The Book of Marie

by Terry Kay

  I’d love to, she replied. Where?

  Corner Café, if that’s all right, Art said.

  It’s still in business? Cole asked with surprise.

  Still there, Art told him. Naturally, it’s changed hands a few times over the years—even had a Chinese couple running it for a while—but nobody ever changed the name, or much of the menu, or anything else about it for that matter. Guess they all figured it was what people were used to.

  Art’s description of the Corner Café had not been exaggerated. In Cole’s memory, it was the same as it had been in his boyhood—the same tables, the same oilcloth table coverings, the same food offerings with the same boiling-grease odor. They took a table in the back—to keep from being interrupted, as Art called it, though people did wander to the table, recognizing Art or Alyse. Some of them Cole had known from high school—Zack Morris, Ike McLanahan, Phil Woods—yet would not have recognized them without reminders. He was greeted politely, asked expected questions about where he lived and what he did, was left by each with the same rote expression: Good to see you.

  He did not explain it to Alyse or Art, but he ordered country-fried steak and green beans and mashed potatoes, a side salad with French dressing—though he no longer liked it—and iced tea with sugar. He also asked for blackberry cobbler, but the waitress—whose name was Beth, not Frankie—informed him they did not have cobbler. Too bad, he said. I really had a taste for it.

  He was sure Marie would have been pleased.

  The lunch was spent in talk, not of their high school years, but of their families, or of Alyse’s and Art’s families. Alyse displayed photographs of her grandchildren, told grandmotherly stories of affection that had left her in awe. Her face was radiant in the telling, her voice soft. Art did not try to match her and Cole thought of it as a gentlemanly deference. His own descriptions of his grandchildren were humorous—how they conned him, how he was headed for poverty because of them.

  You’re a soft-touch, Alyse teased.

  I’m a sucker, Art countered in his good-natured way. Then, with a smile: It’s God’s way of keeping me straight.

  You never had children, did you, Cole? Alyse asked gently.

  No, I didn’t, Cole said. My wife—my ex-wife—wasn’t overly fond of them, but I didn’t know that when we married. It’s one of the things I regret, especially since I spend my time with young people who still have a lot of baby in them.

  Then they’re your children, Alyse suggested.

  You sound like my sisters, Cole replied.

  They’re right, Alyse said. I feel the same way with kids that come into the library. A lot of them don’t have great homes and it makes me feel good to know I might be helping some of them. I think that keeps me young.

  Cole smiled obligatorily. Fifty years earlier, Marie Fitzpatrick had tried to help four black children and the town of Overton had bristled at a perceived offense. Six years later, he had been photographed holding a murdered black girl at a civil rights protest, and a black woman’s home in Overton had been burned, leaving one of her children with the badge of scars. Now it was different. The change that Marie had prophesied had taken place. On the surface at least.

  Did you bring anything for the reunion display? asked Alyse.

  My old football jacket, Cole told her. I don’t know why I even kept it all these years, but I did.

  So did I, Art said, and he laughed easily. Of course, I couldn’t put it on with a shoehorn.

  It’s going to be fun, Alyse said. We’ve had a good response.

  At least we won’t need chaperones, Art added. But if Sally does show up, I may need the sheriff for protection.

  You will behave yourself, Art Crews, Alyse said. I’m sure Sally will be fine.

  Art made a mugging, comical face.

  And then Alyse said, I’m sorry you couldn’t find Marie, Cole. I wish she could be here. A lot of us owe her an apology.

  For what? Cole asked.

  For being wrong, Alyse answered.

  TWENTY

  In the afternoon, he took his nap as he had teased he would do. It was not that he was tired; he simply needed to close his eyes and consider the happenings of the day and, in so doing, he slept. In his dream, he was in Vermont, walking in the woods with Dexter Williams, going tree to tree to inspect sap buckets hanging from maples. The air was cold, making puffs of their breathing. When he awoke, he would remember only one sentence from Dexter: It’s a good year.

  It was a habit—or a disease—of his profession that he put stock in dreams, or in off-center remarks he heard eavesdropping on conversations. If metaphor was the heartbeat of literary interpretation—even if the writer had no sense of its meaning—then metaphor, stretched to its limits, could be anywhere. Dexter Williams saying it was a good year was, to Cole, a possible sign that his trip to Overton had been the right thing for him, a good decision in a good year. Being with Amy and with Art and with Alyse had helped to bridge the incomprehensible distance of fifty years, and the crossing of that bridge had not been as dangerous as he had feared. He had expected awkwardness in seeing Art and apprehension upon entering the city limits of Overton, yet both experiences had been good ones for the most part. The few moments of uncertainty, of anxious memories, had not lingered. Seeing Sidney Witherspoon was part of it, he believed. Also the library display of his work, which had taken him by surprise. Amy had been giddy about it, confessing she had spent days reminding herself not to give it away, but was afraid it might have been telegraphed in her mannerisms. We’re going to see it tonight, after dinner, she had declared, adding that she wanted Jake to be with them. He bought the wood, so he has a right, she had added. And I think he’s been more excited about it than I have. He’s always bragging on you to somebody.

  All in all, a good day, he thought. A good day in a good year.

  Before he left his room to join Amy on the patio in her wait for Jake, he opened his laptop, coded in the access number of his internet account, and checked his emails. One was from Tanya:

  Are you still alive? I’ve been expecting to hear something from you. Are you writing? Let me know something so I can sleep without worry. Give my love to Amy. Tell her I tried her recipe for smoked salmon and it was delicious. Mark wants to divorce me and marry her. I told him he’d have to move to Georgia, and that took the air out of his balloon. It’s a sad state, Cole, when a man cares more about smoked salmon than sex.

  The message caused him to smile. He touched the reply icon and wrote:

  I’m fine. The weather is a little sticky for me, and it’s only April, but otherwise I’m doing well. Many things to share with you when I return. Not much in the way of writing. Don’t think I really need it now. And leave your husband alone. The truth is, good smoked salmon is very much the equal of sex as I remember it. Of course, good smoked salmon is not as complicated.

  Cole had always liked his brother-in-law. Jake Gleason was animated and loud and happy-spirited, not at all the image of a successful financial officer for a large chain of grocery stores before his retirement, renowned enough in his field still to be sought as an advisor. In his early seventies—two years younger than Amy—he had a robust, healthy look, one that fooled people trying to guess his age. He attributed it to daily workouts and to avoiding alcohol and most fried food. His only frowned-upon pleasure—Amy doing the frowning—was two good cigars a day.

  Their dinner had a party atmosphere, as always, with Jake offering exaggerated stories of his misadventures while traveling. Having him in the house was like having joyful music played at full-volume.

  After eating, they drove into Overton, to the library, with Jake attempting to calm Amy’s sudden irritation over the city not making a big to-do over the display. It was Jake’s contention that no one on the city council read anything. What did you expect of them? he asked. To Cole, Jake was likely right. He also realized that few people in Overton even knew of his work, and that, too, was understandable. A scholarly book and three volumes of poetry
—poems he himself had not read in many years—did not have the same public appeal of a good John Grisham novel, not even to him.

  I’m glad nothing was made of it, he said. I like it being this way.

  To Cole’s surprise and Amy’s relief, they had been wrong about the response to the display. A small crowd of people had gathered in the front of the library—Alyse and Art and a few members of the Friends of the Library organization, and a young man with a just-out-of-college appearance who was editor of the Overton Weekly Press. His name was Josh Richardson. He carried with him a digital camera with large zoom lenses. I hope you don’t mind some pictures, Dr. Bishop, he said. I’d like them for next week’s edition.

  I hope it’s better than the last one they had of you, Amy whispered.

  There was no formal program for the introduction of the display other than Alyse’s welcome, a bubbly recitation of Cole’s academic accomplishments, with a personal memory of his leadership at Overton High School. She called him an inspiration, asked if he would say a few words.

  Very few, he said, and a ripple of laughter rose from the gathering. Then he added: This is an honor I shall always cherish. I’ve spent some time thinking about it this afternoon and it still astonishes me, and I want each of you to know it touches me deeply. I regret only that my parents and my brother, Toby, are not here to share in the knowledge of this occasion. I believe they would have been pleased to know that the aggravating child they knew and tolerated, had, in some small way, amounted to something. I will return to my teaching position in Vermont with renewed vigor because you have expressed your caring. Thank you for that extraordinary gift. As to the display, I am shocked that my sister, Amy, could keep it secret from me, and the same goes for my sister, Rachel, who knew of it, but, unfortunately, lives in Virginia and could not be here tonight. I am amazed by its beauty, and I am especially pleased to know the construction of it was done by my boyhood friend, Art Crews. He paused, looked at Art, smiled. I had no idea he was an artist. It’s certainly something he’s discovered since our tragic days on the football field of Overton High School.

  There was a cackle of laughter. The applause was generous.

  The picture-making that followed amused Cole. He did not know how long Josh Richardson had been the do-all editor of the newspaper, but it was certainly long enough to have a grasp of the politics of such occasions: everyone needed to be included in one pose or another, regardless of their put-on protests.

  It was during the picture-taking that a tall black man with a distinguished look entered the library. He wore a charcoal gray suit and dark blue tie. He had a slender face with a trimmed peppered-gray beard. And for a reason Cole did not understand, he knew immediately who the man was: Moses Elder. It was not a physical recognition, not wholly. If he had seen Moses Elder on a street in Raemar, or Atlanta, or anywhere else, he would not have known him. In Overton, he knew.

  He heard Alyse say, Mayor, you made it, and he felt an involuntary twitch of surprise.

  I’m sorry I’m late, Moses said softly. He approached Cole.

  Mayor, this is Dr. Cole Bishop, Alyse said. Cole, this is our mayor, Moses Elder.

  I know Dr. Bishop, Moses said. We met a long time ago. He extended his hand.

  Mr. Mayor, it’s good to see you again, Cole said, accepting the hand. Thank you for coming by.

  I’m glad to be here, Moses said. He paused, then added, It’s a special occasion.

  I don’t know if it is for the town, but it is for me, Cole told him.

  We need a picture of the two of you, Alyse said excitedly. She turned to Josh Richardson. Josh? Can you get a picture?

  Sure, Josh replied. Be happy to. He motioned for Cole and Moses to stand beside the display. Let’s make it informal, he said. Just talk to one another and don’t pay any attention to me.

  I’ve read your book and your poems, Moses said to Cole as the flash from Josh Richardson’s camera blinked over them. I enjoyed them.

  Thank you, Cole replied. I’m afraid you’re among the few to suffer through them.

  Moses smiled. Didn’t do any suffering, he said. He paused, let his face turn to the display, then added, We’re proud to have this in our town.

  Thank you, Cole said again.

  One more, Josh Richardson called. He raised his camera, aimed it. The light flashed.

  I wonder if you could spare a few minutes tomorrow, Cole said quietly. There’s something I’d like to ask you.

  I’d be happy to, Moses replied. Why don’t you call me in the morning.

  In his room, after late-night coffee with his sister and brother-in-law—the coffee being an excuse for Amy to critique the evening, or to gossip about it—he opened his briefcase and searched for the letter that had crowded his mind since seeing Moses Elder, a letter written in 1965. Finding it, he read:

  Dear Cole,

  I do not often make the mistake of telling anyone that I lived for a brief time in Georgia, simply because I have a reputation to protect and such an admission would cast serious doubt on my stability as a human being. Last night, I slipped and blurted it out to a nurse who has become a friend—in a healthy way, in case you wonder, and you probably do, being Southern. She was shocked. She wanted to know if I had had any black friends, and I told her about Jovita and Jovita’s children. I also told her about Moses Elder, about how he had agreed to help me teach and how Jovita had stopped us, and it brought her to tears.

  Normally, I despise weeping women, with their fragile hormonal imbalances and melodramatic psyches, but I was honestly impressed by my friend’s heartache, and I had this creepy feeling that Moses was there, making it all happen. Do you believe such things are possible, Cole?

  Please don’t be angry, or jealous (well, jealous is all right), but you need to know that I also wrote to Moses after I left Overton. More than once. Unlike you, he did not answer my letters. Do you think the post office delivered them, or did they see my name and drop them into the trash can? Or was Moses afraid of them? I hope not. There was nothing in them that would cause trouble. All my letters were meant to encourage him, not at all like the letters you receive. With you, my purpose is ridicule because, of course, you deserve it.

  No, you don’t. You deserve my kindness. No, my friendship. No, my protection.

  I wonder what happened to Moses. Jovita told me he wanted to be an undertaker, a job I could never do, regardless of how many bodies I will slice open in an operating room. I thought he should be a teacher, like you. He was smart, really smart. He told me he bought books whenever he had extra money. I asked him why he didn’t go to the library. I will never forget his look, Cole; it was the perfect physical description of incredulity. He told me blacks were not permitted in the library.

  Did you know that? Did you know the library was segregated? I didn’t. I never thought about it. All the hours I spent in that pitiful place, I never saw a black person, yet it never occurred to me they were not welcome.

  But I got around that. I used to check out books and give them to Moses to read. I think it terrified him, having something he wasn’t supposed to have because his skin was black. He hid them in an old cloth bag.

  I’m sorry. I shouldn’t dump all this bitterness on you. I wonder about Moses. I think, someday, he will be a great man. Not famous like you, but a great man, and that is even better than fame. What else could we expect of a man raised from the dead?

  But I also wonder about Jovita and Alfred and Seba and Sarah and Littlejohn.

  I feel as though I deserted them.

  As you deserted me.

  But I really didn’t need you, did I?

  Still, I love you.

  In a good way.

  He put the letter away and went to bed, yet he did not sleep, not immediately. He thought of Moses Elder, of posing with Moses in the library, and he wondered if being there had been a bitter reminder for Moses. Once Moses had been a timid black boy in a white-ruled town. Now he was mayor of that town, serving his second term and
, according to Amy, was highly respected, a man of shrewd business acumen, a man of patience, possessing a talent for fairness. There were detractors, of course, Amy had admitted. A few hard-line racists who grumbled, but were kept in line by their own ignorance. Amy’s take on the personality of Moses was telling. He was more of a loner than a mingler, but was respected by movers and shakers of both races and also by Hispanics who had moved into the community.

  Art had attributed the acceptable integration of schools to football, and his point had merit on the person-to-person level, yet, according to Amy and Jake, it had been the fragile economy of the area that had elected Moses as mayor. Two companies—one manufacturing tools and another printing catalogues—were preparing to move to Overton. Part of the negotiation had been for assurances that equal opportunity for employment and equal representation in government would be in place. It was the reason the white city council of Overton had drafted Moses Elder to run for mayor, all members understanding he was not the kind of person to be a figurehead, a token. And he had not been; he had been a leader. The maneuver had worked.

  Marie had been right: In his way, Moses Elder, raised from the dead as a child, had become a great man.

  He wondered what had happened to the letters Marie had written to Moses, wondered if Moses had them locked away, as he had locked away his own letters from her.

  His mind blinked suddenly, unexpectedly, to Tanya Berry and he could hear her advice commanding him: Write to her.

  He rolled from his bed, turned on the nightlight on the bedside table. Then he took his laptop and opened it and keyed in a new folder, and he began to write:

  Dear Marie,

  I have great news to share with you: Moses Elder is now the mayor of Overton, and no crosses are being burned in his front yard. From what I am told—by my sister Amy and her husband (Jake)—he is revered for his role in keeping the town alive.