“He is starting young,” I say to Patrick as we watch her carry Ahab inside.
“Starting what?” he says.
“Theatrics for the purpose of arousing a woman’s sympathy,” I say.
“Hey, I heard that,” a voice says, and I turn to see Hardy waiting for the next piece of pie. He suddenly clutches at his stomach and staggers forward, his eyes rolling back in his head, his mouth gaping. He gasps, utters a deep groan, and collapses to the ground but immediately springs to his feet, the fringe on his cowboy vest jiggling wildly. “There, how’s that for theatrics?” he says. “Did I arouse your sympathy, huh, did I? Can I have a piece of pie, huh, can I?”
I am tempted to ask Hardy if he has a partner named Laurel, but I refrain. I serve his plate, then say, “There, go sit down, Roy Rogers, and calm yourself.”
He takes the plate, throws his head back, and calls, “Hi-ho, Silver!”
“That was the Lone Ranger, not Roy Rogers,” I say.
His eyes brighten. “You are right! I was just testing you. Mindy said you were smart, so I had to check it out. Which reminds me. Do you know where the Lone Ranger took all his trash?” And without waiting for me to answer, he sings, “To the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump.”
Patrick can hardly contain his laughter. “Hey, that’s funny! I’m going to remember that one!” It is just the kind of joke Patrick would love. He is laughing so hard he has trouble landing the scoop of ice cream on Hardy’s plate.
“I bet you’re wondering how I know about Roy Rogers and the Lone Ranger, huh?” says Hardy.
“No, I am not,” I say.
“Well, okay, okay. Don’t beg. I’ll satisfy your curiosity,” he says. “I know you can’t tell it from looking at me, but I’m very retro-savvy. I know all about those old TV programs. Sky King, Sea Hunt, Zorro, and all the rest. It’s a hobby that—”
“Hey, you’re holding up the line,” his sister says behind him. “She’s not interested in hearing about your deviant lifestyle.”
“Oh, but she is,” Hardy says, leaning forward. “I can see it deep in her eyes.”
* * *
This party is like the train that used to come through Methuselah. The Everlasting Train, we used to call it. You could take a long nap while it rattled by, boxcar after boxcar with no caboose in sight. If you had an appointment on the other side of town, you would miss it.
Dessert done, Patrick supervises the cleanup, scurrying about and shouting directions as if time were running out. It is not yet seven o’clock. When all of the tables are cleared and the trash bags cinched, Patrick begins explaining all the rules of horseshoes, consulting a paper he has printed off the Internet. He goes on and on. When he starts talking about the history of the game, attributing its beginnings to Roman soldiers, Steve breaks in. “Well, maybe that’s enough to get us started.”
“Okay, any questions so far?” Patrick asks.
“Can you throw overhand?” Hardy asks, to which Patrick replies with great seriousness, “Oh no. You’d never, never want to do that.”
“See, I told you,” Hardy says to Mindy. To the rest of us he says, “She wanted me to ask.”
“I did not!” Mindy says. She acts indignant, but anyone can see it’s only an act.
“Any other questions?” Patrick says hopefully.
Hardy speaks up again. “Are there pony shoes instead of horseshoes for really young small children like my little brother here?” His brother, red-haired like their mother and almost as tall as Hardy, gives him a shove.
“No, no. Everyone uses the same size,” Patrick says.
These are things I learn about the game of horseshoes: First, I learn that there are innings, foul lines, and a pitcher’s box as in baseball. Second, each contestant throws two horseshoes per inning. Third, you can score with points, ringers, or double ringers. And fourth, a tournament can take a long time if twelve people want to play. I find myself hoping that Hardy and his partner, Mitchell, will make a good showing, although it is obvious from the beginning that Hardy is putting more effort into entertaining Mindy than in winning the game. The winning partnerships advance to a playoff round with modified rules, and in the end Wes Lebo and one of Steve’s friends are declared the overall champions.
“Rats,” says Hardy. “That woulda looked so good in the hometown paper: ‘Hardy Biddle Makes Competitors Eat Dust in Game of Horseshoes While Visiting in Mississippi.’”
The party is still young. It is almost seven-thirty when the game is finished and Steve and Potts bring out their guitars. They strum a few chords, and some of the men pull their chairs closer. The rest of us sit around to see what will come of this. Ahab is in the sandbox, burying plastic toys and digging them up again.
“Hey, let’s sing something!” Hardy says. This is not something you expect a boy like him to say. But before there is time to consider whether he is joking, a male ensemble somehow organizes itself. Steve and Potts begin singing and playing a solemn song called “Deep River,” and Blake, Hardy, Patrick, and Mitchell join in. “My home is over Jordan,” the song says, and “I want to cross over into campground.” With the other stronger voices, Patrick’s tenor sounds less like a trembling reed in the wind.
It is a concert of spirituals that they sing: “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child,” “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen,” “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” “Poor Wayfaring Stranger.” Steve and Potts move easily from one song into another, as if it is a repertoire they rehearse often. They keep going when the others drop out.
I hear the words clearly, words that would sound strange out of their context. In their context, however, everything is right about them: “A band of angels comin’ after me,” “Sometimes I’m up, sometimes I’m down,” “He’s got the tiny little baby in his hands,” “A-travelin’ through this world of woe.” The men’s voices blend better than one would expect at a backyard cookout.
Potts starts a new song that the others apparently don’t know: “The gospel train is comin’, / I hear it just at hand.” Steve and Potts sing it as though it’s their favorite. “Get on board, little children,” they sing. This one moves along. Not like the Everlasting Train of Methuselah but like an express train. “I hear that train a-comin’,” they sing. “She sure is speedin’ fast, / So get your tickets ready, / And ride to heav’n at last!” Then the chorus again, louder and faster this time, then again softer and faster still as if the train has blown through town and is racing against the clock. “Get on board, little children,” they sing one last time, slow and easy now as if pulling into the station, “there’s room for many a-more.”
They stop and there is a moment of silence before Della Boyd says, “Oh my, that was just wonderful! You two should make a record! You sure should!” She begins clapping her hands and others join in.
I look at the men around me—at Steve and his two friends, at Blake, Wes Lebo, Potts, and Mitchell. Yes, and Patrick, too. And here is what I think: There are good men in this world. I look at the boys—at Hardy and his brother, at Ahab. Yes, there is hope here, also.
Mindy is sitting next to Hardy’s sister, the two of them looking like twins with their blond hair and pretty faces. Mindy’s eyes are fixed on Hardy. She has not yet learned the tactic used by some women, who take care to appear unaware of a man’s presence. Mindy stares openly. I wonder if she has thought of Prince today.
The guitars are put away, but the party is far from over. It is going on nine o’clock, and at last the sky is growing dark. Allowing for no lull, Teri jumps up and announces, “Okay, time for charades. Everybody plays this one!” Steve turns on the floodlights he has rented. Teri has prepared little slips of paper on which are written phrases to be acted out. There will be two teams: men versus women.
It is a silly game but one that everybody seems to like. There is much laughter as the phrases are acted out: “mum’s the word,” “dressed to the nines,” “put up your dukes,”
“the whole ball of wax,” and so forth. Before we know it, the light has faded. Just as Teri’s aunt Helena is acting out “close but no cigar,” we hear faint popping and whistling noises. Above the treetops large glittery flowers of red and blue fireworks burst open in the sky. “Anybody want to go down to the levee?” Steve asks. “It’s only a few blocks. We can take my truck.”
“And then it’s back here for watermelon!” Patrick announces. “One last fling!”
“Aw, why can’t we just eat it instead?” Hardy asks.
Some go and some stay. Another explosion lights the sky, this one green and silver. I can see all I want to see from where I sit.
I hear the sound of Steve’s pickup in the driveway. I hear laughter. I hear somebody calling, “Hey, wait for us!” And I hear Hardy singing: “Get on board, little children! / Get on board, little children! / Get on board, little children! / There’s room for many a-more!”
Chapter 33
My Gracious Silence, Hail!
The melancholy coo of the mourning dove is in truth a sign that all is right with the bird, for it is the season of mating and nesting. For nourishment, the babies insert their heads deep inside the parent’s open mouth and feast on a unique substance rich in fat and protein, called pigeon’s milk.
“I think one more little shim on this end will do it,” Patrick says, then, “Okay now, hand me the level, will you? Let’s make sure she’s plumb.”
“Plumb what?” Steve asks.
“Plumb level.” Patrick laughs robustly at his little joke.
Steve and Patrick are working nights and weekends on Rachel’s new bathroom. Today they have cut through the wall studs in order to install a new medicine chest. We can hear them quite clearly through the kitchen wall. Perhaps it is because of the hole they have cut in the bathroom wall, combined with the echo effect now that the old tile and fixtures have been removed. Perhaps it is because they are both using their instructive voices as if talking across stock rooms and warehouses. Perhaps Steve, recently promoted to a supervisory position at the catfish plant, is closely observing Patrick these days to pick up tips on How to Exude Authority.
Patrick, having wrestled with his soul, has decided that the Martyrs for Jesus will not go under because of a single remodeling project. Up until now, he and Steve have done all the work themselves, in preparation for “the tile man,” as Patrick calls him, who will be coming next week.
“He sure is going to a lot of trouble for this bathroom,” Rachel says to me. She says this while preparing a meal for Joanna Lebo, who is coming home from the hospital today with her new baby. This is a meal that could feed a family of ten.
“That is Patrick’s way,” I say. I am peeling carrots for Rachel and slicing them into long strips. It is not enough to do them the easy way. For Joanna’s meal, Rachel has it in her mind to make something called julienne vegetable medley.
“Bingo, she’s right on,” we hear Patrick say. “Okay, let’s get her in.” This is typical of Patrick to use feminine pronouns for inanimate objects. “She’s a feisty one,” I have heard him say of a thunderstorm and, of a car, “She needs a new radiator hose.”
“I tried to tell him I didn’t need that big fancy medicine chest,” Rachel says. “I was making out okay with just a mirror. But he wouldn’t listen.” She says this while standing over a skillet with a fork. I look at her standing there. In the August heat she has resorted to wearing shorts and sleeveless T-shirts. Over these she wears an apron. She will not adjust the temperature of the air-conditioning for her own comfort. Besides, she says, her body cannot make up its mind. She is hot one minute and cold the next. She goes barefoot in the house but keeps a sweater handy. Today her hair is pulled back into something called a French braid. It is a style Mindy showed her how to do.
Some would say Rachel does not have a figure for shorts, for she is broad-beamed. Her thighs are dimpled columns. Behind her knees is a purple roadmap of veins. She is browning pieces of sirloin for something called Swiss steak, which will simmer for four hours in a covered dish. I think of the potatoes that are in the oven. It is not enough to bake them once. Rachel means to do them twice.
“Both of you go overboard,” I say.
She turns from the skillet and looks at me. “Why, that’s not true, Aunt Sophie. What would make you say such a thing?”
I hold her gaze for a moment and then say, “Mitchell, Ahab, Potts, Steve, Teri, Mindy, Wes, Joanna, Lurlene, Prince. Those are some of the reasons I would say such a thing.” I could add another name to the list: Sophie.
She shakes her head. “Sometimes you say the funniest things.”
“Sometimes you do the funniest things,” I say.
Consider, for instance, the case of Lurlene Cook. Imagine telephoning the mother of someone who held you at gunpoint, who threatened to blow you open. Imagine inviting her out to lunch and sitting across the table from her. Imagine ordering from a menu and sharing food with her. Imagine picking up the bill and paying for both meals. This is what Rachel did.
“His mother must be so brokenhearted.” This was what I heard Rachel say before this event was set in motion.
I must back up. What set it in motion was something Potts did. He came over one night to talk with Patrick and Steve. His heart was “burdened,” he said. “The Lord keeps bringing that boy to my mind.” That boy was Prince, who was still in jail, who had in fact gotten into further trouble by being an uncooperative prisoner. After mouthing off repeatedly, he had finally assaulted one of the guards with a fork he had somehow gotten from the kitchen. Things had gone from very bad to a lot worse for that boy.
“He reminds me of myself when I was his age,” Potts said to Patrick and Steve that night. “I was headed straight for hell and would probably already be dead and in permanent residence there if I hadn’t landed in jail the second time.”
Somebody with a Bible came to the jail, talked straight to Potts, and, in his words, “I turned from my wicked ways and gave my heart to Jesus.” Hearing this, I wanted to head him off. I knew what was coming. I wanted to cry out, “Don’t do it! Don’t go down there and try to convert that boy. He’s a lost cause. He’s bad news. He’s a contagion. Stay away from him!”
“And what made Cyrus LeGrande come to the jail that night?” Potts said. “What made him pick out my cell for his little Bible talk? And what made me listen for probably the first time in my life?” He paused for a long time. Perhaps he saw that Steve and Patrick, like me, weren’t quite willing to go where he was leading. He finally said, “It was grace, brothers. It was only the grace of Almighty God that let me hear the gospel that night. He worked a miracle in my life.”
He gave a laugh. “Old Mr. LeGrande wasn’t even a very good preacher. That man could jumble up more words than you can imagine. But I heard past his words to his message that night, and something told me that what he was saying was the truth.”
It didn’t take anyone with a Ph.D. to understand what he was suggesting.
“So what are you suggesting?” Patrick said. “Are you going to get Mr. LeGrande to go pay Prince a visit in jail?”
“Cyrus LeGrande is dead,” Potts said. “I’m talking about me.”
Imagine agreeing to send help to the boy who had walked uninvited into your home with a gun, who had jammed that gun into your wife’s neck, who had tried to take your daughter from you. But that is exactly what happened. The three of them prayed over it, and Steve and Patrick gave their blessing to Potts.
So Potts went to the jail. That’s when we found out about the other trouble with the guard and the fork. That’s when Rachel said, “His mother must be so brokenhearted.” I must admit something. My first feeling was not compassion for Prince’s mother. It was gladness for us. If Prince had done this thing, surely he would be in jail even longer. Nor was my second feeling any closer to sympathy: Could the jails of our state not be trusted to take the simplest precautions—that is, to keep track of their forks? How could we, the innocent people of M
ississippi, have confidence that they would keep track of their inmates?
No miracles happened at the jail when Potts talked to Prince. Prince did not turn from his wicked ways. He did not give his heart to Jesus. “He’s closed up tighter than a lockbox,” Potts told Patrick. The metaphor was weak, for a lockbox implies something of value inside. But Potts does not mean to give up. When he went the second time, Patrick was with him. And they will go again. Likewise, Rachel will go again to Lurlene. I would not be surprised to learn that she was cleaning the woman’s house, hoeing her garden, ironing her clothes.
“I’m glad Joanna and Wes had a boy,” Rachel says to me now. “When he’s a little older, he can play with Ahab.” I imagine the Lebo baby toddling along with his tongue hanging out, trying to keep up with Ahab. Wes and Joanna have named the baby George, after Joanna’s father. Imagine two babies named George and Ahab.
I finish the carrots and begin cutting the yellow squash into strips. Rachel covers the meat and starts pulling husks off the ears of corn. No canned corn for this meal. Rachel remembers Wes saying that his favorite vegetable is fresh corn cut off the cob.
“Timothy says those glass tiles run five bucks a piece,” Patrick says to Steve. “Did I tell you that already? And the stainless steel ones are even more.” Timothy is the tile man who is coming next week. I have heard Patrick call him an “artist,” a “perfectionist,” a “master craftsman.” For this project Patrick has not chosen the lowest bidder.
“So what did you decide?” Steve says. “Did you order a couple hundred of both kinds?” Steve is a person who says, “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha,” while he laughs.
Winter Birds Page 33