Old Dogs and Children

by Robert Inman

  “No,” she said. “It’s late.”

  “Long meeting?”

  “Crashing boredom,” she answered. “Terminal lethargy and rampant ignorance.”

  “I take it,” he said dryly, “that things didn’t go well.”

  “No, they didn’t go well at all.”

  Buster picked up his glass and she heard the tinkle of ice as he took a swallow, set it back down again. “So, what now?”

  “Now? Nothing, as far as I’m concerned. I’m going to go call Flavo and tell him what happened. And I’m going to tell him that I wash my hands of the whole business. I can’t for the life of me understand why I tried in the first place.”

  “Not much fun getting shot at, is it?”

  “No,” she said. And it wasn’t. She was feeling more than a little humiliated just now, stung not only by their rebuff but by having gone about it so clumsily. She hadn’t even escaped with her pride.

  “Well, if you’re going to sit over there and go to seed, marry me and we’ll do it together.” There was something strong and compelling in Buster Putnam’s voice, something she remembered from her father and her husband, who bade people do what they wished. But no, she had had quite enough of that for one woman’s lifetime, she thought. So she didn’t answer him. She turned and left him there on the porch and went home to call Flavo.

  BOOK 4

  15

  Bright slept soundly and rose early and clearheaded when she heard Gladys banging about under the house and the birds fussing about in the trees in the front yard. She put on her housedress and stood for a few minutes on the front porch, taking the new sun and gathering the day about her, letting it open itself to her on its own terms. The front lawn, under the pecan trees, was soft green and gray in the beginning light and Claxton Avenue stretched out emptily beyond it to the River Bridge. You could make sense of things, she thought, if you were willing to get up early enough and be quiet enough. So she stood on her porch with the first rays of sun on her face and made sense.

  She was still a little puzzled by Flavo Richardson, who had been curiously composed, almost amused, when she had called him last night to tell him about the council meeting. It occurred to her this morning that he had expected exactly what he heard. Flavo knew the council better than she. He was part and parcel of it. He compromised, got along. So why had he sent her there? And then she thought, Actually, he didn’t. He never said anything about going to the council meeting. He said, “Integrate the swimming pool.” He didn’t say how. He left me to blunder about in the dark, tripping over my own feet and getting my feelings hurt. But the devil with all that. I tried in the only way it occurred to me to try. Now it’s their affair, his and the council’s. It’s their town now.

  So that was over and done. No sense puzzling anymore. Let things take their course and Bright Birdsong would mind her own business, which this particular morning centered on matters a great deal more personal. To wit, fifty thousand dollars, waiting for her across the way at the Dixie Vittles Supermarket. If anything, last night’s experience with the council had reminded her of an old lesson. Don’t rush too much. The fifty thousand dollars would take care of itself if she let it. The thing to do was be quiet, be watchful. Take the money and keep her own counsel. If she did, she was bound to do the right thing about it. Whatever that was.

  So Bright Birdsong faced the new morning with a sense of calm. Corners turned, things put behind, possibilities faced tranquilly. She turned from the porch now and looked in on Jimbo, sprawled in profound sleep across the bed in the spare bedroom. Something outrageous, Buster had said. Well, what could be more outrageous than fifty thousand dollars? The new pair of overalls hung carefully across a chair. She picked them up and took them with her to the back porch and put them in the washing machine. They would be drying on the line by the time he woke, and ready to wear by ten o’clock. He would look like a country boy in his overalls when Ortho Noblett took their photograph at the Dixie Vittles ceremony. That would be at least a little outrageous.

  After she had started the washer, she went to the kitchen and heated up Gladys’s breakfast. Gladys was waiting for it next to the back steps, mournful-eyed. As Bright set the bowl down, she said, “A bath today, old girl. Like it or not. No alligator in his right mind would mess with a clean dog.” Gladys ignored her and buried her nose in the bowl, snuffling at the food as she ate. Birds chattered at them from the trees overhead, and Bright pulled the garden hose across the backyard and filled up the birdbath. Then she coiled up the hose next to the house and sat down on the back steps, gathering her housedress about her knees, watching the wrens and towhees and jays splash about in the water, while Gladys finished. She felt soothed by familiar habit, timeworn routine. It was good to be as near back to normal as she could hope until week’s end, when they all went away and left her alone.

  Gladys finished her breakfast now, gave the bowl a last lick, and looked up at Bright. “Gladys,” she said, “you’ve been peeing on the mint.” The old dog snorted and struggled painfully through the opening of the bricks and banged her way back to her place in the cool dirt under Bright’s bedroom. Back with the alligator Josephus.

  She woke Jimbo with a glass of orange juice and he sat up in the bed, groggy with sleep, took a sip, and put the glass on the night table next to the bed.

  “Are you grumpy in the mornings?” she asked.

  He nodded, looking up as she stood beside the bed. She raised the shades at the windows, letting the morning fill the room, then sat down on the side of the bed while he drained the glass of orange juice. “Well, I’m not. I sleep like a log and wake with a clear conscience. Always have. Gladys, now, she’s a different story. She’s a little grumpy in the mornings. She’s very old and not in the best of health. And you know what else?”

  “What?”

  “She’s been peeing on the mint. By the back door.” He looked up at her curiously, perhaps not quite sure of what to think. “I discovered it yesterday when Mr. Gibbons came by for a glass of iced tea and he remarked about the odd taste. And then I realized what Gladys had been doing.”

  “Did Mr. Gibbons know?” he asked, wide-eyed.

  “No, and we’ll let that be our secret.”

  “Well,” Jimbo said, “that’s what he gets for not letting the little black kids swim in the swimming pool.” He was very earnest about it. She wondered how much of the doings last night at the council meeting he had truly taken in. Perhaps more than she had given him credit for. What did ten-year-old boys perceive, anyway? It had been a very long time since she had truly encountered one.

  “Yes,” she said. “Well, howsomever.”

  “What?”

  “Howsomever. Haven’t you ever heard that word?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “It’s a perfectly wonderful word. In the same category as reckon and ain’t for richness of expression. If you can’t think of anything else to say, just say howsomever.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “Is it like thingamajig?”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, when Rupert can’t think of what you call something, he calls it a thingamajig.”

  “Same premise,” she said, standing now and picking up his empty orange juice glass. “Howsomever, time’s wasting. We’ve got business to transact this morning.”

  “The fifty thousand dollars?”

  “Exactly. So let’s get cracking.” She pulled back his covers. “I’m washing your overalls as we speak and I’ll have your breakfast ready when you get through taking your bath.”

  While he showered, she fixed poached eggs on whole wheat toast, Cream of Wheat with a pat of butter melting in the middle, a tall glass of milk for Jimbo and a cup of black coffee for her. She was putting it on the table in the breakfast room when he came in, hair still damp. She sat down at the table and Jimbo slid into his chair across from her and gave his plate a sour look. “I usually have cereal.”

  Bright picked up her spoon and wiggled i
t at his bowl. “Cream of Wheat is cereal.”

  “I mean like Froot Loops.”

  “What?”

  “Froot Loops. Little round things. They float in the milk.”

  “And I imagine they float in your stomach,” she said. “Cream of Wheat sticks to your ribs. What do your mama and Rupert eat for breakfast?”

  “They eat Froot Loops too.”

  “Well, this week, until they get back from the beach, you eat a decent breakfast. Dig in.”

  Jimbo picked at his breakfast for a while, taking small tentative spoonfuls of the Cream of Wheat and then poking the poached egg with his fork until he broke the soft yolk and the yellow ran out on his plate. Bright didn’t say anything. After a few minutes, his hunger began to get the best of him and he ate with relish, down to the last bite of whole wheat toast.

  Bright went to the kitchen and refilled her coffee cup, and when she sat down again she asked, “How do you feel about people speaking their minds?”

  “What?” He looked up at her curiously.

  “Do you think people ought to say what they’re thinking, no matter what?”

  “Well,” he hesitated, “Mama says if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

  “Hmmmm,” Bright said. “Interesting idea, coming from your mama. Despite that good advice, have you ever had something stuck in your craw that you just wanted to blurt out?”

  “Sure. Lots of times.”

  “Well, for the remainder of this week, I want to encourage you to speak your mind, at least between the two of us. No matter how outrageous a thing is, if you’re thinking it, you can tell me.”

  “You mean everything?”

  “Well, almost. Be a gentleman about it.”

  “Gee.”

  “Want to try it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I reckon,” she corrected. “Now try something. Something you’ve been thinking but hesitated to say.”

  Jimbo thought for a moment, staring at his empty plate, then raised his head. “Are you a rich old lady?”

  “Who said that?”

  “Bonnie Wimsley, one of the kids I was playing with yesterday. She said you’re a rich old lady.”

  Bright plucked her napkin from her lap, wiped her lips carefully, and tucked it under the edge of her plate. Ask for a thing, she thought, and you might get it. “No,” she said, “I’m not a rich old lady.”

  “But you’re gonna get fifty thousand dollars,” Jimbo said, eyes wide with the contemplation of it. “Doesn’t that make you rich?”

  “If you had fifty thousand dollars, would that make you rich?”

  “You betcha,” Jimbo said.

  “Well, I don’t consider fifty thousand dollars any great deal of wealth. Your grandfather Congressman Birdsong used to deal in billions. He gave it away to places like Borneo.”

  “Didn’t he bring any of it home?” Jimbo asked.

  She stood and picked up their plates and moved toward the kitchen with them. Then she stopped in the doorway and turned back to him. “No,” she said, “as a matter of fact he didn’t.”

  Jimbo looked up at her. “Can I say anything I want?”

  “That’s the rule.”

  “Grandfather should have kept a little for himself.”

  >

  Bright and Jimbo were about to walk out the door just before ten when Xuripha Deloach called.

  “Well, you’ve made a fine stew, Bright Birdsong,” she said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “It’s all over town.”

  “What’s all over town?”

  “The council meeting.”

  There was a long silence while Bright waited for Xuripha to come to whatever point she was working toward. Finally she said, “I would think you’d leave well enough alone.”

  “The swimming pool.”

  “Yes. Of course the swimming pool.”

  “I didn’t know you were a frequenter of the swimming pool, Xuripha. Do you wear a one-piece or a bikini?”

  There was a little exasperated intake of breath on the other end. “Bright, you’re deliberately trying to stir up trouble.”

  “No, I’m deliberately not,” Bright said firmly. “I went to the council meeting and spoke my mind, and that’s the end of it.”

  “Well, I hope so.” Xuripha sniffed. “I just hope you haven’t got Flavo Richardson and his crowd riled up now. If there’s a ruckus —“

  “Tell me,” Bright interrupted. “What is it you object to, Xuripha? About the swimming pool. Please be frank. You’re among friends here.”

  “Think of …” —she hung fire for a moment —“… sanitation.”

  “Sanitation?”

  “Yes. All those little unwashed …” She trailed off.

  “Ah yes,” Bright said. “I hadn’t thought about that. Sanitation.”

  “Hadn’t thought,” Xuripha said. “Yes, I don’t suppose you did.”

  “I always was a bit impetuous,” Bright smiled. “You’d think at my age I would have grown out of it.”

  “Yes, you would,” Xuripha said emphatically. “I would think at your age you’d be content to be quiet for a change. Let somebody else besides the Bascombes run things.”

  “Well, that’s why I’ve got friends like you,” Bright said. “To set me straight when I wander from the path. We are still friends, aren’t we?”

  “Of course. I’m just finding it a little hard to defend you this morning.”

  “Well, I appreciate your trying.” She looked through the screen door at the Dixie Vittles. The parking lot was crowded with cars. “And now I’ve got to go pick up my winnings,” she said. “When the shooting starts, I plan to be in Acapulco.”

  Harley Gibbons was standing in front of the Dixie Vittles when Bright and Jimbo arrived. He had a funny look on his face, as if he were not at all sure he should have come.

  “Good morning, Harley,” she called from the street, and she held her hand out as she reached him. “I’m glad to see you.”

  “About last night …,” he started.

  “Never mind about last night,” she said. “I’m sorry I got involved, and I’m doubly sorry we got crossed up. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

  “No apology needed, Bright. Not between old friends.” Harley looked down at Jimbo and patted him on the head. “Good morning, Jimbo. Come to help your rich grandma tote home her winnings?”

  Bright thought suddenly what she had said about Jimbo speaking his mind and felt a little rush of panic. But Jimbo didn’t say a word about Gladys and the mint. Instead, he looked up at Harley with a big smile and said, “Yes sir. Howsomever.” Bright squeezed his shoulder.

  A fair-sized crowd was milling about inside. The store was noisy with shoppers clattering about with their buggies, more than Bright had ever seen in the Dixie Vittles on a Wednesday morning. Ortho Noblett was there from the newspaper with his big Speed Graphic camera.

  “Well, here comes the big winner! And hizzoner the mayor!” Doris cried as Harley opened the door and the three of them stepped into the damp coolness. The buzz and hum of voices went up a notch, as if somebody had turned on a big machine. Dear me, I’ve become a little infamous. Doubly infamous. Fifty thousand dollars AND a public commotion.

  Monkey Deloach was standing just inside the door, looking rather festive this morning with a dandelion stuck in the top buttonhole of his open-necked shirt. “Ah, uh, hmmmmm …,” he began. “Top of the … hmmmmmm…”

  “Day,” Bright finished for him.

  “Right … hmmmmmm….”

  “You look downright festive this morning, Monkey,” she said, nodding toward the dandelion in his lapel. “Did Xuripha fix you up with a flower?”

  “Nope,” Monkey said. “That was my … hmmmmmmm….”

  “Idea.”

  “Right … hmmmmmm…”

  “Well, this must be a special occasion.”

  “Of course it is,” Monkey said without a hitch. “And bully
for you, calling the town council a bunch of pissants.”

  “Dolts,” she corrected.

  “What … hmmmmmm … ever.”

  Bright touched his arm. “Well, I’m glad you came. I need a little support. This is all a bit overwhelming.”

  Doris Hawkins was standing just beyond Monkey, hopping from foot to foot, trying to maneuver around him. Finally she reached over and took Bright protectively by the arm and guided her toward the counter. “Mrs. Fitzhugh Birdsong,” Doris announced, “and her grandson, Jabbo. And Mayor Harley Gibbons.”

  “Jimbo,” Jimbo corrected.

  Hank Foscoe, the manager of the store, was there, along with a fellow named Bert Bottoms from the regional office of the Dixie Vittles chain in Columbus. They were wearing little round white hats and red jackets with Dixie Vittles labels on them and they looked as if they had just stepped out from behind the meat counter.

  “What a pleasure,” Bert Bottoms warbled as Doris introduced everybody. He took Bright’s hand and bent toward her, giving her a strong whiff of an after-shave that made her think of cowboys. “Having such a distinguished citizen as our grand-prize winner. And so early in our contest, too!” Bright thought from the way he said it that Bert Bottoms probably wished she had waited a couple of months to win the grand prize.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Bright said, and he leaned down to shake Jimbo’s hand too.

  “I met your son last year when we had the grand opening of our new distribution center in Columbus,” Bottoms went on, straightening. “He came down and made a speech for us. Guess he’s pretty busy these days with the campaign and all …” His voice trailed off and there was a bit of an awkward silence while they all contemplated Fitz and his predicament.

  Bright rescued them. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow, Mr. Bottoms. We’re having Fitz Birdsong Day. I’m sure he’d be glad to see you again.”

  “Well, I’ll just have to see if I can’t do that.” He smiled broadly. “Now, we’ve got some important business to transact here this morning. Hank, have you got the grand prize?”