In Memory of Junior

by Edgerton, Clyde

  Oh, my, I remember the times Glenn fell in the bathroom and I couldn’t get him up and had to go call them boys and not one word of thanks from anybody. Those sisters of his have everything. They have health and they complain all the time. I never complained once in my life—changing his diapers, standing him up in his slippers, feeding him.

  I lick Faye until there’s not much left of her. Then I eat her. She’ll get the homeplace. I’ll outlive him. I’ve got to. I eat the nurse, Gloria, next. She’s short with me sometimes. I eat one of these little tiny pieces wrapped in gold aluminum foil—Florida. Poor thing. I eat poor Florida.

  I look over the piece that is my poor sick husband, Glenn. Faye—did I eat her?—Faye kept saying, Take him to a rest home, Mama, and I finally did but lord, lord, he cried and cried with his hands on top of his head before I even took him out of the car and I couldn’t stand it, and Faye won’t ever understand until she has to face the same thing. If she does. I hope she don’t. But if she does, she’ll bring whoever it is back home, too.

  Glenn. I eat him.

  I can’t think of anybody else to eat except my Sunday school class. But they all look like the same one: Mrs. Loftis - Barnes - Poole - Tinkner - Smith - Darnell - Simpson - Rhymer. I eat her. Then I eat the church choir—all the rest of the candy, piece by piece. The sopranos, basses, those others. It makes me warm.

  I always believed, in secret, that as soon as I married him I could wean him from his family. But it never worked. The more I tried to wean him the more glued to them he got. There was something about them all that was so . . . so close it didn’t make sense. I came to realize, see, that Glenn would jump up on a horse and run after any one of them—his mama, papa, sisters, brothers, with them on a runaway horse and him trying to save them, while I was sinking in quicksand, calling out to him, Glenn, Glenn, save me, I’m sinking. His eyes would have been back over his shoulder, looking at me, but he would be galloping full steam after any one of the others. I decided to love him anyway, because he was Glenn. And his gift to me was that joint ownership, and that was because I’d worked to the bone taking care of him, because those boys had turned out so bad, so much against me, so cold-shouldered, because their mama run off, especially that Faison, and everybody knew how it was—how much work I put in—so that if Glenn had left anything to those sisters and those boys, then there would have been talk, and I know that if there was anything Glenn feared and dreaded all his life, it was talk of family discord, disharmony. That fear was something he ate every day. It was sticky and he ate it just about every day—that fear of discord and disharmony. Why did Glenn do that? Discord and disharmony could have been fresh, like lemon.

  I do wish I wasn’t sick, but I love my candy.

  3

  Harold Fuller

  Tate was about to get into his new airplane to ferry the seller home—fellow named Pillner, I think—when we heard the crash at the Mount Station bridge. Had to be a truck. It happens about once a year. They need to dig out that road some more. Then we heard a little aftershock—a little thump after the crash. I asked Drew about it next day and he said somebody called it in on a car phone that a truck had hit the bridge out there, but when they got out there they’d left the scene.

  The reason I was at the airfield was to see Tate’s new little airplane. It was a airplane just like Grove—his Uncle Grove—used to have and I think that’s part of why he wanted one. The boys—Faison and Tate—have always been crazy about their Uncle Grove. He used to come through on his truck runs and they’d meet him somewhere. Then Faison—at some point, I don’t remember exactly—run off and lived with Grove. Tate was still right little when that happened.

  He’s a interesting young man, Tate is. Good boy. Had some hard times. He says he’s hoping to put a little air-strip out on the homeplace—across that back field—so he won’t have so far to drive when he wants to fly.

  This flying thing. The whole family on Grove and Evelyn’s side has had this airplane thing for as far back as I can remember. Albert Copeland, their cousin, tried to build a floatplane for, I don’t know, twenty years or more, finally got one to fly—and still flies it. And one of Albert’s boys was in the air force. No, let’s see. That was his sister’s boy. Tate went in the navy when that one went in the air force. Albert’s boy is the one lost a arm and leg—was in the marines, I think.

  But you see, Grove, like I say, was Albert’s cousin—let’s see, Grove was Albert’s daddy’s sister’s boy I believe. I don’t remember her name. His was Tyree. Anyway, Grove was flying before Albert ever started. It was like it was in their blood, you know what I mean. And it kind of sifted on down to the younger ones—or some of them. There’s another one over the other side of Draughn flies acrobatics, loop de loops.

  But listen. Grove . . . Grove—way back then—was flying off a pole. Damnedest thing you ever seen. It was ’46, or maybe ’47, and Grove got this idea. See, he ended up with a new airplane and a little piece of land out by the lake. He’d said he could get a little bit of land and a nice new airplane, or he could get a lot of land—enough for a runway—and a used airplane. Income from hauling liquor, you know, bootlegging. He opted for the new airplane. Little bit of land. Not enough for a runway. So he had to build this pole thing. This was right after the war, I guess right around the time Evelyn left.

  Anyway, Grove got a load of pilings—this is true—pilings that ferries run up against, and tied them together with steel cable. Half buried, half above ground. There’s no telling where they come from. I think he had about nine of them wired together with this steel cable around the outside, three of them with a little more height sticking up out the middle, and a swivel and another cable, a long single cable, to hook to the tip of the airplane wing, see. He’d start his ground roll going in a circle like a mule around a cider press, you know, gain speed and gain speed. After rolling a few hundred feet, he’d clear the ground, gain speed, and then of course he’d rigged this release mechanism modeled after that carrier catapult release that Barn Poteet—lives in Fuquay-Varina—actually designed for the navy. A lot of people don’t know that. A mechanism that a certain pound pull, you know, would separate, shaped like this. And if it didn’t work, there was a handle in the cockpit he could pull and there you’d go. Off in the wild blue yonder. Yeah, he was a something. And I don’t think that mechanism failed once. Well, I know it didn’t. And when he wore a deep enough circle in the grass, he’d lengthen or shorten the cable. I always waited for the day the cable might catch and start winding around them pilings and wind him right on into hisself more or less, but it never happened.

  I liked old Grove, a real likable fellow as long as you was on his right side, and I liked to hang around out there when I could, over there, and over here at Hollis Field, too. Course all that’s long gone, where Grove flew off that pole. TechComm Commons has took it all over. Sha, nothing new about that. I understand they got Japs and Arabs and no telling who-all buying land out there.

  Grove—Grove was a wiry man, tall, worked in shorts in the summer, which was odd back then, for a man, or for a woman, far as that goes. And he kept his hair real short over his ears, almost shaved. And he’d wing that thing off the pole like a slingshot. It was a new airplane, like I said.

  Wouldn’t nobody fly off the pole but Grove. And I can remember him talking about how to do it—the mechanics of it, the touch you used and all. Oh, he’d rigged up the wing, too. You know, to take the strain. He was a kind of legend there for a while. Married several times.

  I used to fly with him to Ocracoke and Portsmouth—when the village was still out there at Portsmouth. There was a little grass landing strip. He’d pick me up here at Hollis Field. I never did fly with him off the pole, though.

  He called his business Grove’s Sky Ferry. Didn’t last long.

  Tate’s been out of flying a right long time, so when he got a notion to get back in it, I told him I knew everybody out there at Hollis—Coach, Gary, all them—and that I’d introduce
him and all that, so that’s what I did, and so on the day this fellow flew his plane in, I was out there when he closed the deal.

  It was a little unusual, him deciding all of a sudden to get back into flying, but I figure it’s also part because of his son. That boy is a sight—a downright disgrace. Long hair, earring, the works. I figure Tate felt like he wanted to get the boy interested in something, something they could maybe do together since him and his wife split up. Marilyn. That was her name. Another oddball.

  Of course, Faison, you know, lost his stepson. That was a shame. Damn shame. But Tate, he’s come a long way under the circumstances. He went on to college and made something of hisself. Earns a good salary out at the college, probably. Got into this psychology stuff. And was actually in the war, a hero. He won a big medal, a Silver Something, I think. Been me, I’d a made a career out of it—the navy.

  Grove sent him a white scarf, and Tate took it to the navy with him and on all his missions. They had that in the newspaper.

  So I was out there at Hollis Field with him and we waited for the plane to fly in, the one he wanted to buy, did buy. It’s a tail-dragger. A ’46 Super Cruiser. Fabric covered. Just like the one Grove used to have back when.

  Tate and the seller, fellow named, what did I say? Pilsner? Or Pillner? Jim Pilsner, I believe—I can’t remember—and some more of us were sitting together in the flight shack, talking. Gary had checked out the engine and airframe. Coach had flown it. Said it flew like a dream. Tate had flown it. I could tell he knew he ought to hide his enthusiasm until the deal was made.

  It was time for somebody to make a move.

  “Jim, could we walk outside a minute?” Tate said. Sitting there, kind of eager.

  “Sure,” says Jim. Jumped right up.

  So they went on out and started walking toward that little airplane, sitting there—pretty. Just as pretty and sweet as she could be.

  Tate had told me about his plan. He was going to offer eleven, then finally eleven-five, then back out of the deal if the man didn’t drop his price—which was twelve-five.

  Well, I was watching through the window there and they said three or four words and shook hands. I couldn’t figure it. What happened, Tate told me later, was that he offered the guy eleven, the guy said no, Tate looked at the plane—big mistake—and said, Okay, twelve-five.

  Whether or not he can get that boy of his interested in it remains to be seen. Tate didn’t say that’s why he bought the airplane, but I just figured that might be part of it.

  Morgan

  Mom took me over to Dad’s this afternoon and tonight I ended up coming back to Mom’s. I didn’t want to go to the ball game in the first place, but he meets me at the bottom of the stairs at his place, his apartment—Mom got the house in the settlement—and he tells me first that he just bought an airplane like he’s been showing me pictures of. I said great. I mean it’s neat, but I’m not flipped out over it or anything. Then he wanted to know if I wanted to go see the Bulls play baseball. I guess I shrugged. He’s got this thing about taking me places. Like that’s supposed to solve some kind of problem.

  He’s also got this thing about my hair and stuff, but he won’t come out with it. He like accepts it—or something—and hates it at the same time. Something like that. He keeps saying he thought long hair went out a long time ago. Like that’s supposed to make some kind of difference.

  So I went on up to my room, put up my gym bag, and got on the computer for some Tetris. I’ve got a pretty neat room over there, actually. Some posters and stuff. I keep my CDs in both places.

  He was downstairs, outside, probably arguing with Mom about something. Then he comes up and stands in my door for a minute. I can feel him standing there and he says, “I figured maybe we could fly down to Ocracoke one day for lunch since I’ve got the plane now.”

  He’s been showing me these pictures of this airplane his uncle used to fly. So now he’s got one. He like worships this uncle who I met one time when I was about three. This old guy used to fly airplanes and drive trucks and all this, but he’s about a hundred years old now. He’s the reason Dad started flying in the first place and everything. That’s what Dad said. There are all these cousins of his—ours—who flew airplanes, floatplanes, and stuff. Some of them never got a pilot’s license. Which Mom couldn’t believe.

  “You think you’d want to do that?” he says.

  “Yeah, probably so.” I was like already into the Tetris and he was wanting to discuss this hypothetical venture.

  “How about a Bulls game tonight?”

  “Not especially.” My damn voice is changing, squeak and thunder. Freaks me out. Strange, man.

  “Well, I’d like for you to go.”

  “I’d like to do this now.” He and Mom know exactly how to bug me.

  “I’m not talking about now,” he says. “I’m talking about tonight.”

  So we’re in the third-base bleachers. We get there early and the groundskeepers are still out there working on the infield. Okay? So I’m wearing my cutoff jeans, silver earring, the black beret, and my Doc Martins. That’s what I like to wear. That’s what I’m most comfortable in.

  Baseball like as far as I’m concerned is about as boring as it gets. Dad sits there and he says if you know the game it’s exciting because something is always going on that’s full of like drama and stuff like that. I mean.

  He says, “They used to pack the dirt extra tight between first base and second for Maury Wills when the Dodgers were playing at home.” He’s told me this at least twenty times. So Maury Wills could have extra traction while stealing second. All that.

  I chewed my pizza, looked straight ahead at the guy spraying water from a hose. Big-deal excitement.

  When the national anthem started, and we stood up, I didn’t even think about it—I left my beret on.

  “Son, take off your hat,” he says.

  I swear I’d forgotten, but I’m having problems with his tone of voice, so I don’t respond.

  “Take off that hat,” he hisses. Venom.

  I step away from him like man, like what is going on here? There is no law about hat-wearing as far as I know.

  He went for the hat. I ducked, threw up my arms. He grabbed the hat. I held it to my head, lost my footing, gave up the hat, then moved away—and kept moving, right on down the bleacher steps among all these fans standing at attention singing their little hearts out. I didn’t stop walking until I was home at Mom’s. I mean like what is the big deal? You tell me.

  I picked up the phone upstairs when he finally called. I imagine he waited around after the game was over, then went on home. I listened in.

  “Hello, Marilyn? Is Morgan there?”

  “He’s upstairs.”

  “Can I speak to him?”

  “I think he’s absorbed in something at the moment.”

  “Well, then tell him I waited for him for a good while and that—no, don’t tell him anything. I’ll try to talk to him later.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What did I do? Marilyn, I asked him to take his hat off for the national anthem. That’s what I asked him to do.”

  “He said you yelled at him.”

  “Oh. Well, listen, Marilyn . . . for god’s sake, Marilyn.”

  I asked Mom one time why they got married and all. Don’t get me wrong, he’s my dad and everything. He’s all right. We’ve done some fun things. She said he told her a story about when he won his medal in Vietnam—his big-deal Silver Star—and it “broke her heart” and that’s when she decided to marry him. So I don’t know why the hell he won’t tell me. Then maybe I’d feel like marrying him or something. He won’t tell it to me, probably never will. I’m not old enough, he said. It must be a hell of a story, but I’m not holding my breath. Then, so fine, he’s a hero.

  One of the things that ripped Mom up was he tried to give me this shotgun for Christmas three years ago, when I was thirteen. She flipped right out. And of course I don’t want a gun.
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  And boy does Mom hate Uncle Faison. She used to talk and talk about these sucking noises he made on his toothpick. She’d say stuff like, “Can’t he get it through his head that those noises make noises.”

  Mom was big on me getting into computers, following my intellectual bent, as she puts it. She’s planning to stay around here, so I’m more or less stuck here until I can get off to college. I’m going out of state. You can count on that.

  Faison

  I got this toothpick habit. One of the things that Tate’s wife, Marilyn, didn’t especially like about me. I could always feel it, so I made it a point never to be without one in my mouth when she was around. It never bothered June Lee—my wife. Some things bother one wife. Some things bother another wife. One wife bothers the other wife. The other wife bothers the other wife. Life is hell.

  I keep a box of wooden rounds—toothpicks—on my dresser and every morning load eight to twelve into my shirt pocket or somewhere. Sometimes if I’m wearing a T-shirt I’ll stick them under my belt, or in a sock. If I put them in my back pocket, they break when I sit down.

  Today, I drove over to Truck Freight to get Uncle Grove’s footstone. It was addressed to me and Tate both. He called us, said it was coming. Said it was a secret, not to tell anybody. The shipping receipt said: Granite base 40 x 17, bronze nameplate, flower vase. Origin: Cutler, Arkansas, 72012. Pretty damn big piece of rock to be coming through the mail.

  So I’m the one, not Tate, ended up running this little errand. Tate was flying his new airplane, new used airplane, and what the hell, this was something pretty straightforward, I figured, the kind of thing I do better than Tate anyway. Pick up the footstone, hold on to it until Uncle Grove dies and gets sent back to North Carolina or until just before he dies, and then put it in the graveyard, get somebody to dig the grave and all that. I always consider that I had to learn from having to be a man, from having to bear brunts. Not bragging or anything. Just the way it is. I never got any fame, war medal, college degree, degrees, all that shit. But I did live with Uncle Grove for six months when I was sixteen and Tate didn’t. Hell, nobody didn’t stop him from running off and going and staying with Uncle Grove, either. He could have done it as easy as me.