by Robert Inman
Jake breathed a great sigh and then he collapsed backward into the chair, holding the sword limply between his legs. The rest of them just sat there and stared, unable to take their eyes off him. Oh my, he thought to himself, I have pissed into the wind again.
It was Henry, finally, who got up and came to him. He knelt by the wing-backed chair, and took the sword gently from Jake’s grasp. He took a handkerchief out of his coat pocket, carefully wiped the cake crumbs and icing off the sword, and laid it across Jake’s lap.
“Henry,” Jake rasped, “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with you.”
“You never did,” Henry said. Henry had tiny flecks of cake icing on his face, and Jake thought of ice, of the snows deep in the forests of Belgium, of Henry lying there for days under the shattered tank, freezing to death, with dead and dying men all around him.
“I’m an old sonofabitch,” Jake said.
Henry nodded. “That’s true.”
“And you are what you are.”
“Yes,” Henry said, “that too.”
“I suppose we’re both too old to change.”
“Probably.”
Jake looked at Lonnie then, standing back from them, frightened by what he had seen. “Come here, boy,” Jake said.
Lonnie hesitated, then he stepped around the table and stood next to Henry by Jake’s chair, frail boy and two frail men. It seemed for an instant that only the three of them were in the room — he and Henry and Lonnie — and that the rest had left, scared away by the beast or beasts that stalked the souls of the Tibbetts men. The sword was leaden in his hands, but he lifted it up and held it out to Lonnie. “Here,” he said, “you take it.”
And he did, grasping it by the handle, reaching down to pick up the scabbard from the floor, sheathing the sword again and holding it, looking at his grandfather without speaking.
Jake looked at Pastine then and saw what was in her eyes. Don’t try to fool yourself or us, Jake. The question is, Have you learned anything?
And then to Rosh, great gentle Rosh, who wore a bemused expression, and also spoke with his eyes. Do you yet believe what you say?
Jake wanted to say to them both, “I don’t know.” And he wanted to speak to them both of all there was to be mended. But there would be time enough for that, if he could keep his devils at bay for a little while longer. Instead, he said, “I think I’d like to go to the newspaper now.”
“Can I give you a ride?” Rosh asked.
“Yes, that would be nice.”
The newspaper. And once there, perhaps Rosh would fetch a pint jar of Lightnin’ Jim’s Best and they would sit in their old familiar places while the dusk fell and ponder all the questions, spinning them out like silken threads to shimmer in the last glow of day. Perhaps in good time Rosh would fold his hands across his belly and say, “And at the bottom of it …” And there you would have it. Or perhaps there was no bottom, only the questions, like echoes.
Ah, Jake Tibbetts thought, we are all pilgrim souls here, all ragged-ass wayfarers, stopping to huddle against the cold and dark around what we call our home fires.
Does a man indeed learn anything? Only that his home is his own heart, and there he must abide.
ACCLAIM FOR THE NOVELS OF ROBERT INMAN
HOME FIRES BURNING
“Stands head and shoulders above the crowd…. The best small-town Southern novel since To Kill a Mockingbird.”
— Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“A wonderful novel, filled with characters who live and breathe and hurt and cry and who come to seem like friends.”
— Morganton (N.C.) News Herald
“A beautiful work, tough and bittersweet, funny and frightening, just terrific.”
— Philadelphia Inquirer
OLD DOGS AND CHILDREN
“A remarkable saga of the South … a magnificent storyteller.”
— Chattanooga News–Free Press
“A parade of vivid characters and immediate, gripping scenes.”
— Seattle Times–Post Intelligencer
“Storytelling at its best…. Through the eyes of a spirited lady, Robert Inman celebrates the beauty and battles of a family and a region.”
— Atlanta Journal-Constitution
DAIRY QUEEN DAYS
“A remarkable and profound novel…. A joyous addition to our Southern literature.”
— Nashville Banner
“Inman deserves a place on any list of the best contemporary Southern writers. Make that a high place, even on a short list.”
— Winston-Salem Journal
“Inman captures perfectly the nuances of small-town life.”
— Chattanooga Times
CAPTAIN SATURDAY
“Inman is a witty, utterly charming storyteller, who portrays the human comedy with a full appreciation for its tenderness and pain….Captain Saturday is a book full of hard-won hope, a celebration of the power of renewal, and some wise advice about how to live well in any weather.”
-- Ron Charles, Christian Science Monitor
“Peopled with vivid, endearingly quixotic characters and filled with dead-on insights into a shallow New South that defines itself by club memberships and designer labels, this richly-textured epic is a paean to the vagaries of the human heart.”
-- Publishers Weekly
“A reflective and rewarding examination of modern American values….Captain Saturday shows how one poor, benighted TV weatherman turns the worst kind of adversity into a transformational, if not transcendent, learning experience.”
-- John Harper, Orlando Sentinel
“A novel ringing with authenticity, both poignant and funny, that leaves readers questioning their own understanding of what is truly valuable.”
-- Nancy Dorman-Hickson, Southern Living Review