The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks

by Harington, Donald

  Suddenly he heard her reply, I’m a-throwin at you ’cause I like ye best. But she hadn’t spoken, and besides she was standing four hats away, and he couldn’t have heard her if she did speak. How had he heard her? It was spooky, and the flesh of Bevis crawled, but because he was lighthearted he managed to smile at her as she wound up for the throw, and he replied to her inside his head, If that be the case, why don’t ye miss my haid clean? Okay, he distinctly heard her voice inside his head, and one by one she threw her eggs, and each one widely missed. Thanks, gal, he voicelessly told her, and she replied, You’re shore welcome. Later, when the big feed was spread and everybody had filled their plates with fried chicken and ’mater dishes and pie, and sat crosslegged on the grass to eat, Bevis noticed Emelda sitting not too far away, two, three hats away from him, and he decided as an experiment to ask her inside his head, Did you honestly say what you said? Or was I jist imaginin it? Her mute reply was immediate: You heared me, didn’t ye? And besides, I baked that thar pie that you’re eatin a piece of. Bevis looked down at the slice of pie in his fingers as if it were haunted, and his hand began to tremble, so he stuffed the whole piece into his mouth and, being unable to speak, remarked to her soundlessly, I’m a-gittin a bit uneasy, us a-talkin like this, though I got to admit, if we really was talkin, out loud I mean, I couldn’t say a word. She replied with sealed lips, I know. That’s how come I figgered that I’ve never git ye to open your mouth so iffen I was ever gonna talk together with you, we’d have to do it thisaway. Still, Bevis found it difficult to believe that he could hear her so plainly, especially since she was sitting a good little distance away. As a further test, he tried to see if this weird telepathy would work on anybody else. Spotting his brother Tearle, he silently asked, Hey, Tull, have you got the time? but Tearle did not respond. He saw his father and wordlessly yelled at him, Paw, you’re full of shit! but John Ingledew betrayed not a twitch of having heard, although Emelda’s voice entered Bevis’s head: Shame on ye. That aint no way to talk to yore own poppa! He decided that only Emelda could hear him, and he her.

  Kin you read my mind? he telegraphed her, at a loss for any other way of expressing this occult phenomenon. Shore, she replied, which again made him feel uneasy, until he realized that there was nothing he could do about it, so he might as well get used to it, since he was cheerful, lighthearted, an optimist. What color underwear have I got on? he tested her. Red, came her quick reply. Although Bevis was sweating more than usual, he strove to remain cheerful. He tested her with several other questions. How much money did he have in the bank? What was his middle name? How many flapjacks had he eaten for breakfast? She answered all of these correctly, and then she asked him a question, Do you think I’m pretty? Bevis started to assure her that she was, but discovered that he could not; to his great amazement, he found himself replying, ’Naw, not exactly. There’s lots of girls roundabouts who’re a heap sight prettier than you, but on th’other hand you aint so bad. I seen lots worse. Bevis realized with astonishment that in the reading of minds there can be no flattery, no dissembling, no lies. He noticed that Emelda Duckworth was smiling, although her eyes were not on him, so maybe she had not been displeased with his honest answer. Emboldened, he told her, I’d come over there and sit beside ye, but I’m way too shy for that. She replied, I know, and offered, Would it make any difference iffen I was to come over yonder and sit by you? He answered, Wal, I’d git powerful red in the face if ye did, but I reckon I could stand it, so long as you never said nothin out loud. She said, Okay, here I come, but even until that last moment he did not believe that she would actually do it, and when he saw her rise up from the ground and start walking in his direction, he had a strong impulse to run away, and he started to rise but heard her voice inside him say, Don’t git up. I’ll be right thar.

  Participants in the afternoon’s activities at the Unforgettable Picnic could not help but notice, from time to time, all afternoon long, Bevis Ingledew and Emelda Duckworth sitting side by side, alone together in the Field of Clover, never speaking nor touching nor even looking at one another. But the Stay Morons considered it a great achievement on Emelda’s part even to get that close to a shy Ingledew, although they doubted that she would ever get any closer. They pitied both Bevis and Emelda because they were missing so many of the activities and attractions of the Unforgettable Picnic, but if two people could amuse themselves by sitting side by side without speaking for the whole long afternoon, then that was their business, so nobody spoke to Bevis or Emelda or tried to get them up from the ground, not even for one of the main attractions, when a furriner from out of state set up a talking machine and for five cents a head gave his customers the privilege of listening for five minutes to an accurate recording of a Negro being burned to death by a lynch mob, one of the most unforgettable sounds of the Unforgettable Picnic. Years afterwards, someone would always comment on the fact that Bevis Ingledew had never been known to speak to his wife, whereas even old speechless Coon Ingledew had at least been heard to give his wife directions to his house when she first came to Stay More.

  Emelda politely waited until Bevis Ingledew’s face had stopped burning before she “spoke” to him again. And then she “said,” I know it would mortify you iffen we was to hold hands, so let’s us jist play like we’re a-holdin hands. Like this, and she demonstrated: how, by keeping her hands in her lap, and his at his sides, they could pretend that they were actually linking hands and even intertwining their fingers. How does that feel? she asked him. Mighty nice, he replied. Then she suggested, Let’s play like we’re takin a stroll down by the creek, to git away from all these folks. So they pretended that they got up from the ground, linked hands again, and strolled casually across the Field of Clover and into the trees bordering Swains Creek. They pretended that they walked along the bank of the creek until they were out of earshot of the Picnic; Emelda hummed old songs while Bevis skipped pebbles across the surface of the creek, and they went on strolling, and came to a secluded place where they sat on a rock and dangled their feet in the water. It was cool and quiet.

  Emelda told him that if she could read his thoughts then he could read her thoughts too. He protested that he didn’t want to snoop. Go ahead, she invited him. It’s fun. So he invaded her thoughts, and discovered that she was thinking about kissing. He thought of the fact that he had never kissed a girl and was too shy to start, but she invaded his thought and thought that there was really nothing to it, all they had to do was move their heads close enough together so that their lips could touch, and they both thought about that and then pretended to do it, for a long minute. How did that feel? she asked him, and he replied, Mighty fine. The kissing had aroused his procreative instincts. My, my, she exclaimed. Yore jemmison is like iron. Could I pretend like I was a-touchin it? Bevis tried to pretend that he was blushing, but could not. Emelda bargained, You kin make believe you’re squeezin my titties. So they fondled one another in their minds. This petting was interrupted by imagined footsteps and voices approaching. Let’s turn it into dark of night, Bevis suggested, and they were concealed by the disappearance of the sun. The imagined footsteps and voices faded away, cursing the darkness. In the light of stars, Bevis and Emelda could just barely pretend to see one another, so they imagined that they were pretending to feel for one another with their hands. I never heared what doing it was named, Emelda’s voice said inside his head, but whatever it’s called, let’s do it anyhow. Or, I mean, let’s play like we’re a-doin it. Bevis did know what it was called; in fact, he knew close to a hundred different names for it, none of them pretty or even delicate, so he couldn’t tell her, but since she could read his mind she discovered them anyway and was impressed by their number and their aggressive energy, and she exclaimed Oooh! almost as if they were already doing it. Groaning and murmuring, she pretended to lie down on the ground and made believe that she was spreading her arms for him, also her legs. He needed no pretense of encouragement; his mind was raring to go, and he let it go, and it we
nt.

  If any visitor to the Unforgettable Picnic might have happened to glance at the couple sitting silently side by side in the grass of the Field of Clover, the visitor would have noticed, and wondered at, the fact that both of them simultaneously closed their eyes for a long moment, and smiled, as if experiencing rapture. But no visitor happened to be looking at them during their moment.

  When the couple pretended to have rested from their labor of love and returned themselves to the Field of Clover and the Unforgettable Picnic, Bevis was somewhat taken aback to hear Emelda declare: Now you’ve got to marry me. He protested: Aw, heck, we was jist playin like. We never really done it. I aint ruined ye. She suggested, Then let’s play like we’re gittin married. He pointed out, It wouldn’t be legal. She thought and thought about that, and he read her thoughts, and their thoughts got mixed up and were interchangeable. Wait here a minute, she told him, and then she actually got up off the ground and went off in search of Brother Long Jack Stapleton; he wasn’t hard to find, as his Magic Bible Shows tent was a central attraction; she had to wait until the show was over before she could speak to him, and then she told him about Bevis Ingledew and herself and what had happened to them, or what they had allowed themselves to believe had happened.

  Brother Stapleton was of course a great respecter of imagination, illusion, make-believe, and he was in sympathy with her situation. He told her just to leave everything up to him and he would take care of it. The conclusion of the Unforgettable Picnic, late in the afternoon, was a triple-feature show by Brother Stapleton: “The Marriage of the Virgin,” with Mary and Joseph dressed in Stay More costumes of the last Century, “The Marriage at Cana,” with more elaborate costumes and orchestral accompaniment, and “The Marriage at Stay More,” which depicted the wedding of Bevis Ingledew and Emelda Duckworth. The bride and groom attended more as spectators than participants, and it made Emelda weep to see herself getting married, and it made Bevis get awful red in the face to see how much he was blushing during the ceremony. He was tortured with suspense, wondering if, when the time came, the man who was Bevis could muster the nerve to say “I do” out loud. The other spectators, which included everybody at the Picnic, were caught up with the show, and cheered the couple on; bets were made among the men; the women who were not weeping made loud exclamations about the beauty of the bride’s gown, which indeed Brother Stapleton had made elegant. Finally the big moment came when the groom was called upon to open his mouth, but he could not. Bevis hated to watch that part. He wanted to cover his face in his hands; at the breaking point he choked back his mortification and yelled at the groom, “Speak up, you damn fool!” and at this urging the groom croaked, “I do,” and the crowd went wild.

  Brother Stapleton brought the show to a dramatic conclusion, perhaps even overdoing it somewhat by having twelve pipe organs playing together as the bride and groom departed. The shivaree they gave that night for Bevis and Emelda was not imaginary; it was, as one participant remarked, the “shivareest shivaree ever shivered,” with an incredible amount of noise and harassment of the newlyweds, who were given not a moment to themselves to think any thoughts or read each other’s or even pretend to transmit a word into the other’s head. It was just as well that they were given no opportunity for sleep that night, because Bevis would have been much too shy to share a bed with his bride. The second night of their marriage, they slept in separate beds, although before falling asleep they enjoyed a lusty copulation in their minds, and when they fell asleep their dreams were all mixed together and exchanged; in the morning he was awakened by the “sound” of Emelda doing a perfect imitation of a rooster’s matinal crow. It required several more weeks of sleep to sort out the dreams and properly apportion them so that each had their fair share of nightmares. After a year of marriage, Emelda silently declared that although she had enormously enjoyed 365 incidents of imaginary albeit almost exhaustingly true-to-life intercourse, it was obvious that she would never conceive anything other than an imaginary baby in that fashion. Biology is biology, after all, and has nothing to do with make-believe.

  The year of imaginary intimacy had made Bevis not quite so shy with his bride, so it was not too difficult for him to permit her to slip into his bed one night. Yet both afterwards agreed that actuality is a weak stepsister of imagination, although it was successful in begetting their firstborn, John Henry. As soon as Emelda was got with him, she and Bevis reverted gladly to their old way of intercourses, sexual and verbal, and when Bevis withdrew his savings from the bank and built his house, its bigeminality was intended literally to make separate rooms for the two of them, where they went on sleeping apart and coming together in their minds, and mixing their dreams and nightmares in fair proportion. There must have been at least three occasions thereafter when one of them physically crossed through the interior door that joined the rooms, because they had three additional sons: Jackson, William Robert (“Billy Bob”) and Tracy. Along with John Henry, these four boys each noticed, in growing up, that their mother and father slept in separate rooms and never spoke to one another; since the only times the boys would not speak to one another was when they were angry, they assumed that their mother and father were always angry at one another, and therefore never on speaking terms. The boys had playmates whose parents were often heard to speak to one another, and some of the playmates claimed that their mothers and fathers actually slept in the same bed, and a few of the playmates went so far as to tell what their mothers and fathers did with one another when they were in bed.

  The Ingledew boys disbelieved this, but they still felt isolated; they felt that their own parents were eccentric; they knew their father was full of blood and always cheerful and animated; they couldn’t understand why their mother didn’t like him enough even to say “howdy” to him. On the other hand, their mother was sweet-natured herself, and a good cook besides; they couldn’t understand why their father didn’t like her enough even to say, “Them shore was good biscuit, Maw.” Their father talked freely and cheerfully to everybody else, but never to their mother.

  One by one each of the sons grew old enough to understand the meaning and mystery of sex; one by one each was forced to accept the uncomfortable truth that in order for them to have been born, their happy father had to have slept with their mother, and that since their mother and father never slept together and weren’t even on speaking terms, they couldn’t possibly have been born and were therefore only imagining that they existed.

  Imagination begets imagination. What lasting psychological effect all of this had upon the four boys may be imagined. The population of Stay More was declining, and one by one the Ingledew boys mentally subtracted themselves from it.

  The population of Stay More declined for several reasons. People who lost their money when the bank was robbed worked twice as hard in order to replace the money, and by working twice as hard were afflicted with the frakes, and after recovering from the long lethargy and sense of futility that follows a bout with the frakes they wandered out of Stay More and were never seen again. The ones that stayed never really worked very hard again.

  Tearle Ingledew, for example, who had been the most industrious of all the Ingledews because he had an excess of sweat, had worked so hard to replace his lost savings that he came down with perhaps the severest case of the frakes that anyone had ever seen: the rash was not confined to the genital area but spread all over his body; he was anointed with all the traditional remedies with all the traditional lack of effect; what little money he had reearned by working so hard he spent entirely for large quantities of Chism’s Dew, and by staying in a constant state of intoxication managed to slight if not ignore his affliction, and in their own time his blisters festered and healed, and he was left with the characteristic feeling that life is a joke. The strange thing was, the joke struck him not as bad and pointless but hilarious. For the rest of his long life, he worked only hard enough to pay for his heavy consumption of Chism’s Dew, and was full of good humor and could te
ll excellent jokes. He never gave up believing that life is futile, but the futility of it was always good for a laugh, and he was always laughing and causing others to laugh, and I believe I like Tearle Ingledew better than any of the others, even apart from his many kindnesses to me when I was young.

  If he does not loom large in this particular saga, it is only because nothing much ever really happened to Tearle Ingledew, which is as it should be for persons who can laugh at the futility of life. He sat on the store porch or the mill porch, depending on where the shrinking crowds were, and told jokes and swapped yarns until he began to feel sober, then he would walk up to Waymon Chism’s place and buy a gourdful to drink on the premises, then meander back to the village. “Meander” is the only word to describe Tearle’s style of walking, and it is revealed as a symbol of the whole Ozarks, where everything meanders. All the rivers, streams, creeks and branches meander. The limbs of trees, especially sycamores, meander. Snakes meander. Tearle Ingledew meandered not so much because of alcohol in his brain as because he had nowhere to get to, and loads of time to get there in. When creeks and snakes and tree limbs and men are young, they go in pretty much of a straight line. When they get older, they meander. A rushing brook becomes a river and meanders. A boy becomes a man and meanders. A story becomes a book and meanders. There is always an end, but no hurry to get there; indeed, there is almost a strong wish not to get there. Let Tearle’s meander, therefore, stand as a symbol both of the Ozarks themselves and of this, our study of its architecture.