The Vain Conversation

by Anthony Grooms

  “What’s that, Momma?” Lonnie and the woman both leaned in close to Aileen’s mouth. “In Him … we have … redemption.…”

  The woman finished the phrase. “Through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of his Grace. Ephesians, chapter one, verse seven.”

  Lonnie was quiet for a moment. His mother was dying and he didn’t know what to feel. He didn’t think he would miss her. He knelt by the bed and squeezed her hand. Lightly, she squeezed back. Her eyelids fluttered and closed. Her pale face, moist and cool to Lonnie’s touch, occasionally twitched. Her shallow breathing rattled and paused for long times. A quarter of an hour passed while he held her hand and he began to sob. He sucked in great chest-fulls of air, and bellowed. When he had gotten control of himself, still holding his mother’s hand, the beatific woman, as if making a benediction, said, “For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through our redeemer, Christ Jesus.” The next morning, with yet another church woman by her bedside, Aileen died.

  Lonnie had been sleeping, and was awoken, he rushed into the death room. Three women were attending Aileen, sponging down her corpse in preparation for the undertaker. He stood at the threshold and watched, and then feeling acutely useless, he went back to his room.

  He thought he should cry, but could not, even though he felt he was filling with grief and fright. “Why? Why? Why?” It didn’t make sense, this life. Why live at all, if so little good would come of it? The only answer he got from the whitewashed plaster walls of his room was that his question was incomplete. It was not a question of why his mother was dead. It was instead, indeed, a question of why any of it happened. From the beginning. From the day Venable ran over Toby. From the day Bertrand gave them the grouse. Why had Eliza died even before she was born? And his father? His years of wandering, he realized had also been years of hiding. Hiding from Venable and Jacks, but also from himself, from life, and from what he knew he had to do. He had hidden in the narrow, weedy lanes of Cabbagetown; he had hidden in the swells of ocean and in the Navy galleys and brigs; he had hidden behind a persona with a van dyke and dog collar, and then behind an unkempt beard and long hair and nakedness. He had hidden in the paisley haze of marijuana smoke and the stinking slosh of cheap beer. He had hidden under the blare of loud music and wild dancing. “Cease fire,” the statue commanded, and yet who among them listened? Not Venable, not Jacks—not even Mr. Jacks who was supposed to have been better than the others. He was supposed to have been the reasonable one, the calm one, the one who would not let things get out of hand. And yet things had gotten out of hand, and everything had been ruined. Bertrand had been killed and Bertrand’s wife and the yellow man who was so friendly to him and the man’s girlfriend and the baby, too. And his mother, Aileen, had done nothing. Only once had she even come outside the screen door when Bertrand was around, and yet her name had been dragged through a toilet and she had been run out like a whore, his mother and himself, too. A whore and a whore’s son. Nigger-lovers! And yet, he had loved Bertrand—nigger or not—he had loved the man.

  Once Bertrand had shown him how to dance, and he had become frightened and ran. It was the dancing, he thought at last, the dancing that led to something. I don’t know. The dancing had led him to see something he hadn’t wanted to see. Why had he been allowed to see it? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know what you come here for—

  His eyes teared up and his hand shook as he lit a cigarette and sucked in smoke. His face and chest felt hot as he exhaled and watched a column of smoke rise toward the joists in the unpaneled ceiling. He realized, then, something he had felt a long time. He hated. He hated Venable. He hated Jacks. He hated. He hated. He hated.

  He had driven into the country, the hills and forests closing in on either side of the road and swallowing his view from the windshield to the rear. He turned onto State Route 11 and then 15, then onto smaller and smaller roads; the sky became stormy and the landscape darkened, and the thickets—Virginia creeper and kudzu—rose like ogres along the road banks. He felt he was reverting to the boy he once was, ignorant of everything and innocent of nothing, and he grew more and more uncertain of his purpose. Everyman is his own redeemer. He reminded himself. Is that what the Bible said? What did the Bible matter? I am my own redeemer. He recalled that his mother would have disagreed and relied on the Lord, but where had that gotten her? She had been worked to death and now lay on a cooling board at Patterson’s. It wasn’t her hard life or even her death that angered him most. It was how they had sullied her—Jacks and Crookshank—and then, with saccharine sanctimony, robbed her of the little house and sent her packing. And all because Bertrand was kind to her. Bertrand, his father’s friend.

  At first he didn’t recognized the town of Bethany. It seemed a faint impression of itself, practically empty of people except for a bench-full of elderly black men, sitting with legs crossed, fanning at gnats, taking squint-eyed notice of his passing. Though unsure, he drove steadily toward Woodbine. His stomach seemed to float up into his chest, as one in freefall. He did not even slow when he passed over the river where the old iron bridge once stood, now replaced by a concrete span. Not when he passed the old homestead, now a fallow field—in fact, he didn’t even recognize it. He would have passed by the entrance to Woodbine, too, had not the tree-lined entrance and the somewhat worn manor house seemed familiar. Then, as if he were as much an observer of his actions as he was the progenitor of them, he applied brakes hard and skidded along the road. The pistol, his father’s service revolver, fell out of the passenger seat onto the floor. For a moment he didn’t know what it was there for, and then it scared him. Jesus was scared. Yes, Jesus was scared and Bertrand was scared, too.

  The cornfields at Woodbine glowed yellow in the stormy light, and the clouds above them were colossal black and purple blooms. Now and again, tongues of lightning jagged the clouds. He parked, climbed the porch stairs, noting the chipped and peeling paint of the stair railing. Responding to a call to come around to the side porch, Lonnie stepped slowly. His weight, slight as it was, dangerously depressed the squeaking planks. With the pistol in his waistband covered by the hem of his tee shirt, he walked stiffly, aware that the gun pointed at his groin. The man called again, adding a curse word, and a woman shouted for the man to be quiet. Taking a deep breath, Lonnie presented himself.

  The side porch was long and narrow. It was set with a rocking chair, an ottoman and a small wicker table, and it looked out on an expanse of fields that seemed to stretch to the horizon. A gaunt man sat in a wheelchair that faced him.

  “Well?” The man said, squinting through heavy rimmed glasses that sat crooked on his face. Before Lonnie could answer, the man admonished him. “If you are selling any goddamn bibles or encyclopedias, you are wasting your time. In fact, if you are selling anything at all—”

  “He might have something I want,” the woman called from just inside the door.

  “He’s got nothing you want,” the man said to the woman, and then to Lonnie. “Well?”

  “Mr. Jacks?” Lonnie swallowed the words and was not sure he had said them above a mumble. His jaw was sore from the beating in the park, and he felt it when he opened his mouth.

  “What do you want? You one of Betty’s boys?”

  Lonnie shifted his weight to his bad foot and back again. This was not the Jacks he expected. No longer a tall, square-shouldered man, the man before him was boney, wrinkled—if anything, a curmudgeon. Jacks wiped drool from the corner of his mouth, blush with a rash.

  Not Betty’s boy. Who am I? What do I want? Be scared of me, old man. I am your redeemer.

  “Well?” Jacks said again, shifting forward in the wheelchair. Though gaunt, he looked solid. His chest was ruddy where it showed at his collar, and his once pleasant features had become hard, cut deep with lines on his cheeks and his temple knotted with veins. He adjusted the glasses with the hand that held the handkerchief. The right hand, Lonnie realized, was paralyzed, its f
ingers curled against the palm. A newspaper and a pipe lay on the table next to the chair, but these looked untouched. A television played just inside the door. “Maribelle!” Jacks called anxiously. The tremble in Jack’s voice encouraged Lonnie and he stepped toward the old man. For a few seconds the sunlight pierced a cloud and Lonnie held his breath. The light made him feel powerful and recommitted to his cause.

  “I am Lonnie Henson. Remember me?” The sound of his name echoed in his head. I am Lonnie Henson! I have been around the world and have come back!

  Jacks stared blankly and called again for his wife.

  “My father was Wayne Henson. My granddaddy Big George Henson. You remember?”

  “Henson?” Jacks continued to stare, seeming to study him.

  “Aileen was my mother.” Lonnie’s fingers brushed against the handle of the pistol. Quick. Quick. Now. He imagined he pulled up the hem of the shirt, drew the gun out, aimed, all in a smooth motion. He hesitated only long enough for Jacks to see what was happening. Then his fingers squeezed the trigger and Cease fire. Cease fire. Vengeance is mine! But at that moment, the woman, whom Lonnie immediately recognized, came out of the house and let the screen door slam behind her. He dropped his hand to his side. The woman, also, gaunt, was erect, intent. She looked him over from head to foot.

  “Oh, yes,” said Maribelle Crookshank. “I can see the resemblance. Well, how are you, sweetie? You’ve been in an accident? Have a seat.” She waved him toward the ottoman. “Did Mr. Jacks offer you a seat? Did Mr. Jacks even offer you a drink of anything? We have some good, sweet tea. I bet you don’t get good, sweet tea over there in Atlanta.”

  “Who is he?” Jacks hit the arm of his chair with his good hand. “Who the hell is he?”

  “Noland, you be quiet. You don’t need to use that bad language.” She turned to Lonnie, smoothing her apron. “Mr. Jacks, as you can see, isn’t as you remember him.” She circled her finger next to her temple and mouthed, “A little mixed up.” Then in a normal voice, “Out of his head half the time. Comes and goes.” Jacks cast a look at her. “Yes, he has had his trials and tribulations, as have we all. So, do forgive his manners.”

  “Goddamn manners! Who is he? What does he want?”

  “I don’t care what his business is. Decent people offer people a seat and a drink. It’s basic hospitality, Noland.”

  “I don’t care for anything,” Lonnie said.

  “Are you sure? I’ve got a nice cake. A seven-layer torte, it’s called. Oh, it is good—and rich. Almost too rich for my blood.”

  With Crookshank on the porch, Lonnie felt the moment of action pass. He couldn’t just shoot the old man; now, there was a protocol. “No ma’am,” he said, refusing the cake.

  “Don’t know what you are missing.” Crookshank seemed to sing the words. She gestured again for Lonnie to sit on the ottoman, and took a seat in the wicker rocker beside the wheelchair. “Now, tell me, how is your momma?”

  Lonnie had started toward the ottoman, but the question about his mother stopped him. What does Maribelle Crookshank care about Momma? He almost said it, but straightened his body instead and spread his legs apart. “She’s dead.”

  “Oh no!” Crookshank said. “Gone? Passed away? How long? Oh, how I know you miss your momma! I often thought about her after she went up to Atlanta. What a hard time she had, especially after your daddy—” She put her hand against her cheek, a nervous gesture, then looking out at the fields, continued to talk rapidly. “And all that other foolishness that happened around here. So sad.” Snapping open an opera fan, she rocked in the chair. “Looks like that storm is going around, but we needed the rain.”

  “My daddy—”

  “Such a shame,” Crookshank said. “A loss to everybody. But then, he went through rough times—the war and all—but wasn’t that such a long time ago? It chills me to think how long I have been on this earth—you’re still young—you think nothing of time—but I am constantly aware, at my age, that time is passing, and fast.” In a quick, sharp motion, she swatted the fan against the side of the chair. “And look at me now, just sitting here looking at the clouds pass—rocking and looking at the clouds—like an old lady. But I am not that old! Sitting around, that never was me. Tell me, ahh—Johnnie—do I look old to you?”

  Lonnie started to correct her, but her question made him trip over his words.

  “I don’t expect you to answer. It’s not a question that a gentleman would answer. It’s just to say that—I am not old. Mr. Jacks is old. He’s retired in the worst kind of way. He has conquered his kingdom and now settled in it. Like Augustus Caesar. He thinks this, this little bitty Woodbine, is the whole of the world.”

  “Shut up,” Jacks said, not looking at her.

  “It’s not even a decent plantation. It’s more like a jail house.” She looked at Lonnie, rolling her eyes at Jacks. The gesture felt both intrusive and intimate to Lonnie. Involuntarily, he stepped back, and then forward.

  Oh, Johnnie, you have a bad leg. Please, take a seat. You just standing there is likely to make me nervous. How come you got a bad leg, sugar?” She bared here teeth, a smile. “I am not going to ask you to sit again. I have asked three times now, so my duty is finished. Anyway, how did you hurt your leg, sweetie.”

  “In the Navy.” Hesitantly, he took the seat. Wait. The moment will come. Soon. From where he sat he could see Jacks’s paralyzed hand, fingers swollen, the nails long.

  “The Navy! You hear that Noland? Johnnie was in the Navy. I want to hear about all the places you have been. I’m going to travel, too. When we were married, Mr. Jacks promised me travel. But all he did was to take my restaurant from me—you remember my restaurant, don’t you? Maribelle’s. I recall that you and your family visited often. And we had the best food in that little place. Did you come through Bethany? Did you see it, now? All boarded up. He took my restaurant—and boarded it up. We didn’t need it, he said. A wife’s place is in the home. What does he know about a wife?”

  “Shut up.” Jacks voice pitched high.

  “Shut up, yourself. You might own Woodbine, but you will never own me.” They were quiet for a moment, both seeming to catch their breaths, both looking over the railing at the fields. Lonnie, too, breathed heavily. He felt things were wrong. He had come to confront Jacks, but Maribelle Crookshank was in the way. Kill her, too.

  Crookshank smiled unevenly. “Anyway, tell me about your travels. Where have you been? Did you go to Europe? Ohhh, Europe! I’ve got my Fodor’s, my Fielding’s and my Frommer’s. I am ready for my grand tour.” She looked at Jacks. “And it will come to pass. It’s not a waste of money if it makes you happy.”

  “We—in the Navy—we didn’t go to Europe. We were assigned to the South Pacific.”

  Crookshank looked disappointed. “You went to Hawai’i, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Tahiti?”

  “Once.”

  “And Fiji.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She seemed to brighten and leaned forward in the rocker. “And I bet, Formosa.”

  “No, ma’am. But we went to Japan.”

  “Oh, yes. Tokyo. I bet that was interesting.”

  “And Australia.”

  “Now that’s another place I’d love to go. You hear so much about it. And they are white there and they speak good English.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I don’t think the boy came to give you a world tour. She fancies herself a jet setter, a goddamn Hollywood movie star. She’s just a country woman, rooted right here.”

  Crookshank scowled at Jacks’ interruption. “But can’t I just have nice conversation?” She flicked the fan, “Or maybe he came to rescue me from this … this penitentiary. Look out there,” she pointed toward the fields. “Nothing. Nothing but dirt, and mud and flies. Good Lord, I want to move back to town so bad … it … it upsets me.” She looked at Lonnie, pleadingly, as if he had indeed come to take her to town. He met her eyes and then, looked down
at his feet.

  The moment was coming again. He felt it swelling up in him. His biceps and forearms twitched.

  Crookshank broke the silence. “Now, sugar, what brings you here? Just passing through? You heard about Mr. Venable? Such a good man, too.”

  Again, Lonnie met her eye. Liar. He remembered her asking, “May I say, ‘You betcha?’” You betcha, my ass. He looked at the old man whose attention had drifted. What brings me here? He snorted, smiled, said quietly, “To kill you.”

  Crookshank leaned forward as if to hear better, then she sat back forcibly in the rocking chair. “Me? What have I done?” She looked nervously toward Jacks, but he seemed unaware. She shifted forward in her chair. “What did you say?”

  Her discomfiture made Lonnie smile. “I said I am going to kill you.” He emphasized “kill,” reminding himself of Aza X.

  Crookshank glanced left and right as if looking for a weapon or a route of escape. She sat deep in the chair and rocked it forward hard to get her feet under her, but fell back. Then, eyes on Lonnie, she shook the shoulder of Jack’s paralyzed arm. After a bit of fumbling that made Lonnie chuckle, she got the old man’s attention. “Tell him what you said,” she said to Lonnie.

  “I said I am going to kill you.”

  “Kill me?” Jacks looked at his wife, quizzically.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Are you one of Betty’s boys?”

  “He’s that Henson boy.” Crookshank shouted at him. “That Henson woman’s boy.” Jacks continued to look perplexed. “The one that went off to Atlanta back in—Lord, Johnnie, that was so long ago. Whatever happened then has been long put to rest. You can’t have bad feelings about something that happened that long ago.”

  Feelings? Why would I have bad feelings? First of all there was only one feeling and it was neither good nor bad, broken now and again by what he thought might have been moments of happiness. In the galley of the USS Bennington. With Aza X. With the cousins, Klara and Katrina. But in those moments, he was only a buffoon—Lonny, honey. A pathetic little cracker. A yellow cur that wants a bone. A white nigger—And like clockwork, he fell back into the dronish sleep-walk of his life. Once, though, he had breathed and was alive. When he hunted with his father; when he picked blackberries on Christmas Hill; or, planted the garden with Bertrand. He had danced! The old bitch is right. That happened long ago.