The Midnight Cool

by Lydia Peelle

  Charles was coming up towards Court Square from the depot, where he had spent the afternoon watching the trains come in. The giant colored man on the goat cart had been there. Bud Morgan, he now knew. He sold picture postcards of himself and his goats and met the trains like clockwork. Charles had tried to buy a postcard for a nickel, but Bud Morgan hustled him into three for a dime.

  The matinee show at the Paradise Theater had just let out. Cherry Orchard Tisdale stood outside the door with her collection box, soliciting donations for the Richfield Society for the Aid of the Fatherless Children of France. She waved him over. She was wearing an elaborate little hat, trimmed with a trembling ostrich feather, dyed black, and a little whip that kept shaking at him like a scolding finger.

  Afraid I still got no money, he said, looking at his feet. She was standing awfully close to him, so close the whip on her hat almost tickled his chin. Sweat sprang out under his arms.

  Oh, that’s alright! Her voice was bright and tinny. I just want to talk to you.

  We nearly got that horse cured, he said shortly.

  She said she didn’t want to talk about the horse, that she only wanted to apologize for Edmund. They were engaged, she explained, and he tended to get jealous. It was a secret engagement, she added with a wink. They had to figure out how to convince her father to let them get married.

  He doesn’t like Mister Hatcher, she whispered, pressing a finger to her painted lips.

  A woman came over and dropped some change in the box and said a few words to Cherry and then went away. Charles felt a wave of unease. Billy said that, mankiller or not, he was sure that Hatcher was responsible for the mare’s madness, and that a man capable of doing that to a horse was capable of the vilest acts. Charles could not reconcile this with the man in the impeccable coveralls and the big white smile, the man behind the big thrumming factory on the bank of the creek. If she really was a mankiller, and he had sold her off to him without a blink—he didn’t want to think what that said about his character.

  Doesn’t like Leland Hatcher? he repeated.

  Because, Cherry whispered, rolling her eyes, he’s a parvenu.

  A what?

  Because he’s new money.

  There was no time to work this out, because Catherine Hatcher was coming out of the theater. Seeing her Charles’s blood ran hot and fast through his heart. She wore an apple-green tailored silk suit and also held a collection box. The way her hips swayed made his teeth ache.

  He saw a look pass between her and Cherry, and then Cherry introduced him, giggling. Though I think you’ve met before, she said.

  Catherine’s eyes dropped shyly to her box. Would you like to make a donation? For the Fatherless Children of France?

  The fatherless children of France? he repeated. Then said the first thing that came to mind. What about the fatherless children of America?

  The girls looked at each other.

  Well there’s plenty, ain’t there? Dozens of em right here in Richfield. Scrapping around with nothing to eat. Ain’t no war done it to em, but what’s the difference?

  Catherine reconsidered him. She was wearing a hat similar to Cherry’s, with an ostrich feather big as a foxtail, although on her it was not silly but becoming. Her eyes were brown and gray, all at once. He held his breath. Once again, just as he had done at the lecture, his nerves had gotten the best of him and he had begun to babble. But he believed what he had said, and he could tell by the look on Catherine’s face that his point was well taken.

  Well hold on, Cherry said. I didn’t call Mister McLaughlin over to solicit, Catherine. I told him I had a question but no one’s given me the blessed space to ask. She turned to him. Can you do the Turkey Trot?

  What?

  Or the Grizzly Bear? The Bunny Hug?

  A man came over to make a donation. Cherry flashed a big bright smile.

  Come back tomorrow, she called after him. We’re giving out kisses tomorrow.

  She lowered her voice when he was gone. That was Mister Stackpole. Isn’t he handsome? He drinks.

  Poor Mister Stackpole, Catherine said. It’s not his fault, Cherry. Ever since his wife got sick.

  The girls discussed the man’s troubles for a moment. Charles rubbed the side of his face. His blood had fast gone cool. What in the hell was the Bunny Hug? Was she trying to make a fool out of him? He stole a look at Catherine. She gave him a gentle smile.

  We’ve been trying to find someone to teach us, Catherine said. For the dance tonight.

  Cherry cut in. And you just know so much about horses I said to Catherine—

  Well I don’t know nothing about dancing, Charles said unhappily.

  You don’t? Cherry said. That’s a shame. Well I sure wouldn’t expect a fellow like you to waltz, but surely the new steps—why, you’d fill up all the dance cards sure as you’re born. She raised her eyebrows and dropped her voice. Cat says you keep a knife in your boot.

  Cherry! Catherine shrieked.

  Can I see it?

  Cherry!

  He tried to turn his back on Cherry, to speak to Catherine as if they were alone. The sun reflected off her green shoulders was nearly blinding.

  Maybe we could take a walk, you and me. Or I could buy us an ice cream. Or just buy you an ice cream. And maybe I could sit with you.

  Oh, she said, and he swore some understanding passed between them, but then her eyes darted past him to Cherry. They exploded in laughter.

  He looked around. This was impossible.

  What? he said.

  We’ve got to make tracks to the club. We’ll be late for the Round Robin.

  Round Robin? This time he came out and said it. What in creation is a Round Robin?

  More laughter. It burst like rain out of their lips. Charles looked hopelessly between them. There was a difference in their laughter, he noticed. Catherine’s was heavier than Cherry’s, with a dark abandon to it and hard edges. He thought about what people said, that ever since her mother died her father could not control her. He wondered what that meant, exactly.

  Parvenu. Turkey Trot. Bunny Hug. Round Robin. It was like some kind of code they were speaking. Or another language. He felt as confused as he had in the garden when she told him she thought that the Statue of Liberty ought to be pushed into the sea.

  Two men walked by quickly, and when Cherry thrust her box at them they dropped in a few pennies and kept going. Charles, with a bolt of courage, started after them.

  Pardon me! he said. Sir! Look at these two pretty girls out here. Spending their Saturday afternoon working for a cause. You can give them more than that, surely.

  One of the men hesitated, turned back, dug into his pockets, pulled out a dollar’s worth of change, and poured it into the box. The girls giggled, and Catherine beamed at Charles, but the victory was short-lived, because Edmund Hatcher was coming down the street.

  Charles took a step into the shadow of the building. Edmund Hatcher, dressed in tennis clothes, was less intimidating than he had been at the lecture, but Charles had no desire to explain himself or make himself further into a fool. Another young man was with him, a cripple who was dragging himself along with a cane, but like a good horse who had fallen out of condition it was clear at one glance that he had once been an athlete.

  Edmund Hatcher spun his racket on the tip of his finger, tossed it in the air, and caught it behind his back. Cherry kissed him on the cheek, and he introduced her to the fellow he was with. Wad Taylor.

  My old partner in crime. We roomed together in Kissam, Edmund said, laughing. Wad. Ought I tell her what they called you?

  Wad Taylor blushed and studied the knob of his cane.

  Edmund grinned. Kissam Quick Taylor. He drew out the first syllable. Kissssss-am.

  Not anymore, Wad Taylor said quietly. Hello, Catherine.

  Hello, Wad.

  Come on, Cat, Edmund said, we’ll be late.

  You three go on, Catherine said. Just give me half a minute. I’ve got something I’ve got
to do inside.

  They left her there, finally, after more discussion about getting to the tennis courts on time and a few weighted looks between Catherine and Cherry. Catherine stepped into the shadow of the building beside Charles. In an apartment above them someone was playing the same note on a piano, over and over.

  I got to ask you something, he said. Is it true? About the horse killing a man?

  She looked at him for a moment. All the light went out of her face. She was a different girl than the one she had been, laughing, just moments before. An understanding came into her eyes.

  Cherry.

  He nodded.

  I am so tired of secrets, she said heavily.

  Don’t look like that. We’ve nearly got that horse fixed up, you know. Hey. Cheer up. Listen. If I come back tomorrow, do I get a kiss?

  This got a smile out of her, but a small one. A woman passed and she held out her box. Above them a different note, higher, rang out over and over. She looked back at him, one eyebrow up.

  You’re awfully confident.

  I’m not who you think I am, he said, lifting his chin.

  Well. Neither am I. Listen. I better go.

  So I’ll see you here tomorrow then. Same time and place.

  I won’t be here tomorrow. We’re rehearsing the living tableau. It’s the First Thanksgiving. The Pilgrim costumes are simply the worst. Nuns’ habits. But the squaw costumes are pretty swell. She raised an eyebrow, brightening. Not much to them though.

  Twitch had told him about the living tableau, put on every year on opening night of the fair by the women’s college. It was the most popular attraction at the county fair and every year the costumes grew more scandalous.

  Charles swallowed around a lump in his throat.

  Well what are you? A Pilgrim or a squaw?

  She looked up at him from under her lashes.

  I guess you’ll just have to come see for yourself.

  Brave

  Sonofabitch, Charles said aloud.

  She was a squaw.

  When the curtain opened it had taken a minute to find her. He was at the back of the packed exhibition hall, trying to see over all the heads. There were so many girls on the stage itself—girls hugging shocks of wheat, girls with cornucopias, girls holding swaddled baby dolls, all clothed either in heavy black dresses, or what seemed to be nothing at all. All of a sudden, he picked her out, the squaw over on the edge, with a feather in her hair and a basketful of papier-mâché trout on her hip. Her skirt was the color of flesh and her bare knees were looking straight at him and he had to drop his eyes. His face was on fire. He didn’t like it one bit.

  The man next to him had his arms crossed and was working his hand up and down his biceps. Up and down, up and down, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  Wouldn’t I like to have me a poke of them fish, he grunted.

  Charles walked out. The sun had set. Lights glowed in the trees. He went up to the sideshow and paid a nickel to see the Genuine Snake Lady, entering a small hot tent that stank of human urine, where a coiled length of stuffed cotton painted with rattlesnake diamonds ended in the head of a woman, a colored girl with her head stuck through a hole in the false floor. Her eyes slowly moved around to meet Charles’s and she gave him such a look of contempt that his blood ran cold and he fled.

  It is hopeless, he thought, skirting the edge of the midway. He had spent most of the afternoon trolling it with Twitch, back and forth, up and down. Twitch was talking again about moving to Nashville. If my pa wasn’t around, he said, I’d take all them urchins down there with me and start us a new life.

  Nashville! Charles said. The place sounded overwhelming to him. Too many people, too many streets, too many automobiles. What would you do in Nashville?

  I don’t know. Maybe Lloyd Bonnyman would hire me down there at his mule barn. Everybody says it’s where the money is these days, mules for the war.

  That’s high cotton, Charles said, thinking of Bonnyman’s undertaker face in the shadow of his derby. That’s a whole class of work I can’t even imagine.

  Now by a candy apple stand Charles saw Kuntz and his son, Gus, stopped right in the middle of the midway, where Kuntz was squatting to tie Gus’s shoe. Gus looked huge and a little bit spooked by all the activity, but he recognized Charles and waved happily. Charles waved back.

  Now let’s try it again, Gus, Kuntz was saying patiently, one lace in each hand. The rabbit goes around the tree, through the hole . . .

  Charles walked on. He winced, remembering the sight of her bare knees. He was always watching her from afar. And she did seem to speak another language. He had turned their last conversation over and over in his mind. She hadn’t said the horse was a mankiller, had she? She had only said she was tired of secrets. And when she told him to come see her tonight, it had sounded so much like an invitation.

  Around him boys were holding girls close. Up by the produce building he saw Dillehay’s son, who had just graduated from the Agricultural and Normal Institute, down in Madison, and was home to help his father with the harvest. He was walking with a gorgeous girl. Where did a fellow like him find a girl like that? Even Twitch had gone off to meet a date. It seemed that everywhere all around him life was happening for other people. But not for him.

  Feeling too low to stick around, he went out through the turnstile to get the horse he and Billy had traded one of their pelters for, earlier in the day.

  Got to stamp your hand if you’re coming back in, the man called out.

  Ain’t coming back in.

  The horse was next to Gin, who was dozing in the traces. Charles untied him and mounted up to go. But before he got too far up the road he remembered the poor creature had been standing there all day without a drop of water. He doubled back and cut through the neighboring field to the place where the creek ran behind the fairgrounds, skirting the fence and the back side of the livestock buildings. He rode the horse down a draw in the bank and into the water. The creek was loud with crickets, and while the horse sucked greedily Charles took a deep breath, glad to be away from the flash and noise of the midway.

  Then the horse quit drinking and jerked up his head, pricked his ears towards the bank.

  Someone was coming.

  Catherine.

  She was still in her costume. Pale rawhide and paler flesh, her dark hair hanging like ropes in two braids. When she saw him she did not seem surprised.

  She stood there above him, on the bank. They were nearly eye to eye.

  Howdy, he said.

  Hello.

  Fine night for the fair.

  Her feet in the little moccasins slipped on the slope, and she reached over to the trunk of the tree next to her, steadying herself. Her braids swung. In the darkness her flesh glowed.

  He lit a cigarette and crossed his wrists on the pommel of the saddle. The horse, impatient, pawed at the water.

  She sat down on the bank, folding her bare legs to the side. He looked away. A bawdy song came into his head. ‘Mary Took Her Calves to the Fair.’ All the farmers joked, said they’d never, never stroked, such beautiful calves as Mary’s.

  Well I’m glad to see you one more time before I go, he said.

  Go?

  The horse dropped his head to drink again. Big loud gulps.

  Sure. Soon as we get that mare cured we’ll be back on the road.

  You’ve really almost got her fixed? I’ve been—well I’ve been worried about you.

  He clucked to the horse and rode up the steep embankment. A scramble of dirt and falling leaves and then he was above her. He sat a moment before he jumped down, tied the horse to the tree, and got down beside her.

  What are you doing back here all by yourself?

  She shrugged. Thinking about jumping in and going for a swim.

  He looked at the water, churned up, the color of coffee in the dark.

  A little cold for swimming, don’t you think?

  She looked at him.

  What?<
br />
  That was a joke. She flashed her knockout smile. Then her face drew down. They say drowning’s one of the most peaceful ways to go, once you quit struggling, that is. But it can’t be peaceful while you’re struggling. It must be quite the opposite. Terrifying.

  There was a silence. A frog chirped. Charles tossed his cigarette into the water. She sighed and touched the fringe of her costume.

  Did you like the show?

  I did but I didn’t.

  Why not?

  Because the whole time I was thinking about how much all them other fellows liked it too.

  She laughed a little. When my father heard about the costumes he told me if I played the part of a squaw he was going to lock me up in the house for the rest of the month.

  Well? Will he?

  Guess I’ve got to wait till I get home to find out. If you don’t see me around town, then you’ll know.

  I would come get you out, he said, looking to the water.

  You would? And carry me away from here?

  Sure. I can pick a lock.

  Where would we go?

  Anywhere in the world, he said. Kentucky. Arkansas. West Tennessee.

  God, not West Tennessee.

  Alright. Wherever you want.

  She looked at him. You are a mystery. You are so awfully sure of yourself.

  What do you mean?

  That I would go with you. I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you.

  She laughed again, this time a nervous laugh. He could not read her. He moved a little farther away, trying not to look at her bare calf.

  All the farmers joked, said they’d never, never stroked—

  She played again with the fringe of her skirt, considering it.

  It’s real deer hide, she said. Mary Clausen’s brother got it for us.

  It looks real nice. You looked real nice up there.

  It’s the softest thing. She looked at him. There were shadows on her face. Do you want to feel it?

  Now it was Charles who laughed. A quick nervous burst. His ears burned.

  What? she said.