The Book of Marie

by Terry Kay

  He was overjoyed to find that McDowell’s Barbecue also had crackling cornbread.

  Tell me if you’ve got anything in Vermont as good as this, Jake crowed, making a smacking noise as he licked his fingers of the sweet grease, causing Amy to roll her eyes in despair.

  Well, we don’t have this, Cole admitted.

  Maybe you ought to franchise it, Jake suggested. Build a shack on the side of the road up there, sell pork sandwiches, maybe boiled peanuts. Have a NASCAR line of premiums. I’ve got a friend who knows Jeff Gordon. Maybe he can get a few autographed posters. I hear they love that boy up north. He laughed heartily.

  It was a comfortable dinner for Cole. The dining area of McDowell’s was a single large room with long tables having centerpieces of paper towels, mild-to-hot sauce bottles, salt and pepper shakers, split-open loaves of white bread, paper cups holding plastic forks and knives and spoons. Its walls were decorated in farming implements going back a century, and it pleased Jake to tease Cole about them, asking, What was that? And that? And that?

  Cole was surprised he knew the implements, or most of them at least. Plow points and singletrees and fenders, crosscut saws, augers, planes used for smoothing down wood, steelyards for weighing cotton, notched seed plates wrenched from the buckets of mule-drawn planters. Each had its history—was history. Each had been used by some person long dead, and in his way of letting imagination take over, Cole found himself fashioning fragments of stories of those people as he had done as a child, yet he did not share the stories. He was no longer a child: the jabberer had learned to stop his jabbering.

  He also accepted that the stories dancing through his mind could not compete with Jake’s glad ramblings. Jake seemed to know everyone in McDowell’s, from server to customer, and corralled each with some remembered something edged in humor. Cole was introduced, or re-introduced, to each person, with Jake repeating the same line: He’s our distant relative, emphasizing the word distant, laughing each time over his cleverness.

  It was a pleasing time that would be uncomfortably interrupted.

  As they were finishing their dinner—a dessert of banana pudding—a man entered the dining room and the diners became suddenly quiet, even Jake. The man was large, had a rough look about it. His face was covered in an unkempt beard, gray-splotched, and his eyes had the bleary, dull expression of a heavy drinker. His clothing was dingy, the cap he wore, bearing the image of the Confederate flag, was oil stained.

  He stood near the cash register, leaned one hand on the counter, and let his eyes sweep over the diners. A grin broke on his face, showing yellowed teeth. He said in a loud voice, Well, damn, people. What y’all looking at? He laughed, shifted his weight, turned to a woman who had appeared behind the counter. The woman was squat and heafty. She had an annoyed look in her face.

  Don’t go causing trouble, the woman warned.

  The man laughed again and when he did, spittle flew from his mouth. I just come in to get me some supper, he said.

  You can’t eat in here, the woman told him. You been drinking. We told you about that. You want something, you got to take it with you, and you got to wait outside for it. We got families in here.

  The man turned again to the diners. I reckon I know everybody in here almost, he said, grinning. His face scanned the room, stopped at Cole’s table. Everybody except that fellow, he added. He took a step forward, his head cocked to one side. Who you got with you there, Jake?

  Jake stood. His face was coloring with anger. He’s my brother-in-law, he said, the merriment in his voice gone, command replacing it. Now, why don’t you do like Caroline said and go on outside.

  The man comically threw up his hands to feign fear, like a boxer backing away from assault, then he laughed again. He turned as though to leave, stopped abuptly, turned back. Brother-in-law? he said with curiosity. Cole Bishop? That’s Cole? He leaned forward at his waist, peered at Cole. I’ll be damned, he added. Cole, you old son of a bitch, it’s me—Hugh. Hugh Cooper.

  Cole stood slowly, hesitantly, knowing he was being watched. He said, Hello, Hugh.

  Hugh hooted. Wouldn’t of knowed you in a hundred years, Cole. You look like you got one foot in the grave and the other’n on a banana peel. How you doing, boy?

  Well enough, I guess, Cole told him.

  Last time I seen you, you was dating a colored girl, Hugh said in his loud voice. The grin across his face was deep and taunting.

  Cole glanced at a black couple with three children sitting along the far wall. They were cowering, their arms embracing their children, protecting them.

  Why don’t we step outside and catch up on things, Cole suggested.

  Hugh snickered. Word I heard, you married that girl and moved up north. That right?

  No, Hugh, I just moved up north, that’s all, Cole said. Come on, let’s go outside and talk. He began to move toward Hugh.

  Stay in here, Cole, warned Jake.

  It’s all right, Cole told him.

  The grin fell from Hugh’s face and a scowl replaced it. He said, Aw, shit, Cole, stay in here. I got nothing to say to you. You never was much of a white man anyhow, and I got to tell you, I don’t waste my time on nigger-lovers. He let his face scan the diners, paused on the black couple with their three children. What you looking at, boy? he snarled.

  The man began to rise from his seat. His wife reached to touch his arm and he sat again.

  You better keep your ass right where it is, Hugh hissed.

  And then a man—middle-aged, tall, his face red from kitchen heat—came from a door leading to the kitchen. He was wearing a stained apron bearing the face of a smiling pink pig and in his hands he had a baseball bat.

  Hugh, get out of here, the man growled. He held the bat up in one hand.

  What you gonna do, Judd? Hit me? Hugh said arrogantly.

  You push me to it, you damn right I am, the man named Judd said. He stepped closer to Hugh. You get out of here right now, and don’t you never let me see you come back through them doors. I’ve had all I’m gonna take off you. I opened this place for decent folks, not redneck drunks like you.

  For a moment, Hugh did not move. He swiveled his face to Cole. I’ll be seeing you later, he said in a low, threatening voice. Yessir, I’ll be seeing you. He turned and jerked open the door and staggered outside, slamming the door viciously behind him.

  The man named Judd turned to the diners. Sorry about that, folks, he said. We still got a few people around here that don’t know when to let go of things. Hope y’all enjoy your supper. He forced a weak smile and went back into the kitchen.

  Judd McDowell, Jake said to Cole. He owns the place. Used to be a state patrolman, and I guess Hugh remembered it. Otherwise, there’s no telling what might have happened. He’s got a mean streak in him that gets worse the older he gets. I’m surprised somebody hasn’t killed him already.

  Cole remembered the night of Hugh’s touchdown, how Hugh had been surrounded by teammates and townspeople, by cheerleaders flinging their arms around his neck. On that night, he had been celebrated, his name shouted. On that night, he had been heroic.

  I suppose the alcohol got to him, Cole said.

  Something did, Jake replied. Then: Worries me, what he said about seeing you later.

  Doesn’t bother me, Cole said. I’ll probably be gone before he sobers up.

  Cole, that’s the kind of man who doesn’t get sober, Jake countered.

  The call from Alyse Pendleton came at ten o’clock on Saturday morning. She said, in a merry voice, that she was checking on him, making certain he had not developed a case of cold feet, and was still planning on being at the reunion.

  I drove a long way to get here, he told her. Of course I’m going to be there.

  You won’t be as late as you were for the prom, I hope, she said.

  Was I late for that?

  You know you were.

  My memory’s feeble.

  Don’t pull that old-man act on me. You know what I’m talking abo
ut.

  Okay, so we were a little late. Wasn’t my doing.

  She laughed. Oh, we all knew that, Cole.

  Anything I can do in preparation? he asked.

  Nothing, she replied. The decoration committee is probably already there. Do you remember Greer Maxey?

  Greer Maxey? he said. I think so. She was shy, wasn’t she?

  That’s Greer, or who she used to be. Didn’t say a word in high school, but she’s a dynamo now. Chatters all the time. She went to Georgia Tech and became an engineer. She and her husband moved back to Overton three or four years ago. Anyway, she’s in charge of decorating. I told her just to make sure the jukebox was working.

  So there’s going to be dancing? he asked.

  Of course, and you’re my partner for the evening, she said brightly. Or did I fail to tell you that?

  I don’t remember, he answered. Along with being old, I’m hard of hearing.

  Stop it, Cole.

  Well, if I’m supposed to be your dance partner, it seems I should also be your escort, he said.

  Why, Cole, are you asking me for a date? she teased.

  I’m too old to date. I’m offering you a ride, he countered. You can think of me as your designated driver, which will leave you free to partake of the spiked punch. But if you have other arrangements, I understand.

  Arrangements? What does that mean?

  Maybe you already have transportation, he said. Maybe with Art.

  Her laughter was sudden, joyful. That’s funny. Me and Art Crews. That’s really funny. I’m not sure his lady friend would appreciate that.

  I forgot about her, he said. I haven’t met her.

  Well, you won’t tonight, either, she replied. Art’s coming solo. I just hope he avoids Sally. Oh, God, Cole, she looks hideous. She’s overweight by forty pounds at least, her hair’s bleached to the roots, and her face looks like it’s been coated in wax, she’s had so many lifts. I just hope she and Art stay away from one another. I don’t want any trouble.

  He thought of his encounter with Hugh Cooper. I ran into Hugh last night, he said, but I didn’t ask him if he would be there.

  I hope not, she replied firmly. Between the two of us, I didn’t mail him an invitation. He’s horrible. There’s not a meaner man in north Georgia. It’s sad what happened to him, but that’s no excuse for treating people the way he does.

  What do you mean? Cole asked.

  You wouldn’t have any reason to know, she said. He got married not long out of high school to Nancy White—something that started on our senior class trip—and she died a year or so later in childbirth. So did the child. He never got over it. That’s when his drinking started, and he’s never stopped. It’s a wonder he still has a liver.

  In McDowell’s, Hugh had had the wasted look of a wasted man. Hearing the reason, Cole felt a jab of sadness.

  Six o’clock, Alyse said.

  Six o’clock? he asked.

  I expect you at my home at six o’clock. And don’t be late. I do have to get there in time to check on things.

  Look, I shouldn’t have suggested driving you, he said. I know you’ve got a lot to do.

  Cole, why do you think I called? she asked. Just don’t expect me to look like Marie.

  He thought of Littlejohn’s painting of Marie. And don’t expect me to look like Cary Grant, he said.

  The day was bright, warm, an outside kind of day. He volunteered to cut the lawn, but Amy adamantly refused to let him, saying he was not used to the heat. Besides, she added, that’s Jake’s job. He likes it.

  Jake’s older than I am, he protested.

  Jake’s never had a heart attack, she countered.

  Jake’s a damn slave, Jake said.

  You wanted to take some pictures before you left, Amy reminded him. It’s a perfect day for it.

  And it was the way he spent the morning—walking the farm with his digital camera, taking the photographs he knew he would later print and place into an album to be displayed on the coffee table of his home in Vermont. He knew the album would seldom be viewed, even by himself. It was one of the deceptions people exercised—the pretending of never being far away from the place of their beginning. He knew many people in Raemar who had migrated from other regions of the nation, or from foreign countries, and had gradually reformed their lives, seldom speaking of their homeplaces. It was like a dimming of history.

  He had been that way.

  Gradually—day by day—he had found replacements in Vermont for everything that once had crowded his living. Places. People. Events. Gradually—day by day—he had reformed himself. Not consciously, still it had happened. Until the letter arrived from Alyse Pendleton announcing their reunion, his only powerful remaining attachment to the South had been his sisters.

  The letter had changed things.

  The letter had reminded him there were questions still needing answers.

  He remembered the party for Grace Webster, and the game of fortunes. Grace’s description of him had been: The destination you seek is waiting for you at the start of your journey.

  And perhaps there had been accidental prophecy in the game.

  He dressed casually for the reunion, as Alyse had instructed him. No business suit, she had said. No wingtip shoes.

  It’s not a banker’s convention, she had added. And it’s not a funeral. So look relaxed and lively.

  He wore light brown slacks, a blue oxford shirt with a crimson tie patterned with yellow dots, a dark tan jacket. His shoes were brown loafers.

  Amy pronounced him presentable.

  Don’t stay out all night, she said.

  Don’t listen to the woman, Jake advised. Come on. I’ll walk you out to the car.

  Why? asked Amy.

  I’ve got something to give him, Jake said, offering a grin.

  What?

  A condom, Jake said.

  Oh, shit, Jake, Amy muttered. Then, to Cole: Have fun.

  I hope there’s some of that, Cole said.

  Outside, at his car, Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out a small handgun. Take this, he said.

  A gun? Cole asked, puzzled. Why do I need a gun?

  I hope you don’t, Jake said seriously. But I’d feel better if you had it. I don’t trust Hugh Cooper.

  I don’t even know how to use one, Cole told him.

  It’s real simple, Jake said. You thumb back the hammer and pull the trigger. Take it, Cole. Put it under the car seat. Make me feel better, all right?

  Cole did not want to have the weapon with him, but accepted it and pushed it underneath the front seat of his car, hoping it would not slide out in the presence of Alyse. He was uncomfortable, yet moved by his brother-in-law’s concern.

  One piece of advice, Jake added. Look around when you’re outside.

  Jake, do you know something I don’t? Cole asked.

  For a moment, Jake did not respond. Then he said, It’s a feeling, Cole. Just a feeling. Truth is, that man scares the hell out of me.

  I’ll be careful, Cole promised.

  And like Amy said, have fun.

  Yeah, sure, Cole said. I think it’s going to be low-key, just a group of aging teenagers trying to remember when they were the cock of the walk. It’s my guess everyone will be worn out by nine o’clock.

  Cole?

  Yes.

  I’m glad you came back for this, Jake said softly. Amy needed to see you, and I mean here, on this farm, not in Vermont.

  It’s been a good visit for me, too, Cole replied. I needed it more than I thought.

  He had believed the reunion would be awkward and perhaps regrettable, yet, on the drive to Alyse Pendleton’s home, he had a good feeling about it. It had been fifty years. There would be humor, and humor had a way of easing tension.

  The handgun under his car seat would, one day, be part of that humor, he thought.

  And if there wasn’t enough humor to do the trick, he would resort to advice that his brother Toby had given him in his youth concerning
moments of dread: All you got to do is put it in your mind that it’s not gonna last forever. Just say to yourself that in twenty-four hours you’ll be somewhere else, doing something else.

  It was comforting advice.

  In twenty-four hours he would be driving toward Vermont.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Later, when it slipped into his thinking, he would remember the reunion as a night of disjointed scenes from an improvised drama, with players wandering aimlessly across the stage of Kilmer’s Recreation Hall, stopping to say their made-up lines, then moving on.

  Scenes dissolving into other scenes.

  And there had been a rhythm to it, a kind of easy-dance rhythm. Or maybe it was the way he saw it in memory: in the trickery of slow-motion movement. The good of it and the bad of it.

  Alyse. Alyse at her home. Alyse dressed in a lime green pants suit, with a simple white blouse, her hair having a new-blonde sheen, her makeup so subtle she did not appear to be wearing any, giving her the appearance of a mature Doris Day from a mature Doris Day movie. Alyse chattering happily, her energy at high-level, girlish.

  Kilmer’s Recreation Hall. Refurbished in such accuracy of detail, it was chilling to see, and he had thought of himself as being in a mystic story of science fiction travel, where a colony of ancients had been transported for the purpose of renewing their lives by selecting options not taken fifty years earlier.

  The people there early, busy in preparation—Art and Greer and Connie Long and Caroline Scott and Leo Rankin and Charlie Slaughter—all in merry moods, all greeting him warmly, loudly, having some remembered nonsense to share.

  The decorations. Streamers of twisted crepe-paper in school colors of purple and white. The display table of photographs and annuals and tattered football jackets and report cards and fashion from the period. Old newspapers offering the history of 1955—Eisenhower’s heart attack, the boycott of city buses in Montgomery, Einstein’s death, the Brooklyn Dodgers winning the World Series over the New York Yankees, four games to three.