by John Grisham
“She certainly is,” he said.
“Just never found the right man.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Not long. Thirty years, maybe.”
“Thirty years is not long?”
A chuckle. “Maybe to you, but some of these folks along here I grew up with, and I grew up a long time ago. How old you thank I am?”
“Forty-five.”
“You're full of baloney. I'll be eighty in three months.”
“No.”
“God's truth.”
“How old is Herman?”
“Says he's eighty-two, but you can't believe him.”
“How long you been married?”
“Got married when I was fifteen. Long time ago.”
“And you have eight children?”
“Got eight. Herman, he's got eleven.”
“Herman has more children than you do?”
“He's got three outside children.”
Adrian decided not to explore the concept of outside children. Maybe he understood this when he lived in Clanton, maybe not. Emporia returned with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of ice water. To ease her mind, Adrian had insisted, gently, that he use the same glass, plate, bowl, cup, knife, fork, and spoon every time. She poured ice water, with lemon, into his designated glass, an odd souvenir from the county fair, 1977-
“Got the white Hershel. He'll be here in a minute,” Emporia said.
They sipped the ice water, fanned themselves, discussed the heat. Doris said, “He thanks I'm forty-five years old, Emporia. Whatta you say 'bout that?”
“White folks can't tell. There's the cab.”
Evidently, business was slow for a Tuesday morning because the car arrived less than five minutes after Emporia called. It was indeed an old Ford Fairlane, black with white doors and a white hood, clean with shiny wheels, phone numbers on the fenders.
Adrian stood and slowly stretched, as if every movement had to be contemplated. “Well, I'll be back in an hour or so. I'm just going to the library to get a few books.”
“You gonna be all right now?” Emporia asked with great concern.
“Sure. I'll be fine. Nice to meet you, Miss Doris,” he said, almost like a real Southerner.
“I'll be seein' you,” Doris said with a huge smile.
Adrian stepped off the porch, down the steps, and was halfway to the street when the white Hershel scrambled out of the car and yelled, “Oh no! No way in hell you're gettin' in my taxi!” He walked to the front of the car and pointed angrily at Adrian. “I've heard about you!”
Adrian froze, stunned, unable to respond.
Hershel kept on. “You ain't ruinin' my business!”
Emporia was at the steps. She said, “It's okay, now, Hershel. You have my word.”
“That's enough, Miss Nester. This ain't about you. He ain't gettin' in my car. You shoulda told me it was him.”
“Now, Hershel.”
“Ever'body in town knows about him. No way. No way in hell.” Hershel stomped back to the open driver's door, got in, slammed it, and sped away. Adrian watched the car as it disappeared down the street, then slowly turned and walked up the steps, past the women, and into the house. He was tired and needed a nap.
*
The books arrived late in the afternoon. Doris had a niece who taught in the elementary school, and she agreed to check out whatever Adrian wanted. He had decided to finally confront the fictional world of William Faulkner, an author who'd been forced upon him in high school. Back then, Adrian believed, as did all students in Mississippi, that there was a state law requiring English teachers to include Faulkner. He had struggled through A Fable, Requiem for a Nun, The Unvanquished, and others he'd tried to forget, and he'd finally surrendered in bewildering defeat halfway through The Sound and the Fury. Now, in his last days, he was determined to understand Faulkner.
After dinner, or “supper,” as it was called, he sat on the porch while Emporia washed the dishes and started at the beginning, with Soldiers' Pay, published in 1926, when Faulkner was just twenty-nine. He read a few pages and stopped for a break. He listened to the sounds around him: the soft laughter from the other porches, the squeals of children playing in the distance, a television three doors down, the shrill voice of a woman angry at her husband. He watched the languid foot traffic on Roosevelt, and was quite aware of the curious looks when anyone walked past the pink house. He always smiled and nodded when there was eye contact, and there were a few reluctant hellos in return.
At dusk, Emporia came to the porch and settled herself into her favorite rocker. Nothing was said for a while. Nothing needed to be said because by now they were old friends.
Finally, she said, “I feel real bad about Hershel and his taxi.”
“Don't worry yourself with it. I understand.”
“He's just ignorant.”
“I've seen far worse, Emporia, and so have you.”
“I suppose. But that don't make it right.”
“No, it doesn't.”
“Can I get you some iced tea?”
“No. I'd like something stronger.”
She thought about this for a second and didn't respond.
“Look, Emporia, I know you don't drink, but I do. I'm not a big boozer, but I'd really like a drink.”
“I've never had alcohol in my house.”
“Then I'll drink on the porch. Right here.”
“I'm a Christian woman, Adrian.”
“I know a lot of Christians who drink. Look at First Timothy, chapter 5, verse 23, where Paul tells Timothy to have a little wine to settle his stomach.”
“You got problems with your stomach?”
“I got problems everywhere. I need some wine to make me feel better.”
“I don't know about this.”
“It would make you feel better too.”
“My stomach's good.”
“Fine. You drink tea and I'll drink wine.”
“Where you gonna find wine. Liquor stores are closed.”
“They close at ten o'clock. State law. I'll bet there's one not far from here.”
“Look here, I can't tell you what not to do, but it'd be a big mistake for you to go to the whiskey store at this hour of the day. You might not make it back.” She couldn't imagine a white man, especially one in his condition, walking four blocks to Willie Ray's whiskey store, where the young toughs loitered in the parking lot, buying his liquor, then making it back to her house. “It's a bad idea, let me tell you.”
A few minutes passed without a word. A man approached on foot in the middle of the street.
“Who's that guy?” Adrian asked.
“Carver Sneed.”
“Nice fella?”
“He's all right.”
Adrian suddenly called out, “Mr. Sneed!”
Carver was in his late twenties and currently living with his parents at the far end of Roosevelt Street. He was going nowhere, in fact was walking by for the sole purpose of catching a glimpse of the “ghost” who was dying on Emporia Nester's porch. He had not planned to come face-to-face with the man. He veered over to the picket fence and said, “Evenin', Miss Emporia.”
Adrian was standing at the top step.
“This here is Adrian,” Emporia said, not happy with the encounter.
“Nice to meet you, Carver,” Adrian said.
“And you.”
No sense wasting time, Adrian thought. “Don't suppose you'd make a run to the liquor store, would you?” he said. “I'd like something to drink, and Miss Emporia here doesn't keep much in the way of liquor.”
“Ain't no whiskey in my house,” she said. “Never has been.”
“I'll buy you a six-pack of beer for your trouble,” Adrian added quickly.
Carver walked to the steps and looked up at Adrian, then he looked at Emporia, who sat with her arms folded across her chest and her jaws clenched. “He for real?” he asked Emporia.
“He ain't lied yet,” she sai
d. “Not sayin' he won't.”
“Whatta you want from the store?” Carver asked Adrian.
“I'd like some wine, preferably a chardonnay.”
“A what?”
“Any kind of white wine will do.”
“Willie Ray don't carry much wine. Not much of a demand for it.”
Adrian was suddenly worried about the definition of wine on this side of the tracks. The selection on the other side was pal' try enough. He could almost see a bottle of spiked fruit juice with a screw-on cap. “Does Willie Ray have any wine with corks in the bottles?”
Carver pondered this for a moment, then said, “What's the cork for?”
“How do you open the wine bottles at Willie Ray's?”
“Screw off the top.”
“I see. And about how much is a bottle of wine at Willie Ray's?”
Carver shrugged and said, “I don't buy much. I prefer beer.”
“Just guess. How much?”
“Boone's Farm'll run you 'bout four bucks a bottle.”
Adrian took some cash out of the right pocket of his dungarees. “Let's forget the wine. I want you to buy the most expensive bottle of tequila you can find in the store. Got it?”
“Whatever you say.”
“Buy a six-pack for you, and bring me the change.” Adrian held out the cash, but Carver froze. He looked at the money, looked at Adrian, then looked at Emporia for help.
“It's okay,” Adrian said. “You can't get sick from handling money.”
Carver still couldn't move, couldn't force himself to reach up and take the cash.
“No need to worry, Carver,” Emporia said, suddenly anxious to help with the transaction. “Trust me.”
“I swear you'll be fine,” Adrian said.
Carver began shaking his head, then began backing away. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled, almost to himself.
Adrian returned the cash to his pocket as he watched Carver disappear into the night. His legs were weak, and he needed to sit, maybe to sleep. He slowly squatted, then came to rest on the top step, where he leaned his head on the rail and for a long time said nothing. Emporia moved behind him and went into the house.
When she returned to the porch, she asked, “Does 'tequila' have a q or a c in it?”
“Forget it, Emporia.”
“A q or a c?” She brushed by him and went down the steps onto the walkway.
“No, Emporia. Please. I'm not thirsty anymore.”
“I think it's a 'q,' am I right?” She was in the street, wearing an old pair of white sneakers and moving away at an impressive gait.
“It's q,” Adrian yelled.
“I knew it,” came the reply, two doors down.
*
And often the rumors were completely false, outright fabrications created by those who either enjoyed watching their little lies sweep around the town or found pleasure in causing trouble.
The latest one began in the courthouse, on the second floor, in the office of the chancery clerk, where the lawyers came and went at all hours of the day. When a group of lawyers gathered to do title work, there was no shortage of gossip. Since the Keane family was getting more than its share of attention at the moment, it was only natural that the lawyers played an active role in the discussions. Even more natural that one of them would start trouble.
Though variations of it cropped up immediately, the basic rumor was: Adrian had more money than most people thought because his grandfather had set up some complicated trusts before Adrian was even born, and upon his fortieth birthday he would inherit an impressive sum, but since he wouldn't see his fortieth birthday, the inheritance could be transferred by him through a last will and testament to any beneficiary he wanted. And the good part: an unnamed lawyer had been hired by Adrian to draft his last will and testament, with directions that this mysterious future inheritance would be given to (a) Emporia Nester, or (b) a new gay rights advocacy group that was struggling to get started over in Tupelo, or (c) a boyfriend back in San Francisco, or (d) a college scholarship fund for black students only. Take your pick.
Because of its complexity, the rumor got little traction and almost sank under its own weight. When people whispered about, say, who's seeing someone else's wife, the issue was fairly straightforward and easily grasped. But most folks had no experience with generation-skipping trusts and inheritances and other lawyerly creations, and the details became far more muddled than usual. By the time Dell finished with it at the coffee shop, the boy was due a fortune, of which Emporia would get the most, and his family was threatening to sue.
Only at the barbershop did a voice of reason ask the obvious. “If he's got money, why is he dyin' away in an old shack down in Lowtown?”
Whereupon an argument ensued about how much money he actually had. The majority view was that he had little, but was counting on the inheritance from the trusts. One brave soul mocked the others, claiming it was all nonsense, claiming to know for a fact that the entire Keane clan was “as poor as Job's turkey.”
“Look at the old house,” he said. “They're too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash.”
*
In late June, the heat rose to a new level, and Adrian kept to himself in his room, near the noisy air conditioner that barely worked. The fevers arrived with greater frequency, and he simply could not survive the heavy, suffocating air on the front porch. In his room, he wore nothing but his underwear, which was often soaked with sweat. He read Faulkner and wrote dozens of letters to friends from his other life. And he slept, off and on, throughout the day. A nurse stopped by every third day for a quick exam and another supply of pills, all of which he was now flushing down the toilet.
Emporia worked hard to put some fat on him, but he had no appetite. Since she had never cooked for a family, she had limited experience in the kitchen. Her small garden produced enough tomatoes, squashes, peas, butter beans, and cantaloupes to keep her fed throughout the year, and Adrian gamely tried to enjoy the generous meals she prepared. She convinced him to eat corn bread—though it contained butter, milk, and eggs. She had never met a person who refused meat, fish, chicken, and dairy products, and more than once she asked, “All them folks in California eat like that?”
“No, but there are a lot of vegetarians.” “You •was raised better.”
“Let's not talk about the way I was raised, Emporia. My entire childhood was a nightmare.”
She set the table three times a day, at the hours he chose, and they worked at prolonging the meals. Adrian knew it was important for her to make sure he was properly fed, and he ate as much as he could. It was obvious, though, that after two weeks he was still losing weight.
It was during lunch that the preacher called. Emporia, as always, answered the phone, which hung on a wall in the kitchen. Adrian was certainly permitted to use the phone, but he rarely did. There was no one to talk to in Clanton. He did not call anyone in his family, and they did not call him. There were friends in San Francisco, but they were almost all gone now, and he did not want to hear their voices.
“Good afternoon, Reverend,” she said, then turned away and stretched the cord as far as possible. They talked briefly, and she hung up with a pleasant “Til see you at three o'clock.” She sat down and immediately took a bite of corn bread.
“So how's the reverend?” Adrian asked. “Fine, I reckon.”
“He's coming by at three this afternoon?”
“No. I'll run by the church. Said he wants to talk about somethin'.”
“Any idea what?”
“You're right curious these days.”
“Well, Emporia, I've lived in Lowtown for two weeks now, and I've realized that everybody's business belongs to everybody else. It's almost impolite not to pry a little. Plus, gay people are nosier than straight people. Did you know that?”
“Ain't never heard such.”
“It's true. It's a proven fact. So why won't the reverend stop by and see you? Isn't that part of his job, making house calls, ch
ecking on his flock, welcoming newcomers like me? I saw him three days ago over on the porch chatting with Doris and Herman. Kept looking over here like he might catch a fever. You don't like him, do you?”
“I liked the other man better.”
“Me too. I'm not going to church with you, Emporia, so please don't ask me again.”
“I've only asked you twice.”
“Yes, and I've said thanks. It's very nice of you, but I have no interest in going to your church or any other. Not sure I'd be too welcome anywhere these days.”
She had no comment.
“I had this dream the other night. There was a revival service at a church, white church, here in Clanton, one of those rowdy hell-fire-and-brimstone affairs with people rolling in the aisles and fainting and the choir singing 'Shall We Gather at the River' at full throttle, and the preacher was at the altar begging and pleading for all sinners to come on down and surrender all. You get the picture.”
“Ever' Sunday.”
“And I walked through the door, dressed in white, looking worse than I look now, and I started down the aisle toward the preacher. He had this look of terror on his face, couldn't say a word. The choir stopped mid-stanz;a. Everyone fro2,e as I kept walking down the aisle, which took a long time. Finally, someone yelled, 'It's him! The guy with AIDS! Somebody else yelled, 'Run!' And all hell broke loose. There was a stampede. Mothers grabbed their children. I kept walking down the aisle. Men jumped out of windows. I kept walking. These really large women in gold choir robes were falling all over their fat asses trying to get out of the sanctuary. I kept walking toward the preacher, and finally, just as I got to him, I reached out my hand. He didn't move. He couldn't speak. The church was empty, not a sound.” Adrian took a sip of tea and wiped his forehead.
“Go on. What happened then?”
“Don't know, I woke up, and I had a good laugh. Dreams can be very real. I guess some sinners are too far gone.”
“That's not what the Bible says.”
“Thank you, Emporia. And thank you for lunch. I need to lie down now.”
At 3:00 p.m., Emporia met with Reverend Biler in his office at the church. Such a meeting in such a place could only mean trouble, and not long after the initial pleasantries the reverend got to the point, or at least to one of them. “I hear you've been seen in Willie Ray's whiskey store.”