by Robert Inman
“Jimbo can stay,” Bright said.
From Roseann, “All right.” That was all.
“Have you talked with him about it?”
“No.”
“Let me talk to him,” Rupert said. He didn’t look up from the sink.
“Fine.” Roseann turned away, left them there in the kitchen. Rupert finished washing up, dried his hands on a towel Bright fetched from the back porch. Then he put his wrenches and pliers and screwdrivers neatly away in the gray toolbox and closed the top with a snap. “I guess that does it.”
“I’m obliged,” Bright said.
“Think nothing of it. I’ll let you fix something for me someday.” He cocked his head to one side and Bright could see a little twinkle in his eye.
“I think you might do to hunt with, Rupert,” Bright said.
“Do what?”
“Do to hunt with. An expression I heard from my father. He said you wouldn’t go hunting with a man unless you trusted him, because you might get your head blown off. My father never hunted in his life, but he knew who he could trust and who he couldn’t. It was the best thing my father could say about another man. ‘He’ll do to hunt with.’ I never heard him say it about a woman.”
Rupert bowed slightly. “I accept the compliment in the spirit it’s offered. I wish I’d known your father. Would he do to hunt with?”
“Oh, yes,” she smiled. “Yes indeed.”
“Well, I’ll go have a talk with Jimbo.”
“Yes. You do that.”
Bright worked in the kitchen, straightening up, wiping the counter and the refrigerator. She gave Rupert a good ten minutes and then she dried her hands and took off her apron and went to the front porch. Rupert was at the Winnebago, Jimbo still in the wicker chair. He looked up at her as she came through the screen door, then ducked his head back into his book. Rupert came up the steps with Jimbo’s small brown suitcase. “In here,” Bright said, and showed him the small spare bedroom at the back of the house. Rupert set the suitcase on the bed.
“Is he all right about this?” Bright asked.
“Oh, I think so. It’s hard to tell with Jimbo sometimes. He won’t be any trouble. Just feed him and give him a book, and he’s all right.”
“Surely there’s more to him than that.”
“Yes,” Rupert smiled. “No telling what you’ll find.”
Roseann was standing in the driveway now, arms crossed, giving the house a good looking over. “The house needs painting,” she said.
Bright looked at the house. It was a bit weathered in places, but it was certainly nothing like Buster Putnam’s monstrosity next door. “Perhaps you’re right,” Bright said. Just let her go on to the beach now.
“And where’s your car?” Roseann asked.
“Up the street.”
“Where?”
“Down by the Methodist parsonage.”
“What’s it doing there?”
“Vapor lock.”
Roseann shook her head. “You ought to get rid of that old piece of junk.”
Bright could feel the anger rising like prickly heat up the back of her neck. But she kept her mouth shut, and after a moment Roseann gave a shrug and looked past her at Jimbo, sitting quietly on the porch, glancing at them now and then over the top of his book. “Well, aren’t you going to come down here and tell us good-bye?” Jimbo placed his book carefully on the chair, facedown, and walked down the steps to them. Roseann bent and gave him a hug. “Mind your grandmother. Remember to take your pills. Don’t get too hot. And brush your teeth three times a day.” Jimbo nodded.
“And have a good time,” Rupert said, pulling his pipe from his mouth. He stuck out his hand and Jimbo shook it solemnly. Then he fished in the back pocket of his Bermuda shorts for his billfold, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “Here’s a little mad money in case you decide to run away.”
“Rupert, don’t give the boy ideas,” Roseann said.
“If you’re still here when we get back, you can keep it,” Rupert said. Then he turned to Roseann. “Ready?”
“I was ready three hours ago,” Roseann said.
“Well, let’s go, then.” And he held the door open while she clambered in and settled into the passenger seat up front. Rupert climbed in beside her and they looked like two very casual astronauts there in the high-back bucket seats of the big Winnebago. Rupert started the motor and waved to them. But as he started to put the Winnebago into gear, Bright signaled to him to hold up and she stepped quickly to the open passenger-side window. Roseann stared at her curiously. “Roseann,” Bright said, “when you come back later this week, I want us to have a talk.”
“About what?”
“About us.”
There was a quick, unguarded look of surprise there, and something else, which Bright could not fathom. Roseann’s mouth opened, and then she gave a little jerk of her head. But she didn’t say anything, and Bright stepped back away from the Winnebago and gave Rupert a wave. Roseann stared at her as Rupert backed out of the driveway. Then as the Winnebago pulled away, she closed the window and picked up a map and spread it out before her. Bright and Jimbo stood, a bit apart there in the sandy driveway, as the Winnebago made the turn onto Claxton and lumbered away, a great tan beast moving slowly in the afternoon heat, and finally topped the bridge and disappeared around the curve at the other end.
Roseann, Bright thought to herself, you are a pickle, but I have got your curiosity up.
Suddenly she remembered another time long ago, the only time she ever knew of Roseann being openly angry with Fitzhugh. It had been a lovely fall evening with the leaves on the pecan trees turning yellow and orange out on the lawn and the first bare hint of coolness in the air. It was Bright’s favorite time of year. They had sat on the front porch, Bright and Fitzhugh and Roseann, while Little Fitz ran about under the trees, playing tag with himself, his laughter mocking the night sounds. Roseann nestled in Fitzhugh’s arms in the wicker chair while he read to her from a huge beautifully illustrated storybook he had brought home with him from Washington the day before. He had selected the tale of Hansel and Gretel, and as he read the story of the two children wandering lost in the woods, Roseann began to squirm in his arms and pluck at her hair, making small whimpering noises. Fitzhugh patted her head and read on. Then suddenly she tore the book from his hands. “No! No! They weren’t lost!” she cried. She flung the book to the floor of the porch, ripping pages from its spine, and burst into anguished sobs, thrashing about in Fitzhugh’s grasp.
Bright jumped up from her chair and reached for Roseann. “Let me …”
“No!” He looked up at her, badly frightened.
Little Fitz came rushing up from the yard, pounding up the steps. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Fitz and Bright stared at each other, the sobbing child a wall between them. “I don’t know,” Fitzhugh said hoarsely. “I don’t know.” Then Roseann suddenly started to wheeze and cough, her eyes bulging with the tortured effort to breathe. An asthma attack. Fitz snatched her up quickly and ran for the car. “I’m going to Finus Tillman’s!” he tossed back over his shoulder. Bright put Little Fitz to bed and then sat on the porch waiting for them to return. Fitzhugh was still shaken. He looked at Bright as he climbed the steps with the now-sleeping child, but he didn’t stop or say a word, went straight on to Roseann’s room and put her to bed. They never spoke of it again. But it never quite went away.
Fitzhugh, she thought now, should be here to help them make peace. But he wasn’t.
Bright looked down at Jimbo. He was standing there with his hands jammed in his pockets, wrinkling his nose, staring at the empty spot at the top of the bridge where the Winnebago had disappeared.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Jimbo looked up sharply at her. “I don’t reckon you’re too happy about staying here while they go off to the beach.”
Jimbo thought about it for a moment. “It’s okay.” And then, almost to himself, “I bet he’ll have his schlong out five miles
down the road.”
“Who? What?”
“Schlong. You know, what you make babies with. The mama lays an egg and the daddy takes out his schlong and pees on it.”
Holy Sweet Jesus. “Who told you that?”
“Alvie Bernelli. He’s from New Jersey.”
Bright’s mouth dropped open, but nothing came out.
“Mama wants a baby,” Jimbo said. “I heard ’em talking about it.”
Why, Bright wondered, would a woman who hovered on the edge of crisis look for ways to create chaos? A baby. At thirty-six. “Does your mama always get what she wants?”
“No. Sometimes Rupert just puffs on his pipe and looks like he’s thinking hard about whatever it is she’s talking about, and then goes on about his business. But this time I think she’ll win.” Jimbo nodded. “Rupert’ll have his schlong out five miles down the road.” Then he left her there in the yard, speechless, walked back up the steps, picked up his book from the seat of the chair, sat down, and started reading.
4
At midafternoon, Bright decided three things. First, she decided to put the telephone receiver back on the hook so Little Fitz could call. But for an hour, nothing. Not only did Fitz not call, neither did anybody else.
So then Bright decided to call Flavo. When he answered, she could hear a radio playing gospel music in the background, a spatter of voices—the early afternoon crowd lounging about Flavo’s small grocery store, wandering in and out and buying nothing more serious than soda pop and pork skins.
“No,” said Flavo, “the governor has not favored me with a call as of yet. But I have spoken with Doyle Butterworth.”
“Doyle Butterworth.” She snorted. “Hah!” He was a weasel-faced little man who was Fitz’s campaign manager, about as colorless as a used tea bag. Bright had met him only once, at Fitz’s inauguration. This is a man who would cheat at cards, she had thought to herself.
“And what did you tell Doyle Butterworth?”
“I told him that number one, Fitz Birdsong was in a peck of trouble, and number two, if he didn’t call his mama, he’d be in a peck more.”
“And what did Doyle Butterworth say?”
“He said a great deal, and I can’t remember that a single word of it made much sense,” Flavo said dryly. Then, “Just a moment.” He put the telephone down with a clunk on the counter. She could hear him ringing up a sale on the cash register, passing the time of day with a customer, and then he picked up the phone again. “You sound a trifle addled, Bright,” he said.
“I’ve got Jimbo here.”
“Who?”
“Roseann’s boy. She left him with me while she and Rupert—that’s her new husband—go to the beach.”
Flavo gave a snort. “My goodness, Bright. All these men in your life all of a sudden.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wellll,” he drawled, “you and Buster Putnam riding up and down the street early this morning …”
“Good Lord!” she exploded. “Can’t you do a simple favor for somebody without it becoming public business? Where did you hear that?”
“Round and about,” he said. “One thing about this new age of integration, Bright, black folks and white folks hear the same gossip nowadays. Hell, I got white customers now, and they all gossip. A whole truckload of pulpwood workers stopped in here this morning. Some of Monkey Deloach’s boys, headed to the woods. Some black, some white. All of ’em smelled like pulpwood workers. They all sweat just the same. And all gossipin’.”
“Good-bye, Flavo,” she said.
“Top of the afternoon to you, Bright.”
He hung up and she sat for a moment with the receiver in her hand, then let it fall with a clatter into the cradle. And then she made her third decision. That was to get her automobile fixed and see what was up with Francis O’Neill. He was Fitz’s county campaign chairman. If Fitz was going to call anybody at all, it might be Francis. She could have called Francis and had him send someone to fetch the car, but she decided to go and look him in the eye.
She got her purse and hat from the bedroom. Jimbo was still in the chair on the porch, deep in another book. “Do you want to walk down to the Ford dealership with me?” she asked.
“It’s too hot,” he said, glancing up. “Mama said for me not to get too hot.”
“Yes, in fact, she did. Well, I’ll be back in a while.”
It was indeed hot. Heat phantoms radiated from the street and the sidewalk and Bright could feel an occasional gust of hot wind on her face underneath the wide-brimmed hat. She was not accustomed to being out in the midafternoon sun. By the time she reached Francis O’Neill’s, halfway down Claxton, a little trickle of perspiration was coursing down her spine.
Bright could hear some kind of machine whining fitfully back in the big open-bayed garage area of the auto dealership, and the banging of metal against metal. But it was cool and quiet in the air-conditioned showroom, the afternoon tempered by the big, lightly tinted plate glass windows. A sporty new red two-door Ford convertible sat gleaming on one side of the showroom floor, top down to show the white vinyl interior. Verlon Hawkins, Doris’s brother and Big Deal’s only salesman, was slumped in a chair by the back wall of the showroom, mesmerized by the newspaper he was holding, the one with the photograph of Fitz and the waitress splashed across the front. Verlon had it opened to the midsection. Please turn to page 6. Verlon’s head nodded slowly, his mouth forming the words as he read. Then he looked up, stared at her, folded the newspaper slowly into his lap. “Lord,” he croaked. “Miz Bright. Just reading the comics.” Then he blushed deeply, realizing what he had said. “I mean …” Verlon looked stricken.
“The thirst for knowledge is a noble thing, Verlon,” she said. “Where’s Mr. O’Neill?”
“Back yonder in the office.” He pointed down a hallway toward the back of the building.
Bright could hear Big Deal talking on the telephone in his office, the words amplified by the tacky imitation-pine-paneled walls, the linoleum floor, the metal and vinyl furniture. She didn’t want to interrupt, so she took a seat in a chair outside the door and waited.
“Godawmighty, Doyle,” Big Deal said, and Bright realized he was talking with Doyle Butterworth at the Reelect Fitz Birdsong headquarters. “I feel like a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest. I got folks calling me from all over the county wanting to know what the hell’s going on, and I don’t know what to tell ’em.” He paused for a moment, listening. “Well, that’s easy for you to say. Look, I ain’t asking you to tell me if he did or he didn’t. That’s between you and Fitz and the Lord. But I know this, Doyle, sooner or later Fitz has got to say something to the folks. And it better be sooner, because it’s later than you think. We gonna vote a week from tomorrow, and I’m telling you, Doyle, it’s squirrelly as hell around here, and this is home. What?” He listened again, and Bright could hear the faint buzz of the voice on the other end of the phone, talking fast and loud. “Sure, we’re gonna go ahead with Fitz Birdsong Day. But you-all better have this thing straightened out by Thursday, or we gonna have a mess on our hands. And you can bet every damn reporter in the state is gonna be here.” Doyle Butterworth buzzed again. “Yeah, you gotta get him on TV. Lots. Every time folks turn on the TV, you gotta have Fitz there telling ’em he’s Clean Gene.” Buzz-buzz. “We done raised a lot of money down here, Doyle, and you folks done spent it all. Y’all worse than my wife at spending other folks’ money. But I’ll do what I can.” There was a long pause and Bright could hear Big Deal O’Neill scratching himself. Then he laughed. “Yeah, she’s got big tits, all right. Fitz always did appreciate a good set of knockers on a woman.”
Bright stood up then, moved into the open doorway of Big Deal’s office. He was reared back in his swivel chair, legs splayed across the cluttered top of the desk, staring at the ceiling. He looked at her and the color drained from his face. “Oh, SHIT!” he muttered softly, and went over backward in the chair with a crash, arms and legs waving, pul
ling the telephone with him. Bright stood there, clutching her purse in front of her. The telephone buzzed angrily. After a moment, she heard him say, “I’ll call you back, Doyle.” He hung up the receiver, then reached up and placed the telephone back on the desk. He climbed slowly to his feet, rubbing the back of his head where it had banged the floor, straightening his clothes. Big Deal was a tall, balding man going to pot, belly lapping over his belt, two buttons unbuttoned on his shirt to reveal a vee of hairless skin and a ribbon of thin gold chain around his neck. She remembered him as a gangly boy. “Miz Bright, I ah …” He gestured vaguely at the telephone.
“Doyle Butterworth,” she said.
He nodded, then swallowed hard and ran his hand over the slick top of his head. It seemed to give him some comfort. “I’ll tell you this, Miz Bright, we ain’t gonna run under a log. We gonna stick by Fitz on this.”
“That’s what Flavo Richardson told me,” she said.
“Yes’m. I talked with Flavo this morning. Flavo’s folks’ll stick. Me and Flavo will stick.” He shook his head. “But Lord, Fitz has got to say something. If he’d just …” He gestured at the phone again.
“Has Fitz called you?” she asked.
“No ma’am. Just Doyle.”
“He hasn’t called me, either,” Bright said.
Big Deal’s face fell. “Well, gee, he oughta …”
“But I didn’t come to talk politics. I’ve got a sick car down by the Methodist parsonage.”
His voice lifted, glad to be done with Little Fitz. “What’s wrong with your car, Miz Bright?”
“I suppose it’s the same old thing, Francis. Vapor lock, I think you called it.”
Big Deal rubbed his head again. “Lord, Miz Bright, we ’bout done all we can do to that car of yours. What you need is a new car.”
“Francis,” she said, eyeing him evenly, “I don’t want a new car. I like my old car. I like things the way they are. Or were. Quiet. And fixed.”
“Yes’m.” Resigned. A Ford man dealing with a balky Plymouth. Friendship transcending franchise.