by Robert Inman
“I’ll think of something,” he said.
“You and Doyle Butterworth will think of something,” she said.
“Yes. That’s right. We’ll try to save Little Fitz Birdsong’s political hide,” he said.
“Well, I don’t have the money.”
“What do you mean, you don’t have it?”
“It just happened last night, Fitz. They haven’t given me the money yet.”
“When are they going to give you the money?”
“I don’t know. Look, we’ll talk about this when you get here Thursday.”
“Thursday.”
“Are you still going through with it?”
“Oh. You mean Fitz Birdsong Day. Yeah, I guess we are. Big Deal says it’s all set up. The parade and a luncheon at the high school. I want you to ride in the parade with me. We’ll get Dodson to drive. How ’bout that, Dodson?” Another muffled reply from up front. “Hold up here, Dodson. Mama, we’re turning in the driveway at the Capitol now, and there’s a whole gaggle of press folks up there by the steps waiting for me. Somebody musta told ’em I was coming. Damn, you can’t keep nothing to yourself these days.”
“Well, you go take care of your business,” Bright said. “There’s just this one thing —“
“Mama,” he interrupted her, “will you help me?”
“Fitz, I just can’t think about it right now. I can’t think about anything right now.” She stopped, remembering the riverbank in the dead of night, the small brown hand breaking free of the dark water …
“Flavo Richardson’s grandson drowned last night,” she said.
There was a long silence on the other end. “My God,” Fitz said softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. How did it happen?”
“Swimming in the river. Underneath the bridge.”
“I’ll call him as soon as I get rid of these press hyenas.” Bright could hear shouts now, and she imagined the pack of reporters surrounding Fitz’s limousine, cameras and microphones bearing down on him.
“Yes,” she said. “You call him. Don’t wait as long to call Flavo Richardson as you did to call me.”
“I won’t, Mama. I promise.” He would call, she was sure of that. Little Fitz Birdsong, whatever his shortcomings, was a man who was loyal to a fault. He had gotten that from his father. “Mama …” The shouts were getting louder now. She could hear a banging noise. Somebody beating on the top of the car?
“Yes.”
“Don’t judge me,” he said.
“It’s not my place,” she said gently. “I’m your mama.”
“Will you still vote for me?” he asked, and she could hear the lift in his voice —girding himself, getting ready to step out of the limousine with that big warm grin on his face.
“Of course I’ll vote for you,” she said.
“I love you, Mama.”
“I love you too, Fitz.” She hung fire for a moment. “Fitz …”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Think about what your father would do at a time like this.”
She thought for a moment that she had lost the connection. There was nothing but silence on the other end. Then she heard the shouts of the reporters again. And finally he said, “Mama, for one thing, Papa never would have gotten himself in this kind of fix. And for another …” He paused again and then his voice went hard and flat. “Papa never took the time to teach me a damn thing.” And he hung up.
She sat staring at the telephone, hearing the bitter echo of his voice, then placed the receiver gently into its cradle and gave a great sigh. Ah, the old poison, the old hurt and disappointment. He never truly got over it, did he. And now, in a moment when his guard is down, when he is painfully vulnerable and probably a bit sick of himself, it all bubbles to the surface again like foul-smelling gas from the bottom of a pond.
A sudden flash of memory now —a photograph from a newspaper. The early fifties: Little Fitz, a sophomore in college, eating a goldfish. He was standing on the sidewalk in front of his fraternity house, head thrown back, holding the small fish over his open mouth. There was a big crowd in the background, boys and girls, most of them holding paper cups. The caption under the picture said the fraternity boys were reviving some of the college high jinks of the Roaring Twenties. Fitz looked very pleased with himself.
Bright remembered it now with a flash of anger, the photograph and what she had done. She got in the car and drove straight to the University. Then she marched in the door of the fraternity house with the newspaper in her hand, past a gawking rabble of young louts sprawled about the living room, and up the stairs before they could utter a protest. She searched the second floor, sending half-dressed boys scurrying, until she found his room. Fitz was asleep, his face against the wall. It was midafternoon. The window was open, and outside on the lawn of the fraternity house she could hear the shouts of a football game in progress.
“High jinks from the Roaring Twenties,” she said. “Tommyrot!”
He woke with a jerk at the sound of her voice, but he didn’t turn over. She heard a muffled “Oh damn.”
“Look at me,” she commanded.
“I’d rather not,” he said.
“Turn over, or I’ll pick you up and throw you out the window.”
He turned toward her then and stared with sleep-bleared eyes. She unfolded the newspaper and tapped the picture with her finger. “I didn’t send you here to make a spectacle of yourself,” she said. “If you’re so fond of fish, I’ll sign you up for the Navy.”
He sat up in the bed and rubbed his hand across his puffy face. “I love you, Mama, you know that.”
“I love you too, Fitz. I wish that were enough to keep you from acting the fool.”
“I won’t let it happen again,” he said.
“That’s right, you won’t. Pack up, buster, we’re going home.”
Actually, she had saved him from academic ruin. At midsemester, his grades were teetering on the precipice of abject failure. Bright withdrew him from school and handed him over to Monkey Deloach, who now owned Dorsey Bascombe’s sawmill and timber business. Monkey, in turn, put Fitz to work in the woods.
In the meantime, Bright wrote straightaway to Fitzhugh, telling him what she had done. He called immediately. Yes, that was exactly the right thing. Get the boy straightened out before he ruined himself. She had handled things, just like she always did.
But she sensed, even as she handled things, that she was dealing with something much deeper than goldfish eating. Little Fitz Birdsong didn’t want to be Little Fitz at all. He was trying in perhaps the only way he knew to distance himself from his father the now-famous congressman. Some of that was the independence of youth. Some of it was deep resentment over the long absences, the moments missed, the experiences unshared. But what was done was done and probably irreparable. So the only way she knew to deal with it was to have Monkey put him in the woods and let him take out his anger on trees, test himself, do battle with the beast that ate at his gut until he either won or fell exhausted from the combat. Her instinct proved correct, at least in the short run. After five months of the hardest labor Fitz had ever known, he left the woods lean and fit and more sure of himself, the beast held at bay. He returned to the University in the fall, moved out of the fraternity house, eventually graduated with respectable grades, good enough to get into law school. She and Little Fitz had never really talked about it in so many words. He had emerged from the experience no longer a boy, but a young man who kept his own counsel. And as for discussing it with Fitzhugh, the whole business of who was responsible in the larger sense had by that time left them long ago defeated and exhausted.
Now, sitting here beside the telephone with Fitz’s sudden, bitter words echoing about in her mind, the question of responsibility came back like an old ghost. Unfinished business. Who had been responsible then, and who now?
When you married and had children, you assumed a responsibility to put them above all else, care for them, pick up after them, guide them as
best you could. Bright Birdsong had done that with a firm hand, and she suspected that she had often erred on the side of firmness. With Fitzhugh simply not there much of the time, it had been the only thing to do. But then part of responsibility is knowing when to let go and let people become responsible for themselves. She had done that too as best she knew how. So now, in the quiet of her late life, she said to herself over and over, I did what I had to do. I did the best I could.
But now, in the space of twenty-four hours, all that had been thrown out of kilter and she was forced to confront the possibility that what she had done for Fitzhugh and Roseann had not been enough, or not right. If there was any blame, she was willing to share it. But if there was any present responsibility, it was hers alone. Fitzhugh, damn your hide, you have left me here again to face the music. And this time I don’t even know the name of the tune.
She sat for a moment, trying to gather her wits and calm herself, rubbing her temples with her fingers and staring blankly out the front window at the bright green of the pecan trees and Claxton Avenue beyond, not really seeing any of it. All right, she said to herself finally, there is not much you can do about Roseann or Fitz right this minute. But there is something else you can do. You can go to Flavo Richardson. It may be a faint attempt at sanity. She took a deep breath. So hitch up your britches and get on with it.
She stood resolutely, glancing at the clock on the mantel. Nine o’clock, the morning half gone. Then she heard voices on the front porch and stepped to the door to see Jimbo and Buster Putnam sitting in the two wicker chairs. Jimbo had put his book down on the table between them and was giving Buster all his attention. Buster was talking animatedly, gesturing with his hands, and she heard the word “Inchon.” That had been in Korea, hadn’t it? She remembered reading about it, a great victory for the Americans, an amphibious landing behind the enemy lines. General Douglas MacArthur had been the brilliant strategist behind Inchon. And Buster Putnam’s Marines had done the work. Little Buster Putnam, who had escaped death from a falling tree because he got up in the middle of the night to go pee.
Buster looked up now, saw her at the door, stopped in midsentence. “Good morning,” he said. “Aren’t we the late riser today.”
“Humph,” she said, opening the screen door and stepping onto the porch. The sun was full-bore on the morning and it was already getting hot. A big white truck was parked across the street in front of the Dixie Vittles with its air-conditioning unit throbbing, keeping meat and vegetables cool in the rear. Through the big plate glass window of the store, Bright could see what appeared to be the driver leaning against the counter, talking with Doris Hawkins. She wondered if they were talking about the fifty thousand dollars. Probably.
“And what are you doing out of bed before noon?” she asked Buster.
He raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, I came to make peace, lady. Since you got rich, I figured I’d better get on your good side.”
“Hah! Rich! Fifty thousand dollars doesn’t make anybody rich. If I gave it to you, would you fix up your house?”
Buster shook his head. “Nope. I’d buy new pickup trucks for all the boys out at the Spot. Even the sonofabitch that calls me General Patton.”
“Buster!” she warned him.
“Excuse me. Old Marine Corps habit.” He glanced over at Jimbo, who was staring raptly up at him. “Here,” Buster said to Jimbo. “Get up and offer the lady a chair.”
Jimbo got up, taking his book with him, and perched on the porch banister. Bright sat, gathering her robe around her, and gave Buster a close inspection. He looked as if he had been out most of the night. He had a rough stubble of beard on his face and a faintly rank smell about him. He was clad in the same pair of faded brown pants and plaid shirt he had been wearing yesterday when she had taken him to the hospital.
Buster let her appraise him for a moment and then he asked Jimbo, “What are you reading there?”
He looked down at the book, then held it up for them to see. On the cover was a picture of a large green thing with flaming red eyes reared up on its hind feet, a rocket blasting off in the background. “The Gargoyle of the Asteroids,” Jimbo said.
“What on earth is a gargoyle of the asteroids?”
“It’s not anything on earth. It’s a space monster.”
“Oh,” Buster said. “Of course. Any Marines in there?”
“No sir. But there’s Captain Zartor. He tricked the Gargoyle.”
“And how did he do that?”
Jimbo scrunched up his face earnestly. “Well, the Gargoyle is real smart. He can tap into giant computers and absorb all of the information in them. But that’s how Captain Zartor defeated him. He tricked the Gargoyle into absorbing some phony information, and he programmed himself to blast off into hyperspace.”
“If Captain Zartor is that canny, he must be a Marine,” Buster said.
“I don’t think so. But he’s the leader of the Intergalactic Space Patrol.”
“Sort of like Buck Rogers,” Buster said.
“Who’s Buck Rogers?” Jimbo asked.
“Good Lord.” Buster snorted. “And I’ll bet you’ve never heard of Tom Swift, either.”
“No sir.”
Buster turned to Bright. “See, I told you. The boy needs overalls.”
“What do overalls have to do with Buck Rogers and Tom Swift?” she asked.
“It’s all a matter of cultural development. A boy without overalls runs the risk of missing the best part of being a boy,” Buster said. “There are lots of places you’d go wearing overalls that you wouldn’t go dressed in” —he gave a wave at Jimbo’s khaki pants and knit shirt—“fancy duds.”
Jimbo looked down at himself. “These aren’t fancy.”
“Compared to overalls they are.”
“Well, then,” Bright said, exasperated, “for goodness’ sake go buy the boy some overalls.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. It’s your idea.”
Buster thought about it for a moment, then slapped his knee and stood up. “Fine. Right now. Let’s go do it.”
“After Jimbo’s had breakfast,” Bright said.
“I’ve already had breakfast.”
“Oh? What?”
“Cereal. I found some in the cabinet. Grape-Nuts Flakes. And milk in the refrigerator.”
“Good Lord,” she said. “That’s no breakfast for a growing boy. Milk and cereal is what old ladies eat.”
“It’s what I have all the time. Mama lets me get up and fix breakfast before I go to school.”
“Well, I’m not your mama and you’re not in school. But I suppose Grape-Nuts Flakes will do just this once. Tomorrow, you get grits and eggs.”
“I don’t like grits and eggs,” he said.
“You’re a finicky child,” she said bluntly. “A few mornings of grits and eggs will improve your disposition.”
“And some overalls,” Buster said. “You ready, Jimbo?”
“I suppose so.”
“I reckon,” Bright corrected. “If you’re going to wear overalls, say ‘reckon.’ Now go to the bathroom and brush your teeth and don’t keep General Putnam waiting.”
He scrambled down from the banister and disappeared inside.
When he had gone, Buster edged over toward the steps, leaned against the porch post for a moment. “Well, are you enjoying the limelight, Bright?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re quite the local celebrity this morning. All that money. It’s all anybody’s talking about. I was in the café for coffee and the place was buzzing. Everybody’s speculating about what you’ll do with it.”
“Humph. What I’m going to do with it is get rid of it as fast as I can. I’m entertaining requests. I’ve already had one this morning.”
“Siding salesman?”
“No, my son the governor.”
“Ah, yes.” Buster nodded. “That’s the other thing they were talking about at the café. The other celebrity Birdsong. That
, and the drowning. Flavo Richardson’s grandson, I heard.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I was down there on the riverbank when they found him early this morning.” The picture flared up in her mind again, the spotlight white-hot on the river, the small brown hand breaking the surface, dripping gems of water. And Flavo’s anguished rage. “I’ve got to go see Flavo,” she said. “He thinks it’s my fault.”
Buster’s eyes widened. “Yours? Why the hell does he think it’s your fault?”
“Mine, yours, everybody else’s. He says the reason they were swimming in the river was because they couldn’t get in the city pool. Everybody has to have a season ticket.” It sounded so mundane, so trivial in the face of a death. People didn’t die because of season tickets. That would be too stupid.
Buster crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at his feet for a moment. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to go talk to Flavo. Beyond that, I can’t imagine what I could do.”
“Hmmmmm,” Buster said, twisting his mouth to the side.
“What does that mean? Hmmmmm.”
“Oh, nothing. Just thinking that things have gotten awfully unquiet over here all of a sudden. Sort of hard to vegetate with all that going on, isn’t it.”
“Vegetate?” she said hotly, irritation dancing up the back of her neck like prickly heat. “Look, Buster, you just mind your own business.”
“Well,” he said mildly, “you’re pretty quick to talk about me going to seed next door, Bright.”
“Just look at yourself,” she shot back.
Buster looked down at himself, gave her a crooked grin. “Dressed for combat, Bright. Doing battle with my devils. Just like you.”
“I don’t have any devils,” she said. She glared up at him, getting ready to spear him with another retort, when Jimbo came through the screen door. His hair was neatly combed, his knit shirt tucked into his pants, the laces on his shoes tied with an equal length of bow on either side. He still had his book in his hand. Bright felt a pang. There was something almost sad about him, so scrubbed and buttoned-down, even with his mother not there to tuck and fix and fuss. So quiet and cautious and un-boy. What had Roseann done to him? And what did I do to Roseann?