The Book of Marie

by Terry Kay

  “Hugh, I didn’t even know her,” I said. “I had never seen her until that day. All of that was nothing but an accident.”

  “Not what I hear,” Hugh sneered. He looked at the men around him. The men muttered agreement.

  “I don’t know where you’re getting your information,” I said.

  “It’s the word. That’s all you need to know,” Hugh replied.

  “Maybe he just don’t want to talk about it,” the man standing near Hugh said.

  I saw Toby moving toward the men, heard him say, “That’s enough.” He turned to me. “Get your gas, Cole.”

  An older man grinned at Toby. “How’s it feel to have a nigger-lover as a brother?” he said.

  Toby took three quick steps, caught the man by his shirt and jerked him. The man blinked surprise.

  “How you think it’s gonna feel to have your teeth lying on the ground, asshole?” Toby hissed.

  I saw the other men step back involuntarily, then step forward again, saw Toby spin the man he was holding toward them. “You boys want some of me?” he growled. “Well, by God, I’m here for the taking if you think you can do it.” The men hesitated.

  Earl Cartwright came running from inside his station. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  Toby released the man, shoved him backward. “Nothing,” he said. “We just getting some gas.”

  It was a scene—a memory—that will rest with me in my grave. For a moment, no one moved, or spoke. I could see fury in Toby’s face. He was breathing hard, like an animal that has been cornered and is ready to die for its freedom. He stood with his legs apart, balanced. His fists were clenched, the muscles of his arms were like ropes.

  “All right,” Earl said. “I’ll pump it.”

  The men said nothing to Toby, or to me. They drifted away, back to their huddle at the grease rack. Still they watched us, and as we drove away, I could hear a shout from one of them: “Nigger lover!”

  I have not entered the town of Overton since that day.

  The visit with my parents on that morning was not as tense as I thought it would be, and from the distance of years, I believe it was because they had talked and had made a decision that anger, or lecture, would not help matters. I told them the truth—again: it was a coincidence, nothing more. I reiterated that I was not involved in the civil rights movement—another truth, and one I have regretted over time. I did not tell them of being fired from the Atlanta Chronicle. I said simply that I decided to quit working in order to concentrate on my study. It was an explanation coated in the gray of deceit, still it was a tactic I felt necessary at the time. My father gave me one hundred dollars. To help out, he said. My mother promised to keep me informed about Littlejohn and Jovita and the rest of her children.

  Before I left to return to Atlanta, I found Toby in the barn, tinkering with his tractor. It was his sanctuary, the place he always went when bothered. I said nothing to him and he said nothing to me. I simply embraced him and turned and walked out of the barn. I could hear the roar of his tractor as I crossed the yard to Jack’s Volkswagen.

  In the days following my visit to Overton, I left my apartment only to attend classes, or to bury myself in the library. Jack Alewine was partly responsible, insisting that isolation was better than ridicule for someone of my passive nature. Yet, staying to myself was more my decision than Jack’s instruction.

  On campus, I could not avoid the stares of people—some icy, some pitying, some sympathetic, some suspicious. It was a rainbow of stares. And I could not avoid the posters that seemed to appear on trees like fungus. The posters where reprints of Ernie O’Connor’s photograph with a single word running under it: Why? By day, the maintenance department of Upton University would rip the posters down. By night, they would magically reappear, even with the campus security office working at double force.

  Wade Hart, who visited me daily, always late at night, believed the posters were the work of a small, rebellious band of students from Northern states. He called them radicals, mostly anti-war, adding that the integration issue was also high on their agenda.

  “It ought to be a goddamn fraternity,” Jack crowed. “I’d join it in a heartbeat.”

  “I thought you were a Kennedy man,” Wade said.

  “I am.”

  “Kennedy’s the man who’s going to have us in war,” Wade argued.

  “Bullshit,” Jack snapped. “He’s got some advisors over there, that’s all.”

  “You wait,” Wade warned. “You wait.”

  And while Wade waited for the war that would flare up in Vietnam, I waited for the memory of Etta Hemsley’s death and for the charred remains of Jovita’s small home to leave my dreams.

  They did not. They were there nightly, reappearing like the posters on the campus of Upton University.

  In my communication with my mother, I learned that Littlejohn was recovering slowly from his burns. There would be severe scarring, noticiably on the right side of his neck and face, and on his right ear. Jovita had moved into another small home in Milltown, her furnishings provided by collections from both blacks and whites. I learned also that a sizeable contribution had been deposited in the Overton bank in her name from an anonymous donor living in Atlanta. I never asked, but I was certain it was from Wade Hart’s family, because Wade had wept openly when I told him of Littlejohn.

  My mother said no one had been arrested for starting the fire.

  No one will be, she added bitterly.

  I never wrote to Marie of the fire or of Littlejohn’s disfiguring from it. And still today, I do not know why. I think it was because of the guilt I carried over what had happened—guilt that has dogged me since the day I stood at the place where Jovita’s home had been, and even greater guilt over never again making an attempt to see Littlejohn.

  I feel that guilt now, as I write these words.

  That guilt tells me I did the obligatory thing and then walked away, and tried not to look back.

  I could not admit such weakness to Marie.

  But there was a simple poem I sent to her, trying to explain my own confusion:

  I believe that when I am drowning,

  I will still be searching for a mirage

  (Oasis of palm trees and cool blue springs)

  Believing my throat is dry,

  And sand is on my belly.

  A few days later, I received a letter in reply.

  Cole,

  I dreamed this last night. We were in the Corner Cafe on Prom Night, you in that silly-funny double-breasted suit and I in my wedding gown of white silk (beautiful, as I had promised you), and the waitress (her name was Frankie, or should have been) asked us what we wanted for dinner. You ordered country-fried steak, green beans and mashed potatoes, a side salad with French dressing, iced tea, blackberry cobbler. I had a salad, with vinegar dressing only. I didn’t need the oil. There was enough oil in the air of the Corner Cafe to open a service station. But I really wasn’t hungry. I wanted to watch you eat. You were a pig, of course. What else could you be?

  You are a Southerner. Country-fried steak, green beans, mashed potatoes. And iced tea. Iced tea is the Southerner’s liqueur, I think. It’s a wonder they don’t use it in church for communion wine. Iced tea for the blood of Jesus, cornbread for his body.

  Oh, Cole, I do agonize for you.

  Please leave.

  Be the runaway that is in your heart.

  Run away to me. I will hold you, hide you. There will be no pictures of you covered in blood. We will find a new name for you, something out of a book, or from the obituary pages—a name used, but not used up. I will introduce you as a cousin, or a lover (your choice, my wish). You can pretend you are a writer and live in libraries. There are schools here which are wonderful. You could teach. I know you say you do not like to be cold, but the winters here are cold only if you think they are. The winters are beautiful. Nothing on earth makes you as aware of living as snow on your face, or the steam of your breathing. You can see your
soul in that steam. That is why I want to die here. I want my soul to leave my body in that puff of steam.

  But if you do not come to me, find yourself another place.

  Leave, Cole, leave.

  Do you know of bagels?

  They do not serve bagels in the Corner Cafe. I know. I called them this morning. I think Frankie answered. She said, “What?” I said, “Bagels. Do you have bagels?” She laughed and (I am only supposing this) switched her gum from one side of her mouth to the other. She said, “What’s that?” and I told her, “It’s like a doughnut, but not sweet.” She had a great answer, Cole, a classic, Southern answer: “Lord love a duck, no. We got biscuits.”

  Find a place where you can order bagels as easily as you would order biscuits in the Corner Cafe.

  The poem you wrote to me is beautiful. I thought I could touch you when I read it. Wanted to touch you. I wonder if you know what it means, or did you simply put down words that sounded right? I shared it with a professor. Told him who had written it. Showed him the picture of you and Etta Hemsley. He raved over it, blithered on and on about the metaphor of a drowning man looking for water. I only listened, Cole. If I had told him the truth—that, for you, the oasis of palm trees and cool, blue springs is nothing but a fool’s dream—he would have become huffy. (Professors do not like the crystal of their wisdom shattered.)

  Or am I wrong, Cole? Do you really understand what you have written? Is your throat dry, your tongue swollen? Can you feel the sand cutting into your belly?

  I do love you. In a good way, I do. In the best of ways.

  On the June day that I left Upton University, having chosen to pursue a doctorate at the University of North Carolina, Jack Alewine and Wade Hart and Marian Shinholster and Henry Fain prepared dinner for me, and they lifted glasses of wine and Jack said a toast: “To Cole Bishop, celebrity.” He swallowed his wine and laughed and embraced me. “You know,” he whispered tearfully, “all this has changed you, changed you forever, Brer Rabbit. I miss the old Cole. God, how I miss him. He was such a grand loser.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Old men cry easily.

  Sitting at his desk, staring at the screen of his laptop, reading the words he had written, he could feel the sting of tears, and he remembered his father saying it: Old men cry easily.

  It had occurred on a visit to his home during a time when his sisters were also there, visiting with their families. At their leaving, with the chatter of grandchildren calling to his father—Papa! Papa!—he had watched tears well up in his father’s eyes, and he had said to him, Dad, are you all right?

  Old men cry easily, his father had answered, and then had turned and walked into his home.

  It was the only time he ever saw his father cry.

  And now he was doing the same.

  Crying. Or part-crying. Moisture, holding in bubbles.

  Still, he knew he had been profoundly affected by the memories he had chased for days, and he realized—almost humorously—that he was older than his father had been when his father had said the words: Old men cry easily.

  He stood and stretched, feeling the soreness of his muscles in his shoulders and buttocks, and then a sudden wave of dizziness struck him, causing him to reach for the chairback to steady himself. His mouth filled with saliva and he was aware of palpitations of his heart. He sat again in the chair, leaned forward, closed his eyes to wait out the dizziness.

  Exhaustion, he thought. Too many hours living on adrenline, his body finally objecting, saying to him, All right, I’ve got you this far, now it’s time to get sensible.

  He wondered if it was why he remembered his father’s words about old men, a warning taking from a memory fragment.

  It was not easy to accept becoming old, and he did not think of himself in that way most of the time. In his mind, he remained young, and the annoying fact that his body did not function as it had thirty years earlier had never bothered him since the changes had been gradual, like an imperceptible erosion. Though he no longer went snow skiing in winter, or jogged or played in the faculty-student softball game, he still felt vigorous, still had a blood-rush in the presence of a beautiful, sensuous woman, still rejoiced over a long walk or the labor of yardwork.

  There was a cliché that being around the young was as good an anti-aging medicine as a person could find, and he believed there was something to it, and that it was one of the blessings of teaching. In the company of his students, he could feel the vitality of their spirit, could see the celebration of their youth in auras of bright colors. He was sure there was a rub-off factor at play.

  He could feel his heart calming to a steady rhythm. He opened his eyes and lifted his head, then stood cautiously. The dizziness had passed, yet he knew his body had not lied to him. His body was spent, fatigued. His body needed the comfort of his bed and the promise of dark hours.

  He thought again of his remorse over turning his back on Littlejohn and the thought caused watering in his eyes and a tightness in his throat.

  By the clock on his desk—a gift from a civic club for a speech he had made on elements of Southern literature—he saw that it was a few minutes after six and he remembered his promise of dinner with Tanya Berry. He hoped she was still at home.

  She was.

  I think this is a first, she said to him over the telephone. A man turning me down for dinner. And on my invitation.

  I’m sorry, he told her. I’m really exhausted.

  You sound it, she said after a pause. Then: Did you finish?

  I don’t know, he replied. For now, at least. I think I’ve gone as far as I want to with it.

  Did you send it to me?

  Not yet.

  Don’t. Just print it out. I’m coming over. I’ll get a pizza.

  I need to go to bed, Tanya.

  Then go to bed, she replied. If you don’t want the pizza, that’s your choice. I want to read what you’ve written, there, at your place.

  Why here?

  Because, Cole, that’s where you wrote it, she said. I’m among those people who believe the body gives off energy when the soul confronts itself. I want to read it in the presence of that energy.

  That sounds like psychobabble, he told her.

  It is, she said cheerfully. I just want to get out of the house.

  All right, he conceded.

  He pushed the print icon on his laptop and watched as the papers slithered out of the printer, landing with a whisper in the plastic cradle of the paperholder. Seeing the words on paper gave his work—and his memories—a sense of permanence. He did not gather up the pages. For some reason he did not want to touch them.

  He stood again at his desk. Slowly. He was not dizzy, not as he had been, yet he was aware of being light-headed. Fatigue, he thought.

  He left his office and went into his living room. His Christmas tree seemed drooped and he realized he had not watered it. Doesn’t matter, he reasoned. It’ll come down tomorrow.

  Tanya would want a fire, he thought. He could at least do that. He wondered where he had left the long starter matches. The kitchen, maybe.

  A sudden, penetrating pain struck across his shoulder, splintered into his neck and arms and lodged in the soft underbelly of his chin. A single strobe of light flashed in his head. He could feel his muscles collapsing.

  And then he fell.

  When he awoke, he was in a narrow hospital bed. The room’s light had the dullness of pre-dawn, a pewter color. He lifted his arm to place it across his chest and he heard movement near him, heard his name called, and then he saw Tanya and Mark leaning over him.

  There you are, Tanya said in a relieved voice. Her face was furrowed with worry.

  He opened his mouth to speak, wanting to ask what had happened, but he could not make the words.

  Don’t try to talk, Tanya said. Then, to Mark: Go find the nurse.

  He watched Mark nod and rush away, saw Tanya brush her fingers across her eyes. She touched his face and he could feel the moisture of tears on
her fingertips. She leaned close to him, whispered, You scared the bejesus out of me, do you know that?

  Again, he tried to speak. Again, the words failed him.

  You’re going to be fine, Tanya said. But, damn it, you’re going to have to start taking care of yourself.

  He let his eyes float to her, forced a weak smile into his face.

  You fainted, she said softly, gently. Your head hit on the coffee table and you got a concussion from it, but the doctor also thinks you’ve had a mild heart attack. He said you may need a bypass, but he wants to run some more tests before they make that decision. He’ll talk to you about it.

  He dipped his head against his pillow.

  Thank God you had the door unlocked, she continued. When you didn’t answer the doorbell I knew something was wrong. I let myself in and there you were on the floor. I thought you were dead, the way you were sprawled out, and there was all that blood from where you hit your head. It’s not as bad as I thought it was. The doctor said he didn’t think there’d be much of a scar. But you’ll have to have a new carpet.

  She was talking in a rush, word spilling over word.

  Anyway, I called 9-1-1 and then got Mark on his cell phone. He turned around immediately and he’s been here with me. And I called your sister—Amy. I had to go through your personal address book to find the number, and I hope you don’t mind, but I really don’t care if you do. I had to do something. She’s coming up—your other sister, too—but they’re waiting until I call back.

  He blinked his understanding.

  She leaned closer, kissed him on his forehead.

  I think I might have caused this, she said in anguish.

  He shook his head.

  No, I think it could be true, she insisted. Having you start the writing, urging you to keep at it. Christ, I should have known it would be stressful, especially during this season. I’m better at my job than that. I’m sorry, Cole, I’m truly sorry.