Old Dogs and Children

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Old Dogs and Children Page 12

by Robert Inman


  “Five.”

  “My little girl Xuripha is five. You’ll meet her in school next year. You would have met her already, but y’all go to the Methodist Church, and we go to the Baptist.” The way she said Baptist, it sounded like something pretty special. Bright had an ear for the way people said things, the way you could play a note on the piano several different ways. Hearing Mrs. Hardwicke say Baptist just now reminded Bright somehow of the way Hosanna said Big-Ikey. Bright didn’t know who Big Ike was, but when Hosanna said somebody was acting Big-Ikey, you knew she was talking about being too big for your britches. Hosanna, like the Bascombes, was a Methodist and given to suspicion about anyone who wasn’t.

  “Yes ma’am,” Bright said, and kept staring. It was hard to take your eyes off a mole that big, especially one with two long black hairs growing out of it.

  Mrs. Hardwicke gave another squirm. “Are you excited about going to school?” she tried again.

  “No ma’am.” In fact, she wasn’t. She couldn’t imagine anything more interesting than going to the lumberyard with her father, or out into the deep pine woods, or playing hide-and-seek with her dolls in the backyard, or listening to an evening piano and trombone concert. And she couldn’t imagine anybody smarter than Dorsey Bascombe or wiser than Hosanna. No, school didn’t seem like much of a bargain. She thought she might just stay home next year and ask questions. She had a lot of questions, and so far, Dorsey Bascombe and Hosanna had been able to answer everything to her satisfaction except for “the baby bidness.” Right now, Bright had quite a few questions about Mrs. Hardwicke’s mole. Her eyes bored in on it. It wasn’t particularly menacing. In fact, it reminded her a great deal of a toadstool, the kind you would find out in the broad green backyard after a good rain, poking its head up between the thin blades of the Saint Augustine grass in a shady spot next to the stable or under one of the pecan trees. You wouldn’t dare put a toadstool in your mouth, especially after Hosanna told you about the man who ate one and went crazy and ran all the way to Columbus foaming at the mouth until he dropped plumb dead. But the fascinating thing about a toadstool was, you could study it for a long time and then reach down and snap it off right at the …

  “Bright!” her mother cried. Bright’s hand froze in midair.

  Mrs. Hardwicke recoiled, horrified, on the sofa. “You little snip!”

  “Bright, go to your room!” Elise commanded. “No, first you apologize to Mrs. Hardwicke for your behavior!”

  “Yes ma’am. I’m sorry for my behavior.” She did a little curtsy and backed out of the room, making a good deal of noise as she climbed the stairs, and then sneaking back down on tiptoe a few minutes later to crouch in the back hallway so she could hear the conversation in the parlor. By this time, Hosanna had brought iced tea and it seemed to have cooled Mrs. Hardwicke down a bit. Bright could hear the tinkle of ice in the heavy crystal glasses, the rustle of a paper fan. Mrs. Hardwicke, no doubt. Elise Bascombe never fanned herself. She never seemed to get hot.

  “Well,” Mrs. Hardwicke was saying, “enough about children. I’ve come to invite you to the Study Club.” She said Study Club about the way she did Baptist. “In fact, we’d like for you to come and give the program. It’s something we ask our, ah, prospective members to do.”

  “Oh, my,” Elise said. “What’s the Study Club?”

  “It’s … well, we study things. Topics of general interest. World affairs and the like.”

  “Oh.” A long pause. Then, “Why?”

  Bright could imagine her mother sitting there primly on the edge of her chair, birdlike, ready to take flight, face very earnest, a bit bewildered. Elise looked like that a great deal of the time. Bright understood in a basic way that she and her mother were children together. Her mother could play dolls in the most earnest way. And will you take cream with your tea, my dear? And she could imagine Mrs. Hardwicke leaning forward on the sofa, pressing her point, the long black hairs from the big mole dancing a bit in the air.

  “Why, to inform. To illuminate. To edify,” Mrs. Hardwicke said. It sounded a bit stuffy to Bright. “To bring a little culture to our community. We can’t all live in New Orleans, you know.” The way she said New Orleans made it sound like Big-Ikey.

  “I see,” Elise said, her voice sounding smaller with every word.

  There was the clink of ice and glass again as both women sipped their tea and let the Study Club marinate there in the warm air of the parlor for a moment. Bright could hear the whoosh-whoosh of Mrs. Hardwicke’s fan, stirring things about. She considered the idea of Hosanna putting in an appearance at the Study Club, standing up before a group of plump, powdered Mrs. Hardwickes and telling them about the man running all the way to Columbus, foaming at the mouth after he ate a toadstool. She stifled a giggle.

  “For instance,” Mrs. Hardwicke said after a moment, gathering herself, “we’re studying the Orient now. Don’t you find the Orient terribly mysterious, with all those dark people and strange customs?”

  “I suppose,” Elise said. “Yes, I suppose it is terribly mysterious.” Bright could tell that her mother was trying very hard, and that she was not enjoying herself particularly.

  “Well,” Mrs. Hardwicke said with a little clap of her hands, “we’d like for you to give a program on Borneo.”

  “Borneo?”

  “Yes.”

  Elise took a deep breath. “But I don’t know anything about Borneo.”

  “Oh, that’s no problem. I have a book. I’ll send it around by my girl.” Bright understood by the way she said girl that Mrs. Hardwicke wasn’t speaking of her daughter, Xuripha, but of her version of Hosanna. There were girls, and there were girls. “Just read the book and give us a presentation. The highlights, you know. Some interesting facts. So that we’ll get the flavor, the mystery of the place.”

  There was a long, deep silence and then Elise said softly, “No thank you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just can’t. I’m no good at all in front of a group of people. Except playing the piano. Perhaps I could play some music from Borneo. But I couldn’t talk. No, I just couldn’t.” Elise sounded frightened, like a small animal caught in a corner by a bright light.

  Then there was a rustle of fabric and Bright knew that Mrs. Hardwicke was shifting her bulk forward on the sofa, leaning across the coffee table. “Well, we’re not a music club. But my dear, you’ll find us very easy to know if you’ll give us a chance.”

  “I’m sure, but…”

  And then a hard edge in Mrs. Hardwicke’s voice. “You must. Really, you must. You have obligations, Mrs. Bascombe. You can’t sit here in this house forever. People will think you …”—a deep breath, a long pause—“… odd.”

  “Oh.” A tiny, hollow word, almost a whisper.

  Then Mrs. Hardwicke rose from the sofa. “I’ll send the book around this afternoon. We’ll expect you next Wednesday.” Her voice brightened. “I’m sure you’ll be charmed by the mystery of Borneo. We’ll all be charmed.”

  She chattered her way to the door, and then Bright heard the screen close behind her. Bright peeked from her hiding place in the back hallway and saw her mother standing there in the doorway, dark outline against the noon brightness, hand raised tentatively in goodbye as Mrs. Hardwicke faded into the midday, leaving the parlor heavy with the scent of lilac water. Elise lowered her hand and stood for a long time, very still, arms clutched about her as if warding off a chill. Bright watched and then tiptoed up the back stairs to her room, wondering what it was about the mysteries of Borneo that could make her mother so frightened, so sad. Surely there was nothing about Borneo half so mysterious and frightening as “the baby bidness.” After a while she heard the long high wail of the steam whistle from Dorsey Bascombe’s lumberyard across town, signaling noontime. Her father would be home in five minutes, bustling in the door, smelling of the woods on a summer morning. And he would take care of every
thing.

  Huge, steaming bowls of field peas, fried okra, squash, butter beans; a platter of pork chops smothered in rich brown gravy, another of roast beef carved in thick slices, well-done on the outside, slightly pink at the center; a cut-glass platter of sliced tomatoes and cucumbers and rings of fresh onion; a wicker basket of hot buttered rolls, covered with an embroidered cloth; boats of food floating on the white sea of the damask tablecloth. Hosanna hovering in the background, her presence mingling with the rich smells drifting up from the table.

  “What’s noliminny?” Bright asked as they lifted their heads from the blessing.

  Dorsey Bascombe reached for the platter of pork chops and helped himself to two large ones. “What’s who?”

  “Noliminny. When you say the blessing, you say, ‘Thank you, Lord, for these and noliminny blessings.’ ”

  Dorsey threw his head back and laughed. “Noliminny. That’s rich. I’m saying all-our-many. ‘Thank you, Lord, for these and all-our-many blessings.’ ”

  Bright nodded. “Are you thankful for toadstools?”

  “Toadstools. Yes,” he nodded, “I suppose so.”

  “Did you ever eat a toadstool?”

  “No, and don’t you. Goodness, all these questions.” He passed the platter of pork chops to Elise, at his left. She sat there, staring at the platter, her face ashen. Dorsey held the platter for a long moment, then said softly, “Elise? Hon?” She shook her head finally. Dorsey passed the platter over to Bright and held it while she speared a pork chop with her fork, sliding it onto her plate and being careful not to drip any gravy onto the tablecloth, the way Elise had showed her. Elise’s mother had brought the damask tablecloth all the way from New Orleans on her last visit. It was a very fine tablecloth, Grandma Poncie said. She looked a little unhappy when Dorsey Bascombe bustled in from the lumberyard in his sweat-stained khakis and knee-high leather boots and sat down to eat dinner off such a fine New Orleans tablecloth. Dorsey commented on what a privilege it was to dine at such an elegant table, and went on about his business. Bright thought Grandma Poncie was a bit stiff. Grandma Poncie would probably enjoy the Study Club.

  They helped their plates in silence, clink-tinkle, Dorsey casting glances at Elise, who took little dibs and dabs of food, a small mound of butter beans, a bit of okra, a slice of tomato. They looked lost and forlorn on her plate. She poked about with her fork, moving the food this way and that, eventually taking a small bite of okra. She chewed with tiny movements.

  “Well,” Dorsey said after a moment. “I understand you had a visitor this morning.”

  Elise looked up, stricken. Hosanna retreated to the kitchen, leaving the door swinging in her wake, squeaking softly on its spring hinges.

  “Fincher Hardwicke dropped by the lumberyard this morning,” Dorsey went on. “He said Fostoria was going to come by for a visit.” He picked up his knife and fork, cut off a piece of pork chop, chewed thoughtfully. Bright sat small and quiet, watching, listening. “Did you have a nice visit?”

  Elise nodded.

  “Well. Well, that’s nice.” Dorsey worked at his food for a while, concentrating on it, finding the butter beans and tomato slices particularly interesting. A wagon creaked by on the hard-packed clay street in front of the house. In the warm stillness of the dining room you could hear every small noise it made. It sounded so close Bright thought it might just come on inside, up the front steps and through the screen door and into the dining room, where it would stop while the mule ate some butter beans from the bowl on the table. Bright thought about that very hard, imagining the mule peering at her while he chewed, his bottom jaw moving in a circular motion, the way mules’ jaws did when they were eating. She liked to imagine things the way they might be. It seemed more interesting that way. She put a hand over her mouth. Now didn’t seem to be a very good time to giggle.

  “And, ah, what did you talk about?” Dorsey asked.

  Elise sat holding her fork in her right hand, staring at Dorsey. She put the fork down next to the plate. “Borneo,” she said.

  “Ah, yes, of course. Borneo. And how are things in Borneo this morning?” He was trying to keep his voice light.

  “Fostoria Hardwicke wants me to come speak to the Study Club about Borneo. Next Wednesday.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said ‘No thank you.’ ”

  Dorsey nodded, thought about that for a while, and then said, “I see. And why not?”

  Elise took a deep breath and said, “Dorsey, I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “Why not, dear?”

  “I just … a group …” She shook her head firmly. “I’ve never done anything like that before. I just can’t.”

  Then Bright piped up and said, “Miz Hardwicke is sending a book. By her girl.” And the moment it came out, she wished she had kept her mouth shut. Elise stared at her and Bright felt like a traitor.

  Dorsey took a deep breath and gave Elise a big, winning smile. “Well, there, now. Fostoria is trying to be helpful. You’ll do just fine, dear. I daresay you’ll know more about Borneo than anybody in the room when you get through with the book. You could probably tell them that Borneo is made of green cheese, and they’d believe it. And, too, I’m sure the Study Club is perfectly harmless. A little stuffy, maybe, but essentially harmless. It’s a nice gesture. They want to include you. Now that…”

  It hung in the air, unspoken. Now that … And Bright thought, Now that the baby business is over with.

  “Ahem.” Dorsey cleared his throat, leaned forward, looked over the cut-glass platter in front of him carefully. “I, ah, think I’ll have a piece of onion. I’ll pay for it later, but there’s nothing quite like a bit of onion to spice up your meal.” He lifted a ring of onion off the platter with his fork, dropped it on his plate, cut off a piece, chewed. Finally he smiled into the silence. Dorsey didn’t smile a great deal, but when he did it was big and warm and wrapped itself around everything and everybody within reach. And you just knew when he turned that smile on you that everything would be all right. He put his fork down then, clasped his hands in front of him, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, cleared his throat again. “I want you to try,” he said. “It will go just fine, I’m sure.” Elise stared at him, eyes large, the color drained from her face. He paused a moment, then went on. “You’ve got to live here, Elise, here in this town.”

  Elise dropped her head, stared at her plate, and Bright thought how small and lost she looked, like a child who had wandered away and didn’t know how to get back home. “Fostoria Hardwicke said people will think I’m odd,” she said quietly.

  “Yes,” Dorsey said. “They will. She’s right about that.”

  Elise raised her head, looked him straight in the eye for the very first time since dinner had begun. “So? What if they do? Don’t I have the right to be odd if I want to? After all, I’m from New Orleans.” There was something very sad and self-mocking in her voice.

  Bright sat very still, not really wanting to be there but caught in the web of whatever was going on between her mother and father, knowing that it was very important, something awfully big and grownup scary. Her parents seemed to have forgotten that she was there.

  Dorsey stared at her for a long moment and then his eyes broke away and he looked down at his clasped hands, and Bright could see how white his knuckles were. Finally he looked up at her and said, “No, you don’t have the right. If not for your sake, then for mine.” He paused, searching. “Fincher Hardwicke told me something this morning. He told me some of the men want me to run for mayor. I don’t really want to. I’ve got a full plate right now.” Bright glanced at his plate, thought that he had made a pretty good dent in his food already, but decided not to say anything. “But when you choose a place, choose to live in it, you take from it and then you give part of yourself back. This happens to be a good place, but it can be better. And I aim to do what I can. But I need you …” His words trailed off into the stillness of the room, and he lifted his h
ands in a gesture of supplication. Then he reached out a hand to her, palm open, across the table. She looked up at him and after a moment she put her small, slender hand in his big one and he closed it about hers; Bright could see the tiny movement of muscles in his powerful hand as he squeezed ever so slightly.

  “For me?” he said softly.

  Bright held her breath, frozen by the moment, by the anguished fright in her mother’s eyes and by the enormous presence of her father, the powerful aura about him that seemed to bend things ever so gently but inexorably into the shape in which he willed them. He seemed to tower above them, even sitting as he was now. Bright thought, I never want to disappoint him.

  And finally Elise let go of Dorsey’s hand and put her own hand in her lap and said, in a voice so tiny it could have been a mouse’s, “All right. I’ll try.”

  >

  Suds flew. Bright sat on a stool next to the counter by the sink while Hosanna washed the dinner dishes. It was her second-favorite place in the house, next to the big green overstuffed chair in the music room where she snuggled with her father. That was like being deep down in a warm, safe cave. This was like sitting on the edge of a cliff, watching a drama unfold below. Hosanna attacked the dishes, scrubbing them so hard it seemed she would rub the shininess clean off, flinging suds in all directions, carrying on a running commentary as she worked.

 

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