Southern Son

by Victoria Wilcox

  “Best nurse I ever had, your Aunt Permelia. Always made the patients happy to get in to see me, just to get some peace and quiet! So tell me, how long do we get the pleasure of your company, John Henry?”

  “Only until Sunday mornin’, Sir. I’m expected in Jenkinsburg for supper Sunday evenin’, and it’s five hours on the train and an hour on horseback between here and there. I try to visit with Francisco’s family on a regular basis.”

  “I’m sure they appreciate that,” his uncle said with an approving nod. “And how is the practice goin’?”

  “It’s growin’, Sir. I have a good location, and that helps.”

  “Location’s the most important thing for a professional man. I had my Fayetteville office in my home, right off the town square where I could be convenient to things. You used to like to help me there when you were a boy, always askin’ questions, wantin’ to know how things worked.” He laughed as he remembered. “The skull drill fascinated you most of all, as I recall. You used to offer to do the drillin’ for me, should the need ever arise. No wonder you went into dentistry, seein’ as how you loved that drill.”

  “Dentistry’s a little different than brain surgery, Uncle John. The drill’s a whole lot smaller, for one thing.”

  His uncle knew that, of course, having done simple dental procedures as part of his general medical practice. But Uncle John liked to tease a little, to relax his patients before an examination. John Henry had seen him do it plenty of times, as a child spying from the other room. And as if to underscore the casualness of the conversation, Uncle John settled down into his favorite leather armchair and lit up a cigar.

  “Your aunt tells me she’s concerned for your health, seein’ how you’ve gotten thinner in the past few months. No wonder, though, without a woman to do the cookin’ for you.”

  “No sir,” John Henry replied, and smiled at the thought that before too long he’d have a woman to do his cooking, and whatever else he needed.

  “I don’t need to tell you how important it is to eat properly, especially when you’re workin’ long hours indoors. If you find your appetite isn’t good, try takin’ some exercise, get some fresh air.”

  “I walk to work and back,” John Henry said in his own defense, “and ride whenever I can afford to hire a horse. But my office is stuffy, I’ll give you that.”

  “Well, it’s not unusual for a young man to lose some weight, first goin’ out on his own. How are you feelin’, other than that?”

  “Fine now, Sir, though I had another bout of the pneumonia at Christmastime, when Uncle Rob passed. I took that long ride in the ice storm . . .”

  “Ah yes,” his uncle said sadly. “That was a fine sacrifice you made, comin’ to Atlanta to let us know about Rob. Not surprisin’ you took sick yourself, after an exertion like that.” He took a long draw on the cigar, letting the smoke slide out in easy circles. “And since then? Have you had any more of those coughin’ spells?”

  John Henry took a long moment before answering. In the silence, the mantle clock seemed to tick in time to his heartbeat. Should he confess how sick he’d taken in Columbus? If he did, would he have to explain where he’d found that bad moonshine? While his uncle didn’t mind a little drinking, his intemperance would surely bring a censure. But he had, indeed, been very ill . . .

  “No, Sir,” he lied. “I’ve been hale and hearty ever since. So you see Aunt Permelia has nothin’ to worry herself about. And Sophie promises to fatten me up again, as long as I keep comin’ up to visit.”

  “Which we hope you do often.” But the conversation wasn’t quite over, as Uncle John took another draw on the cigar, then spoke with sudden solemnity. “You know your mother passed from the consumption?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And we find that, sometimes, the consumption runs in families . . .”

  “Yessir.”

  There was another draw on the cigar, another ring of smoke settling into the air before he went on. “I want you to take special care of yourself, John Henry. Make sure you get enough sleep, enough nutritious food. Get out of your office whenever you can and walk or ride if you prefer. And let me know if that cough and fever of Christmastime comes back. If you start to wheezin’ or ever cough up anything red, you let me know. I’ll take a listen to your chest, just to make sure everything is clear in there.”

  And hearing the concern in his uncle’s voice, John Henry almost told him the truth after all: that he’d coughed up blood with the whiskey down there in Columbus, that he’d been wheezing nearly every morning since. But he really was feeling so much better, other than the shortness of breath when he walked up the long hill to his office, that he didn’t want to worry his uncle unnecessarily. He’d be in Atlanta often enough from now on, so there’d be plenty of time for a real examination if the need ever arose. But there wouldn’t need to be any examination. With the summer soon at hand, there was little chance of his coming down with the pneumonia again, and surely that was the cause of his breathing trouble—that and tainted whiskey.

  “I appreciate your advice, Uncle John,” he said politely. “But I think it’s corpulence you’ll need to treat me for, not consumption, if Sophie has her way.”

  Uncle John laughed at that, the levity breaking the tension in the room.

  “And Sophie always has her way around here, I am afraid to say. I have proven to be a poor master of my own household, the way I let the women run things. Not like your father. There’s no question who’s the head of Henry’s home. He’s a fine man, your father. You’re lucky to be his son.”

  “Yessir,” John Henry replied heavily. “I’m lucky, all right.”

  Though he’d tried to show no trace of emotion, his uncle’s words had troubled him. He knew he wasn’t sick, not like his mother and Francisco had been, but it was true that he coughed and wheezed and felt tired much of the time. He blamed it on bad whiskey, but even on days when he hadn’t had a drop to drink, the tiredness lingered on. He blamed it on overwork; he blamed it on slim meals at the Griffin saloons; he blamed it on loneliness even. But he wouldn’t let himself blame it on illness. As his father had taught him, illness was weakness, and he was not weak . . .

  He tried to push the thoughts of sickness from his mind, and thoughts of his father rushed in to take their place. He was a fine man, Uncle John had said, a man one should be lucky to count as a father. Francisco had counted himself lucky, though Henry was only his foster father. But how lucky was Francisco when he died before his time? And how lucky was John Henry if he were indeed sick like Francisco?

  The thoughts swirled around in his mind, and the only conclusion he could come to was that he needed a drink, and the silver pocket flask Phillips had given him was gone dry. A little whiskey would settle his unsettled thoughts and make the sudden aching in his chest go away as well. But it wasn’t his lungs that were giving him trouble, as Uncle John had suggested, but his heart, down deep inside.

  Though supper was over and it was growing dusk, Aunt Permelia seemed to believe his excuse that he needed to go downtown to check on some business at Dr. Ford’s office. He didn’t even bother making excuses to Mattie. She would know it was something more distressing than business, just by looking at him. So without even saying goodbye to her, he put on his coat and hat and walked the eight blocks from Forrest Avenue to Whitehall Street and the Maison de Ville, where Lee Smith was pouring the drinks himself that Friday evening, and greeted John Henry by name.

  “Young Holliday! Haven’t seen you around in a while. Welcome!”

  “I’ve been workin’ down in Griffin, Mr. Smith. Whiskey, please.”

  Lee Smith pulled a tumbler from the glass shelves behind him, poured it half full of dark amber liquor, and slid it across the bar.

  “Haven’t been down to Griffin myself much lately,” Smith said. “Been real busy here at the Maison, and plannin’ my next big adventure.”

  John Henry picked up the tumbler and considered it a moment before holding it to his
lips. Though he knew the Maison stocked only the best liquors, his experience in Alabama had made him wary.

  Lee Smith, seeming to sense his hesitation, laughed out loud. “Best whiskey in Atlanta, Holliday. Straight up one-hundred-twenty proof Tennessee bourbon. A couple of those and you’ll be so drunk you won’t be able to walk home. But that’s no problem. For a price, I can hire you a cab. You can pay now, to save yourself the trouble later, if you’d like.”

  “I won’t be needin’ the cab,” John Henry said as he put the tumbler to his lips and let the whiskey slide down his throat, sweet and smooth as liquid fire. “I’m only in for a shot or two. So what’s your next big adventure, anyhow?”

  And with that, Lee Smith proceeded to tell him all about a banking deal he’d set his hopes on. It seemed the firm of Jay Cook and Company was backing the railroad boom and looking for investors. “Gonna make me some money in that deal, sure enough,” Smith said. “‘Course it’ll cost me a pretty penny to get into the game.”

  “Sounds more like a wager than an investment,” John Henry commented, finishing the whiskey too fast and pushing the tumbler back toward Smith.

  “Well, I reckon there’s some wager to it,” Lee Smith replied, as he refilled John Henry’s glass. “But it’s not as risky as a card game, anyhow. You play cards, you’ve got nothin’ but your own cunning to rely on. Jay Cook’s a financial institution. Those bankers know what they’re doin’, and if they’re willin’ to put their own money into the pot, sounds safe enough to me. Let you young men wager on cards. I’m puttin’ my money into the railroads!” Then he nodded across the room to where a poker game was just getting underway. “Looks like they could use an extra hand, if you’ve got the time.”

  John Henry had as long as his supposed errand would take, and maybe a little more, before he was expected back at his uncle’s house. Enough time for a quick hand, or maybe two . . .

  “And I believe I’ll have another whiskey, as well,” he said, as he pushed the tumbler across the bar again. “That’s smooth stuff, all right. Best liquor I’ve had in months.”

  Lee Smith laughed. “Well, you’ve been away from the Maison too long!”

  It was good liquor, all right, as potent as Smith had claimed, and by the end of three fast hands of poker he could hardly remember why he’d walked downtown in the first place. His uncle’s worries over his health hardly bothered him at all anymore, and he let the talk of his father just slip from his mind entirely.

  Lee Smith offered to hail him a horse-drawn cab as the streetcars had stopped running at midnight, but John Henry insisted that he was still quite able to walk back to Forrest Avenue. Besides, the walk would help to clear his cloudy mind. Though the liquor had loosed the painful thoughts that had plagued him, it only seemed to sharpen his thoughts of Mattie, and he was intent on speaking to her as soon as possible—that very night even, if he got a chance.

  He thought about his proposal all the way back home to his Uncle’s house as he walked along under the gaslamps of Peachtree Street, and tried to think just how he’d say the words. He imagined himself like a player in some romantic drama, something Shakespearean perhaps, climbing balconies and flinging roses to catch his love’s attention, though there was no balcony on his uncle’s house and the green roses were too thorny to pick safely. And by the time he reached the long hill that led from Oak Street to Forrest Avenue, he felt like a player in some Shakespearean play himself, like the Hamlet he had taken Mattie to see at the Opera House.

  Hamlet seemed the answer somehow, and as he stumbled along rutted Forrest Avenue, he began quoting from the play, finding himself to be very amusing. He was still reciting as he stepped out of the shadows and headed into the gravel drive, and self-absorbed as he was he didn’t notice a slender white figure standing alone on the front porch.

  “Who’s there?” the figure asked, alarmed. “Who’s that out there?”

  But when she spoke, John Henry recognized Mattie’s sweet voice.

  “I am a poor player, madam,” he answered, “here to win your heart,” then he made a crooked, courtly bow.

  “John Henry?” Mattie asked.

  “Ah! She knows her lover’s voice!”

  “What are you doin’ out there in the night air? You’ll make yourself sick again . . .”

  “Better die of night air than die longin’ for your love, lady.”

  “You’ve been drinkin’!”

  “I could accuse me of such things,” he said, still quoting Hamlet. “I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious . . .” He stopped suddenly. “Where is your father?”

  “My father is passed, John Henry, you know that. You were at his funeral.”

  “Oh yes, faithful old Polonius who would deny me my love. Well, rest his soul. But thou art honest, lady, and very fair.”

  “You are talkin’ nonsense and makin’ a spectacle of yourself.”

  “I may be a spectacle, but I am only talkin’ a little nonsense. Will you miss me, my dear Ophelia, when I am off to England?”

  “England?”

  “Well, only Griffin, but will you still miss me nonetheless? Will you hang from willow trees, heartsick for my company?”

  “I wish you would go off and stop actin’ like such a fool.”

  “But I am not actin’. Tonight I am a fool, Mattie Holliday. Fool in love with you!”

  And as she shook her head and turned to go back into the house, John Henry took four fast steps and bounded up onto the porch, amazed himself that he didn’t trip and fall.

  “Oh, don’t go in, Mattie!” he said, breathing hard and leaning on the porch rail. “There’s somethin’ I have to ask you.”

  “All right,” she said, turning back toward him. “What is it?”

  He could hardly see her eyes in the darkness but her skin was glowing like moonlight, and he took a step closer and touched his hand to her face. “Say you’ll marry me, sweet Ophelia, for you know how I love you.”

  She was very quiet for a moment. “I know you are out of your head and not thinkin’ clearly.”

  “Thinkin’ has nothing to do with it. It’s here,” he said, taking hold of her hand and laying it against his chest, “in my heart. In my very heart.”

  “Why are you playin’ this game with me?”

  “There is no game, my lady,” he said, “I am speakin’ from my heart. Look into my eyes and say you don’t see the love there.”

  “I don’t see anything but too much liquor. Your eyes are all red from drinkin’.” But she kept her hand on his chest and let him pull her closer until he was gazing down into her face. And as he held her, he could feel her trembling against him.

  “Say you love me, Mattie!” he said, his voice breaking with sudden emotion.

  “You are talkin’ crazy. Let go of me and let me breathe some clean air.”

  “Say it, Mattie!” he said again, bending his head and brushing his lips against her neck.

  “Please, I . . .”

  “Say it!” he whispered roughly, kissing the base of her throat and feeling the quick intake of her breath.

  “It is the liquor talkin’ . . .”

  “Always, Mattie,” he whispered against her skin, “I have always loved you!” Then he put his mouth to hers, unwilling to wait any longer for her answer, and she shivered in his arms and opened her lips to his kiss . . .

  “Dear God! What do you think you’re doin’?” said a sharp voice, and John Henry looked up in surprise.

  Robert stood in the dark doorway, one hand on the brass knob, one hand clenched into a fist. “Get in the house, Mattie. Go now.”

  “You don’t understand, Robert,” she said hurriedly, “he’s been drinkin’ . . .”

  “Yes, I can smell the liquor on him. I’m surprised you can stand to be near him. What are you doin’ out here in your nightdress, anyhow?”

  She pulled her white gown around her in sudden modesty. “I was just lookin’ to see if John Henry was comin’ home. He’s been gone so long.”r />
  “Well, he’s certainly home now, and disgustingly drunk. Have you no decency at all, either one of you?”

  “It wasn’t what you think!” she protested. “We were just talkin’ . . .”

  “Then you can continue your conversation in the daylight. Now go inside, Mattie.”

  “Don’t tell her what to do, Robert!” John Henry said, trying not to slur his words. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “No thanks to you. Have you lost your mind entirely?”

  “He didn’t hurt me, Robert,” Mattie said softly.

  “Surely you’re not defendin’ him! Look at him, Mattie, he’s fallin’-down drunk.”

  “I’m not all that drunk, Robert,” he protested, leaning back against the porch rail to steady himself. “I’m still sober enough to take you on, if you want a fight.”

  Robert let the door close behind him and stepped out onto the porch. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’ve been wantin’ to make a fight with me for months now. Well, let’s get to it then, right now. It would give me pleasure to knock some sense into you.”

  “Stop it!” Mattie cried, “Stop it at once, both of you!”

  But Robert paid her no attention. “What was that nonsense you were saying out here? Poetry?”

  “Shakespeare,” John Henry answered smugly. “Didn’t they teach you anything in that wonderful private school of yours? At least I know the classics, even when I’ve been drinkin’. Shall I do some for you?” And feeling quite proud of himself, he started into Hamlet’s soliloquy:

  “To be or not to be . . .”

  Robert shook his head. “What did I tell you, Mattie? Crazy drunk.”

  “. . . To die—to sleep,

  No more; and by a sleep to say we end

  The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

  That flesh is heir to: ‘tis a—consummation . . .”

  And that suddenly struck him as funny somehow, and he coughed once and started to laugh, until he saw the stricken look on Mattie’s face.

  “You didn’t mean a word you said to me, did you?” she whispered.