Closing one eye, Byron peered into his empty cup. “I think we ought to let the sun burn this fool up in the yard, then cut him loose for the one o’clock shift.” He nudged the man’s shoe with his boot. “And if he comes in the saloon again, I’ll skin him for a fricassee.”
“We don’t need him in camp.”
Byron squatted down and looked the hungover boy in the eye. “You can’t ever tell,” he said.
“Let me keep my job,” he cried, “and I’ll wear out my saw.”
“What’s your name?” the mill manager asked.
“Clovis Hutchins,” he said, leaning away to spit. “Can I use that privy?”
“You can piss on yourself,” Byron told him quietly.
The man closed his eyes at some interior pain. “I’ll piss barb wire in a light socket if you keep me on.”
Byron looked at his brother. “Well?”
Randolph sucked a tooth and figured the bucker’s worth. “If you think you can finish growing up without getting killed, you can stay.”
The two men walked toward the porch, and Byron asked, “You all right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Kind of pale, little brother.”
Randolph frowned. “It’s the damned water. And that castor oil they serve for beer doesn’t help. In fact, I’ll have to tend to business right now.”
Quickly, he walked back to his house in a straight line, through puddles and all.
Since he’d arrived in camp, the cistern water had been the ruination of his digestion, and he stormed the privy, sitting in there for half an hour. Later, Jules came looking for him, and the mill manager told him to take charge for the day, to phone out the delivery invoices and line up a saw schedule for the orders. Next, he told May to boil jars of water for drinking and to keep them in the cooler on the back porch.
The next day dawned cloudless, and by noon was a continuous white-hot flash. After lunch the mill manager was again camped in the privy, daydreaming of Pennsylvania’s dry air and steep green hills. His head was pounding, and thoughts of his slim wife haunted him until he looked down and saw that he was hard as a carrot. At that moment, the privy door snapped open and the housekeeper stepped out of the blinding white light and into the darkness. She was lifting her skirts, but then her eyes adjusted enough to see him, and she simply pushed back out the door.
Flustered, he covered himself after the fact, deep in the grip of a cramp. “She could have excused herself,” the mill manager said aloud.
After supper his strength returned, and he wrote his weekly letter to his wife, read a copy of Southern Lumberman until he grew drowsy, and turned in at nine. The bedroom’s board walls were dark with condensation, and he could feel the air between his fingers. Randolph lay uncovered on his back gasping in the swampy atmosphere, falling asleep at once and floating into a dream of logs drifting slowly in the pond toward the mill, and then of his wife as she slipped under covers with him in a cool Northern room, blessing him with her soft skin. The bed seemed to sway slowly like a hammock in a sailing ship, and the motion was delightful beyond all measure. He was gliding smoothly through a warm sea, his blood itself a tingling tide coursing throughout him. He gave a little groan and opened his eyes, which were clouded, and at first he didn’t see May, and thought he was still dreaming as she squatted in her cotton gown over him, her face calm and watchful as she undulated in the dim light. After a few instants, he knew he was awake and stopped his own rocking motions, but his mind refused to work, and she kept on, closing her eyes as though her thoughts were far away from him and the creaking bed.
The next morning, he found her in the kitchen. He thought it impossible to say anything that wouldn’t sound crude, though he had to speak to her and sat at the table as she cleaned the ashes out of the stove. Finally, he ventured, “Was that a housekeeping service enjoyed by the last manager?”
When she looked at him he realized that he knew nothing at all about her. “He came knocking,” she said, “but I never let him in the door.”
He turned up a palm. “Why me, then?”
“You’re smart. You’re not ugly.” She bent close, as though to admire his face. “And you’re white.” Then she nodded toward the yard. “My daddy, he’s about a fourth colored. My mamma was a white woman raised by those Indians over by Charenton.” She sat down next to him and laid an arm in the center of the table, letting the window light play over her skin. “Look at this. Just look. If I didn’t live with that old man and clean slop jars for a three-piece Yankee, what would you say I was? I’m lighter than that Galleri. Have hair like a Spanish woman.”
Randolph thought of his wife and was frightened by the guilt rising in him. He’d been loyal to her during the long separations caused by his work. Passion was not a daily thing for him, but an animal thing, coming on as though caused by changing seasons. “I’m a married man,” he blurted out.
The housekeeper laughed lightly. “I’m not after you, Mr. Aldridge.”
“And I don’t want to buy that kind of thing.”
She lowered her face and rolled her eyes up at him. “Do you see me making out a bill?”
He straightened and pulled his hands from the table, now worried. “Do you go with many men?”
She shook her head. “I’m twenty-two and haven’t even had it that many times.” She stuck out her bottom lip. “I can take it or leave it.”
He got up and poured a drink of boiled water from a jug. “Why’d you take it last night?”
“I want an all-white baby.”
He dropped the glass and it shattered on the floor.
“Look out.” She was up and sweeping before he could take a step. She pushed him out of the way with a hip and in a moment dumped a dustpan of shards into the tin bucket.
“Why do you want to make a child?” he asked, as she handed him another tumbler. “I mean, like this.”
She poured his glass full. “The old man has the breathing disease and rattles all night long. I’m sorry for that, but he’s not going to last too long, and then I’ll have nothing to do.” She folded her arms and leaned against the counter.
“You could get married.”
“I could. Around here I’d marry a colored man, and that wouldn’t be bad except I’d just have babies and starve.” She looked up at him. “You ever listen to me speak?”
He knew what she meant. “You’ve been to school.”
“Eight grades. Two of my teachers were from the North and talked like you. They told me early on about the importance of talking. How it’s not just words, but a sign of who you are. Some folks think your words are you.”
He sat down again, knowing that with a white child she could move anywhere and pass. She could get a white job, a white education of some sort. People would look at her offspring and there would be no doubt. The child would have opportunities and could support her when she grew old. He held his breath, thinking of the possibilities such a life would present. Then he remembered his wife, where he was now, and who he was supposed to be. “I’ll not be a part of this,” he said. “You can find some other white man.”
She tilted her head and started to say something. He imagined she wanted to explain that she didn’t want a hayseed’s child with red hair and freckles, somebody slow. But what she said was, “Don’t worry yourself about my reasons, Mr. Aldridge. I went with you because you love your brother, that’s all. And that kind of thing can come to the child.” She left quietly and went out to the cabin, and he stood in the open back door looking after her until mosquitoes began to burn on his neck like hot cinders.
CHAPTER TEN
The steaming weeks dragged on, and new workers were hired to replenish the woods gangs that were losing men to fever and snakebites. The mill ran an extra four-hour shift and still couldn’t keep up with orders, which Randolph now handled over a new phone line connected to the Tiger Island exchange. At the end of each day he visited his brother, who now owned high stacks of records arranged aroun
d his Victrola, new sentimental ballads he would listen to after coming in with fresh blood on his shovel. Amazed by all this maudlin singing, Randolph once asked, “Can people really feel this way?”
The mill manager had tolerated hours of the songs, only once suggesting that his brother send off for polkas or ragtime music without lyrics.
Byron sleeved a Gennett disk. “It’s those words I need,” he said. “They try to make me happy.” His smile, when he said this, showed no irony, and the mill manager rolled his eyes.
“Well, the songs are all right, By.”
“Sometimes, they nearly make me feel like when we were going out with the Wescott sisters.”
“The silly Wescotts.”
He slid the record into the Victrola’s rack, his eyes showing a momentary spark of panic. “Did their brother come back from the war?”
“I don’t know.” Randolph knew that Jamie Wescott was missing in action and at this point he changed the topic, wondering aloud whether Buzetti would send someone to cause them more trouble.
Byron pulled out a glossy record made of orange shellac. “If he does, we’ll know about it, won’t we?”
“What’ve you got there?”
“ ‘Down the Lane and Home Again,’ ” he said, giving Randolph a penetrating look. “You know, Jamie would’ve liked this one.”
The mill manager began latching his bedroom door at night, and once, before he fell asleep, heard it rattle softly, the hopeful sound filling him with fear and longing.
Weeks passed and the September downpours came hard. For all of one Saturday he stayed indoors, watching the lightning and straight-down rain. The swamp overflowed and streets became shallow runnels flowing toward the mill, which had to be shut down so the saw crews could sandbag the boiler room and the dynamo. While the rain needled the roof, Randolph sat watching May move about in her ironed housedress, passing him here, moving close there, until he could stand her lithe motion no more and reached out and put his hand low on her back.
They were in the little parlor by his desk, and she stopped to assess his face. “What?”
He raised his eyebrows hopefully. “Do you still want to try to get a white baby?”
She batted his hand away. “No need to try anymore.”
He stood up and moved his face close to hers. “Why not?” He could smell the starch in her blouse.
“Because that one time did the trick.”
“You’re pregnant?” he gasped, not believing it. He and his wife had tried for years with nothing to show.
“That’s a fact.”
He ran both hands through his hair, which stuck to his skull in the dampness. “How do you feel about it?”
“I feel like I want to feel,” she said flatly, staring back at him.
He realized he was blushing. “If you need anything, you let me know. I want to help.”
She put a fist on a hip and looked at him carefully. “And?”
He swallowed and planned what to say. “If you’ll sleep with me again, I’d be grateful.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t need to. If you do, then it’s time to get on that train and visit your wife.” She picked up the bucket of water she’d been washing the floors with, walked to the door, and tossed it out into the rain. “Now what do you want for supper, pork chops or ham?”
The next day he felt sluggish and moped through the house wearing a pair of khaki work pants and an undershirt, not bothering to shave. It started to rain again in the afternoon and he pushed open the front screen door to watch puddles well up in the shell-covered lane, trying to remember what he’d done on Sundays a thousand years ago in Pennsylvania. He recalled going to church, and on a shelf in his bedroom he picked up a Bible. After reading several chapters, he said a prayer for his brother, then pulled on a slicker from behind the door and strode out into the storm.
Byron watched him slop across the mill yard, and when he mounted the porch, motioned him into a chair. Together they watched the veils of rain. Randolph shrugged out of the sour-smelling slicker and sat back, putting a hand out and tapping his brother’s leg. “Have you heard anything?”
Byron’s mouth drew in like a purse. He shook his head.
“I called the agent, and he told me he’d ring if he saw the first hint.”
“Maybe you ran them off,” Byron said, “you and your damned army.” He stood and walked inside, and the mill manager could hear him talking to Ella.
The rain lightened up, turned to wind-chipped spray, and Randolph walked home through an ankle-deep lake, feeling like a fish in dirty water. He noticed that the horse had gotten out of the stall and was standing beside the locomotive, listening to the blower as the hostler raised steam for a run. He started to call to the animal, but realized, his mouth open and silent, that it did not have a name.
The next morning, the mill manager was sitting in his unpainted office when his wife walked in. He was so startled that he forgot to stand, and she had to pull him up for an embrace and a substantial kiss that surprised them both.
“Lillian, how in the world did you get down here?” The sight of her made him lightheaded. He studied her tailored traveling suit, the stylish little hat that cupped her head like a hand.
“It’s easy. You get on one train and then another and then another, and after three days you’re here. I went all the way to Tiger Island and got a room at that little hotel on the park.”
“You should’ve called me into town.”
She pulled off her dark kid gloves and waved them at him. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Of course.” He hugged her again. “But this is a rough place.”
She looked over his shoulder out into the mill yard. “I gathered that. I went over to your house to find you, and the housekeeper told me where you were.”
He studied her voice for some trace of suspicion. “It’s awfully muddy down there,” he said, bending to look at her narrow boots.
“And it smells,” she said after a pause, mouthing the words slowly. “You probably don’t notice, but the place smells of rotten eggs, warm muddy water, oil, that kind of thing.” She pinched his nose and kissed him again.
He looked behind her at the door. “Lillian!”
“I got tired of waiting for you. I’ve decided not to be angry anymore. Mother says I’m growing up at last.” She laughed and brushed her fine dark hair from her forehead.
“Will you stay here? It’s on the primitive side.”
She looked at his eyes. “Oh, don’t worry, Rand. I’ll set up somewhere in Tiger Island and you can come see me on weekends. Maybe I could find a furnished house to rent.”
He shook his head. “I doubt you’d find much to do in that place.”
She waved this aside with the back of her hand, a motion of dismissal that jolted him. Though he was used to the deference showed by hundreds of workers, he was grateful for this movement. “There’s a Presbyterian church in town, and I’m sure they could use a volunteer for this and that. The expense is certainly no worry. Your salary and bonuses have been rolling in at double the rate your father was paying you at the other mills.”
She began to talk energetically and in detail about things back home, her father’s failing health, news from the other plants. She seemed lighthearted, almost carefree, walked around the office as she spoke, and he wondered what had lifted her out of the subdued state she’d sunk down into over the past few years. He sat down and looked toward the woods. It might be the trip to this place. And with her standing there so crisp and energetic after her journey, he was reminded of how strange and foreign this country truly was.
“Will you be able to manage tonight? If you can’t, I can send the lumber train back to Poachum in time for you to catch a local westbound.” He raised his eyebrows hopefully, and she bent down and bit him, hard, on the top of his ear.
Randolph noticed that as the housekeeper served supper, she watched Lillian closely. His wife was affectionate, even flirtatious; she chal
lenged him to play cards, and after an hour of gin, she mentioned artfully that she was tired and would go to bed early. In the morning, the smiling mill manager put tonic in his hair and wore a freshly ironed shirt for the first time in days, pulling out the chair grandly for his wife when she came to the plain kitchen table. May, standing by the stove, caught his eye and put a hand over her careful grin, causing him to redden like a schoolboy.
In the middle of breakfast, Randolph heard boots on the porch and looked up as his brother came in. Byron stopped short when he saw Lillian. He glanced quickly at Randolph, then walked over and bent to kiss her on the cheek. She held his face in her hands a moment and looked at him.
“How are you, Byron?”
He straightened up. “Not bad for a sawmill cop.”
“I’ve heard you’re married now. When can I meet her?”
“As soon as you like. She’s a nice, patient woman.” He smiled when he said this.
“She’d have to be to stay with you. Is hunting and riding horses still mostly what you care about?” She pushed away a chair from the table and motioned for him to sit in it.
“I leave the horses to Randolph nowadays.”
“Really?” She looked at her husband, who shrugged. “The last time I saw you, you were on Pretzel, that big bay of yours. Didn’t you ride a horse out west?”
Byron looked over her head and through the rear door for a moment. “I rode one from Oklahoma to Mexico, and when it died under me I walked to town and bought a used Ford.”
Lillian shifted in her chair and frowned. “Were you after a criminal?”
“Sort of. What have you been doing these past few years, duchess? I’m surprised you don’t have a brood of kids to boss around.”
“Maybe some day,” she said quickly. “Right now I’ve come down South to keep an eye on brother here.”
“How long will you be staying?”
“Oh, as long as the trees last, I imagine.” She reached across the table for Randolph’s hand, who gave it to her, forcing a smile. “And what about yourself?”
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