The Presence

by T. Davis Bunn

  She took one step farther, spotted the delicate chandelier with its hundreds of hand-cut crystal baubles hanging from the high-domed ceiling, and stopped cold in her tracks.

  “I rented it furnished, Catherine,” Jeremy said, a little worried by her demeanor. “All this stuff just came with it. I haven’t bought a thing. Hardly moved anything around, either.”

  She walked another couple of steps, peered into the living room, looked long at the enormous Persian carpet and the antique furniture and the leather chairs and the lead-paned windows and the hardwood floor, and said very softly, “Will you just look at this.”

  TJ’s arguments he could handle, but not this. Jeremy Hughes looked at the expression on her face and felt like a fool. “You don’t like it, do you?”

  She turned back to him, gave him that deep honey-coated chuckle, said, “It’s just fine, Jem. You’ve done real good. I just wish you hadn’t spent all this money, is all.”

  “Just wanted you to be comfortable,” he said. “And I got me a good deal,” he added, relieved that it was going to be okay.

  “We’ll do fine here, Jem.” She patted his arm, gave him that special smile from way deep inside. “You’re an absolute angel, you know that? You exasperate me more than all my grandchildren put together sometimes, but I suppose I’ll just have to put up with that, won’t I?”

  “It’s all just part of the package, is what I used to tell my wife,” he said, returning her smile. “Can’t cut me up and take out the parts you don’t agree with. Wrecks the guarantee.”

  She laughed at that, turned back to the living room, went, “Mmmmm, mmmmm, honey, does the rest of the house look like this?”

  “Pretty much,” he said, looking in over her shoulder. “Except y’alls bedroom. There’s all these mirrors hangin’ from the ceiling.”

  “That’ll do, Jem,” she said in her best Sunday-school teacher voice.

  “Seemed an awful funny place to put up a mirror. Have to lie down to straighten your tie.”

  She started to scold him, stopped, laughed, put one arm around his waist. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here.”

  “Don’t even try,” Jeremy said, returning the hug. He turned and started up the stairs, sure now that it would all work out all right. “Can’t think of anyplace on earth I’d rather be.”

  Jeremy worked on making them a real down-home meal that night. Despite Catherine’s determination to put the move behind her and get on with her life, it was clear to both men that she was homesick. TJ reflected his wife’s mood, looking tense and concerned and ten years older than he had that morning. So Jeremy left them talking quietly in the living room, and finished preparing what he hoped would help to make it better—spareribs basted in molasses and hot mustard, black-eyed peas, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and fresh scratch biscuits. He’d become a fair hand in the kitchen during his wife’s illness and kept it up after her death; he loved country cooking and there were few restaurants nowadays that went to the trouble of using fresh produce. Everything was out of a can, and tasted of metal and chemicals and overcooking.

  He walked into the living room, saw them sitting in the two leather chairs and struggling to make conversation, pushed aside his concern, said, “Y’all can sit in here and get reacquainted after dinner. C’m on and sit down, I’m gettin’ ready to put it on the table.”

  “It smells marvelous, Jem,” TJ said.

  Catherine stood, quipped, “Jeremy’s got everything under such good control, you sure you two need me up here?”

  “Yes,” TJ replied emphatically. “Don’t even joke like that.”

  “The man’s said it all,” Jeremy agreed. “Come on back.”

  Tension entered the kitchen with them. TJ held her chair, patted her shoulder when she was seated, looked very worried. Jeremy started loading the serving dishes and searched his mind for something to lighten the mood.

  “Jem, that smells wonderful.” TJ walked to the stove, leaned over his friend’s shoulder, said, “Spareribs, corn on the cob, black-eyed peas, man, is that lemon chess pie I smell?”

  “Ain’t no reason a body’s got to starve to death up here, is there?” Jeremy moved from chore to chore with the deceptive ease of one long accustomed to such work. “Sure is a shame Catherine ain’t hungry.”

  “Watch out, now,” Catherine said, making an effort to join in the banter. “You’re not too old to get one upside the head.”

  “No molesting the chef,” TJ warned.

  “TJ, there’s iced tea in the fridge,” Jeremy said. “Here, pour me a refill and then set the pitcher on the table.”

  “Sounds almost like you,” TJ said to Catherine. “Bossing everybody around.”

  “Cook’s privilege,” Jeremy said. “Did I ever tell y’all about the time I raised chickens?”

  “I don’t believe so,” TJ said, pouring tea for himself and Catherine, then sitting down beside her.

  “We’d always had a few hens runnin’ about. Don’t know any farming family that didn’t look to hens and hogs for most of their dinners. Anyway, Pappy decided to raise a flock when I was six or seven, I forget when. Bought a whole mess of chicks. Cutest little things you ever saw. Little yellow fluffballs. We built this addition to the henhouse and before long the whole farm was full of the sound of chickens. Full of the smell, too, when the wind was right.”

  Jeremy started setting steaming platters on the table, went on, “The next winter, Pappy got a buyer for the whole flock. Musta been six, seven hundred birds. Took us two whole nights to kill and dress ’em. Slept all day, worked all night. Soon as it got dark and those hens quieted down, Momma’d slip into the hen house. I’d come up and whistle real soft, and this here hand’d slip outta the door, real quiet, holding four hens upside down by their feet. They were still asleep, see, and I’d slip one pair of feet between each finger, then take another four and put them in my other hand. Then I’d set off across the fields to the killin’ shed.”

  Jeremy came over with a basket of hot biscuits, sat down, bowed his head, said, “Lord, we thank you for all this bounty. Please bless this food to our bodies, and all your gifts to the doing of thy holy will. In Christ’s name, Amen.”

  He started passing dishes, said, “Bout halfway across the field, those chickens’d wake up. I don’t know if they maybe figured out where they were headin’. Or maybe they just objected to being carried upside down all bunched together like that ‘cross a strange field in the middle of the night.”

  “I know I would,” Catherine agreed helpfully.

  “Yeah, well, those chickens’d wake up. And when they did, my arms’d go from down by my side to straight up over my head. I was just a skinny runt of a kid, and those eight chickens like to’ve pulled me into orbit. I’d go skippin’ along, hittin’ the ground ‘bout every six feet or so, scared half to death I’d lose my grip before I reached the shed.”

  “Didn’t they scratch up your hands?” Catherine asked.

  “Naw, I had on work gloves. Trouble was, though, those old chickens’d let loose with everythin’ they had, if you get my meanin’. I wore this floppy old hat, so my head stayed pretty clean, but come mornin’ the rest of me was pretty well covered.”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear this story while I’m eating,” Catherine said. “Honey, put back one of those ribs and take some more greens. You don’t need the calories, you need the vitamins.”

  “Once a mother, always a mother,” TJ said, doing no such thing, pleased that she seemed to be pulling herself out of it.

  “Pappy’d take the chickens from me one by one, and once he’d topped and tailed ’em, he’d hand ’em over to Jacob.” Jacob had been Jeremy’s older brother. He’d stayed on the farm and died in his early forties. According to Jeremy, the cause of death was a terminal case of hard work and hopelessness.

  “Jacob had the worse job of all, no question about it. He’d dip the chickens in this big vat, see, full of boilin’ water. Then he’d stand in front o
f this roller, ‘bout two feet thick and covered with little rubber fingers. The fingers’d pull the feathers off and then be scraped clean by this metal wedge. The feathers’d fall into this big cage, or most of ’em, anyway. All the big ones. The little ones’d stick to the rubber fingers, dry off after a couple of turns, and kinda fly up in this fuzzy cloud right in Jacob’s face. Come morning, that boy’d look like a walking pillow. There’d be these two little bare spots where he’d keep his eyes clear, and the rest of him was pure feather.”

  “I am positively certain this story is going to disturb my appetite,” Catherine declared.

  “Not mine,” TJ said, his mouth full. “Jem, you outdid yourself.”

  “I have yet to find anything that puts a dent in your appetite,” Catherine told him. “Nice as it would be.”

  TJ laid down his sparerib, said, “Are you implying that I overeat?”

  “I’m not implying anything,” Catherine said. “I’m talking fact.” She looked at Jeremy, asked, “What would you call a man who can sit down and eat three helpings of everything, then two hours later be back in the kitchen finishing off all the cold biscuits?”

  Jeremy turned to TJ, said, “What do those guys say when they’re afraid if they open their mouths they’ll hang themselves with their tongues?”

  “I plead the Fifth Amendment,” TJ replied.

  “That’s the one,” Jeremy said, and to Catherine, “You got any questions, take ’em up with my lawyer here.”

  ****

  Jeremy returned from taking TJ to work the next morning, saw Catherine was already dusting the front rooms, and got busy in the kitchen. Catherine came in a few minutes later, gave a careful inspection to his work, then climbed the stairs to make herself ready.

  She reappeared a half hour later, giving a last tug to the hem of her skirt. She was visibly nervous. “I’ve never met a big-city preacher’s wife before.”

  “I hope we didn’t make a mistake in tellin’ the lady to come on by,” Jeremy said. “TJ was just concerned with you not knowin’ anybody yet.”

  “No, no, it’s fine.” She patted jittery fingers over her hair. “Do I look all right?”

  He smiled at her. “I’ve got a problem with that one. I look at you, I see a woman I’ve known most of my life. You’ve always looked good—and you sure do now. And anybody with eyes to see farther than skin-deep’s gonna know they’re lookin’ at somebody special.”

  She walked over, patted his shoulder, said, “Old Dr. Hughes. Always knows what a body needs to hear.”

  The doorbell rang. Catherine straightened, pulled one last time at her skirt, said, “That must be her.”

  Jeremy stayed by the stove, heard her step briskly down the hall and open the door. “Good morning. Mrs. Wilkins?”

  “That’s right, honey. You must be Mrs. Case.”

  “Call me Catherine. Please come in.”

  “Thank you, sister. My, what a lovely home.” Jeremy heard her enter with heavy tread. “This is my sister’s daughter, Anna.”

  “So nice to meet you. Won’t you come in?”

  They entered the main hallway and stopped. The rich sounds of Mrs. Wilkins’ voice reached easily back to the kitchen. “Good heavens. Would you look at that?”

  “It came with the house, I’m afraid.”

  “How on earth do you clean it?”

  Jeremy reached for a towel to dry his hands, entered the hallway from the kitchen, saw they were looking up at the chandelier, said, “Aw, I just get me a broom and give it a good shake every day or so.”

  The only person who smiled was Catherine. “I believe you’ve met Mr. Hughes.”

  Mrs. Wilkins’ was too busy coming to grips with this white man really working for people in her congregation to reply. Jeremy decided the apron he wore over his shirt and tie was just the right touch. His face perfectly straight, he said, “Good morning, Mrs. Wilkins.”

  She shook herself awake, said, “How’re you, Mr. Hughes?”

  “Other than too far behind in my housework, just fine, thank you.” He saw Catherine roll her eyes, turned to the niece, said, “I believe I met you in church on Sunday.”

  “You did indeed.” The tall, handsome girl regarded him with calm strength. Jeremy decided she was a long step ahead of the aunt.

  “Would you like to come in and sit down?” Catherine indicated the living room.

  “Why thank you, that’s very—” Mrs. Wilkins took one step toward the entrance, stopped in her tracks. Jeremy watched her gape at the hardwood floor, Persian carpet, oil paintings, antique furniture, and remarked to himself that she looked just exactly like Catherine had the day before.

  Mrs. Wilkins turned back to Catherine, said, “Honey, why don’t we just go on back to the kitchen.”

  “That’s fine,” Catherine agreed, understanding her completely. “I believe Jeremy’s prepared us a little something.”

  “He has, huh.” Mrs. Wilkins clearly was not impressed with that prospect. She allowed Catherine to lead her down the hall, only to stop once more when she caught the first whiff. “What’s that I smell?”

  “Oh,” Jeremy replied as casually as he could, “just some greens and fatback in pot likker. And there’s some cornbread that should be just about ready by now. And a big pot of Maxwell House, of course. It’s already on the table.”

  Mrs. Wilkins turned and stared hard at him, as if she’d just spotted some strange animal and was trying her best to decide what exactly it was.

  Catherine was working very hard to keep a straight face. She gave her nose a good rub, said, “Won’t you ladies come in and sit down?”

  Jeremy waited until the two visitors were seated, said to Catherine, “If you won’t be needin’ me for a while, Miz Case, I do believe I’ll go out and stretch my legs. Scrubbin’ them floors was right hard on my po’ old bones.”

  “Why don’t you do that, Jeremy,” she replied, bending over the steaming pot, a warning in her voice. “It might not be too healthy around here.”

  Jeremy walked back to his room, heard Catherine set a couple of plates down on the table, go back and return with silverware. “Y’all just go ahead and start,” she invited. “Please help yourselves to the coffee. I’ll just see to the cornbread and be right with you.”

  “My, but don’t that stew smell nice,” Mrs. Wilkins said.

  “Wait’ll you taste it,” Catherine replied, opening the oven door and sliding out a tray. “Jeremy seasons it with a touch of Jack Daniels and a hot sauce he makes from scratch.”

  A fork clattered. There was a moment’s silence, then, “Can he hear us?”

  “Ah, I believe he was going out,” Catherine replied.

  The voice lowered, said, “Honey, where on earth did a white man learn to cook like that?”

  “From his wife,” Catherine replied, a smile clear in her voice. “Here, try this cornbread. Jem roasts an ear of corn and puts the kernels in the batter. He mixes in ‘bout a half cup of fresh cream and two tablespoons of molasses.”

  There was another pause, then, “This his wife’s recipe too?”

  “That’s right.”

  Mrs. Wilkins became even quieter. “Was she black?”

  Catherine laughed outright, scraped another chair back from the table, said, “No, she wasn’t black. She was just a fine woman. One of the finest people I’ve ever met. A real country saint.”

  Very quietly, Jem closed the door to his room. When he had changed clothes, he tiptoed down the corridor, eased the front door open, and let himself out.

  The door reopened behind him and a voice said, “Mind if I come along?”

  He turned around, saw it was Anna, Mrs. Wilkins’ niece. She stood on the narrow ledge, clearly not willing to move or let her face show any expression whatsoever until he declared himself.

  “I was just goin’ out for a walk,” he said.

  “Where to?”

  He pointed in a vague direction, said, “Still tryin’ to get a feel for the neighborhood.�
�

  “Have you been down to Adams-Morgan yet?”

  “Not so I’d notice,” Jeremy replied. “‘Course, half the time I don’t even know where I’m at once I get there.”

  Her eyes flickered a spark of humor. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  Jeremy decided on honesty. “Now that’s a right interesting question. Sometimes I feel like I’m being led around by the hand, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what I’m supposed to be seeing.”

  “Maybe I can help,” she offered.

  Jeremy decided he liked her voice. It had a deep honeyish quality to it, with a tiny spice of burr. “You think your aunt can get along without you?”

  “Those two’ll be in there for hours. Aunty Rose won’t let go till she’s squeezed that lady dry.”

  “Then I’d be right obliged to have you join me.”

  She walked down the steps and pointed with a languid hand. “Let’s head down that way.”

  He matched her long stride, said, “I don’t believe I caught your last name.”

  She ignored the question, said, “While you were in the back my aunt asked Catherine why she was living in a white man’s museum.” She drew out the final three words with a broad black twang. “Know what Catherine said?”

  “I can imagine.”

  “She said it was on account of how you were giving it to her and her husband, what’s his name? Some initials, right?”

  “TJ.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, TJ Case. She said your home back in North Carolina was as spartan as a prison cell. Said you’d never learned how to give anybody anything but the best you could afford. Said if she had to fault you on anything it was on how you sometimes let your generosity run away with you.”

  “That lady does like to talk,” Jeremy replied, and changed the subject. “How come you talk like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know as I can describe it. You don’t have any accent. Maybe a little, but surely not like your aunt.”

  “I went to school up north,” Anna replied, pleased by the question. “Columbia. I guess whatever accent I had I lost.”

  “What’d you study?”