The O. Henry Prize Stories 2014

by Laura Furman

  She said you shouldn’t eavesdrop, and the whole story was that she and Joe took French together in high school, but only for half a year; then she went away to boarding school and hadn’t seen him again, or even thought of him, until today. Then you asked why your Grandpa didn’t like him, and she said, “Sweetie, try to understand. In Raystown, different kinds of people are supposed to be happy with different things—” and you said, “Colored people?” and she said, “Other kinds of people too. They’re all supposed to want what they’re supposed to have, and settle for it. Only, Joe wouldn’t settle. He didn’t care how hard he had to work for what he wanted, but if anybody told him he shouldn’t want it in the first place, he’d make a fuss. Your Grandpa hates fuss.”

  You asked, Did he want money? and she said, “Joe never cared about money. Joe wanted … things to be different. Joe wanted the County Library to have books by colored writers, and gave the librarian a list. Joe wanted the School Board to hire a colored teacher, and gave them a list of colored colleges where they could find one. Joe wanted to take French instead of Industrial Arts. The principal said no, Joe would take shop like he was told to, because no … body from Wisdom’s Notch was going to Paris. Joe sent a letter to the newspaper that quoted the principal word for word, with copies to the governor and the NAACP. The paper wouldn’t print it, but the School Board said Joe could take French.

  “Joe made people nervous, wanting things he wasn’t supposed to, even some people in Wisdom’s Notch. Finally he wanted one thing too much. Some men were going to teach him a lesson, but the sheriff arrested him first, and your Grandpa was the judge and sent Joe to the army instead of jail. It was wartime, but colored men weren’t supposed to fight; the army taught Joe to drive trucks.

  “Only Joe wanted to fight. So he made a fuss, and eventually the army taught him to drive tanks and sent him to Europe, and he fought for General Patton and won a medal and was wounded at the Battle of the Bulge. After the war he stayed in France. He’d send letters to the principal postmarked Paris—long letters, all in French.” She gave a little laugh. “I guess I was as bad as that principal; Joe and I had talked about Paris, and I expected I’d see it someday, but I never thought Joe … Only there he was, living on the Left Bank. He could have stayed; a lot of colored soldiers did. But Joe wanted to live in Wisdom’s Notch. And he was a hero, so eventually your Grandpa had to let him come back.”

  You asked, So he’d settled? but she said Joe would never settle, but loved Wisdom’s Notch more than … anything. So you asked, What was the one thing too much? and she said, “Oh, sweetie, that’s ancient history,” but you wondered if it was, and if one of the other kinds of people was People Like Us.

  You remember cool air billowing blue curtains, but being warm beneath a quilt your Grandmother, God rest her, made.

  You remember your mother holding the round box with the white man in the black hat on it, in one hand, and the square box with the colored man in the white hat on it, in the other, asking, Oatmeal or cream of wheat?

  You remember ring, ring, ringing, and hearing not his voice but hers saying, “Hello, Hal …,” and holding your breath until she said, “I still don’t. But it’s time I told you myself.”

  You remember the teacher with the gray crew cut saying he’d heard you liked to mix it up, you should come out for Pop Warner. Your mother said football was too rough but your Grandpa told her he’d buy you one of those newfangled plastic helmets with the bar to protect your nose, and he did, and a jock strap with a cup and clacking shoulder pads.

  You remember trading belly punches to see who was in shape, and doing push-ups, sit-ups, leg-ups, wind sprints, and after, going to the fountain at the Rexall, where a skinny teen with pimples would add cherry syrup to your nickel Coke, no extra charge, and give boys who didn’t have a nickel plain soda water, free.

  But now you remember coming out of the Rexall, jibing and shoulder-jabbing, and seeing the dump truck parked in the alley and Joe Wisdom at the top of the First National’s steps, and hearing the door whupwhupwhupwhupping behind him.

  He had on his brogans and green trousers, but his shirt was white, and he wore a lemon-yellow tie with a turquoise-and-cranberry parrot on it. You called out to him, singsong, like your mother had: “Hello, Joe. Whadaya …,” and stopped, because his face looked like a picture on a WANTED poster.

  And he said, “What did you say?” and the other boys stopped laughing. Then he said, “What did you call me?” and the other boys ran away. Then he came down the steps and said, “Get your hind end in the truck.”

  You remember cowering in the corner of the cab, watching his fist jam the gearshift left and right, hearing the engine cough-sputter-roar, the brakes screech, the air horn blare. Then you felt his fingers digging into your biceps as he carried you at arm’s length across the lawn, shouting, “Somebody come get this boy.” Then he deposited you on the veranda and you heard your Grandpa’s calm voice say, “Now, Joe, what’s he done?” and he shouted, “He called me by my Christian name, right on the street,” and your Grandpa said, “Well, I don’t find that sufficient cause to scare the piss out of him.”

  Then your mother was hugging you, wet pants and all, saying, “Joe, he’s sorry, he doesn’t understand—” and he said, “Then explain it to him, Jewels.” Then your Grandpa said, “Joe, tell you what. Why don’t you haul us up another load of chunks come Saturday, whatever your price is now.”

  You felt your mother hug you tighter, and looked and saw Joe Wisdom staring at your Grandpa and your Grandpa staring back. Finally Joe Wisdom said, “Sorry, Your Honor, but I’m afraid my thirdhand, insufficient-collateral truck would bust a gasket tryin’ to make that grade again.” Then he yanked off his necktie.

  You remember wailing to your mother, as she helped you clean up, that you weren’t sorry because you did not call him a name, but she said, “Sweetie, you called him by his first name; he felt you weren’t showing respect,” and your Grandpa growled, “Your friend Joe wants too doggone much respect, if you ask me,” and she said, “He’s proud of his ancestors, like others I could name,” and your Grandpa went into his study and pulled the doors out of the walls.

  Then she said, “Sweetie, you have to understand. In Raystown, if you live like people think you should—if you work hard, pay your debts, don’t talk about your troubles, don’t take charity, things like that—people say you’re respectable. No matter what kind of people you are, you can be respectable, and other people are supposed to show you respect. That means … all kinds of things. They’ll bill you later. They’ll take your word. They’ll call you Mr. or Mrs. if they see you on the street. But if you’re not respectable, people say you’re trash. Then it’s cash before carry, nobody will believe a word you say, and you’re lucky if they speak to you at all.

  “Only it’s not just about you. People might not even know you. But they know your people, going back however many generations. In Raystown, your people stand for you. If your people are trash, you’re trash until you prove otherwise—that can take years. If your people are respectable, you’re respectable. But you still have to live like people think you should, because what you do reflects on your people. They stand for you, but you stand for them too, and even the most respectable people are just a scandal or two away from trash. In Raystown, you never stand for just you.

  “Joe’s proud—too proud, some say. But he’s not proud of himself, he’s proud of Wisdom’s Notch; of people who have been respectable for seven generations. Only Joe—Mr. Wisdom—thinks they’ve never gotten the respect they’re due. And if he thinks he’s been denied respect he gets angry not just for himself, but on behalf of all seven generations.

  “Sweetie, I can call him Joe because we’ve known each other a long time and he knows I respect him. Your Grandpa can call him Joe because … well, because he can. But Joe doesn’t know you. He can’t know what you think. All he knows is, he’s a man and you’re just a boy, and you called him by his first name, like you w
ould another boy. So he heard you saying, underneath, that you didn’t respect him, or Wisdom’s Notch. And it wasn’t only you he heard, because in Raystown, you don’t just stand for you. Do you see?”

  You said you did, but didn’t … until sunset. Then you saw your Grandpa on the Lookout and thought about him standing like a statue on the veranda and Joe Wisdom standing like a statue on the lawn, and you knew what you’d have to do.

  You remember waiting after practice, at the traffic light, hoping he’d pass by and maybe have to stop. But he didn’t the first day, nor the next day, nor the next, and that was Friday and you knew where you’d have to go.

  You remember winding the alarm clock but not sleeping anyway, and listening to poor, poorwill, and whowhowho until you couldn’t wait anymore, and dressing by touch and climbing out the window and going tiptoe onto the lawn. You felt lost in darkness; you saw no lights, no moon, no stars. But then you felt the lay of the land and let gravity guide you down the grade.

  You remember walking through the silent town, where fog haloed streetlights, shrouded statues, and transformed the traffic light into a pulsing ruby wrapped in cotton.

  You remember waiting on the bridge, the river sluicing sibilantly below, you trying out words—short ones, long ones—wondering which would be only almost-right. Then the fog was sheered to airy thinness by a sudden breeze, and light lanced through the Narrows, raying the sky crimson, vermillion, rose, and you knew why your Grandpa called it the crack of dawn.

  You remember going step-by-step along the access road, eyes on your P. F. Flyers, expecting the whistle yet flinching when it sounded. Then you looked and saw the pin mill, and realized: it was cloaked not with smoke, but dust, and wasn’t black, or even dark, but an almost gay patchwork of orange, green, and blue, though every patch was streaked with rust the color of dried blood.

  You remember crouching beneath a bulkhead flat, watching huge hooks descend and grapple logs and hoist them dangerously aloft, listening to conveyors clank, cables twang, saws whine and ching, wondering if the white shirt meant he didn’t pick up on Saturday anymore. But then you saw the dump truck trundling along the access road and pulling up beside the pin mill, beneath a metal chute, and Joe Wisdom leaning out of the cab and pumping his fist in the direction of a window in the mill. Then you heard a rumble that swelled into a roar, and chunks came cascading down, making the truck rock side to side, then settle on its springs.

  You walked toward it, watching chunks coming down into the dump bed and a few bouncing back out onto the ground. Then a lot started bouncing out and Joe Wisdom drew his hand like a knife across his throat and the chunks stopped coming, and you realized: he was loaded up, and you began to run. But then he jumped down from the cab, pulling on his gloves, and bent and started picking up fallen chunks and tossing them back into the bed.

  He didn’t look up, so you thought he didn’t see you, but when you got close he yelled, “What do you want?” and you thought he was angry but then you realized: he had to yell on account of the pin mill’s din, and that the long words wouldn’t work, so you just yelled back, “I’m sorry, Mr. Wisdom. I meant no disrespect.”

  He tossed another chunk and yelled, “She tell you to say that?” and you yelled, “No, sir. My Grandpa either,” and he yelled, “That, I believe,” and tossed another chunk. Then he straightened up, looked around, and yelled, “How’d you get here?” and you yelled, “I walked.” And he yelled, “That’s two miles,” and you yelled, “It’s all downhill, mostly.” He gave you a cockeyed look, then yelled, “You wait till I’m loaded up ’cause it’s all uphill from here.” Then he bent and started tossing chunks again.

  But it felt wrong to wait while he worked alone, so you picked up a fallen chunk and tried to throw it into the bed. Only you didn’t get it high enough and it banged off the side, and you heard him shout a bad word. But you tried again, this time doing it as he had—bending low, swinging your arm back before the throw, following through after—and the chunk went up and over. That felt right, so you tossed another, and another. Then you heard him yell again, calling you by name.

  And you looked and saw him holding out another pair of gloves. You took them, pulled them on, and realized: they weren’t that much too big. You nodded. He nodded. Then you worked together until the ground was clear.

  You remember riding high beside him in the cab, over the river and through the town, wishing, hoping he’d just drive, maybe all the way to Wisdom’s Notch. But he braked approaching Juliana, so you thanked him and told him you’d walk up so he wouldn’t bust a gasket, and he gave you that cockeyed look again, but pulled over. Then you said, “Mr. Wisdom? Are you still my mother’s friend?”

  And you thought you’d done something wrong because instead of answering, he shifted to neutral, set the brake, and said, “What did she tell you?” And you said, “The whole story. She said it was ancient history but I think she needs friends now.” And he said, “She don’t need me; she’s got you.”

  Then it all came up, like vomit: how you’d found hiding places big enough for you, but not her too; how when you realized it only happened to her, even if it was you who did whatever made him mad, part of you was glad; how you’d made believe it was TV, or people in the street, and in the morning got yourself dressed and off to school, never knocking on her door to see was she okay; how in daydreams you lifted her, up, up, and away, but in nightmares you dropped her and flew on alone; how when she lifted you and carried you away, you couldn’t keep watch and fell asleep and let her face the blazing and bellowing alone; how you’d closed your eyes because you didn’t want to see.

  He let you say it—all of it. Then he was quiet awhile. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Maybe you did more than you know. She always talked about the son she hoped she’d have one day and how he’d grow up to be a different kind of man. You didn’t want to see, but maybe she didn’t want you to have to see. Maybe she left because she didn’t want you to grow up thinking that’s how things ought to be. Maybe she wanted to save you enough to save herself. But you’ve got to save her now.

  “Raystown’s short on sympathy. They say, ‘You made your bed, lie in it.’ Especially if the sheets are silk.” He was staring through the windshield, as if at something distant, and his voice too seemed far away. “A High Church wedding. Reception at the Inn. Caterer from Philadelphia. Champagne, caviar, hors d’oeuvres—food folks here couldn’t even pronounce. So now they’ll say they’re sorry to hear, but they’ll be glad to listen, and whisper about richer or poorer and better or worse, and pray for her so they can gossip with God.”

  Then he looked at you again. “They’ll hurt her,” he said. “They always could. But they could never make her change her mind. What could is if she thought Raystown was hurting you.

  “Whenever we’d talk about coming home I’d say Raystown was too crooked. But she’d say, ‘Raystown’s straight, it’s just not true.’ Straight, to her, meant following rules. True meant doing what’s right. True was what she cared about, so that’s what you’ve gotta be. But you’ve gotta be straight too, so those party-line biddies won’t have dirt to throw in her face. Be straight for them, true for her; maybe then she’ll stay here where she’s safe, and what you coulda done but didn’t will be ancient history.”

  Then he looked through the windshield again and said, in that far-off voice, “She was right. Raystown is straight. Trouble is, it leans. Nobody notices because we all lean the same way. If you’re born here, you grow up at an angle. If you leave, you can look back and see it’s out-of-kilter, but if you wanta come back, you’ve gotta learn to lean again. But comes a time you’ve gotta square up.” He looked at you again, and, for the first time, smiled. “Leaning’s a man’s problem,” he said. “You just worry about straight and true.”

  And you remember what he said before you left the truck: “I’ll always be your mother’s friend. If she needs help, pick up the phone and tell the operator, eight-three-nine-R-four. If I don’t answ
er, somebody will; that whole line is Wisdom’s Notch.”

  You remember quitting the comfort of the quilt and going tiptoe sockfoot to rouse the fire so the kitchen would be warm when she came down.

  You remember the County Library, where you’d check out Real Books About so you could explain things to her—Indians, helicopters, birds, the sea—while she washed and you dried.

  You remember ring, ring, ringing and hearing her say, “Never, when you’re like this,” and, “Hal, don’t lie. I can practically smell it through the phone.”

  You remember the forking of the path. One way, rocky and indefinite, went switchback uphill; the other, worn to smooth certainty, ran straight and almost level. You set your brogans on the upward way, thinking of the Old Settlers, but step-by-step that path grew fainter and finally disappeared. You stopped, thinking of the Lost Children, but then you looked and saw a mark emblazoned on an oak, higher than you could reach, and then another further on, and you followed the blazes on up to the ridge.

  You remember hearing your Grandpa tell her, her friend Joe was making a fuss and was going to be persona non grata, and looking it up in the Lexicon and wondering if your Grandpa still had pull enough to send Joe Wisdom back to France.

  You remember learning to assume the three-point stance—head up, tail down, weight balanced on staggered feet and the knuckles of one hand—ready to fire out low and hard when you heard the snap count.

  You remember offering to buy Cokes for boys who didn’t have walking-around money, and they said it was white of you but wouldn’t take charity.

  You remember hearing your Grandpa tell her, her friend Joe had hired a Semite shyster from Pittsburgh, and her saying, Wasn’t that what judges wanted people to do, hire lawyers instead of taking matters into their own hands?

  You remember learning to not jump offsides, to clutch your jersey with your fists so you wouldn’t hold, to hit your man in the numbers so you wouldn’t clip, to get your shoulder into him and always keep your legs driving, to focus all your feelings—hate, rage, shame, fear, frustration, pain, even love—into five seconds of furious contact.