The Vain Conversation

by Anthony Grooms

  PART THREE

  THE REDEMPTIONER

  FIFTEEN

  When he was a young man, Noland Jacks’ grandfather had emigrated from Ireland with the great wave that came to America to escape the famine. He had come first into New York City Harbor, and immigrated through the Castle Garden Depot, where his name, Jackson, had been shortened by a distracted bureaucrat. It was well with the young Irishman, for he was full of the hope of remaking himself into a new American. Before his birth, his family had owned property in Donegal, but it had been taken by an Englishman, an absent landlord. Yet, he knew the property well. He had grown up next to it and had fantasized what he would do with it should ever the family own it again. Many a day, walking with his father, he stopped along the roadside and surveyed the rolling sweep of fields that once had held the Jackson name. He had seen the loss wear on his father, reducing and shaming him. Though the Jacksons were far better off than their neighbors, having a subsistence farm that produced even at the blight’s apex, there was something stingy in that loss, as if God had played unfairly with them by making them Irish and Catholic so when the starvation was ravaging the country, he saw his chance in the great migration. In New York City he lived for three years in a tenement room with a half dozen other young men, working at whatever he could find, living on a meal a day, until he had saved enough money to travel. He took a train to Atlanta, where he learned of land for sale in Talmaedge. It was good land, and cheap. In the generation before, it had belonged to the Cherokees, but the government had taken it from them, relocated them, and given the land, rolling hills, and river bottom to a white man.

  The young Irishman didn’t care that he was considered an outsider in Talmaedge, and queer because he lived in an old slave cabin on his own property, the farm not having a manor house. In his mind, he at last had land, and land, he thought, made any man a master. He didn’t care that some thought of him as an interloper. He laughed at the idea. They were all interlopers, he thought, all there for the same reason: for land, and for the value it had—mineral, fauna, flora—or just the pride a man feels when he stands on his own soil.

  He had owned the property just two years when The War Between the States broke out. It was not his war and he declined to take a part in it. He owned no slaves, couldn’t afford them. Besides, he felt in good company as many of the gentlemen slave owners, likewise, exempted themselves from service to the Confederacy. Conscription, though, forced him into service and he fought in Tennessee and Virginia before he could come home again. Secretly, he was glad the Southern states lost. He hadn’t seen the value of the war, and it had cost him three years on his farm.

  Returning, he was willing, unlike some of his neighbors, to hire the freed coloreds at good wages and to deal with the Union occupiers, and so he prospered during the Reconstruction. The farm expanded. He married a woman said to have had Cherokee blood and built the manor house. The house was named for the shrubbery, a member of the honeysuckle family, that his new wife planted. Spurgeon, his only child, was born soon after, and he took great delight, sitting on the side porch at Woodbine, surveying his fields, and telling his son the story of how he had earned their land. He was not a redemptioner, he emphasized. He owed nothing to any man. Everything he owned he had earned by the sweat of his back, and for that, no man would ever take it from him.

  Like his father, Jacks had grown up an only child, the seventh and final of his mother’s pregnancies. But he had not been doted upon. Mrs. Spurgeon Jacks, Violetta, though hard working, was often in poor health, a variety of female ailments the doctor said. She often said that she was not made for this world and would soon die. Spurgeon dismissed that idea. He proclaimed that there was nothing wrong with her but blue blood (she was a Talmaedge) and that a good regimen of work would thicken it. When she asked for help in the house, he refused her, saying that there was nothing a nigger could do in the house that she couldn’t. Soon after Jacks turned sixteen, just as winter set in, a vulture came to rest on the front roof ridge at Woodbine. Spurgeon peppered it with buckshot, but it did not leave until it took Violetta with it.

  Spurgeon was tall and inexplicably handsome given the looks of his parentage. He was serious, unsmiling. He bore the sadness of the Irish grandfather he had never met, grieving for the loss of land, and even more of the ambition of his father for acquiring land to assuage that grief. There is but one thing that can make you happy, he once told Jacks—that is land. Clothes, jewelry, cars—even love—cannot bring happiness, for they can easily spoil. But land is forever. It is a joy beyond wealth.

  From Spurgeon, as Spurgeon had from his father, Jacks learned the farmer’s trade. He managed livestock as well as he did cash crops. He understood breeding, disease prevention, and fattening stock for sale. He knew all about crop rotation, harvesting, and storage. It was rare, even in the time of the cotton boll weevil (when he grew corn), that his farm did not make a profit.

  Though he had a vast knowledge of agronomy, he convinced his father to send him to the agricultural college at the University of Georgia. He had learned that Vernon Venable, his neighbor and friend, would be going there, and suddenly, a great desire to see the world struck him. He had never been far out of Talmaedge County, only to Atlanta and once to Macon. Though his father had passed along stories of Ireland and New York, and they had the means to travel easily to these and other places, Spurgeon felt no need to travel. In his last years, Spurgeon rarely left the boundaries of his plantation. But the young Jacks, spurred on by Venable, was in a rush to be a college man. Spurgeon relented, surprisingly easily, Jacks thought, but only on the point that a study of agronomy would improve their lot.

  Jacks proved a good student. He never missed class, completed every lesson, even if he thought some subjects, like English literature, Latin, and physical education were useless to him. His social life was quiet. He attended home football games, fraternity socials, and Sadie Hawkins dances. But, in his sophomore year, when young men were expected to make commitments to one fraternal club or the other, Jacks did not, and soon found himself unwelcome at parties. He didn’t mind.

  On the other hand, his friend Venable committed early and enjoyed a vigorous social life. But his studies suffered and he was not allowed to return after the second quarter of his sophomore year. After that, Jacks redoubled his efforts in his studies, feeling that he had no true friends and only a few associations in Athens.

  In the spring of his senior year, on the advice of Spurgeon, Jacks began looking for a woman he could marry. He found her in the rose garden of the horticulture school. Her name was Betty O’Cleary.

  The summer after they were graduated from the University, Vernon Venable threw a dinner party at Thousand Acres for Jacks and Betty. They arrived in Jacks’ new 1923 Chevrolet roadster, a sporty convertible that he had given himself as a graduation present. It had been two years since Jacks had seen Venable, and he wanted to impress his friend with the new car and the girlfriend. He wore an English driving cap and had grown a thin mustache. The long driveway up to the manor house ended in a roundabout dominated by a huge big-leaf magnolia. The tree was aglow, its hundreds of large paper-white blossoms reflecting the evening light. Jacks slammed the brakes, causing the roadster to spin in the roundabout and throw up a shower of river pebbles and dust.

  Betty eyed him and they both laughed. She took off her scarf and tried to push her hair around her face. “Wait until Vernon sees us!” Jacks said. “He’ll hoot.” A thin, dark servant girl came onto the portico with its four ionic columns, and started to shoo them. Mrs. Venable didn’t want them making a racket and throwing up dust all over the boxwoods and the front portico, the girl said. Jacks made a disparaging remark about Vernon’s mother, then laughed and tooted the horn raucously until Venable showed himself at the door.

  “Noland, you son of a bitch. Where the hell did you steal that goddamn car, boy?” Venable shouted, running past the girl and jumping down the portico steps. He ran up to the car, reached over Betty
and knocked the hat of off Jacks’ head.

  Betty let out a soft cry, and turned to Jacks. Her red hair was still blown back from her face, her freckled ears were exposed, and her surprised, almost frightened look excited Jacks. They had spent many hours holding hands and kissing. Once he had even felt through her blouse and touched her breasts. Now, he felt they could become more intimate and the passion he felt for her, that sometimes gave him restless nights, could legitimately be satisfied.

  “Sorry, Miss,” Venable said to Betty, seeming to see her for the first time. He walked around to Jacks’ side of the car. “God-a-mighty, but look at her. She’s about the prettiest looking thing I done ever seen. He raked his fingers across the hood of the car as he walked, and looked at Betty. “Beauti-ful,” he said and winked at Betty. Jacks thought that Betty looked curious for a fraction of a second, and then she opened her mouth wide in a silent laugh. “Mercy!” Venable exclaimed.

  “Papa gave it to me for a graduation present,” Jacks lied. “She cost nearly three thousand dollars, and I’d bet you there ain’t nobody outside of Atlanta got one just like her. Not even those damn Talmaedge boys.”

  “Who cares what the damn Talmaedge boys got? You got the prize.” Venable looked over at Betty again, and then at the ground, and kicked a little at the pebbles, before he looked at her again, right in the eye. “Noland,” he said. “They teach you manners at the University?”

  Venable snorted, a little embarrassed. “Manners is for niggers and fools.” He cleared his throat, “Mr. Venable, may I present Miss O’Cleary, my intended.”

  “My gracious, Noland, you are one lucky son of a bitch.”

  Supper was served on the back lawn, in view of the fields sloping down to the river toward Woodbine. There were only Jacks and Betty and a local girl that Venable had been fooling around with. Old Man Jacks had been invited but characteristically declined. It was a young people’s gathering so Mrs. Venable, too, kept to herself. She had her girls fry steaks and potatoes and boil sweet peas, fresh from the garden.

  Venable kept up a pleasantly flirtatious chatter during the meal, but Jacks hardly said a word. The girl came to take the plates away, stacking the tray high with bones, fat, scraps of potatoes, beer bottles, and plates apparently to save herself a trip on her arthritic hip. When the cake was served, Venable poured a round of bourbon. Though it was prohibited, he had bought the bottle, for a goodly price he informed Jacks, from a source in Greene County. “Let’s make a toast to the happy couple.”

  “A toast,” his date said, “like in the movies? Ain’t you suppose to have champagne?”

  “You don’t know what champagne is.”

  “Be quiet, Ven.” The date took out her compact and started applying lipstick. “You want a touch-up, Betty?”

  “Why Betty’s lips are as ruby as a sunset,” Venable said. He motioned to Jacks to drink.

  “But we haven’t said a toast yet,” the date said.

  “Oh. Well. To the happy couple!”

  “That’s nice,” Betty said. She looked at Jacks and touched the hand he was resting on the table. “You have such nice friends.”

  “His only friend,” Venable said. “Least his only friend in Talmaedge County.”

  “I’ve had better friends,” Jacks said. He took a belt of the bourbon, winced, another, then set down the empty glass.

  “Easy, Noland. You don’t have my constitution.”

  “I don’t want your constitution.”

  “Sure you do. Have another.” Venable poured another stiff drink for Jacks.

  “I always preferred a man who could show some moderation,” the date said.

  “Here’s moderation for you.” Venable poured himself a drink and belted it down. He leaned over and kissed the date on the lips.

  “Ummm,” she said, wiping smudges from her mouth. She feigned modesty and fanned a slap at his shoulder. “Why do you have to be so uncouth? Isn’t he uncouth?”

  Jacks took a belt. The bourbon felt hot in his throat.

  Later they sat on the side porch, Jacks and the date on the wicker settee and Venable and Betty on the porch swing. “Why, there is nothing more to tell about,” Betty was saying to Venable. “I studied to be a primary grade teacher, but my true love is horticulture. I just love the flowers. Don’t you? Don’t you just love all kinds of flowers? At my wedding I would love to have all kinds of roses. Not just white ones, but red ones and pink ones and yellow ones.”

  “Yellow?” the date asked.

  “Oh, they are the most beautiful. At the gardens in Athens they have them. Noland’s seen them. Haven’t you, Noland?”

  “What?” He had heard her speaking, a pleasant soft chatter as inconspicuous as cricket song.

  “The rose garden in Athens? Anyway, they come in all shapes and sizes and colors. I just love them.”

  “You could be a rose, yourself,” Venable said. “You look like your name ought to be Rose, or Petunia.”

  “Be quiet,” the date said.

  “But it’s true, look at her. I’m surprised Noland hasn’t nicknamed you ‘Rose.’ What is your pet name for her, Noland?”

  “What?”

  “Pet name?”

  “The name she’s got is good enough.”

  “That’s what I say,” the date said. “Some people call me sugar and some call me honey. But I just tell them that the name my momma gave me is the best.”

  “What about Cherokee Rose, since you come up from the hills?”

  “Now don’t go calling me a hillbilly.”

  “Oh, never,” Venable patted Betty on her knee. Jacks thought he ought to object. He knew Venable had a rogue reputation. Yet he looked off to the fields, now grown dark. Stars were beginning to shimmer. The bourbon was making him sleepy.

  “Just cause you come from the hills,” Venable continued, “doesn’t mean you got any billy in you.” When Jacks looked back, Venable was pretending to examine Betty like a doctor or scientist, “No I don’t see nary a spot of billy in you. Just pure Irish aristocrat.”

  Betty did her silent laugh again. “Oh, shut up. Noland, tell your friend to shut up.”

  “You better be quiet,” the date said to Venable.

  Venable leaned forward in the swing and poured a shot into Jacks’ glass. “What you thinking about Noland? About married responsibilities? I just never in all my life imagined Noland Jacks with a wife. And such a pretty, rose petal of a wife, too.”

  “Noland, tell him,” Betty implored.

  Jacks rubbed his hands across his face. He stood a little awkwardly.

  “Legs gone to sleep?” Venable asked.

  “I need to walk.”

  Venable made a sweep of his arm toward the fields and the fringe of twilight on the horizon. “It’s a goddamn free country.”

  “I’d like to walk, too,” the date said. “I need to do something to liven things up around here.”

  “Why don’t we all take a walk,” Betty said. “I’d like to see the place.”

  “You won’t see much in the dark.” Venable said. “I just as soon sit here.”

  Jacks started down the stairs and the date got up and followed. She gave a glance at Venable. “Y’all coming?”

  “In a minute,” Venable said. “Let me finish my drink.”

  “Your drink!” the date said. “I prefer a man who knows his moderation.”

  “Who gives a damn what you prefer?” Venable said quietly.

  Jacks stood at the bottom on the steps for a moment, his mind busied with the annoyance of the date. Then he remembered Betty and turned to her. She had the excited, frightened look again, and the look excited him. It was, to him, a look of extraordinary and unique beauty, like the exotica of some Shahrazad whose veil he would soon be slowly lifting: red curls, freckles on her neck, and full lips, nearly as full as a colored girl’s. She was a rose, all right, just as Venable had said. She was a half-opened blossom and kissing her was like rubbing soft petals across his lips.

 
“Where we going?” the date asked. She slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow, and when he didn’t hook it, she reached down and took his hand. “Alone, at last,” she said and giggled. “Oh, don’t be so stiff, I’m only teasing you.” They began to walk down toward the barns. Faintly, the odors of both jasmine and rain were in the air. “Noland, you are a peculiar man. Don’t get me wrong. You let Ven sit up there and flirt with your girl and don’t say a thing.”