spirit, driven from his own home by a sixteen-year-old boy and the spectre of a tiny, quiet woman? And Trout -- consumed by his own miserable adolescent selfishness? Better to keep that to himself.
Then too, to air out your business was to invite advice, and he didn’t think much of the advice he had gotten recently.
Keats: You oughta be pissed off. Well, see where that had gotten him just now. Joe Pike was gone and Grace Vredemeyer probably thought he was a smart-aleck pervert.
Alma: Don’t forget who you are. Well, that’s exactly what he’d like to do. She might like being a Moseley in Moseley, but to Trout, it was like having a fatal disease.
Phinizy: Save your own ass. Easy for Phinizy to say. He could say anything he damn well pleased, stir up all kinds of ruckus, and then beat a retreat if things got too hot. Trout was stuck, at the mercy of all the rest of them. No escape. He didn’t even have a credit card.
So Trout sat there on the front porch of the parsonage, trapped between the dark silence of the house and the hot June morning, thinking despairing thoughts, mourning the loss of his father. Traffic passed in fits and starts: Uncle Cicero in his police cruiser, making his morning rounds, keeping Moseley safe from crime and Communism; a Merita Bread truck headed for the Koffee Kup; a few cars and pickup trucks; an eighteen-wheeler loaded with live chickens, scattering feathers in its wake. And then he heard the motorcycle, coming in from the east, the unmistakable throaty rumble as Joe Pike geared down and stopped for the traffic light at the center of town. Trout stood, walked down the steps, waited in the yard next to the driveway. After a moment, Joe Pike turned in and stopped next to Trout, the engine throbbing beneath him. His hair was wind-blown and there were crinkly lines around his eyes from looking off into the distance, down the highway he had perhaps considered but not taken.
“You forgot your helmet,” Trout said.