by Robert Inman
“Yes.”
“When you coming back to see us, Wilbur?”
“I’m not supposed to leave Wake County right now,” Will said. “I guess you heard about my trouble.”
Norville laughed. “That’s what you get from associating with the trashy Baggetts. We must be a bad influence on you, Wilbur.”
“No, I got in this all by myself.”
“Well, you come on over when you get the chance. Last time, I think you had a pretty good time.”
“That’s what I’m told,” Will said. “That’s what I’m told.”
It was after eleven when Peachy called him back. She was in Newton, Kansas, she said, spending the night at a motel along Interstate 135 after a performance in Wichita. Tomorrow night, Denver. She was the warmup act for Dwight Yoakam. Will had heard of Dwight Yoakam, hadn’t he? Well yes, he had. Dwight Yoakam had a part in a movie Will had seen a few years ago about a man who cut off another man’s head with a sling blade. He had taken Clarice to see the movie, and about a half-hour into it, a man seated just behind them had leaned over and asked Will to autograph his popcorn box. Clarice hadn’t been very happy about that. In fact, he remembered now, it had been the last time they had gone out to a movie together. But the movie had been pretty good. Dwight Yoakam played a bad guy and in the end, he got his head chopped off, too.
“That’s pretty big stuff isn’t it?” he asked now, “warming up for Dwight Yoakam?”
“I just have to pinch myself,” Peachy said.
Will could hear a lot of the subtle things in her voice, the kind of nubby texture that made her sound so good on the radio. He had never paid a lot of attention to things like that, he thought, had never really listened hard to what a singer sounded like. But he remembered Peachy’s voice like it was yesterday, leaning into the microphone on the little stage at Baggett’s Place, the way she wrapped her voice around a song and made something more than just words and music. Some important people in Nashville must like it a lot, too.
“I heard your song on the radio today,” Will said. “You really sound good. Cousin Norville said it’s already up to number fifteen.”
“We just got the advances from next week’s Billboard,” said Peachy. “It’ll be number twelve.”
“That’s great. Congratulations. I went by a music store this evening and tried to get a copy, but they didn’t have it.”
“It’s just a single,” she said. “I’ll have a whole CD out real soon. We laid some tracks last week. Dwight even wrote a song for me.”
“I’m glad things are going so well for you.”
“And how about you, Wilbur?”
“I guess you heard about my trouble.”
“Yeah. You must love that boy a lot.”
“We’ve started a lawn service. He’s helping me this summer before he goes back to medical school.”
There was a long pause, then Peachy said softly, “You oughta be with the one you love.”
“Yes you should,” Will said emphatically. And then he was a little surprised at himself, saying something just that way to Peachy Delchamps. The way he said it made it sound like advice, and he didn’t need to be giving advice to an up-and-coming country music star, a woman he barely knew, really. But then he wondered to himself, Just who am I giving advice to? “You oughta be with the one you love,” Will went on. “It sounds like a line from a song.”
“It is. I just wrote it about an hour ago.”
“For the CD?”
“No. For Wingfoot.”
“Are you going to call him on the telephone and sing it to him?”
Another long pause. “I hadn’t thought about doing that.”
“I’m not trying to give you any advice,” Will said. “I mean, it’s your business.”
“I tell you, Wilbur, I’ve been wrestling with this thing.”
“You and Wingfoot.”
“He wants to give me plenty of room. Nothing to tie me down, nothing to take my mind off of business. But,” there was just the tiniest break in her voice, “I do miss that sonofabitch.”
“Have you told him so?”
“I haven’t talked to him in several weeks.”
“Then do,” Will said, abandoning reticence. “Call him right now. Sing to him.”
“You think?”
“Damn straight.”
“Just call him and sing to him?”
“Do it, Peachy.”
You oughta be with the one you love, Peachy sang. It had a nice, sweet melody to it. If you listened to the whole thing, he thought, it might make you cry.
“He’s a stubborn sonofabitch,” Peachy said.
“That’s what Norville told me a little while ago. But it runs in the family. Sometimes we Baggetts just have to be jerked up by the scruff of the neck to get us headed in a different direction.”
“You know, Wilbur,” Peachy said, “for a fellow who’s been through what you’ve been through, you sound okay. More than okay, in fact.”
“I’m vertical, Peachy. Getting along. One day at a time, you know.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Look, the next time I’m going to the studio to cut some tracks, you want to come play tambourine?”
Will laughed. “I think I’ll retire while I’m ahead.”
After she had hung up, Will put the phone down and sat for awhile by the open window listening to the sounds in Dahlia’s Spence’s back yard, smelling the green lushness that drifted in on the warm night air. He thought of Peachy Delchamps, calling long-distance from Newton, Kansas and singing to Wingfoot Baggett over there in the wilds of Pender County. You oughta be with the one you love. If that didn’t do the trick, she should give up on his sorry ass.
TWENTY-THREE
Sunday night. He heard footsteps on the outside stairs, a knock at the door. He rose from his chair by the window and put aside the copy of “Professional Lawn Care Monthly” he was reading and went to the door. He flipped on the outside light and opened the door to find the very last person on earth he expected to be there at nine o’clock on a July night. Sidney Palmer. He was clad in navy blazer and light gray slacks and open-necked dress shirt.
Will stood there for a moment, unable to form words. It was Sidney who finally spoke. “I’ve come about Palmer,” he said.
My God…he’s told.
“ Palmer wants to know when you’re going to get your wife back,” Sidney said.
Did he say life? No, wife.
“Come in,” Will croaked.
Sidney sat in the chair by the window, looking about the room.
“I’d offer you a drink, but all I’ve got is beer,” Will said, as much for just something to say as anything.
“A beer would be fine,” Sidney said.
“It’s cheap beer. Old Milwaukee.”
“Cheap beer is fine,” Sidney said.
Will went to the refrigerator. “A glass?”
“No. Just the can. The can will do just fine.”
Will brought the beers and pulled up a chair and they sipped on their beers and studied each other for awhile. It was, Will thought, only the second time he had ever been one-on-one with the man.
“Are you doing okay, Will?” Sidney asked finally.
Will hesitated, then took a deep breath. What the hell. “I’ve been screwed over pretty royally,” he said. “I’ve lost my wife and my job and I have a criminal record. But I’m still vertical, Sidney, and I’m mowing lawns like a sonofabitch.” He expected Sidney to flinch at such, but he just nodded and took a sip of his beer.
“So Palmer wants to know when I’m going to get my wife back,” Will said.
“Yes.”
“And he deputized you to drive all the way over here from Greensboro and tell me that? On a Sunday night? We’ll be mowing lawns together tomorrow. He could have told me himself.”
“He says you won’t talk about it.”
“I don’t want Palmer caught in the middle.”
“He is, Will. He’s had so
me, well, pretty heated arguments with his mother. And he doesn’t feel like he can broach the subject with you. He’s trying not to take sides, but…yes, he’s caught squarely in the middle.” Sidney cradled the beer can in both hands. They were rather large hands, Will noticed for the first time. Over the years, he realized, he had paid little attention to Sidney Palmer the physical person. He had always looked at Sidney sort of obliquely. And now here they were, just the two of them, without much to look at except each other. “He’s torn up about it,” Sidney went on. “He’s upset with both of you, you and Clarice. And he doesn’t know what to do. But he didn’t ask me to come over here tonight. That was my idea.”
“Wow,” Will said. “He doesn’t mind telling me how Clarice is pissed off at me. And at him. And now it appears he’s pissed off at Clarice and me. So it appears, Sidney, that I’m the only person in our little triangle who’s not pissed off. I’m just trying to make a living. I don’t have time to be pissed off.”
Sidney made a face. “Well, you sound like a man who is, as you say, pissed off.” It took an effort for Sidney to use the word, Will thought. But give him credit, he handled it okay. “And,” he added, “I can’t say that I blame you.”
“So you’ve come over here to tell me it’s my job to get my wife back. I wonder if maybe that might depend just a smidgin on my wife.”
“Of course.”
“Then why doesn’t she talk to me? She’s sent word by her lawyer,” he let the word drip with sarcasm, “to my lawyer that I’m not to have any communication with her. Upon pain of legal action. And for a guy who’s on probation for a criminal offense, Sidney, that just puts my butt in one helluva sling when it comes to, as you and Palmer say, getting my wife back.”
“I can see that.”
“I take it you’ve broached the subject with her.”
“I have. Her mother and I both have.”
“And?”
“Clarice has had a headstrong streak since she was a small child,” Sidney said with a shake of his head. “When she gets stubborn about something…”
“As she did when she decided to marry me.”
“Yes.”
Will polished off his beer and stood. “Look, Sidney, Clarice and I had what I thought was a pretty darn good marriage. Twenty-five years worth. And then all of a sudden, when I’m flat on my ass, she changes the locks on the house and sends word by my attorney that she’s fed up with me and doesn’t want me to communicate with her in any way, shape, form, or fashion. And you want me… ”
“To make an effort, Will. Take the first step. Break the impasse.”
“For Palmer’s sake.”
“If nothing else.”
“Do you want another beer?”
“I’ve got to drive back to Greensboro.”
“What the hell, Sidney. Have another beer. Sleep on the couch if you want.”
Sidney stared up at him. He offered up his can. “I’ll have another beer.”
Will fetched them from the refrigerator. By the time he returned, Sidney had taken off his blazer and draped it over an arm of the chair.
“Let’s talk,” Sidney said.
Will lifted his beer can in toast. “Shoot.”
“You’ve always resented us.”
“And why not? You didn’t want your daughter to marry me. Shabby old Will Baggett, son of a golf hustler. Clarice called me on the phone, after that wonderful lunch at the country club, and said, ‘I can’t marry you.’ I didn’t measure up, Sidney. I never have. And now she’s finally done what you wanted her to do in the first place. Got rid of me.”
Sidney’s eyes dropped and he looked down at his beer can for a moment. “Will,” he said quietly, “I want you to be fair about this. No, Consuela and I didn’t want Clarice to marry you. We thought there was a lot of baggage. But when she chose, we said okay, if that’s what Clarice wants, that’s fine. We accepted you. We tried to make you feel at home with us. I offered you a place in the family business. But,” he waved the beer can, being careful not to spill anything, “you’ve always had a chip on your shoulder, Will. And I don’t think it’s just about what we advised Clarice there in the beginning.”
“What, then?”
“You think we’re snobs.”
“Yes I do.”
Sidney shrugged. “We’re comfortable with who we are, Will. Are you?”
Will looked away, felt the anger rising in him. It took a good while to get it enough under control so that he could speak without smashing his beer can into Sidney Palmer’s patrician face. “I used to be,” he said finally.
“I think being comfortable with who you are has almost nothing to do with what you have, the material things, where you live, the country club you belong to, the friends you hob-nob with. It’s about being honest with yourself.” Sidney took another pull on the beer can, then set it down on the table next to the window. He stood. “Your son thinks you’re a lot more honest with yourself than you used to be. He’s rediscovered you, Will, and I think you’ve rediscovered him. I think you’ve been honest with him about how things might have gone awry with the two of you in the past. And now, maybe you can do the same thing with Clarice.”
Will stared at the floor. “Go crawling back.”
“No. Just be honest.”
“All my fault, Sidney.”
“Of course not.”
He looked up now. “I’m under the impression there’s somebody else. Did you know that?”
A look of pain crossed Sidney’s face. “Try,” Sidney said softly. “For Palmer’s sake.”
Something lurched in Will and he felt foolish and inadequate in the presence of the man’s naked asking and in the knowledge of his own long-smouldering resentment.
“I’d do anything for that boy,” Sidney said. He hesitated, glancing away for an instant, then added, “as you have.” And then picked up his coat and turned abruptly toward the door.
He was on the landing outside by the time Will recovered himself enough to catch up with him.
“What has Palmer told you?” he demanded.
“Palmer hasn’t told me anything. But it doesn’t take a genius to see what’s going on here.” He started to say something else, then shrugged and started down the stairs. Will thought he looked a tad wobbly.
“Are you okay to drive?”
“I think so.”
“Sidney…”
He stopped, looked back up.
“Did you get me that job at Channel Seven?”
“Of course not.”
“But you made a phone call. Barfield Simpson said you called, and that’s why he took a look at me.”
“When did he tell you that?” Sidney asked.
“The last time I saw him.”
“Well, he didn’t remember it the way it happened. I called, yes, but it was well after you applied. Right after we had lunch at Carolina Country Club and you said you wanted to stay in TV. Barfield cut me off before I could get started. He said he’d already decided to hire you because you had talent and ambition, and he told me to keep my goddamn nose out of the television business.”
*****
The next morning, as they ate a hearty breakfast at Shoney’s -- eggs, hash browns, sausage, plump biscuits -- Will said, “Your grandfather came to see me last night.”
Palmer pursed his lips. “I know.”
“Have you told him anything about…all the other?”
“No.” Palmer chewed on his upper lip for a moment. “But I’m going to have to. It’s the only honest thing to do.”
“That sounds like something he said last night. About being honest.”
“He and I have always been honest with each other,” Palmer said. “I’ve always thought I could tell him anything and he would tell me exactly what he thought.” He ducked his head. “It’s been terrible, Dad, keeping that from him.”
Will could see then how it must be, or at least had been all these years, between his son and his father-in-law -- a relation
ship that went far beyond an indoctrination into the cloistered world of upper-Greensboro society and Palmer family legacy. They had shared things. It was genuine. Will felt, and struggled to control, a pang of the old familiar envy. Enough of that. Envy may have been one of his biggest sins.
“You could have said what your grandfather said. About your mother.”
“Would it have had the same impact?”
“No. It was…I’ve never had a conversation like that with him before. Nothing even remotely close.”
Palmer picked up a biscuit from his plate, held it with the fingers of both hands, studied it for a moment. “Well, what are you gonna do, Dad?”
“I don’t know.”
Palmer threw the biscuit at him. “Well, do something, even if it’s wrong.”
*****
But what? And how? And to what end?
He had had a glimmer of hope a month ago, when Palmer had come to him in the pre-dawn darkness. Clarice had dressed Palmer down and called him an ungrateful little shit and had sent him to make amends. She had said that Will and Palmer needed to owe each other something.
So what about Will and Clarice? Could they find something to owe each other, some toting of accounts that would give each and both an opening to raise something from the ashes? He took what Clarice had told Palmer to mean that there might be an opening there. And then the next day she had done a quite concrete thing, the list of potential customers. Will had felt a rush of hope.
A week after that, he had seen her for the first time since she looked out at him from the front window of Fincher and Sniveley and told him by telephone to go away and leave her alone. He picked Palmer up each morning at the house on LeGrand, where he left his BMW for the day, and took him back each evening. She was in the front yard late one afternoon watering the shrubbery. She had redone the shrubbery beds to suit her. They were larger now, irregular in shape, filled with new plants -- azaleas, mahonias, dwarf hollies, some things he didn’t recognize. Clarice had her back turned to the street, concentrating on her watering. She must have heard the truck door slam when Palmer got out, but she gave no indication. Will watched her for a moment, thinking he might catch her eye, that a look might pass between them and that he could tell if there was anything there, anything at all. But she didn’t turn around, even when Palmer joined her at the edge of the shrubbery bed, and he finally drove away.