The Bookmaker

by Chris Fraser

  “How long have you owned it?”

  “It’s been owned by a Walker since day one. My great-grandfather, Cecil Walker, first bought the land and built the house as a cotton plantation in 1840 complete with about fifty slaves. In fact, the back house where you’ll be staying used to be the slave quarters.”

  “The slaves…?”

  “Now don’t worry, it’s been completely renovated and is a very nice place now—been home to many a guest all leaving well rested and satisfied.”

  We simultaneously took a sip and Preston continued. “After Cecil passed away, my grandfather, Elijah, took over the place. He had it a lot rougher than Cecil; this was during the Civil War and then the Reconstruction. But he kept it up, hiring back the slaves at low wages with longer hours. Christ, they probably had it worse than when they were in bondage, but I doubt many of them would have gone back to the old ways.

  “In the late 1800s, cotton was king, and Elijah was making money hand over fist. Our land became quite valuable and he sold about 350 acres at an outrageous price to some carpetbaggers from up north looking to start their own cotton-growing operation—which ended in miserable failure when cotton prices fell during the late 1890s. Elijah’s shrewd dealings gave the Walker family enough money to quit farming, although he did keep growing on the remaining fifty acres. The crops changed with market demand throughout the years, sorghum gave way to indigo, then onto soybeans and back to cotton and so on…”

  “Interesting,” I said, not really knowing what he was talking about.

  Preston paused, finishing off his scotch. “I feel like I’m running on at the mouth a bit here and we’re almost at the point of the story that I brought you out here for. Let’s continue this tomorrow in my office during business hours.”

  “Sounds okay to me.”

  The sun dipped behind the tree line, leaving only an orange and red glaze as a reminder. We hung on the railing in silence until the overwhelming blackness of night dominated our senses.

  Dinner was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, okra, collard greens, and corn on the cob served on an immaculately set table twice as big as necessary. Delotta prepared the feast, served the food, and then promptly sat down and held out her hands. Preston, Matador, and Corynne all joined hands. I was quick to join in as Delotta said a simple prayer and we all dug in. Little Tucker threw more food than he ate and kept Corynne from eating much of hers. It was a pleasant dinner—full of small talk about the weather, goings-on in the town, Ole Miss Football, and of course my arrival.

  The highlight for me was when Corynne said she would give me a tour of Oxford the next day. I looked forward to some one-on-one time with her. Strictly platonic, I told myself, assuming she wouldn’t want anything to do with me. As I listened to her go on, it struck me that she didn’t have a southern accent, not even a subtle one like Preston’s or Matador’s and definitely not like Jimmy Ray’s.

  “Now don’t keep my boy preoccupied there, Corynne, we got work to do, you know,” Preston said, overhearing our conversation.

  “Don’t worry, Papa, after I have my way with him, he’ll be all yours,” she said as she innocently grabbed my knee. I knew this was all in good fun, but I liked it anyways. After pecan pie, Corynne asked Delotta if she could show me to the back house where I’d be staying.

  “Whatever you wanna do, honey, is fine by me, y’all know that,” she responded, probably glad to have one less thing to do.

  After the goodnights were said, Corynne walked me the one hundred yards or so away from the main house to the backhouse. Actually, it was three houses. She informed me they had divided the old slave quarters into three guest houses—complete with kitchens and bathrooms.

  Mine was the first house on the right—the biggest house, the old house-slave quarters. It was quite nice with two bedrooms, one a master with the bathroom, a large great room with a big screen TV, and a nice size kitchen complete with a sink, dishwasher, and fridge.

  “This is a lot nicer than what I got at home,” I said truthfully.

  “Oh yeah…you might change your mind after one night here,” Corynne said, looking me dead in the eye.

  “And why’s that?” I answered nervously.

  “In the past, we’ve had some guests leave here a little spooked—claiming it’s haunted. You know, bumps in the night, things moving on their own, even a couple sightings of some of the old slaves that used to live here.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Well, this was the slave quarters, and you can imagine its history. Now I hear that old Cecil Walker was better to his slaves than most back in the day, but slavery is a horrific institution, and this place saw its fair share of hard times.”

  I looked at her closely to see if there was the slightest hint of bullshit in what she was telling me—not a hint, she looked sincere.

  “You also gotta remember we got a lot of Caribbean slaves in Mississippi. There were more in Louisiana, but many made their way up here, and they were into the voodoo pretty heavily. There’s no telling what kind of curses and hexes and other mumbo jumbo went on around here.”

  “You gotta be kidding me, I’m gonna be staying in a voodoo-riddled haunted house?” I said, starting to get creeped out.

  A slight laugh escaped her plump lips, “Had you going there, didn’t I?” she said, really laughing now. “Relax, they leveled the slave quarters and built over it back in the seventies, but it could be haunted.”

  I gave a good-natured laugh, “Screwing with the new guy, the city boy, real nice.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, still laughing. “I had to. I knew you’d buy into it. I’ve never seen anyone more out of his element. But don’t you worry, we’ll get you situated.”

  She said good night and headed off into the opaque night. I lit up a Camel then emptied my bag onto the bed and put away the few clothes I had. Then I made sure I’d brought my lap-top, mini-tape recorder, writing pads, and all the CD’s I knew I would need. Exhausted, I fell into bed and drifted off to sleep.

  7

  The knock at the door woke me out of a deep sleep. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 9:17—far too early for this kind of ruckus. I opened the door in just my boxers; Corynne stood in the doorway, leaning on the wall with a big smile and wearing another sundress, this one red and cut even higher. Covering myself with the door, I asked if everything was okay.

  “Get dressed; I’m taking you to breakfast. Meet me in the garage in fifteen,” she said with a wink as she pranced off.

  It was Delotta who found me wandering aimlessly around the front of the house. She told me the garage was out back—separated from the main house. It was about as big as my house back home and held seven cars, some new, some vintage, all immaculately kept. Corynne pulled up in the red ‘65 Mustang convertible.

  “Get in sleepyhead, let’s go,” she said.

  I lit up a cigarette and offered her one. She declined and took out a pack of American Spirits; I gave her a light.

  “Where we going?” I asked.

  “Like I said last night, I’m gonna show you the town, but first we gotta eat.”

  She looked amazing driving that car—her hair danced around her face in the wind while she mouthed the words to Sympathy for the Devil on the radio.

  It only took about five minutes to go from semi-rural to busy little town. Just off the square downtown, she pulled into a diagonal parking spot in front of the Oxford Cafe, and all eyes were on us as we got out of the car—Corynne for obvious reasons, and me because I was an outsider, and frankly, I didn’t look like any of them. After taking a look around, I was glad.

  I noticed a heavy-set, middle-aged woman giving us a strong stare as she walked along the sidewalk in front of the café. Corynne caught her stare and muttered, “Oh shit,” under her breath.

  The woman stopped in front of us, “So Corynne, is this the replacement?”

  Corynne met her venomous gaze with one of her own, “What a pleasure Dolores, no, this is a
houseguest from California.”

  She stared me up and down and huffed, “Makes sense.”

  “So, Dolores, any word from your deadbeat son?” Corynne asked pleasantly.

  The woman’s face seethed. “My boy would never up and leave without at least saying goodbye to his mama.”

  “But he had no problem taking off without saying goodbye to me or his son,” Corynne shot back.

  Dolores gritted her teeth. “Look here, you little hussy, you and your family ain’t been nothing but trouble since he got involved with you. He had his whole life ahead of him, now—”

  “Dolores, do you mind,” Corynne interrupted, “we’re trying to get some breakfast, before they switch to the lunch menu.”

  “Fine, you and your degenerate new boyfriend have your breakfast, but all this don’t smell right, and you know it. Trigger wouldn’t disappear on me.”

  “Not on you maybe, but he took off on me and Tucker,” Corynne said, grabbing my hand and moving past Dolores.

  “Yeah, you’re just suffering away up in Walker Manor aren’t ya princess,” she yelled as we opened the glass door to the café.

  “What was that about?” I asked as we scanned for an open booth.

  “Let’s not talk about that, shall we,” was her response, ending the subject.

  We grabbed a corner booth that looked out onto the square and ordered some coffee from a waitress in a greasy yellow apron.

  “So,” she said, taking off her sunglasses and checking her appearance in the mirrored wall behind her, “this is quite the culture shock for you, isn’t it?”

  I waited until she finished and answered, “Yeah, but I kinda like the down-home country living; I could get used to this laid-back lifestyle.”

  The waitress returned and Corynne ordered blueberry pancakes; I got the eggs, bacon, and biscuits.

  She sipped her coffee and said, “So why are you here, Trent Oster?”

  “Don’t you know? I’m here to get your grandfather’s story.”

  “You come all the way from Huntington Beach, to Oxford, Mississippi, to get an old man’s story? And just to let you know, I know the story he plans on telling, and I don’t believe a word of it. Papa has quite an imagination, and he loves telling his stories.”

  “Well, even if the story is untrue, it’ll still make for some good fiction.”

  “I guess,” she said, then stared out the window for a moment, then back to me.

  “You got a girl back home?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “No, not really, why do you ask?”

  “These are just chit-chatty questions people ask each other. No reason. Just trying to learn about our mysterious new houseguest; we don’t get too many of ‘em out at Walker Manor.”

  She took out an American Spirit and I gave her a light and then lit my own. I enjoyed the taboo of puffing away in the café, as smoking had been banned in all California restaurants the year before.

  I wanted to ask her about Tucker’s father and then thought better of it.

  Instead, I asked, “So how old is Tucker?”

  “Eighteen months, he’s quite the dickens, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he’s a cute little bugger,” I said, hoping to compliment her.

  “He’s my little angel,” she said with a glow only mothers can attain.

  This was my attempt to pry further into her personal life and she didn’t bite, so I didn’t push. The food arrived and we focused on that for a while.

  After breakfast, Corynne, had us walk around the square. She started in on a little history of Oxford. “The city was founded in 1837, and the courthouse square has been the center of Oxford social life ever since. Our little town was named after the Oxford in England in hopes of having the University of Mississippi here, and it obviously worked. If you look around, you will see English telephone booths and the occasional double-decker bus carrying tourists, obvious nods to our namesake city.

  She then started walking toward the large white monolith at the square's core. “We’re in the county seat of Lafayette County, and what you’re looking at here is the famous Lafayette County Court House. The original building was built in 1840 but was burnt to the ground in 1864 with the rest of the city by the Union Army in the War of Northern Aggression.” She winked when she said that. “The current building was constructed in 1872 with a major addition in 1903.”

  “Is that a Confederate soldier up there?” I asked, pointing toward the statue perched on top of a minaret about fifty feet high.

  “It sure is, it was immortalized in Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury. Have you read it?”

  “Yeah, in high school,”

  “Did you like it?”

  “I think so, I don’t remember too well.”

  “You better have. You’re in Faulkner’s home town. In fact, our next stop will be Rowan Oak—the house where he wrote most of his novels. A lot of Oxford is in his writing, it’s a major source of pride for our little town.” She stopped and pointed to an impressive-looking domed and arched redbrick building. “And you see that pretty building over there? That’s the Oxford City Hall.”

  “You sure know your stuff, what are you, the town historian?”

  “Sort of, I’m a history major at Ole Miss, that’s what first brought me out here four years ago. It was an easy choice when Papa said he’d take care of the tuition if I came and stayed with him. So you see, you’re not the only outsider in town living on Papa’s dime.”

  She pulled on my hand and said, “Let’s go to Rowan Oak. I love it there.”

  “You’re the tour guide, lead the way.” She could have taken me anywhere.

  From the square, we drove down Lamar Boulevard for about a mile, then turned right on Old Taylor Road and entered Bailey’s Woods—home of William Faulkner’s Rowan Oak. The white antebellum plantation home was set amongst large old oak trees; at one point the trees cut a path to his front porch, which created a cool, tunnel-like effect. The grounds were peaceful, and I could see why he chose to do his work here. We walked through his rather humble-looking home, saw all the bedrooms and the great writer’s desk and the room where he worked.

  “Here it is, this is where it all happened. This is where he wrote,” she said with reverence.

  Corynne had us spend a good couple hours roaming the premises. We discussed authors and books we both loved and hated. Conveniently, I happened to agree with her on almost everything.

  Once she had her fill of Rowan Oak, she insisted we go back to the square—we had to visit the famous Square Books.

  Stepping into the crowded bookstore, she said, “I’m going to buy you my two favorite Faulkner books, that’s the best way to experience Oxford.”

  There was an entire section devoted to Faulkner, and Corynne quickly found The Sound and the Fury, of course, and Light in August—I’m his Lena. “These are my two favorites and now they’ll be yours,” she said, handing them to me.

  We continued to browse the thin and crowded aisles. “So why do you want to be a writer?” she asked.

  The question caught me off guard as no one had asked me that before. “I suppose it was in freshman English when we had to read On the Road. I’d never read anything like it before. It was about real people, not in the universal sense but in the literal sense; I found that fascinating.” Corynne looked on with a light in her eyes. I could tell I piqued her interest. “Kerouac wrote about people that I saw on a daily basis. Things I could understand, wrap my head around, everyday things, mundane things he found interesting. And he was a good enough writer to make you understand his passion. Plus, he wrote about sex, drugs, and of course, Neal Cassady.”

  “Neal Cassady, who's he? I’ve never read the book.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to fix that, now won’t we? I’m gonna buy it for you.”

  Lunch was turkey sandwiches and a couple bottles of beer we bought at City Grocery. We found a bench in the square to sit and eat. We finished our sandwiches and continued to si
p beer under the breezy shadows of the courthouse. I lit her smoke and was about to light one up for myself when she looked at me with big doe eyes.

  “Not yet, my feet are tired from all that walking, would you rub them for me?”

  Before I could answer, she swung them up onto my lap. She was wearing high-heeled sandals with the three-inch cork soles. I don’t know what they’re called, but they sure are sexy, and they made her legs look great in her sundress. I unbuckled and slid them off. Even her feet were beautiful—well tanned, not too big, impeccably pedicured with blood-red nail polish, soft and pink. I was more than happy to rub away.

  “So you don’t remember me?” she asked with a smile that showed off her perfect white teeth.

  “Remember you? I thought we just met yesterday?”

  “Well that is just the rudest thing in the world, Trent Oster,” she said with a sexy pout.

  “We practically grew up together. We went to the same elementary and high school.”

  I tried to think of an excuse. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t remember much from my youth.” I tried to massage her as best as I could to make up for the indignity of forgetting her. And to let me know I was hitting the right spots, she cooed and arched her head back.

  With her eyes closed and a smile forming, she said, “I was three grades behind you and look nothing like my younger self…I’ve blossomed.”

  “I see that.”

  “I was there when you and my brother got into a fight over Tracy Bennett.”

  Then it hit me, Corynne was Marcus’s little sister. Of course, how had I not put that together before? They both had the same grandfather for Christ’s sake.

  “Oh shit, I remember now, you were the little tomboy always following Marcus around. Damn, you have changed.”

  “Don’t you forget it.”

  Our reminiscence was interrupted when three guys approached our bench.

  “Hey, Corynne, who’s the faggot?” said the biggest guy, a giant corn-fed, offensive lineman. The other two guys, clad in almost matching overalls and pretty big themselves, got a kick out of this and began laughing.