Out of the Night That Covers Me

by Pat Cunningham Devoto

  “I’m sure.” The Judge smiled and took a sip. “Probably gone on up to Atlanta to become a famous lawyer by now,” he added.

  “Oh, no, she would have met someone and be planning to get married by now, maybe even be married and pregnant with our first grandchild.” Another swallow of wine as she considered this.

  “Why did we send her to law school all that time if all she was going to do was get married right out of school?” The Judge smiled. “I thought you told me she was going to law school, she was so smart.”

  Mrs. Vance took exception. “We gave her the best education we could, so she could be the best wife and mother possible, but practice law? For heaven sakes, Byron honey, who in the world do you know who would do a thing like that?” Mrs. Vance took a drink of wine and contemplated. “No, she met a nice young man at the university, while she was in one of her law classes. Probably from Mobile or Selma, someplace close by. They fell in love and now they’re gettin’ married.” Mrs. Vance was pouring herself another glass of wine and seriously considering all the possibilities.

  The Judge was still pretending. “No. What happened is that she fell madly in love with a Yankee down here on scholarship. Now they’re getting married and going to New York City to live.”

  Mrs. Vance and the wine were appalled. “That’s ridiculous, Mary Beth would never do that, not in a million years. Don’t you know your own daughter? Why, why, we should be clearin’ the rose garden out back to make room for a swing set when the grandchildren come to visit.”

  “Yeah.” The Judge laughed. “Probably terrible little monsters who look just like their Yankee daddy.”

  Mrs. Vance stood from the table, insulted. “Byron, that’s a terrible, terrible thing to say.”

  “But I was only . . .”

  She put her napkin on the table and walked away to the kitchen. John watched her leave and then turned to the Judge. “She had tears in her eyes,” he whispered.

  The Judge took a deep breath, rolled the stem of the wineglass in his hand, and sighed. “I forget, from time to time, that twenty-five years is only yesterday.” They sat in silence, the Judge sipping his wine.

  Finally, he said, “Pass me some of those hot biscuits. They smell wonderful.”

  Presently, Mrs. Vance came back in the room, carrying a knife. “I forgot the carvin’ knife,” she said, face perfectly placid. She began to carve the roast.

  The Judge cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to imply that Mary Beth—”

  She interrupted him, gushing, “Oh, Byron, I know I can act the fool about her sometimes, it was so long ago.” Her eyes were downcast, pretending concentration on the roast. “It seems so silly really.” She carved the roast into thick slices.

  John and the Judge waited in silence, John looking from one to the other. Finally, the Judge spoke as his fingers felt along the sharp edge of the knife at his place setting. “Caring is never silly, just sometimes . . . hurtful.” He sat still, trying to sense any clue to her mood. “It’s what keeps us going, isn’t it?”

  She smiled back at a face that could only imagine what she looked like now. “You always know what to say to me, don’t you? You knew it from the first time we met . . . in our Bailey days.”

  Now he laughed. “Bailey. It’s been a long time since you called up that name.”

  “It’s been a long time since you deserved it.” She laughed back, stopped her carving, and came around the table to take his head in her hands and kiss his forehead. “I’ll be right back. I know how you like watermelon-rind pickle with your meat, and I have a new jar from Jenny Morgan. She put it up just last week.” She left the room, humming.

  John cleared his throat so they would remember he was still there. After all the time he had been coming to this house, to these people, at that moment, he felt like a stranger.

  The Judge cleared his throat also. “It’s my middle name, Bailey. When Mrs. Vance and I first met, she thought it was the name I went by. All night long, she called me Bailey, and I was so smitten, I didn’t want to take the chance of embarrassing her, or upsetting our beginning . . . so I let it stand.” He reached for his dinner plate and began to straighten it on the table. “It’s crazy what we do when we first meet someone we know we . . . we care about.”

  The man and boy both sat in silence. The Judge felt the air of disdain from across the table. “She only calls me that when she wants to tell me she . . .” He paused and began to fumble with his silverware. “Well . . .” He took his knife from the table and began to wipe it off with his napkin.

  John had never seen him at a loss for words. He thought it revolting. “That’s stupid.”

  “It is?”

  “Either somebody is special to you or they’re not. If she thinks that, she should call you that . . . that”—he spit it out—“that Bailey all the time.”

  The Judge sat back in his chair and thought a moment. “No, I wouldn’t want her to do that. That one word conjures up a whole period of our life together. It was a very special time. I wouldn’t want it to become so ordinary that it lost its meaning.” He hesitated. It was obvious that what he had said had fallen on deaf ears, but he forged ahead. “Words, especially to a blind man, are like pieces of gold.”

  John squirmed in his chair.

  “And speaking of that,” the Judge said, “I have a few words I’d like to pass on to you. I’ve been wanting to tell you how much your coming here has—”

  John hurried to interrupt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and . . . and I don’t care anyway. I’m gonna go help Mrs. Vance find the pickles.”

  He fled the room.

  CHAPTER 36

  IT was on a Thursday in the late afternoon. School had been out for just over a week. John had finished all of his work in the yard and Mrs. Vance had left to attend the ladies’ missionary society, so he decided to change clothes and go on down to the bank. Usually, he didn’t go to the bank on a Thursday—Mrs. Vance said she had yard work for him to do all day on Thursdays—but he wanted to be helpful, maybe see if he could read the paper to somebody.

  Miss Maroon said yes, he could help empty the ashtrays in the lobby, since they were about to close for the day. That way, they would be all ready for Friday. He was replacing empty ashtrays when Uncle Luther came in the front door.

  “Well, if you won’t lookie here at this,” he said. “All dressed up like a city boy.”

  Uncle Luther was standing in the lobby, his fingers hooked in his overalls, rocking back on his heels. “Looks like the Judge gettin’ mighty partial to you, dressin’ you up in them fancy clothes.”

  “Hi, Uncle Luther.”

  He came over and touched the boy’s shirt. “Ooh wee, if you ain’t slick as a snake.” He walked over and took a seat in one of the lobby chairs. “Go on, don’t let me stop ya. You just keep right on doin’ what you was doin’.” He took off his John Deere cap and ran fingers through hair wet with perspiration.

  “I’ll just sit right here and rest my tired bones. I’m tuckered out. I ain’t got no sissy job.”

  John kept cleaning ashtrays but intermittently glanced up at Uncle Luther. He couldn’t remember seeing Uncle Luther in the bank before. Maybe he was coming to take him away, back to the fields.

  “I thought you might be getting things ready for planting, Uncle Luther.”

  “I got business with the Judge.” Uncle Luther’s eyes landed on a magazine on the table beside him. He picked up a copy of Life and began to turn the pages.

  Just then, Tuway and the Judge came out of his office. The Judge stopped short when Tuway whispered something to him.

  Judge Vance’s head snapped to attention, like a dog on point. He turned in the direction of Miss Maroon’s desk and said in a low voice, “Miss Maroon, what . . . Why on earth is he here?”

  John thought it wrong to be mad at Miss Maroon. She couldn’t help it if Uncle Luther had come to see the Judge.

  Miss Maroon was immediately flustered. “Oh my, I ju
st didn’t think, Judge. He came in and asked to help out and . . . I just didn’t think. I’ll take care of it right now.” She walked over and grabbed John by the shoulders and walked him into the conference room.

  “Why is he mad at me?” he asked as she was shutting the door.

  “Thursday is the day your uncle Luther comes to collect. The Judge doesn’t want to give him any reason to think . . . Oh, never mind. You’re too young to understand. Just stay right here and don’t move from this room until I come and get you. Do you hear me, young man?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She closed the door.

  John immediately got off the chair and went over to the door that led to the Judge’s office and turned the handle just enough to crack it. Sure enough, they were coming back into the Judge’s room. He always liked to talk in his office, the better to know where everyone and everything was located.

  Tuway held the door for them and then went out and closed it. John knew Tuway was probably listening on the other side. He wondered what door Miss Maroon was using. The Judge put his hat on the desk and went around to take a seat.

  “Have a chair, Luther. I had about given up on you. I was on my way home.”

  John’s face was so close to the tiny crack in the door, his glasses pushed up against the wood frame.

  “Had some extra work to do this afternoon, Judge.” He settled into one of the wing-back chairs. “You know a farmer’s work ain’t never done, and what with me being short a hand, it ain’t easy.”

  “Short a hand?” the Judge said. He had opened his middle desk drawer and was feeling around for something.

  “Well, yes, sir, Judge. I know John looks little, but he can put in a day’s work right along with the rest of my kids. Yes, sir, sure do miss him in the fields.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Sure enough, Judge, but I can see he’s makin’ hisself real useful round here. No, sir, I wouldn’t want to take him away from y’all.” He sat back in the chair and took out his tobacco and some rolling paper.

  “You mind if I smoke, Judge?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “I roll my own. Saves me money, you know.” He poured a little tobacco on the paper and rolled it up, licking the edges to seal it, twisting the ends to keep the tobacco in.

  “I try to be real thrifty, what with so many mouths to feed.” He took paperback matches out of his pocket and lit up, blowing out smoke and looking through it to the Judge. “Course some would say, ‘Luther, you’re just a fool to let the Judge have a hard worker like John for money that don’t amount to no hill of beans.’”

  “That’s money you’re saving for John,” the Judge said.

  “Oh, right, right.” He blew out more smoke in the Judge’s direction. “But I say, ‘Lookie here, as long as the Judge and his wife is so attached to the boy, buyin’ him new clothes and lettin’ him work round the bank like he was somebody, well,’ I say, ‘when it comes time for the Judge to give him a raise, I know he’ll do the right thing.’” He crossed his leg and knocked a piece of dirt off his shoe onto the carpet. Then he said almost under his breath, “This learnin’ he’s gettin’ here, be a damn shame if he had to go back out to the fields again.”

  The Judge had been listening to Uncle Luther and at the same time taking an envelope out of his middle drawer, turning it over and over on the desktop.

  “It would be a shame if he had to go back out to the fields, as little as he is,” the Judge said. “Women do tend to get attached to youngsters, but you and I both know men aren’t like that. To my way of thinking, John has been doing a less-than-adequate job lately—in fact, downright sloppy in some areas. Maybe field work would be just the ticket for him.”

  Uncle Luther uncrossed his legs and sat up in his chair. “Well now, Judge, if he ain’t been doin’ his work, I’ll . . .”

  John strained to see more of the room without pushing the door open any more than it was.

  “Well, you saw for yourself this afternoon.” The Judge turned the envelope over and over.

  “It looked to me like he was doin’ his work.” Luther looked at the Judge, his eyes narrowing.

  The Judge shook his head. “Here he was down at the bank when he was supposed to be home weeding the garden, and not even informing me he was here. Just out playing around in the lobby.”

  “If he ain’t been doin’ his work, you say the word. I give him a whippin’, he won’t be sittin’ down for a week.” Uncle Luther put his cigarette out in the desk ashtray and stared at the envelope in the Judge’s hand. There was a long silence.

  “You sayin’ you want to fire him?” Luther said.

  The Judge sat back in his chair, still holding the envelope. Finally, he leaned forward and said, “I’m saying I’ll keep a very close eye on him and evaluate him at the end of next week.” He slowly slid the envelope across the desk.

  Uncle Luther took it and stood up. “That’s a good idea, Judge. You evaluate him.” He turned to leave.

  “And Luther, if I feel any disciplinary action is warranted, I’ll be the one to take it.”

  Luther was opening the envelope as he walked toward the door. “That’s a good idea, Judge. You do that.” He was gone.

  A few seconds after the door shut on Luther, Miss Maroon came in from a side door that led out into the hall.

  “Judge, you are a past master.” She smiled.

  “Why Miss Maroon, you listened.”

  “Every word, but I don’t know why I even bothered. He’s not a worthy opponent.”

  The Judge smiled and reverted to his imitation of W. C. Fields, which Miss Maroon had told him he did to perfection. He picked up a pencil and flicked it as if it were a cigar. “Ah yes, my dear, it comes from years of dealing with my esteemed board of directors.” Miss Maroon smiled as she brushed Luther’s ashes off the Judge’s desk.

  “Judge,” she lied once again, “you do that just perfect.”

  John relaxed his grip on the doorknob he had been holding and leaned back away from the crack to take a few deep breaths.

  Just then, Tuway walked in the door Luther had left by. “I tell you what, Judge, ain’t nobody better at ridin’m and ropin’m than you. Old Luther left here countin’ his money and happy to have it.”

  “Et tu, Tuway?” The Judge was still W. C. Fields. “Were you behind the door or under the rug, my good man?”

  “You didn’t think I was gonna miss that, did ya, Judge? I just knew we was in big trouble when we walks out to the lobby and the boy is there all spruced up in his new clothes, with his hair all combed. I could see them dollar marks in old Luther’s eyes.”

  Miss Maroon laughed. “That part where you said you would send him out to the fields again if he didn’t shape up—that was inspired. You really sounded like you meant that. It was the perfect touch.”

  The Judge put down the cigar pencil and leaned back in his chair. His mood had changed abruptly. “Perfect touch or no, Miss Maroon, I did mean it. There are worse things than working in the fields.”

  John peered through the crack again to see if he could see the Judge’s expression.

  “Oh, Judge, aren’t you just the least bit attached to him?” The smile was fading from Miss Maroon’s face as she watched his. “Now come on, admit it.” She turned to Tuway. “Tuway, he’s kidding, isn’t he?”

  Tuway was eyeing the Judge. “Everybody got they load to carry. I know that.”

  “Yes”—she turned back to the Judge—“but you’ve done so much, and he’s so devoted to you, sittin’ outside of your office every day, waitin’ for the slightest opportunity to—”

  The Judge held out his hand. “Miss Maroon. You seem to forget you’re looking at a man who’ll be completely blind in another two years.” He leaned forward and checked with his hands to see that everything on his desk was in order. “On top of that, I may be unemployed to boot if things keep going like they are.” He tapped his fingers on the desk, becoming more agitated. “Why in h
ell’s name—sorry, Miss Maroon—would I, could I, think about getting attached to a little scrub-faced kid who doesn’t even belong to me in the first place? That’s absurd. I have enough to worry about.” His fingers drummed the ink blotter. “Don’t you see what Luther would do if he had the slightest idea that I might care about the boy?”

  There was silence as Miss Maroon looked down to straighten up some papers in her lap. “You’re right, Judge. I just didn’t think.” She cleared her throat. “Well, well now, I think I better be gettin’ home. Daddy’ll be wantin’ his supper. I’ll see y’all tomorrow mornin’.” She got up and turned to walk out. “You’ll get the lights, Tuway?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Besides, I’m old enough to be his grandfather. Don’t you see that?” the Judge called after her. She didn’t answer.

  He took a deep breath and stood up. “Now where did I put that hat, Tuway?” Tuway handed the Judge his hat and they walked toward the door.

  “What was he wearing, Tuway?”

  “Who wearin’?”

  “You know. When Luther came on him in the lobby. What was he wearing?”

  “Well now, he had on a little yellow shirt with a collar. His hair was all slicked back and he had on them—”

  They walked out and shut the door.

  John eased his door shut. He had been upset when he heard the Judge talk about how sloppy and lazy he was, but he thought it must be for Uncle Luther’s benefit. Then when he heard the Judge tell Miss Maroon he might send him back to the fields, a great wave of heat had seemed to pass through John’s body. The thought of losing his connection to everything in Lower Peach Tree—the Judge, the bank, Cal, Mrs. Vance—had never entered his mind. For a moment, he had felt faint and struggled to hold on to the wall and not move. Now he stood with his head down, trying to breathe normally.

  He was sitting rigid in the chair where Miss Maroon had put him when she opened the door. “I almost forgot about you, John sugar. Come on, it’s time we were all home.”

  He rose from the chair, jerked his shoulder away from her waiting hand, and walked out.