The Tilted World: A Novel

by Tom Franklin

  “Down Percy Street.” The administrator pointed with his pen. “He has a phone. Can’t miss the house. It’s on a hill. He has the only tennis court in town. Look for the top of the net poking out of the water.”

  Ingersoll stuck out his hand and the men shook. Then he turned and took Dixie Clay’s elbow and led her down the sloping levee to the ramp that angled to a boardwalk made of lumber laid across metal risers. They climbed it and walked above the flooded streets, beside the second-story windows. Below them, two boys in dugout canoes paddled furiously. Dixie Clay knew them; they were Hobnob boys, Joe Joe Majure and Jack Wheeler. So not everyone from Hobnob was washed away. Who else had made it out? The iron sign, GREENVILLE: QUEEN CITY OF THE DELTA, usually arced high above the street, but now Joe Joe lifted his paddle and smacked it a few seconds before Jack did, winner of the race, the metal tolling like a church bell.

  Dixie Clay and Ingersoll were hurrying along the scaffolding, single file and often pressed against the buildings as others rushed the opposite way. They peered through windows as they passed, rooms crammed with rugs and furniture hoisted up from the ground-floor stores. Dixie Clay scanned rooftops for Jeannette and Willy, then scanned the canal traffic below. At the corner, a boy in rubber waders was yelling, but his words made no sense. “The Sultan of Swat blasts third long ball of the season!” he repeated. Ingersoll saw the puzzlement on her face. “Baseball,” he said. “Babe Ruth.” Dixie Clay saw now that the boy wore a satchel honeycombed with rolled newspapers. The world was still going on, was it.

  She was rehearsing what she’d tell Mrs. Percy. Dixie Clay drew to a stop, and Ingersoll nearly ran into her.

  “My God.” She turned to him. “I don’t even know Jeannette’s last name.”

  She’d been so focused on getting to Greenville, and now that she had she saw that it mightn’t solve anything. The city was chaos, refugees pouring in and being shipped out, a man leaning out of a third-story window in his shirtsleeves calling “Jeremy! Eli! Jeremy! Eli!,” his voice hoarse and incessant, interspersed with the call of a peddler hawking peanuts, posters plastered to the wall at intervals, NEGRO CURFEW 8 P.M.! and down below, a canoe upsetting, cries of alarm. How would they find one woman and one infant? She brought her hand to her head, which was throbbing like a kicked pumpkin.

  “We’ll find him, Dixie Clay. I promise you. We’ll find him.”

  A dog brushed her knees, and she nearly lost her balance. The smell of rotting fish—rotting everything—was too much. Ingersoll slipped an arm behind her and led her along the boardwalk. He continued, “There’s more to my job than you know. We’re prohis, yes, but”—he helped her climb over some pipes—“we’re also on assignment for Hoover. Ham and me. And we’ll use all the pull we have. Percy can contact Hoover for us. Ham, he’ll be hereabouts, he’ll have been ordered here to stop the looting—he’ll help. You said Jeannette was from New Orleans?”

  Dixie Clay nodded.

  “Then she probably was evacuated to Natchez. Ham can contact the agency down there. We’ll learn all about Jeannette, we’ll get a photograph in the papers, we’ll wire police stations, we’ll telegram Coolidge if we need to.”

  Ingersoll pulled Dixie Clay against the brick wall of the drugstore as a printer barreled through with a stack of paper in his arms. He was followed by an apprentice, ink on his apron.

  Dixie Clay was looking at the fingers on her left hand, so swollen it seemed they’d burst. She realized there was no wedding band. Scraped off on the tree, yanked off by a wave, who knew.

  “Listen,” she said. “Contacting the newspapers, the police . . . it’s complicated . . . you see, it’s not just that I’ve violated Volstead. It’s”—she took a breath and pushed the rest of the sentence out in her exhalation—“the two revenuers you’ve been looking for, I think Jesse killed them.”

  Dixie Clay turned from him, aswirl with fear and guilt, and stepped into the path of a boy on a bicycle. The wheel rammed her leg, knocking her off balance. Her sling flapped up and she was one-leggedly about to topple over into the water when Ingersoll threw his arms around her. Her ribs, her broken kindling ribs, were lassoed in fire and she screamed.

  “Dixie Clay? Are you okay?”

  She opened her eyes. Ingersoll was holding her up and his colors were off, the brick wall behind him seeming to pulse. She clenched her teeth and nodded.

  “We’ve gotta get you to the hospital.”

  “No. Find Willy. Percy. Police.” Each word took a breath and each breath was a blade. Her ribs might saw open her skin. Might pop her lungs like balloons. She’d never bought Willy a balloon, though she’d dog-eared that page of the Sears catalog, thinking ahead to his birthday.

  Ingersoll took her right arm and gently steadied her, but she couldn’t stanch the moan.

  “Damn it, Dixie Clay. We need to get you looked at, and then we’ll find Percy.”

  She wanted to argue, but he’d already turned away to halt a carpenter with a pencil behind his ear. “This woman’s sick. Where’s the Red Cross medic tent? By the wharf ?”

  “That one’s for darkies, and mostly vaccinations. Typhoid and the like. You’ll want the tent by the park. Or the hospital, if it’s serious.”

  “Hospital’s still open?”

  “Bottom floor flooded, but two through four are fine. King’s Daughters hospital.” The man turned Ingersoll by the shoulder to point to a red-tiled Spanish roof visible a few blocks away.

  “You got a boat?” the carpenter asked.

  Ingersoll nodded.

  “Well, get on then.” He was looking at Dixie Clay, leaning against the brick facade.

  Ingersoll swooped an arm behind her and carried her, retracing their steps to the wharf, and then he boated her over the streets of Greenville to King’s Daughters.

  The entrance to the hospital was crowded with boats of every size and function, all nosed toward the door. Some were empty, and a few seemed empty but were lined with napping Negro servants; one held an obese man who clutched his side and alternated groaning with shouting, “I won’t go in.” His skinny wife looked about wrung out and addressed Ingersoll, who was hitching the boat to a street sign. “Don’t matter. Even if he could get in, they won’t see him.”

  “Why not?” Ingersoll asked.

  She shrugged. “This is the only hospital open for a hundred fifty miles. They ain’t got the time.” She looked over Dixie Clay, whose face was pale. “She won’t stand a chance, not without buckets of blood.”

  Ingersoll nodded at the woman and climbed over the boat. The cold water came up to his waist, and he moved through it to the prow and lifted Dixie Clay again, her skirt dragging in the water, and wove between the boats to reach the door of the hospital, propped open by the white-clothed backside of a nurse bailing water with a coffee can. She stood to hold the door for Ingersoll, who entered sideways with Dixie Clay in his arms. “Intake’s been moved to the third floor,” she said. “But the elevator’s out. You need to take the stairs. But only when your number is called. You’re 409.”

  “What number are you on?”

  She shrugged. “You’ll have to ask her,” she said and gestured to a nurse wearing waders in the back of the dim lobby. Ingersoll splashed over, still carrying Dixie Clay, a wailing child to the right, a moaning man to the left.

  “Ma’am,” said Ingersoll, standing before the nurse.

  “So you’re 118? I called you twice.”

  The smallest of hesitations. “Yup. 118, that’s us.”

  “That way then. Third floor.”

  Ingersoll backed through the door to the metal stairwell and began to trudge up, trying not to jostle Dixie Clay. “You doing okay?”

  She squeezed his arm.

  “Almost there. Maybe they’ll have the elevator fixed”—he was breathing hard—“by the time we leave.”

  “I’ve never ridden one b
efore.”

  “You’ll get the hang of it.” When he reached the first landing, he paused.

  And that’s when they heard it. Echoing through the metal door came the unforgettable rip-cord cackle that passed as laughter.

  Dixie Clay whipped her head toward the sound and held up her palm. “She’s here,” Dixie Clay whispered, though she didn’t need to. The sound again, a child’s bicycle with baseball cards clothespinned to the spokes. “That’s her. Jeannette.” They were motionless. And then—“Through there,” said Dixie Clay, raising her chin at the door stenciled DELIVERY, NURSERY, DIETETIC DEPARTMENTS.

  Ingersoll asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ingersoll couldn’t pull the fire door open with Dixie Clay in his arms. He set her gently on her feet, and she worked not to wince.

  He yanked the door open. Behind it was a tiled hallway with a lumpy row of classroom desks, most filled with women sitting sideways because the attached chairs didn’t allow room for their pregnant bellies. The woman nearest them lifted her head, saw they were not whom she hoped for, and let her head thunk back down. A scream came from somewhere, followed by a call, “Ice, ice, she needs ice!” A few steps away they saw a nurses’ station, and behind the desk, barely clearing the top, was a white cap. The short nurse stood abruptly. “Well?”

  Neither spoke for a moment. Then Ingersoll stepped forward. “We’re looking for someone . . . a flapper named Jeannette—”

  “I have patients who are truly sick,” began the nurse, scurrying out from behind the desk. She had fluffy red hair beneath her cap and came up to Ingersoll’s elbow. “This is an emergency ward, understand? For E-MER-GEN-CIES. I have patients who were pinned beneath joists.”

  Some response seemed to be expected. “Yes, ma’am,” said Ingersoll.

  “I have patients who were pulled from flooding cars.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Ingersoll.

  “Who were on the train when it was washed off its tracks.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I have patients who need morphine because their legs are crushed. Crushed! Not because they got addicted after botched abortions.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ingersoll said again.

  Now the nurse turned to Dixie Clay and shook her finger so hard that her whole body shook. “Did you know my assistant saw her take a syringe from her pocketbook and fill it from the medicine cabinet and inject herself, pretty as you please?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “So now, in addition to everything else, I need to keep the medicine under lock and key.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So do me a favor, y’all. Get her gone. I don’t care that she’s rich or the niece of some New Orleans politician. I need that bed. For truly sick folk.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The nurse turned and began to stomp down the gray tiles.

  They exchanged a look of wonder and followed the white uniform, but it halted. She turned around and yelled, “ ’Bout near as naked as a boiled chicken!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Dixie Clay.

  But something more was needed.

  “We’re sorry, ma’am,” added Ingersoll.

  The nurse resumed the march. But she wasn’t done yet. She paused in front of double doors. “I didn’t become a nurse for this,” she said, and pushed through.

  Inside the ward it was dim and cool. There was a narrow aisle and about a dozen metal cots on each side, all filled, and a few makeshift pallets on the floor. Some of the women were bandaged, one whimpering, most appearing to sleep.

  “Nurse Strom,” called a woman from the first cot. “It’s my time!”

  “It’s nowhere near your time, Laura,” the nurse said, stepping to the supply cabinet and climbing a stepladder to tussle a carton into her arms. She descended and picked up a knife to stab the carton and began sawing noisily. “Go back to sleep.” And then, under her breath, “You ninny.”

  Dixie Clay and Ingersoll walked the aisle. Each cot had a crucifix hanging over it and a face they didn’t recognize. At the last cot on the left, a woman curled on her side with her back to them. At first Dixie Clay thought she saw red hair but then realized she saw a blonde wearing a red fur stole. Her bare feet were tucked, toenails crimson. Dixie Clay looked at Ingersoll, who gestured with his shoulder, and they walked around the cot to face her. To face Jeannette. Her eyes were dreamy slits and she was picking at the sheet corner. She was wearing a silk slip with lace trim and the fox stole. The fox clasped its tail in its mouth, and the legs dangled down her chest.

  “Jeannette. I need to know where Willy is.”

  Jeannette didn’t startle. She merely looked up and gave an indolent stretch of an arm, bangles clacking. “Why, whadd’ya know, if it isn’t Dipsie Dirt, darling little Dipsie Dirt.” Jeannette spoke slowly, long pauses between her words. She let her arm fall heavily on the mattress and turned her head to Ingersoll. Her movements seemed underwatery. “And what do we have here? My my, the back door man? The one who cuckolded Jesse?” She appraised him and stage-whispered, “Nice work, Dipsie. Didn’t know you had it in you.” She made a show of running her tongue across her teeth. “Looks like he’s running on all sixes.”

  “Jeannette,” said Dixie Clay. “Where’s Willy?”

  Jeannette patted the mattress by her hip and said to Ingersoll, “C’mere and give me a taste.”

  Dixie Clay leaned over the cot. “Where’s Willy?”

  “A wittle bitty taste.” Jeannette plucked a strand of hair from her cot and dropped it over the edge. “Don’t suppose you have any hooch on you, huh?”

  “Where’s Willy?”

  “Or some morphy? Some Uncle Morphy? Maybe we could make a trade.”

  “Jeannette,” she said again, moving into her vision, bringing her face close. “Tell me where Willy is and I’ll get you anything you want.”

  “I don’t need him anymore, you know. I’m going to have my own baby. A real baby, not some hand-me-down.”

  “Okay. Where’s Willy?”

  “Feel,” she said. She grabbed Dixie Clay’s hand from the cot and flattened her fingers against the cool silk slip. “Did you feel that? Did you feel it kick?”

  Dixie Clay shot Ingersoll a look and Jeannette saw it and flung the hand away and pounded the mattress with a fist. Then she seemed to go in reverse. She smiled and whispered, “Wait,” and reached for the hem of her slip and drew it up her thighs, up her belly, to her breasts. She had on black lace panties with garter clips that dangled, no stockings. Her body was skinny, sallow, two greenish half-dollar bruises on her hip.

  “Feel again,” she said. Dixie Clay didn’t move and Jeannette reached forward to grab her hand and flatten it on her belly, which was sunken and damp and prickled with gooseflesh.

  “Do you feel?” demanded Jeannette. “Do you feel the life inside of me?”

  “Yes, yes, I feel it,” said Dixie Clay.

  Jeannette grinned and closed her eyes and yanked her slip back down. “Told cha. Told cha I was gonna have a real one. A boy.” She laughed and said “Told cha” again and turned her head into the pillow and repeated “Told cha, told cha, told cha,” the sound muffled. Then she rolled back, a childish cunning in her eyes. “You know, Jesse only married you because you’re shorter than he is.”

  The woman was actually trying to wound her with this. “Where’s Willy?”

  “Maybe I’ll name my baby Jesse. After his father.” With that Jeannette rolled her face back into the pillow and they could hear her laugh, muffled but still terrible.

  From the front came the nurse’s command: “You two! You’ll have to leave now. Go to the third floor to fill out her release papers.”

  Dixie Clay looked at Ingersoll, who put his hand on her back and seemed to transfer strength through it. Ok
ay, she thought, what else can I try? She lifted a hip to perch lightly on Jeannette’s cot and slowly reached out to stroke the blond hair. She almost crooned in Jeannette’s ear, stroking the stiff locks, “Jeannette, Jeannette, that’s a good girl.”

  Jeannette turned her face toward Dixie Clay and gave a small humming sigh.

  “That’s a good girl.” Dixie Clay kept stroking. “You’re a good girl, Jeannette. And you’re having your own baby. Congratulations, Jeannette!”

  Jeannette smiled, her eyes closed.

  “You don’t need Willy. A castoff. An orphan.”

  “That old thing?” Jeannette blew the air from her mouth, which fluffed her blond bangs. “That old thing. Cries all the time. Boo hoo hoo! What a crybaby. Mine’s not gonna cry.”

  Again the nurse yelled from the front. “Folks! These are not visiting hours! Proceed to the third floor.”

  Dixie Clay kept stroking, speaking into Jeannette’s ear. “That’s right, Jeannette, that’s right. Willy cries too much. Where is he? Is he in Greenville? Is he with somebody?”

  “Mine’s gonna gimme sugar. All the time, sugar.”

  “That’s right, Jeannette. You deserve a good baby. Where’d you put that bad old baby? Jeannette?”

  Jeannette rolled onto her back and stiffened on the cot and drew a hand to her brow and gave a mock salute to Ingersoll. Then she launched into the soldier’s song, in a voice high but surprisingly clear: “Over there!” she sang and jerked her thumb to the side, the fox head on her chest bouncing. “Over there!” She kept singing, again with the thumb. “Send the word, send the word, over there . . . That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming . . . The drums rum-tumming, ev’rywhere!”

  Dixie Clay met Ingersoll’s eyes and he half shrugged, half motioned to the door. She followed him, hoping he’d have a strategy, down the row of cots as Jeannette’s voice sailed after them, “So prepare! Say a prayer! Send the word, send the word, to beware!”

  “Can’t you shut her up?” called the patient named Laura as they hustled past. “I’d like to slap her six ways to Sunday.”

  They skirted the nurse, who was looking down, taking a pulse, and Ingersoll pushed open the doors and when he did, she saw the sign PEDIATRIC WARD, with an arrow to the right, where Jeannette’s thumb had gestured.