We were passing through mostly green countryside. Occasional patches of unwonted brown field testified to the drought the rain the night before had not relieved.
“This reminds me of the road to our place in Wisconsin,” I said. “Not real flat countryside—lots of evergreen trees mixed in with the hardwoods.”
“I guess it isn’t much different, ‘cept for the lack of snow in the winter.”
Past a pig farm on the outskirts of town was a complex of gleaming buildings fronted by a red brick church with soaring steeple. “Reverend Hollis’s church,” Scott said.
I stared at the lush green lawn even now being watered by sprinklers scattered throughout the vast sward sloping to the road. It didn’t look like fire and brimstone.
We passed a trailer park. An old couple sat on corroded aluminum chairs on a small slab in front of the first unit facing the road. Their eyes followed our movement past, but I doubted if anything besides the Second Coming rolling directly in front of them would have gotten them to move. Dirt roads occasionally led off to the right or the left. Despite the drought sometimes I glimpsed ponds of water standing in the distance.
As we drove over a small rise Scott said, “You can see the house there a little bit.”
I followed his finger to the left and saw a red roof amid green foliage. Minutes later we pulled onto a dirt road that Scott took for a half a mile. Then he pulled onto a driveway that went maybe fifty feet to a clearing. The house was an unremarkable two-story, almost block-shaped affair. We parked on what I would have called the front lawn.
After he turned the engine off, the first thing I noticed was the incredible quiet. You couldn’t hear a passing car, train, or plane. I stood for a minute taking in the morning heat, the totally green surroundings, and then began to pick out small noises: birds in the trees, a dog barking some distance off, the wind as it brushed against the leaves. I could smell woods, and dirt, and freshness.
One long porch ran along the entire front of the house. The screens looked new, and the flower-print covers on the lawn furniture inside gleamed brightly.
To the left and twenty feet behind the house was a barn. Past it were three smaller buildings that looked in need of repair. In the distance was a field of more than five acres with lush green something growing in it. Being from the Midwest I recognize corn and wheat and, in a pinch, soybean. This wasn’t any of them.
I tapped Scott on the shoulder. “What’s growing in that field? Molasses? Sorghum? Sugar cane? Okra? Drought doesn’t seem to have affected it. Sure looks good. Do your parents have irrigation? What is it?”
Scott glanced that way for a second and said, “Weeds.”
Who knew?
He said, “Don’t need much irrigation in Georgia.”
To the right of the house as you faced it was a small orchard, which I presumed contained peach trees. I’d seen about a million signs already advertising Georgia peaches. About ten feet to the right of the house was a jumble of car parts surrounding an old Chevy pickup missing the windshield and a left front tire. Next to it was a Toyota truck, sides dirt-encrusted, but windshield intact and tires where they belonged.
“You grew up here?”
“I was born here.”
“Do you have a key?”
“Mama and Daddy haven’t ever locked up.”
We entered through the front door and stepped into a huge space that stretched the entire length of the right side of the house. Toward the front it was a living room, with a brown couch and unmatched chairs of varying kinds, all well stuffed and topped with doilies. Behind this was a massive dining-room table made of thick wood and polished to a shine. Ten sturdy, matching chairs surrounded it. An armoire and a chifforobe, both dark mahogany and highly polished, stood against the walls on either side of the table. Behind this was a gigantic kitchen. Doors to our left were closed.
“Where’s your room?”
“Upstairs. All the kids slept up there. Mama and Daddy slept down here. Who’d want to be near all those kids?”
We took our suitcases up with us. The stairs were wooden, with a carpet running down the center. We passed down a hall to the last door on the left. I followed him in. Two twin beds lay against opposite walls. Framed schedules from four high-school baseball seasons hung on the wall above the bed on the left. Half the barn was visible through a window. On each side of the opening were framed pages of the Chicago papers from the days Scott won his World Series games. To the right of the door were a closet and two small dressers.
“Who’d you share your room with?”
“Always somebody. Most of the time I had to share with Nathan, the youngest. You’ll meet him later. He has the next farm over. Shannon is the only one who still lives at home. She has her own room up front. When we were kids, she and Mary shared one room, and Hiram and I shared another until Nathan was born.”
“Where’s the john?”
“Door just to the right of the stairs. All of us had to share that.”
“I can imagine the fights.”
“And you would be right. I’m going to get some sleep.”
He stripped to his shorts and flopped onto the bed on the left. The man can sleep anywhere, and this was the room he grew up in. I left my underwear on and sat on the bed on the right. I let my eyes rove over the interior. I was tired, but my curiosity was aroused. It was like getting a chance to learn the intimate little details of somebody’s life you’d always been curious about but never had gotten a chance to know. I pictured all the times he must have come home from school, or from baseball practice, tossing his equipment in this corner or his clothes in the middle of the floor. I quickly corrected myself as I saw his neatly folded pants and carefully arranged shirt. He’d probably put everything away where it belonged. Then again, maybe he hadn’t been a neatnik all his life.
Small figures on the dresser closer to the door caught my attention: a set of miniature soldiers in Confederate uniforms. They stood, knelt, or lay in battle poses, guns thrust forward. No blue-coated figures opposed them. I picked one up. It was coolly metallic.
“Will you put that down, lie down, and go to sleep?”
I jumped at his voice breaking the hush. The only sound I’d heard in the house was the minimal thrum of an expensive and well-installed air-conditioning system.
I turned to him. He hadn’t raised his head.
“You’re awful noisy,” he said.
I lay down and stared at the ceiling and surprised myself by drifting off to sleep.
I awoke to find Scott’s open suitcase on his bed, but no Scott. I pulled out clean underwear, another pair of pants, and a clean shirt from my suitcase. I threw on some socks and shoes and hurried downstairs. I found Scott putting out peanut butter and jelly and bread. All the appliances in the kitchen gleamed and sparkled. Besides five feet of counter space on either side of the stove and sink, there were a refrigerator and a freezer, three ovens, including a built-in microwave, and a dishwasher.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“We slept about four hours. It’s a little after one.”
“How come some of this stuff is totally modern and a bunch of it looks left over from before the Civil War?”
“Daddy likes to keep the old stuff. Mama lets him pretty much, but she insists on having anything new that makes her work easier.”
Footsteps sounded outside the back door. It swung open a few moments later. A man who could have been Scott’s twin, except for being maybe five or six years younger, raised blue eyes at us.
“Hello, Scott,” he said. He took off work boots, opened a door that showed a washing machine inside, stuck the boots on a mat, and shut the door.
Scott introduced us. This was Nathan. We shook hands.
“Any news on Daddy?” Nathan asked.
“I called a few minutes ago. Still not good, but he’s no worse.”
Nathan nodded. “Y’all staying here?”
“Yeah,” Scott said.
N
athan nodded again. “Mama know that?”
“Yes.”
Nathan nodded. If nodding noncommittally were a virtue, Nathan would be a saint. You hate to make comments about in-laws, but maybe he didn’t have a whole lot of other responses to the world. At least he didn’t scream, “Get out, get out, you faggots!”—always a plus.
Nathan said, “Wanted to get some chores done today before I went in. Probably drive to the hospital this afternoon.”
“You can come with us,” Scott offered.
“Better take my own truck. Don’t know what’ll happen and who’ll want to stay.”
He declined lunch and left the room. Minutes later I heard water running. “I could use a shower too,” I said. After we ate, I climbed into the most ultramodern shower I’d ever enjoyed. From the outside this might be an old farmhouse, but inside, a lot of it was as up-to-date and well-appointed as any place I’d been in.
We returned to the hospital an hour later. Six Carpenters and I listened to the doctor murmur uncertainties and theories. No one had said a word about my being there, and most often my presence was ignored. I said nothing during the discussions and did my best fade-into-the-background act.
Scott and Shannon agreed to keep watch first while Hiram, Nathan, and Mary took Mrs. Carpenter home to get some real sleep. Mary would return later.
I found a comfortable place on a couch in the waiting room and finished the D’Amato book. If it hadn’t been so good, I’d have gotten more of a nap.
I woke at seven and called into the CCU. No change in Mr. Carpenter’s condition. Hiram showed up and replaced Shannon. Mary came down the hall. She had the same freckles Scott did along the bridge of her nose. She wore a minimum of makeup and wore her hair straight to the sides with a slight twist on the ends.
After she checked on her dad, she asked, “Why don’t we get dinner?”
“Someplace besides the Waffle House,” I said.
She laughed. “I’ll take you to Della’s Bar-b-que. Best place in town. I had a long nap at Mama’s, and I could use a walk. I’ll show you the town.”
It was three short blocks to the courthouse square. On the way I explained what Clara Thorton had done at the Waffle House and asked what her story was.
“Old Clara’s a dear. Her husband was county commissioner for ages way back when.”
“Scott said he was the pharmacist.”
“He did that part-time. The rest of the time he ran the county.”
“You mean there’s a county commission like the one in Cobb County that was in the news for all that homophobic crap?” Not long before, Cobb County had passed an anti-gay ordinance. One commissioner’s daughter had come out of the closet and opposed her father. Hadn’t seemed to change his mind. I can’t imagine a parent being in favor of denying their own kid basic rights.
“We don’t have quite the same setup in Burr County. You may have read about the Supreme Court case a year or so ago. It said that Georgia counties could have a one-person form of government. Black people had sued, saying that type of government kept them from being represented.”
“Didn’t hear about it.”
“In Burr County it’s sort of as if there was a president of the county but with no legislature.”
“Oh.”
“Well, anyway, Clara’s husband died, and all the good old boys couldn’t agree among themselves who would be the commissioner until they could hold an election. They compromised on Clara, and she’s gotten herself re-elected twice now. They can’t get rid of her.”
“A new southern woman?”
“Only sort of. She actually does most of what the old guard would have wanted. She’s been pretty sensible mostly, although she’s had some problems. That incident with Peter Woodall wasn’t the first. Normally in the South we avoid any kind of confrontation, any open unpleasantness. We can see all we want, but if we keep our mouths shut and don’t mention something, then it doesn’t exist. At the very least, we don’t mention it in public.”
“I understand the concept of not scaring the horses, although that does sound hypocritical.”
We walked down the east side of the street, across from the courthouse.
“I suppose it is, sort of,” she said, “but it’s the way we are. We’d rather not mention something.”
“Sheriff didn’t seem to mind being publicly nasty to us.”
“You broke a taboo. You were two guys holding hands in public.”
“Scott was hurting. It was an innocent gesture.”
“You might as well have blasted a fanfare. You must have seen the headlines in the local papers.”
I nodded.
“My brother is the biggest thing that’s ever happened to this town. You can’t imagine what it was like when he was a kid. Besides being a sports star, he was the most handsome and popular boy in town. He never let it go to his head. Was always kind of shy. All the girls wanted to date him and all the boys wanted to be his friend. People in town would give him stuff.”
“Give him stuff?”
“Like free meals when he was out with a date.”
“He dated?”
“Of course. He never told you?”
“Only that he went out some.”
“Every weekend. Dated the prettiest cheerleader for his entire senior year.”
“What was that like for you and your brothers and sister? Lot of jealousy?”
“I loved it, but I’m his older sister. I could get more dates because of him. Sometimes we’d double-date. He didn’t like to show it, but he was smart too, but you know that. We’d have these long discussions. You know, the kind kids have about their dreams. We’d sit on our porch on hot summer nights and talk for hours. Those are my favorite memories from childhood.”
“How about the younger kids?”
“He brought so much positive attention to the family, I think everybody kind of reveled in it. Hiram tried to be like him. Nathan was sort of Scott’s pet, followed him around everywhere. Scott was the hero. The town’s connection with fame and immortality. So when the news hit about you two, it hit big. Lots of people feel betrayed. Preachers mentioned it from several pulpits, from what I heard.”
“So when I touched him …”
“I knew before you got back to the hospital that you two guys had been holding hands. The only way two guys can hold hands in this town is if they’re football players in a huddle in the stadium on Saturday night, and that’s it. You struck a very tender nerve. And Peter … well, Peter and Scott go way back.”
“I thought they were friends.”
“But rivals too.”
“Scott didn’t mention that.”
“Scott is such a sweetheart. I don’t think he notices a lot of stuff like that. He always wants to think the best of people.”
We walked past the Rexall drugstore, the First Bank of Brinard, Brinard Hardware, Brinard Auto Parts, and Nellie’s Antiques. The sun was beginning to set, but heat radiated off the pavement. The long shadows seemed gentle.
“But there must be gay people in town,” I said.
“But it isn’t talked about. I’ve lived in Macon for years, so I don’t know specifically about Brinard. I do know that if a man lives by himself, he is referred to as a ‘bachelor.’ If he doesn’t want to be hassled, he goes to Atlanta to have a relationship. Two women might be able to live together, but they’d be harassed on the streets by men trying to date them. The heterosexual southern male mind assumes a woman alone is theirs.”
“That’s not just in the South.”
“If someone was gay in town, it simply would not be mentioned in polite society. Two men openly living together would be close to impossible. They’d have to lie or be closeted in some way.”
“Makes horrible sense.”
The two-story courthouse sat in its square across the street from us. Immense trees shaded the red brick edifice.
“Is that a statue of a Confederate soldier?”
Mary followed my gaze. “
Every courthouse square in the South has one of those.”
“Last night I saw the markers about Sherman’s march through here.”
“Burned most of the farms in the county. Wrecked the town but didn’t burn all of it. There’s a story of a few of the local women attempting to hide with their valuables in a hollow down by the river, but they were found and lost everything. Most people fled. If you get time, you should visit the Historical Society.”
“What happened to your farm?”
“It was Mama’s great-grandfather’s back then. He’d gone off to war along with his brothers. Only one of them came back. The farm was burned to the ground; all the animals were stolen. Every bit of food was lost to the invaders.”
“Do they still call it the War of Northern Aggression in schools?”
“Scott told you that?”
“Yeah.”
“Not so much anymore. More years pass and more people move here from the North. The South does change.”
A woman in spike heels, a very short skirt, and a white see-through blouse approached us. Her eyes raked me from feet to head, lingering on my crotch. She hesitated as she neared me, gave me a warm smile, and walked on.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Violet Burnside. The cheerleader Scott dated his senior year.”
“She wears that outfit quite well.”
“Violet works hard on creating an impression.”
Della’s Bar-b-que was on the northeast corner of the square. We entered a dimly lit room with booths down the left side, tables in the middle all set for four people, and the kitchen on the right. Almost every table was crammed with noisy revelers. Mary was greeted with friendly waves and expressions of concern for her parents. I felt eyes giving me cool appraisals. She introduced me; people smiled, but said little beyond what was required by politeness.
“Is there such a big crowd because of everybody going to the reunion?” I asked.
Rust on the Razor Page 4