Old Dogs and Children

by Robert Inman

  “Monkey!” she cried.

  He stopped, peered over the top of his glasses at her. At nineteen, Monkey was already beginning to look like a wizened old man, features pinched, brow eternally furrowed. “Bright!” he called out with a grin.

  She walked swiftly to him, gave him a hug. “My goodness, I’m glad to see you!”

  “Oh?” He gave her a bemused smile.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Monkey looked down at his dray cart. “Hauling potatoes.

  “I mean”—she waved her hand—“in general.”

  “Learning the mercantile business.”

  There was a calm earnestness about Monkey Deloach, she thought. He seemed to know exactly who he was, and how he might contend with that. Good, solid Monkey. She looked him up and down, took a deep breath. “Monkey,” she said, “have you ever thought about the lumber business?”

  Monkey gave her back an equally honest appraisal. Then he said, “Not until just now.”

  “It’s not an easy business,” she said.

  Monkey looked down at his dray cart, smiled. “Neither are potatoes.”

  “I need help.”

  “Yes. I know you do.”

  “Would you be interested …”

  He was already reaching behind him to untie the strings of his apron. “If you’ll give me a moment,” he said, “I’ll give notice.”

  Bright went straight home and told Dorsey what she had done. He was sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair, wrapped in a thick shawl that Hosanna had no doubt forced upon him. He was beginning to get a little color back in his cheeks, but his eyes were sunken and his bony knees poked at the fabric of his trousers. She sat down next to him. “You’ve just hired Monkey Deloach,” she said.

  He stared at her for a moment. “For what?”

  “To help you. I want you to teach him the lumber business, Papa. He’s as solid a young man as you’ll find anywhere. Monkey will, as you like to say, do to hunt with.”

  He looked away from her for a long while, stared out at the street beyond the stark branches of the oak tree in the front yard. His lips moved ever so slightly, but no sound came out. Finally, he turned back. “It’s my business,” he said.

  There was nothing to do but be plainspoken. “It is not much of a business at all right now.”

  She saw just a hint of something then in the tired gray eyes. A tiny glint of interest. “Take him to Mose and Jester,” Dorsey said. “Tell them to work him in the woods until his rear end drags the ground and his tongue hangs out. It’s the only way to learn the timber business. If he’s still around when they get through with him, I’ll come see.” He poked the air between them with a finger. “Tell them just exactly that. Just the way I said it.”

  “Yes, Papa.” And she did.

  Bright and Fitzhugh exchanged letters through the winter. When would she return to the Conservatory? She put him off. Her father was quite ill, he needed her. She could not think beyond that. Fitzhugh had finished law school, had begun his clerkship. His letters were full of the future, a guarded optimism in the face of such terrible times. And she could hear the clear echoes of the unspoken in them: the future meant Bright Bascombe. She replied politely and noncommittally, put the letters aside and Fitzhugh Birdsong out of her mind.

  And then Fitzhugh showed up on her front porch on an April afternoon. In fact, he had progressed from the porch to the kitchen by the time she arrived from errands. He was seated at the kitchen table with a glass of iced tea in front of him, listening to a steady stream of chatter from Hosanna, when Bright stopped in the doorway and stared at the both of them. Hosanna was halfway to the stove with a pan of biscuits. She turned, saw Bright, waved the biscuit pan in Fitzhugh’s direction. “You didn’t tell me you had a beau in Atlanta,” she said without missing a beat. “He look a little frail, but I might could fatten him up a bit.”

  Fitzhugh rose, gave Bright a slight bow. “Bright,” he said simply.

  She opened her mouth, closed it again.

  Hosanna opened the oven door, shoved the biscuit pan in with a clatter, turned back to them with her hands on her hips. Then she fixed Fitzhugh with a hard stare. “She the one you can’t do without, Mr. Fitzhugh?”

  Fitzhugh blushed deeply. Then he drew himself up, looked into Bright’s eyes. “Yes, Miz Hosanna, she is that.”

  “I thought so,” Hosanna said. “You look like you ’bout to bust a gusset. Well, God help you. She a handful.” Then she flapped her arms at both of them. “Y’all get out of my kitchen and go work it out.”

  He sat next to her on the parlor sofa but he was careful not to come too close, careful not to lean too much. Even at a distance, though, he had the effect of fixing her absolutely in his attention, drawing a curtain about them.

  “Are you going to give it all up?” he asked. “Your music, the Conservatory?”

  Bright was peeved to find him here, especially unannounced. She did not want to be pressed.

  “Yes,” she answered. “For now.”

  “They’re very disappointed. I talked with Professor Hogarth. He thinks you have a fine talent.”

  Bright sat very still on her end of the sofa, hands clasped in her lap. “At the moment, that doesn’t seem to be very relevant.”

  “You love your father very much.”

  “I’m all he has left.”

  Fitzhugh looked around. “Is he here?”

  “He’s at the lumberyard. He’s started going back for a few hours each day.”

  “Then he’s better.”

  “Somewhat. Still very fragile, I’m afraid.” Bright tried to keep her voice firm. She knew full well what she had to do, and she was determined to do it. She would be civil and then send him away. If she was indeed the one he could not do without, he would wait.

  But then Fitzhugh said, “Bright, I want to marry you.”

  It was suddenly very quiet. Not a sound from the kitchen or the street outside. Only the beating of Bright’s heart, which became much faster and louder, thumping in her ears. She felt weak. She shook her head. “No,” she managed to get out. “Not now.”

  “Of course now.” His voice was urgent, insistent. “Now, of all times. Because the world is upside down, Bright. Yours and mine.”

  “That’s not reason enough to marry,” she said.

  “Yes! It’s a very good reason. But it’s not the most important one. I love you, Bright. I’m wretched without you!” He moved close to her now, reached for her hand. She started at his touch.

  “Fitzhugh, please!” she cried. And then she looked up to see Dorsey Bascombe standing in the doorway. They both froze.

  He was wearing his brown leather boots and puttees and a khaki shirt, and there was the faint smell of the woods about him, even at a distance. With the afternoon light just so, he looked ten years younger—tall and lean like a sturdy sapling, bent just a bit in the wind, perhaps. There was only the leather corset to give him away.

  “What is this?” he asked quietly.

  Fitzhugh let go of her hand and rose immediately. “My name is Fitzhugh Birdsong, Mr. Bascombe.” He took a breath. “I’ve come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  Dorsey looked down at where Bright sat on the sofa. She wanted to run from both of them, to seek a quiet hiding place. “I didn’t know my daughter had a suitor of such serious nature,” Dorsey said.

  “Papa…”

  But then he turned abruptly and was gone, his boots making a heavy, measured tread as he mounted the stairs.

  She didn’t look at Fitzhugh. “Go,” she said.

  “I will,” he said softly. “But not far.”

  She turned to him then. “What do you mean?”

  “I have come to live here,” he said simply.

  “Here?”

  “In this town. If you’re not coming back to Atlanta, I’m staying here. I intend to be a lawyer here and marry you and raise a family. In this very town, Bright Bascombe.” He thrust his
jaw out. “I mean it.”

  She stood in misery, torn between her father’s hard displeasure, still lingering like acrid smoke in the air, and Fitzhugh’s great presence next to her. She felt quite overwhelmed by it all, by the sea change in all their lives, the grimness, the urge to cling to the few things that were solid and dependable. Fitzhugh Birdsong seemed quite solid and dependable, and there was a set to his jaw now, a determination that hadn’t been there before. What had remained of the boy was gone, perhaps left behind on the sidewalk in front of the Conservatory when he had driven away in humiliation at the wheel of his father’s Packard. He would make his mark, she was quite sure of that. He would be devoted to her and to whatever he decided was his life’s work because he was earnest and honorable. He might even be passionate. He seemed to have the capacity for that. But there was Dorsey. She could not defy him, not now. Forced to choose, she must choose him because his need was greatest.

  She sat down finally on the sofa. “Leave me,” she said. “I can’t think now. Just go. Please.”

  He hesitated for a moment. Then he said, “All right. I’ll be at the hotel. I’m prepared to wait for you as long as it takes, Bright. There simply isn’t any other way.” He bent and kissed her forehead. And then he left her alone there in her agony.

  There were two days of stony quiet in the house. And then something happened. Bright was never sure exactly what. Dorsey came to her late on the second night, knocked on her door. She had already turned out the light, but she sat up in bed and flicked it on again and he opened the door gently. “Talk?” he asked, and she nodded, afraid of her voice. He sat on the side of her bed. He seemed frightfully old and worn now, his hair entirely gray, thinning quickly, a great pink bald spot at the crown. Bright reached up, touched his cheek. “Papa …”

  He pressed his fingers gently over her lips. “I’ve been to see your young man tonight,” he said. His voice was calm, clear, the strongest she had heard it in some time. “He apparently means what he says. He’s taken up residence at the hotel and he intends to open a law practice. He seems quite stubborn about it, in fact.” Dorsey sat quietly for a moment, studying her. “Do you love him, Bright?”

  “Yes. I think so, Papa. But…”

  “You can’t be burdened forever by my failures.”

  “Papa,” she cried, “you’re not a failure!”

  “I’m a disappointment,” he said. “I’ve disappointed myself most of all. And you’ll have your own disappointments, Bright. No one’s immune from that. But the root of the matter is, we both have to get on with things. Especially you. If you love him, marry him. Take his name and have his children. Just don’t forget who you are.”

  Bright felt relief flooding her, a great lifting of the burden. She would not have to choose after all! Dorsey Bascombe was wise and good. He gave himself no mercy, but there was a kind of courage in that. And Fitzhugh Birdsong was a fine and honorable young man who loved her deeply. His eyes were warm and deep, a place you might abide in peace. And she did need such a place where she was loved unreservedly by someone who was strong and constant and would be so for a great long while.

  She began to cry now, leaning her head against his chest, feeling the hardness of the leather corset against her cheek. Dorsey put his good arm around her shoulders, held her close.

  “Just remember what I told you a long time ago,” Dorsey said. “Live where you are. Make a place for yourself and put yourself into it. This is your place, Bright.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Papa.”

  Only Hosanna seemed oddly troubled by the turn of affairs. “I ‘spected him to pitch a fit,” she said darkly.

  “Why, for goodness’ sake?” Bright asked.

  “‘Cause you goin’ off.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Bright said firmly. “That’s the whole idea. I came back when he needed me. And I’ll be right here whenever he needs me again.”

  “Does young Mr. Fitzhugh understand that?”

  “Of course. What on earth is wrong with you?”

  Hosanna pressed her lips together, shook her head. Finally she said, “I tole you long time ago to pick the one you can’t do without. I just hope you ain’t got two you can’t do without. ‘Cause then you’ll have to choose betwixt ’em.”

  “Nonsense,” Bright cried. “That’s just the point. That’s what Papa has done. Made it so I don’t have to choose. Don’t you see?”

  “I see,” Hosanna said quietly. “But I’m not sure jes’ what I see.”

  19

  Bright and Fitzhugh were married at Christmas. And while people remarked on what a handsome young couple they made, they took equal notice of the bracing effect the nuptials seemed to have on Dorsey Bascombe.

  He took renewed interest in the lumberyard and began to rejuvenate its operation with the help of Monkey Deloach. He told one and all that Mose and Jester had nearly killed young Deloach with hard work, but that he might, in time, make a lumberman. Dorsey set into motion two building projects—the house at the end of Claxton Street that the newlyweds would occupy and a two-room frame office for Fitzhugh’s law practice halfway between the house and the bridge. And when he escorted Bright down the aisle of the Methodist Church on a Sunday afternoon, the congregation took note that he looked more like the old Dorsey Bascombe than they could remember in some time.

  Dorsey also surprised the community by announcing that he would not be a candidate for mayor when the spring of 1932 came around. He had in truth not been much of a mayor during the time of his latest illness, but now he seemed pretty much recovered. All he would say was “It’s time for somebody else.” So Pegram Gibbons ran unopposed and Dorsey stepped back from the town’s affairs. Some thought it was fitting. For one thing, there was the Depression. All across the desperate country, people were ready to try something new, anything to help them claw their way out of the grip of disaster. New leadership, they said. Like this fellow Roosevelt.

  There was another thing too, and Fitzhugh remarked on it one evening at dinner just after Dorsey had quietly passed the word that he would not run again. “Not everyone’s upset,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Bright asked, glancing up at him.

  “Well, people are careful how they talk around a new fellow in town, especially the mayor’s son-in-law. But if you listen carefully, you hear things.”

  “Like what?” she demanded.

  “Like maybe some folks believe Dorsey Bascombe has straw-bossed the town long enough.”

  Bright could feel her hackles rising. “What do you mean, straw-bossed?”

  “Well,” he said carefully, “you can abide one man getting his way about everything for just so long. He might be right and another fellow might be wrong. But the other fellow has a right to speak his piece and have his ideas considered.”

  “If my father hadn’t done all he’s done for this town, it would be a one-horse crossroads,” Bright said hotly, dropping her fork with a clatter onto her plate.

  “Whoa, now.” Fitzhugh raised his hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean to start a ruckus.”

  “Then don’t!” she shot back.

  “I’m just telling you what I hear.”

  “Maybe you listen to the wrong people.”

  It was their first real argument and it left a chill on the winter evening. They spent the rest of it in a gloomy silence, and later in bed, Bright turned away from him, pulling the covers tight around her neck. They lay there awhile in their separateness and finally he put his arm around her and nuzzled her neck. “How can I make love to you if you stay mad?”

  “You can’t,” she said.

  “Then stop being mad.”

  “Apologize.”

  “All right,” he said without hesitation. “I’m sorry. What am I sorry about?”

  “My father.”

  “Ah, yes,” he sighed. “I’m beginning to learn that when I put my foot in certain places, it ends up in my mouth.”

  “Yes, it does.”

>   “I don’t intend to compete with him, Bright. I couldn’t if I tried. I intend to make my own mark. And I am truly and abjectly sorry if I have offended you.” He began to nibble at her ear then, something she had come to like a great deal, and she felt herself stirring, turning to him in the darkness, opening. He was, as she had suspected before they married, a passionate man. She was beginning to learn of her own capacity for passion. There were, she thought, all kinds of music.

  • • •

  An uncommon young man, that’s what they said about Fitzhugh Birdsong. By the end of 1932 he was quite established in his law practice. At first, before the marriage, he had taken a room in a widow’s home and rented a tiny cubbyhole of an office upstairs over Pegram Gibbons’s bank. But he was not inclined to sit behind his desk and wait for business to come in the door. He was out and about—making the rounds of the business district, meeting merchants in their stores, stopping people on the sidewalks to introduce himself. He seemed never to forget a name or face. He noted the connections among the interlocking families of the community and sniffed out the sources of power and influence. And he had the most peculiar quality of making you feel, even in a crowd, that you had his absolute, undivided attention. It was a bit disconcerting at first, but people decided eventually that Fitzhugh Birdsong was genuine. He was new and he was from Savannah and that in itself could make folks suspicious of a fellow. But he didn’t push himself. He seemed like a young man who had his eye on something but could bide his time about getting to it.

  So by the time he and Bright married, he had already made his presence felt in the community. And with the marriage, he moved his law practice to the small frame building fronting on Claxton that Dorsey Bascombe had built for him. It carried a sort of endorsement. Fitzhugh was careful not to exploit it, but if it meant a measure of acceptability, so be it. His practice began to grow, as much as a smalltown lawyer’s business could in hard times. There was precious little money in folks’ pockets for legal doings. It was easier, they said, to shoot a fellow than to sue him. And if they sent you to prison, at least the food and lodging were free. But business trickled in as people came to learn that Fitzhugh Birdsong was a tireless, meticulous, and entirely discreet young lawyer. Then in the fall of 1932, Fitzhugh won a difficult civil case against a prominent lawyer from Columbus. The word spread quickly. The next morning, the elderly Miss Eugenia Putnam showed up at Fitzhugh’s office with a large envelope. “My affairs,” she said, laying the envelope on Fitzhugh’s desk. “I trust them to you until you make a ninny of yourself in court.”