The Morning and the Evening

by Joan Williams

  “Well, let’s worry about it when we get there,” Buck said.

  The courthouse was in the middle of town, set on a square, and the highway led right past it. Red had to slow for a light hung over the road and as they waited for it, an old Ford pick-up crossed before them, a bird dog sitting alertly on the fender. When the light changed, Red pulled from the highway straight into one of the parking places at angles to the square. The square was patchy with grass and was mostly dirt; it was shaded by two magnolia trees so enormous they spread over the entire front of the square. Old men, some with open flies, sat about on benches in the shade.

  A black dog carrying a slice of white bread in his mouth looked for a place to eat it; he passed before the men as they entered the cool concrete interior of the building. Brass spittoons lined the corridor and signs were posted, headed in large letters by WARNING or WANTED or FOR SALE. They stopped the first person they met, and Red asked the way to the deputy probate clerk. His office was crowded when they entered it, and they had to stand in line until almost noon waiting their turn. He was a little man sitting behind a large desk, and they told him their story: how Jake had run about and foamed and made the terrible noises; they swore that he was a citizen of the state and county, that they suspected him of being insane, that they did not think he was an idiot or feebleminded, that he was poor, that he had no one legally liable for him, and all the other things that they had to swear to. The deputy probate clerk filled in the blanks as he read along, and then he said, “Which one of you is going to sign this?”

  Nobody said anything; they stuck their hands in their pockets and shuffled their feet. The clerk said, “Well?”

  “Can more’n one of us sign?” Hoyt said.

  “One,” the clerk said.

  Homer said, “Red, you drove the car, why don’t you sign?”

  So Red signed. But he told himself all the time he was writing in “William Thomas Anderson,” it really wasn’t like he was doing it, because since he had been born nobody had ever called him anything but Red, even in the Army.

  With a small flourish the clerk signed his own name in the proper blank, then he consulted some papers and a calendar and said, “There’s a commitment hearing here tomorrow. Can he be brought in tomorrow?”

  “Don’t see why not,” Buck French said. “He’s just sitting in the jail in Whitehill.”

  “Well, I’d better get word to the marshal there to bring him here today and put him in the jail here. Then I’ll be sure he’s going to appear tomorrow. Folks are always not turning up when they’re supposed to. Now you-all take this down two doors to the sheriff to sign. Next.”

  They took the paper the two doors and joined the line there. Only now Red held the paper and stood in the line and the others lounged about the door waiting for him. They had come around a corner of the building, and this room was bright with hot October sunshine. Red stared out the window like a schoolboy trapped indoors while others moved about freely. He saw the dog with the bread still in its mouth begin another search of the square. He felt a mosquito bite him on the back of the neck and heard its singing like the steady hum of the voices in the room. Suddenly he was next and he moved up and handed the sheriff his paper. The sheriff chewed his cigar and without looking up read the paper; then he filled in the proper blanks and signed it. He looked up then and said, “You got to get these blanks on the other side filled in by two doctors. Then you got to bring me back this form. Where is this Jake Darby at?”

  “In the jail in Whitehill,” Red said. “That other clerk said he’d get him brought here today, though.”

  “Good,” the sheriff said. “Then he’ll be in my jail this afternoon and I’ll see to it he’s up before the judge—let me see—Maurice’s got him down here for ten A.M. tomorrow.”

  “About the doctors …” Red said.

  “Take the form over yonder to Doc Lawrence in that house next to the big sign that says Justice of the Peace. He’s retired, but he’s still got a license. It’ll cost about five dollars.”

  “Much obliged,” Red said.

  He joined the others and told them about the five dollars; they were sorry but all agreed it was worth it; they would all chip in. They went outside and followed the sheriff’s directions until they came to the house. It still had the doctor’s name on a small placard in one window. He opened the door for them and they stood in his hallway and told him what they wanted. Before Red had half finished, the doctor was already nodding in agreement as if he had heard it all before. He had palsy quite badly but managed to write his name, and almost on the line. Then he called to his wife and had her fill in the other blanks certifying to Jake’s approximate age, and to the duration of the insanity, and that he had no other contagious diseases and that he was not an idiot or feebleminded. His wife said, “I declare, there is more folks putting more folks in the state hospital than the law ought to allow. More than they got room for anyhow, I know that much.” She looked at them over her glasses as if they ought to be ashamed.

  Red said to the doctor, “This boy’s back in Whitehill and we want to get all this done today if we can. Is there anybody else could sign this without having to look at him?”

  “I’d take it over to the clinic if it ’as me,” the doctor said. He pointed the way. “And say that I sent you.”

  They went straight down his street and around a corner. The clinic was new too, very plain, and of the same light-colored brick as the courthouse. The yard had just been seeded and a Negro who was watering it turned the hose away from them as they passed.

  Someone in the clinic signed it. They could not read who. The name was written as illegibly as a prescription. They had simply gone inside and presented the paper to the nurse-receptionist, told her what they wanted, and said that Doctor Lawrence had sent them. She had not been doing anything but buffing her nails when they came in, but she put the buffer down and looked quite annoyed before she took the paper. Without a word she disappeared through a swinging door, and they glimpsed her for a moment going on her quiet heels down a short bare hall. Presently, she returned with the paper signed, looking more cheerful.

  “Is there any …” Red said.

  “No,” she said, before he finished, “there’s no charge.”

  They all said they were much obliged and raised their hats. She smiled and watched them as they went out, again buffing her nails.

  The sheriff was already late going out to lunch. He took the paper and said, “You got him a guardian?”

  “What exactly do those two other words mean?” Homer said.

  “What other two words?” the sheriff said.

  “A-d …” Homer said.

  “It just means he’s got to have a guardian while the hearing’s going on,” the sheriff said. “Somebody who’s supposed to protect his rights because he ain’t fit to do it hisself, else he shouldn’t be here. You all tell me now, ’cause I’m fixing to go acrost this square and feed my face.”

  “Shoot, none of us wants to drive back to Desoto tomorrow,” Hoyt said. “Why don’t we make somebody else guardian? J. T. was all hot on this, but didn’t want to come up today. Let’s tell him he has to tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, put down J. T. Veazey,” Red said.

  “The judge does it,” the sheriff said. “But you tell Brother Veazey to be here at ten o’clock tomorrow or this don’t get done.”

  “So long,” Red said.

  “Goodbye,” the sheriff said. He came out the door after them and locked it. “You boys looking for a little lunch, there’s a good café right acrost the square, Bubba’s.”

  “Much obliged,” Homer said. “But I reckon we’ll get on back home, won’t we?” He looked at the others.

  “The womenfolks will bust their bustles if we don’t get back and tell them what’s happened,” Buck said.

  “There’s only one thing I sure wish we could do, though,” Homer said.

  “What’s that?” Red said.

  “Get a ice-cream s
oda at the drugstore,” Homer said.

  They all agreed it would be too bad to miss the opportunity for one. They walked across the square with the sun falling on them in stipples through the dark shiny leaves of the magnolias. When they came out of the shade to cross the road, it was a surprise when the sun fell on them, one hot glare after the little speckles. At the drugstore the black dog sniffed about the screen door. “Get on out of here, dog,” Red said, opening the door. They went inside. The room was dark and cool and stuffy with the odor of medicines and of the refrigerated box that held the ice cream. The ceiling fan was going, but the owner turned it off when they came in. “What can I do for you boys?” he said.

  They climbed onto stools at the fountain and said they would have ice-cream sodas, strawberry, all of them. Then they looked around at two girls sitting at a little round table sipping Cokes in glasses full of shaved ice, and they studied the dirty-looking cases with their crepe-paper-lined shelves full of boxes and bottles of things that made women look good and smell pretty. They drank the sodas slowly and then climbed reluctantly from the stools and paid. When they went outside, the heat made the coldness in their stomachs send a pain through their temples and eyeballs. For a moment they felt sick at their stomachs, and then the moment passed. “Ah,” Red said.

  “You let that dog in,” Homer told Hoyt.

  Hoyt went back but returned in a moment and said the owner had said it was all right, it was his dog.

  They crossed the road and went along the sidewalk in twos to the car. Attached to the windshield wiper was a small white card. “Oh shit,” Red said, untying it. “I forgot to put money in the thing-a-ma-gig.” He read the card. “But look,” he said. “It’s a note that says, ‘Welcome Visitor.’ Then it goes on to explain what the meter is for and asks that the next time you use it.” They got into the car in the same positions in which they had come.

  “Now I call that right friendly,” Buck said. “This ain’t no bad little old town.”

  “Heck, it’s going to be part of Memphis some day, the way Memphis is growing,” Red said. “People will be moving to Marigold and driving to Memphis to work.”

  “I live to see the day,” Homer said.

  “You’ll be in the right business then, Homer,” Red said.

  “Huh,” Homer said. “I’ll be ninety-five years old before that ever comes about.”

  “Naw, I’m telling you,” Red said. He backed the car from the curb, turned, waited for the light to finish turning green and then headed down the long straight stretch of highway, straight into the afternoon sun, toward home.

  “You know I was just thinking,” Buck French said, suddenly. “What nigger’s going to cough up a dollar to get his dog vaccinated?”

  “What?” Hoyt said.

  “That sign that was on the post office in Whitehill. It said a dollar to vaccinate your dog,” Buck said.

  “Shucks, there’s plenty white folks ain’t going to pay no dollar to get a needle stuck in some mangy dog they own,” Red said.

  “And there’s kids with dogs ain’t never going to get ’em vaccinated,” Hoyt said. “And there’s strays.”

  “That mad-dog scare’s liable to spread right on to Marigold in a week or less,” Buck said. “I tell you, if there’s one thing I don’t want to have truck with it’s a rabid dog.”

  “Lord,” Red said, settling down to the drive. “Seems like time you get one thing off your mind, there’s something else.”

  Chapter Eight

  The judge sat upright in his black robe and blinked solemnly through steamy bifocals, his eyes enormous and blurred. Idly he drew back his long loose sleeve and wrote in the proper blank on the paper before him: Jake Darby. After it were two printed words: Insanity Suspect. He peered over his glasses at the man.

  Four others had gone before him, one a woman he had almost not committed. Standing there, she had looked like any one of the ordinary middle-aged women in his Sunday-school class. Her yellowed white hair was neatly curled and tucked full of heavy black hairpins. She wore a navy-blue crepe dress that he knew in summer had had white piqué collar and cuffs. Now for fall and winter it had multicolored striped taffeta ones. Her navy straw was set squarely forward on her forehead. She had told a long plausible story, familiar to him. In essence, nobody wanted her. Her few remaining relatives were distant and tolerated her at all only because she had a little money they hoped someday to inherit. Certainly he believed that and was about to say, “Petition rejected,” when at the saving moment she said, “What’s really the matter with them is they’re jealous. Perry Como’s in love with me.”

  Now this one, who looked obviously not right.

  “Mister Darby,” the judge said, leaning forward, “I’ve read this petition and heard from your guardian the selfsame reasons why you should be committed to the state hospital at Lee. Do you have anything to say in your own behalf?”

  The man did not say anything. He did not even look at the judge and the judge could not have said exactly where he was looking. With a vacant stare he looked into a place no one else could see. Perhaps that was what insanity was, the judge thought, and sighed. After thirty years on the bench observing the sane and the supposedly insane, he had given up really trying to draw a line between the two.

  He read to himself the first statement on the outline before him: “(I) The said person is insane (not feebleminded or an idiot), being at large is injurious to self and disadvantageous to the community, and should be committed to a hospital.” The folks of Mister Darby’s town had sworn to this. Who was he, the judge, who had never seen the fellow before, to say that they were wrong? He looked over at the man who had appeared as guardian. He had ceased to chew his gum and looked back at the judge expectantly. This Mister Veazey had said that he had three kids and was afraid to let them run about free in his town any longer.

  Sighing, the judge picked up the paper and read aloud: “It is ordered that Jake Darby be declared and is hereby adjudged insane and be committed to the State Hospital, to be treated and dealt with in accordance with the law and regulations of said Institution. If in the future any means shall be available, either as a part of the estate of said insane person, or of any member of his family liable for his maintenance under the law, then, in either of such events, monies advanced by Forrest County shall be repaid to the County, and such insane person shall be and become a private pay patient so long as his means justify that status.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” J. T. Veazey said.

  “What’s that?” the judge said, looking up.

  “I said, you don’t have to worry about that,” J. T. said.

  “Never mind,” the judge said. He read again: “A copy of these proceedings shall be delivered along with said insane person to the superintendent of said Institution.” He signed his name wearily and said, “The hearing’s over.”

  J. T. got up. His rear felt cut through to the bone. The proceedings had been long and his chair a hard wooden one with a ridge down the center. He was anxious to move about and to be out of the overheated airless room where the sheriff had continuously smoked cigars. But something kept him lingering, something he wanted to say. To who? he wondered. The sheriff, the judge, Jake? Yes, Jake, he thought. He walked over to where Jake stood, his shirt soaked through with sweat. He turned and looked at J. T. as he walked up, and already there was something different in his eyes. He stared as if J. T. were a stranger. “Jake,” J. T. said. “Don’t you know me, boy?”

  Jake made no sign.

  J. T. wanted to say he was sorry. He opened his mouth to do so, and suddenly he said to himself, Well, I’ll be a God-damned son of a bitch.

  Tears swelled up and overran his eyes. He pressed Jake’s arm and said, “Take care of yourself, boy.”

  Then he turned and hurried out of the room, down the short corridor and out into the day. The temperature had dropped overnight and the season become the the near-winter it was. The warm spell was over. J. T. went t
o his car and got in and turned on the heater. He drove off shivering and sobbing and snuffling his nose, wiping his eyes so he could see how to drive. Turning onto the highway, he said aloud, “Jesus Christ, old man. I’m glad nobody else come with you.”

  Chapter Nine

  They were all moving about him now, people going in every direction. He stood still and presently, as he had known someone would, a man took his elbow and began to guide him. He stood in a group then, while people came and went, and occasionally he glanced their way. He had not slept for a long time, not since the time they had put him in a room he could not get out of, with many dogs coming and going beyond the bars that confined him. People, standing close, had talked to him off and on, peering, talking as if they had expected him to answer. He could only turn away. He was afraid with strangers to make any sound, and he could not understand why these had expected so much of him.

  The old man whose black clothes flowed about him, nipping at his heels as he walked, passed close and said, “Somebody ought to get him a haircut.”

  “He’ll get one when he gets there,” another man said.

  He was led again by the elbow out into the sweet day, where a wash of cool wind chilled him. Past thin sunlight, beyond the square of ground where people walked briskly, he saw the building he had come out of this early morning; the bars that had bound him at the other place had bound him here too, at the windows and at the door. They were not taking him back there. He moved with the group still, the woman, the three men.

  “Perry,” said the woman once. “Wait for me.”

  In his whole life, he had not been in a car as much as he had been these last two days since he had been taken from home. Home. Above all things, he knew he had been taken from home.

  Now he was in a car again, sitting straight, not moving, not looking back. He was afraid. They took him through the blue day, past shedding trees and white sunshine, on and on until he saw land such as he had never seen before rising away to a great height and falling back again: he knew he was a long way from home.