The Midnight Cool

by Lydia Peelle

  Finally they came to the pasture Charles had had his eye on. Four big coffee-colored mules grazed peacefully. They looked to be about four years old, eleven hundred pounds apiece. Prime. Just the kind of mules Bonnyman was always snatching up at the auction.

  When Charles asked about them Pendergrass grinned and tapped his nose.

  You got good taste, son. Them boys are my reputation mules. Gonna take em to the state fair in two weeks and win every damn blue ribbon with em. Get everybody talking. Best advertising I got, them mules in there.

  Interested in selling them?

  Selling them! Pendergrass wiped his mustache and laughed.

  A hawk lifted from the hay field. Charles’s confidence went with it.

  Oh, son. I’m not laughing at you. Sell them! They’re my best advertising. Selling them would be throwing out the baby with the bathwater!

  They went back down to the office. Pendergrass’s wife waved from the rose garden. Her silver hair was done in perfect waves. Light of my life, Pen said, blowing her a kiss.

  Catherine. After she was gone Billy had closed his eyes for a long time, though Charles knew he wasn’t sleeping. Charles had sat down on his bed with the stunned feeling that a bright bird had just flown through the window and then back out again.

  Some girl, ain’t she?

  Billy smiled behind his closed eyes. She sure fast-talked that poor Jack Dillehay.

  She makes me want to be a good man.

  That girl’s got a weight on her shoulders, Billy said. She’s carrying around something awful heavy.

  Charles got up and tore down the fly-studded flypaper. He picked up a dirty plate he had left in the middle of the floor. Then he went to the little mirror on the wall and looked into it for a long time. He thought about Leland Hatcher shaking hands with all the people who came to the depot to see Edmund off. And about what it must have taken to keep news of the stablehand’s death out of the papers. Shifty, yes. But he could understand why a man in Hatcher’s position had to take his reputation seriously. After all, he had the eyes of the entire town on him.

  I got to shape up if I think I’ll get anywhere with a girl like that, he said.

  You be careful, Charlie boy, Billy said, and then he went quiet. After a while he said, Give me a little more of that dope, would you? Pain won’t let me be.

  Inside Pendergrass poured two drinks and sat down behind his desk.

  Charles sat across from him and threw back the drink. He had to do something. It couldn’t be that he came all the way to Scottsville, Kentucky, for one lousy drink.

  Quite a place, isn’t it? Pendergrass smiled.

  Charles nodded. He thought of the sign at the bottom of the drive, the dash already painted in for another championship year to be added to Ponderosa’s list. He could picture Pendergrass down there, waving his one arm and hollering at the sign painter to go ahead and paint it in, with the optimism—no, the certainty—that the animal would win again.

  Glad to show you around, son. I’ve got the best animals in the state, and I consider it a personal crusade, encouraging the next generation of mule breeders. There’s men out there will try to tell you there’s no future in it. No future in mules!

  He pointed to a photograph on the wall behind him. Charles had studied it while he was waiting. It was a remarkable photo, a broad view of a wheat field, three enormous combine machines each being pulled by a twenty-mule team. Sixty mules in one field. Five of them were Pendergrass mules, Pendergrass explained happily, and it just went to show that mules would never go out, that even if trucks began to move all the freight and deliver all the milk and ice and coal and mail and build all the roads, men would never be able to make the machine both nimble and strong enough to work a crop row. In fact, he went on to say, the way the population was growing, the demand for food was increasing by bounds, and more food meant bigger farms, and bigger farms only meant more mules.

  He leaned across the desk. His eyes were blazing. I’d give anything to be in your shoes, boy! Everything lies ahead of you. Your potential is limitless!

  He paused. Where are you from, anyway?

  When Charles said Richfield, Pendergrass nodded.

  We were doing business with a fellow down there, Charles said tentatively. Leland Hatcher.

  Pendergrass’s eyes changed. Leland Hatcher, he repeated.

  You know Hatcher?

  Pendergrass’s eyes went to the ceiling. He put his hand over his heart. Knew his wife. Morning Roberson. The Robersons, from up near Franklin. Big money, those Robersons. And Morning Roberson, my my my. I remember when she came out. The boys around here were all scrambling for her. Then that fellow came up here and stole her while the rest of the boys were asleep. A nobody. A farm boy from West Tennessee. Of course, her father did not approve. Her father cut her off without a cent.

  She’s dead, Charles said bluntly.

  Pendergrass sighed. Yes, I know. She died in an accident last year. Her car went off a bridge. They ought not to drive. They ought not drive, nor vote, nor hold office, nor run around in gymnasiums with medicine balls. Missus Pendergrass calls me old-fashioned, but I’m a man of my times.

  Pendergrass looked to the window. This is when you know you’re old, son. When the little girls aren’t just gone off and married, but gone on to their heavenly rest. And your old bones are still creaking around. That’s what happens, boy. You get old, and then you die, before you’ve had the chance to make the perfect jackass. That’s the sad fact.

  He sat back in his chair. His eyes were still on the window. Charles could see he was far away. Lost in the past. He thought about Catherine, wondering if her mother had looked like her. And he remembered her by the creek behind the fairgrounds, talking about what it was like to drown. Serious and melancholy. My father has done so many terrible things, she said. Things I can’t forgive him for. Sitting by Billy’s bed in the shack, she had seemed so overcome by guilt about the Nashville man. But it was an accident, after all. Even if her father had acted irresponsibly. Even if he had mistreated the horse so badly as to make her into a vicious beast. The man’s death had still been an accident.

  You be careful, Billy had said, after she left. Charles had taken this to mean that he needed to watch out for himself. But maybe Billy had meant that he needed to watch out for her. That she was the one who needed looking after. He didn’t know. She seemed awfully capable of looking after herself. Something about Catherine was like Pendergrass’s wolf. Her wildness was thrilling. Essential.

  Sir. Charles swallowed. I want your four best mules. Them ones in the front pasture. You say they ain’t for sale, but this is different. He paused. They’re for the war. For the British Army. For the Allies.

  Pendergrass’s eyes got wide.

  Don’t get me started about that war. We cannot get into it. Me, I’m a textbook isolationist. If we start acting as the world’s schoolmaster, it’s going to be trouble. No. Leave it to England and France. We’ve got to keep the blinders on. Stay the course here. America’s got too much potential. We ought to take this war as opportunity to improve upon our own self-reliance. Why, there’s no reason why we should need to import any raw material except rubber. But soon enough we should be able to replace rubber. I’ve been studying the rubber problem . . .

  Pendergrass trailed off, looking to the window again. Charles rubbed his face. That was a bust. Not at all what he expected. He wondered what Billy would do. Then, suddenly, he knew exactly what Billy would do. How many times had he watched Billy talk a man into trading simply by first talking him out of it?

  Well, he said slowly, I shouldn’t try anyway. Fellow I’m buying for says he only wants Tennessee mules.

  What? Pendergrass spun around. Why? Kentucky mules are the best mules in the country. There’s no argument.

  This fellow says that of Tennessee mules. Heard him say it just the other day. Suppose that’s where I ought to look. Tennessee bluegrass is better. Girls down there are prettier too. Suppose that can
’t be because of the grass. He shrugged. Maybe it’s the water.

  He stood up as if making to leave.

  You know of anybody down there who can sell me some good mules on credit? I need the best, now. Cream of the crop.

  Pendergrass jumped out of his chair. Only place you’re going to get cream of the crop is right here. Tennessee mules finest in the country—what kind of rubbish is that? He got up and paced to the window. Those Brits wouldn’t even know what to do with mules like mine. Their heads would spin just to see em.

  Charles’s eyes moved to the portrait of Washington on the wall. He had an idea.

  Mister Pendergrass, sir. What do you think old George Washington up there would say?

  He’d tell you Kentucky mules are the finest in the country, Pendergrass growled, and American mules are the finest mules in the world.

  And what would General Washington do if his old friend Lafayette over there called him up, saying he needed some good mules?

  On the train home Charles pressed his grin against the window. He couldn’t believe he had done it, convinced Pen Pendergrass to sell him those four top-shelf mules on credit. He could still hear him muttering as he went up to the barn to arrange to ship them.

  Tennessee mules! Finest in the country! What kind of rubbish is that!

  Working Stiff

  Charles brought Pendergrass’s four reputation mules to Kuntz’s on Saturday. When they came up in the ring Bonnyman bought every single one of them, bing bing bing bing. After the sale he sought Charles out, tugging on his undertaker face and wanting to know where he had found them.

  I know where to get more just like em, Mister Bonnyman. Just tell me how many you need.

  How many do I need? Bonnyman raised his eyes to the sky. How many do I need? A multitude. Mules don’t keep. They’re not hams, or ammunition, or bandages. The Allies need a steady supply. My agents work night and day. They work like dogs.

  Charles squared his shoulders and took a breath. I’m your man, he said.

  The job was his, on one condition. No funny business, Bonnyman said. He looked at him long and hard. No shoe polish.

  Yessir. No shoe polish.

  Bonnyman gave him a checkbook. It was big and leather, with gilt edges. roan and huntington mule company was embossed on the front. Charles stared at it in awe.

  There’s one thing, Mister Bonnyman. I got a partner and he’s got to be in on it too.

  I don’t care if it’s you, your ma, your pa, and three uncles, Bonnyman replied. You bring me the mules, I write you the paycheck.

  Back at the shack, Billy had run out of dope. He had pulled himself out of bed and was digging through the kit, looking for something to take. When Charles showed him the checkbook, he seemed to forget all about the pain. Sat down and held his ribs and laughed.

  I should have known you would do it, Charlie boy. Look at you. Paycheck and a real job. Reckon the first thing you’re gonna want to do is run tell Leland Hatcher your blood’s as blue as his.

  Leland Hatcher’s a farm boy. Pen Pendergrass told me so. It was Catherine’s mother who came from good people. Hatcher, he came up from nothing. Charles studied the checkbook. Gives a fellow hope, actually. That a man can make a fortune like that, coming up from nothing.

  Well what’s his daughter going to say when she hears you’re working for the British Army?

  Charles grinned.

  I do believe she’ll like it just fine.

  It was a week of cool weather, perfect for traveling. In the trees industrious squirrels labored and the smell of skunk was on the air. Charles went out to the feedlots, places out beyond the edge of town where young mules were fattened and sold. Many run by shady characters. At some of those places he would look over sixty head of mules and not take any. Bonnyman had schooled him on the specifications for size and weight and condition. Once they went down to Nashville they had to pass a strict inspection by the British officers.

  When he came back through town with mules tied to the back of the wagon, he tipped his hat to everyone who passed.

  Where you taking them mules?

  To the war!

  On Friday afternoon he finally saw Catherine on one of these trips through town. He halted Gin at the corner and looked down at her from the wagon bench, grinning.

  She looked up at him and smiled big. My, she said, her eyes going to the mules and back to him. You’ve got your hands full.

  Nothing I can’t handle. His heart felt as if it might burst out of his shirt.

  Well I don’t doubt that, she said, looking at him through her lashes.

  He stuttered a moment, remembering how she had charmed Jack Dillehay with the exact same look. Then he composed himself, shifting the reins in his hand and sitting up straighter.

  I’ve got a big job to do. I’m working for the British Army now.

  Her smile changed at this. Fell a little.

  But I thought you were going to take me away from here. She was joking, he knew. Yet there was real disappointment in her voice.

  Well, he said, these days it’s not just do your bit for the war. It’s do your all.

  He could feel the mules shifting around behind him, all that muscle and power and strength. He thought of Pen Pendergrass and grinned again.

  And Tennessee mules are the finest mules in the whole wide world.

  The next day he delivered the mules to Bonnyman at Kuntz’s. Bonnyman had brought with him a mule gas mask, and out in the lot he took one of Charles’s mules from the line at the fence and showed him how it worked, slipping it over the mule’s nose and buckling it behind his ears. It looked like a giant paper bag and the mule stood there with a long-suffering look in his eyes until Bonnyman unbuckled it.

  That’s all we do, he said, hanging it on the fence and retying the mule. That’s the sole training we give them, before we send them over, is get them used to one of these. There’s a big difference between a war horse and a war mule. War horse, you’ve got to prepare him, train him to ignore the gunfire and the shells and the confusion of the battlefield. But you can’t train a mule for that. Mule’s too smart. When it comes down to the action, a horse reacts. But a mule thinks, then acts. You can’t simply just inure him to the bullets and shells.

  Shorty was standing there, listening. His crusty eye had cleared up. He was wearing a new cap, many sizes too big but new all the same.

  I’d rather have me a war horse than a war mule, Shorty said. Any day.

  Bonnyman looked down at him. Well I’m sorry to say the days of the glorious cavalry charge are over. The days of brisk, decisive battles are over. In this war, ground is gained by mere feet, mere inches, carved out in the mud by men wriggling on their balls and bellies. Not by galloping charges on swift stallions. No. This is a mule’s war.

  The mule reached out and lipped the gas mask, curious. Bonnyman pushed his big ironing board head away.

  The gas, he said, they say it smells like lilacs. Or new-mown hay. He tapped the mask. You smell that and you got about twenty seconds to get this on before your lungs turn to a bloody pulp. The animals are the worst gas cases. Because you can’t explain to them what’s happened. They go mad with the pain.

  He tugged the brim of his derby. Shorty. Take these mules on back to the boxcar.

  How much longer they gonna keep fighting, anyway?

  Twitch, passing with a wheelbarrow, heard this and stopped.

  The longer they keep at it, the more money you make off of it, right, Mister Bonnyman?

  Bonnyman rubbed his jaw. His long face seemed to grow longer. I was there when it began, he said. We had been over to visit my wife’s family and we were in Paris that August, on our way home. I remember we were sitting at a little café. Suddenly there was a huge mass of men in the street. They were piling into taxicabs, shouting, singing. What’s going on? I said. War! It was going to be over in a month, maybe two. They would win back from Germany what was rightfully theirs. Yet no one could quite get their minds wrapped around i
t. It was too huge. Forces too great to comprehend. I remember one girl, from the red-light district, to every passing young man she called gaily, ‘Promise you’ll bring me a pretzel from Berlin!’ When she turned I saw that her face was wrecked with tears.

  During this story, Charles fussed happily with the mule to his left, hardly listening. Yesterday he had climbed down out of the wagon and slipped with Catherine into an alley. They had shared a cigarette and kissed. He had made her laugh, doing tricks with his hat. He had assured her Billy was going to be fine. And it was true, he would be fine. Soon enough he’d be back on his feet. Everything was happening. Everything was looking up. Ever since the trip to Kentucky Charles’s blood had been humming. Pendergrass’s energy had been contagious. And the success with Bonnyman made him feel not only lucky but invincible.

  War is what Sherman said it is, ain’t it, Twitch said, sniffling and pivoting the wheelbarrow.

  Bonnyman untied the mule closest to him and grabbed him by the nose and opened his mouth to check his teeth one more time before handing the lead to Shorty.

  I’ve seen it firsthand and I’ll tell you. The greatest tragedy of war is the realization that what lies at its center is the human heart.

  Heat

  Hunt mules, look after Billy, see Catherine. This was all Charles now did.

  There was a loose stone in the Everbright wall where they would leave notes. Just a few words. A time and a place to meet.

  Four days a week she went to classes up at the women’s college, and on those days they met there, late in the afternoon, in a little unused boathouse on a pond. Sometimes they met in the vacant lot behind the icehouse, around the corner from a laundry called the Citizens’ Club. It was owned by a young colored man with a sense of humor who put a different sign up in the window every week. we clean everything but your reputation. we will dye for you.