Raney

by Clyde Edgerton

  “I don’t know the number.”

  “It’s in that address thing—under Minnie.”

  “Sir,” I said to the cab driver. “Can you wait one minute while I figure out what to do?”

  “No problem. Meter’s running.”

  “Uncle Nate, I ought to call the sheriff right now. If I didn’t have to take care of Norris, I would.”

  Uncle Nate looked up. “Where’s Doris at?”

  “She’s on the way to Aunt Minnie’s, to sit with Uncle Newton.”

  “How’s ole Newt?”

  “He’s okay, I guess. He’s sober. That’s for sure.”

  “Me and Newt were in the war together,” Uncle Nate said to the cab driver.

  “Uncle Nate, he don’t care. Can you get out? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I’m in the middle of Norris’s broke thumb and here you show up, drunk, and probably without one cent. Have you got any money?”

  Uncle Nate stuck his hand down in his front pocket.

  “He said his sister would pay,” said the cab driver.

  “That’s what I figured,” I said.

  Mary Faye came out. “The line’s busy.”

  Norris was sitting on the front steps. He started crying, and then hollering. “Oh, it’s starting to hurt! Ohhhh!” He was holding his hand down between his legs, rocking back and forth, looking at me.

  “Elevate it—hold it up,” I said.

  “They might have to take it off,” said Mary Faye.

  I was standing there in the front yard, knowing I had to make a decision. I decided Uncle Nate would have to go to the emergency room with us. There was nothing else to do. I went around to the passenger side and opened the door. Or I could call the sheriff. Or I could send him over to Uncle Newton’s in the taxi and let Mama look after him. No, that would get Uncle Newton all upset. But Uncle Nate was about asleep. That was good. I figured if he’d stay in the car at emergency, everything would be okay.

  “Sir, would you please help me get him in the back seat of my car over there.”

  “Yeah, I’ll help,” said the cab driver. “That’s a broke thumb if ever I seen one.” He’d caught a glimpse of Norris’s thumb.

  “I know. I’ve got to get him to emergency.”

  We got Uncle Nate out of the taxi and into the back seat of my car. He went right on down, laying on his side in the seat with his feet in the floor. His shirt tail was out on the side and his hair was pushed up in back with little flecks of white thread or something all in there.

  I paid the taxi driver; Norris and Mary Faye got in the car, up front with me.

  Norris stopped crying about halfway to the emergency room, and when we turned into the hospital driveway, Uncle Nate sat up. “Is Newt up here?” he said.

  “Uncle Newton’s at home, Uncle Nate. Norris hurt his thumb and we’re having to take him to emergency.”

  “Less see that thumb, boy.”

  Norris held up his thumb.

  “Oh, that ain’t nothing.” He leaned up right behind me. “Raney.” I could smell his breath. I was almost afraid of him. I had this flash thought of him grabbing me around the neck, although Uncle Nate is normally pretty gentle, drunk or sober, except when he’s drunk and gets mad and cusses. “Raney, where’s Doris?”

  “She’s at Uncle Newton’s. I told you a minute ago.”

  We pulled the car up close to the emergency room door and stopped. “Now, Uncle Nate, you stay right here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Does Mary Faye and Norris remember me and Newt were in the war together?”

  “Yessir,” I said. “Now please stay in the the back seat, Uncle Nate. Will you do that? I’ll be right back.”

  “I certainly will. You know I love you, Raney.”

  I got out and came around and opened the door for Norris. He had stopped crying. He got out, holding his hand up with that thumb dangling, and we all started in, except for Uncle Nate. I looked back. He was sitting with his head slumped over.

  When we got to the emergency room door, I said, “Mary Faye, stand right here at the door, and if Uncle Nate gets out of the car, you come in and tell me.”

  “I want to go in.”

  “Mary Faye.”

  “I won’t know where you’re at,” she said.

  “Raney, what are they going to do to it?” says Norris, looking up at me with bloodshot eyes.

  “Wait a minute, Norris.” I looked at Mary Faye. “Do what you have to do, Mary Faye—for goodness sakes. They’re going to fix it, Norris.”

  We all three went in through the door. Some people were sitting in chairs and there was a big nurse across the room at a desk. Two nigger orderlies were sitting behind her—smoking cigarettes and wearing those little green scarf hats with strings hanging down beside their ears.

  We walked up to the desk. The nurse asked a bunch of questions and about time I finished answering them all I hear this loud, banging crash behind me at the door. I look, and there’s Uncle Nate: sitting on the floor, half in and half out the emergency room door. Some woman wearing a dress, brown shoes, and white socks jumped up and rushed over to him. I started toward him, but Norris almost hollered, “Raney, wait a minute, what are they going to do? It hurts!” The orderlies stood up to look at Uncle Nate.

  The woman with white socks said, “This man needs help! His eyeballs is rolled back!” The orderlies started running toward Uncle Nate, pushing a table-bed. I heard the woman say, “I think he had a stroke,” and before I could say anything—Norris was holding on to my arm with his good hand—the orderlies had Uncle Nate on the bed, rolling him right by me. “Wait a minute, he’s my uncle!” I said. They stopped. And here Uncle Nate sort of came around and started cussing the orderlies terrible.

  “Uncle Nate stop that right now or I’m going to call Dorcus Kerr to come get you and take you to jail. You all unstrap him from there.”

  “That woman said he had a stroke,” said one orderly.

  “Don’t let him off there,” said the other one.

  “I thought you were with this boy,” said the nurse to me.

  “Raney, I don’t want to get it operated on,” said Norris.

  “You better be quiet,” said Mary Faye.

  “I’m with both of them,” I said to the nurse. “This one’s drunk; he didn’t have a stroke.”

  One of the orderlies pulled a strap tighter on Uncle Nate. Uncle Nate was cussing him awful. “And where you got Newt?” he said to the one closest to his head.

  “I ain’t got no Newt. What you talking about, man?”

  “Young woman, we’re not equipped to handle alcoholism,” said the nurse.

  “I didn’t bring him to the emergency room,” I said.

  “Who brought this man?” said the nurse to everybody in the emergency room. Then she said to me. “Is your mother here?”

  “I’m twenty-four years old,” I said.

  Norris pulled at my arm. The woman with the white socks came walking up. “I thought he might a had a stroke,” she said. “His eyes was rolled back and all. It was that way with my granddaddy. He had a stroke last year and when—”

  “I brought him,” I said, “but I left him in the car and—”

  “Raney!” said Norris.

  “Somebody has to take care of his thumb,” I said to the nurse.

  “I got papers in on him,” said the nurse. “The doctor will be here in a minute.”

  “How do you feel?” said the woman with socks—to Uncle Nate.

  “I feel like if I don’t get off this goddamned table in five seconds, I’m gone whip ass when I do.”

  “I’m gonna strap your ass down so tight your eyeballs’ll pop out,” said the orderly. “Then I’m calling the police.”

  “I’ll call the law,” I said. “You don’t know who to call.”

  “The hell I don’t.”

  “Wait a minute, Jerry,” said the nurse. “I’ll call Security.”

  “Call the goddamned Security,” said Uncle Nate.
/>   There was Mary Faye and Norris standing there hearing all that.

  “Uncle Nate, please be quiet. You’re in trouble. Don’t make it worse.”

  “I was in trouble when I was born.”

  “Not like you gonna be,” said the orderly.

  “Stop egging him on,” I said.

  Up walked the doctor, thank the Lord. The nurse was on the phone: “Donald, send somebody to emergency. We’ve got a man disturbing the peace.”

  “What’s his name?” said the doctor. He was picking up a clipboard.

  “Ask her,” said the nurse.

  The doctor looked at me.

  “Uncle Nate,” I said. “Nate Purvis.”

  “He’s your uncle?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Let me see that thumb, Nate.”

  “He’s Norris.”

  “I’m Norris,” Norris said, his eyes great big.

  “Excuse me, Norris. Let me see that thumb.” He held Norris by the wrist and turned his hand around. “Hummm. Let’s go get an x-ray. This man is your uncle, then,” he said to me.

  “Yes sir, and he’s drunk. He shouldn’t even be in here. I left him outside.”

  “Have you got a car?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’m Joe Cisco,” he said. He smiled and reached out his hand. “Looks like you could use a little help.”

  I took his hand, tried my best to hold back, but I couldn’t help crying. I straightened right back up though.

  “I’ll be right back and we can get him in your car,” he said. Then he took Norris down the hall; Norris looked back over his shoulder—still holding that hand up like he was carrying flowers; the nurse asked the orderlies to sit down; and then Dr. Cisco came back while they were taking the x-ray. He helped me roll Uncle Nate to the car, then get him off the table and in the back seat—with no trouble, since Uncle Nate had passed out. I saw the empty pint in Uncle Nate’s back pocket. I hadn’t thought to look before. When a security guard walked up, Dr. Cisco explained that everything was all right. Dr. Cisco was a blessing from heaven.

  He told us to wait in the car and that after he took care of Norris he’d bring him out. Sometimes I get to thinking there’s not one nice person left in the world and then somebody like Dr. Cisco comes along.

  It turned out that Norris’s thumb was just out of place. It must have been very out of place. Dr. Cisco taped it up over a piece of metal and told me to bring him back in a week unless a problem came up. He stood there at the car and talked a minute.

  Uncle Nate won’t so simple. He begged me to take him to the liquor store, saying he just needed one more little drink to hold him over. I did not take him, of course.

  When we got home he was asleep or passed out. I left him in the car while I called Mama. She called Juanita Bowles to come sit with Uncle Newton and then came on home. We had a terrible time getting Uncle Nate up the front steps.

  Daddy came home right after we got Uncle Nate in the door. “Nate, you’re going to get drunk one time too many and get robbed and shot instead of just robbed,” said Daddy. Uncle Nate’s billfold is always empty when he comes home drunk. Uncle Nate started cussing Daddy, which is the first time that’s ever happened, as far as I know.

  Mama called Dorcus Kerr who came out and arrested Uncle Nate. There was nothing else to do. Uncle Nate spent three days in jail, drying out. That’s how long it takes. Mama took him every one of his meals except his last one which was Tuesday lunch. I had to be uptown anyway so I told Mama I could do it and then bring him home when they let him out at three in the afternoon. I’m old enough now.

  Dorcus Kerr was at the jail. “I declare, I hate to see this happen, Raney,” he said. “When he’s sober he’s one of the nicest men I know, but I declare, then he has to go and do the way he does; and you all have always been so good to him—your daddy giving him work and all.”

  I didn’t see anybody else in any of the jail cells except Uncle Nate. He was sitting in a chair, leaning back against the wall. His hair was combed straight back with Vitalis, like always, and he was wearing a freshly starched white shirt Mama had brought him. Mr. Kerr opened the door with a big set of keys.

  “Hey, girl,” said Uncle Nate. “Where’s Doris?”

  “She’s at home.”

  He looked okay except for his eyes which were red and cloudy.

  “How do you feel?” I asked.

  “I feel pretty good. Raney, I’m sorry. You know I wouldn’t do anything in the world to hurt you all.”

  “I know you wouldn’t, Uncle Nate.” I started to say, “But you do—over and over and over.” Then I saw his hand shaking while he pulled at his ear.

  “I’ve made a decision this time. I’m quitting. I’m getting the shakes. Look at my hands. I can’t get them any stiller than that. I’m just going to have to tell myself to quit and then do it.”

  “You know you can’t take that first drink, Uncle Nate. It’s all over when you do that. You’ve got to have the strength to say no. There’s plenty of people who do it. And Mama has done everything she can, as you well know.”

  “She has. She has. She sure has.”

  “I’m glad you’re going to stop, Uncle Nate. You’ve said that before, though.”

  “This is the first time I’ve had the shakes like this. Look at that.” He looked at his hands, then at me. “How is Newton? Didn’t somebody take him to the hospital Sunday—or Saturday?”

  “Nobody took him to the hospital, but he’s not doing too good. That was Norris I took. He knocked his thumb out of joint, but it’s doing okay.”

  “He’s a little fighter, ain’t he?”

  “He sure is. Here, you better eat your dinner. I’ll be back at three. I need to do a little shopping. You need anything?”

  “Some Scholl’s footpads. Size 9-C.”

  I came back at three and picked up Uncle Nate and took him by home and then on out to the store. He usually works out there in the afternoons. He’s never been able to do any more than just help out, of course, but it helps Daddy be able to come and go and oversee instead of being there with Sneeds all the time—one of them tending pumps while the other works inside. When Daddy had a chance to get all self-service pumps he turned them down, so he needs Uncle Nate.

  PART TWO

  A Civil War

  I

  I finally got Charles to join in on something that will get his head out of a book. Aunt Flossie organizes a Golden Agers’ day every fall and for the past two falls I’ve helped her. I asked Charles if he’d help us this fall and he said he would.

  Mrs. Moss, Mrs. Williams, and Mrs. Clements from our neighborhood are in the Golden Agers and I take them to their meeting the first Thursday morning of each month. They live close to our house and when they come over to visit, Charles’ll get up, go to the bedroom, sit and read. He’d rather read a book, written by somebody he don’t know, than to sit down and talk to a live human being who’s his neighbor.

  So I brought it up a few days ago. “Charles,” I said, “you’d rather sit down back there in the bedroom and read a book than talk to a live human being like Mrs. Moss.”

  “I’m not so sure I agree with your assessment of Mrs. Moss,” he says.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It means I have had one conversation with Mrs. Moss and one conversation with Mrs. Moss is enough. I am not interested in her falling off the commode and having a hairline rib fracture. I am not interested in her cataract operation. Mrs. Moss is unable to comprehend anything beyond her own problems and you know it.”

  This is one of the areas of life Charles does not understand. Mama and Aunt Flossie have taught me, for as long as I can remember, to be good to old people. Charles thinks old people are all supposed to grace him with a long conversation on psychology.

  Mrs. Moss does talk about herself right much. She’ll come over in her apron to borrow a cup of something. One Sunday she borrowed a cup of flour after I saw a bag of Red Band in her shoppin
g cart—on top—at the Piggly Wiggly on Saturday. But the way I figure it is this: Mrs. Moss has had a lifetime of things happening to her and all along she’s had these other people—her husband and children—to watch these things happen. So she didn’t ever have to tell anybody. Then her husband died and her children left and there was nobody around to watch these things happen anymore, so she don’t have any way to share except to tell. So the thing to do is listen. It’s easy to cut her off when she goes on and on. You just start talking about something else. She follows right along.

  “She’s given me several pints of preserves and one quart of chow-chow,” I said. “She can comprehend that.”

  “Raney, that has nothing to do with the fact that she is senile and self-centered. There are old people who aren’t self-centered, you know.”

  “Charles, she also showed me how to keep applesauce from turning brown in the jar, and she’s going to give me some cactus seeds and she said she’d help me dig up a circle and plant them. And give me some big rocks to go around that. If she’s so self-centered, why is she giving me preserves and chow-chow and seeds?”

  “Because it’s a habit. A life-long habit. If you were Atilla the Hun she’d give you preserves and chow-chow and seeds.”

  “Charles. Sometimes I wonder about your heart.”

  “Raney, my heart is all right. What can I do to prove my heart is warm and kind?”

  My mind darted around. “Help Aunt Flossie and me with her Golden Agers’ day in a couple of weeks. It’ll take about an hour next Saturday to ride out to Mr. Earls’s to see if he’ll shoot his cannon for us. Then the next Saturday help me take some of the Golden Agers out to Mr. Earls’s—if he agrees—to watch him shoot his cannon, and then Saturday afternoon we’re going to take them to the bluegrass festival, where me and you are going to play anyway. It’ll take from about ten to three. All you have to do is just go along.”

  “Will you worry about my heart if I do?”

  “Never again. And you’re reading that book on the Civil War, so you can probably learn something from Mr. Earls.”

  “Will I have to do something like this every Saturday?”