Twilight of the Drifter

by Shelly Frome

  Smiling to himself, feeling almost at ease for the first time in a long time, Josh spun the well-worn dial one last time. Almost immediately however, he was greeted by the booming voice of the right-wing pundit Russ Clayton declaring himself as “the voice of truth”:

  “Yes, folks, truth and facts are the sworn enemy of liberalism. And that’s why they say I’m troublesome. You bet your sweet life I am.”

  With that, Clayton announced he would be right back with more from Mississippi’s governor-elect Lamar Dean speaking live from his home in Oxford.

  The only reason Josh pulled over and waited through the commercials was a slew of associations that began to run across his mind. They started with the recollection of a campaign poster for Lamar Dean that was featured in Darryl’s liquor store window. And the fact that Darryl got peeved when Josh didn’t jump at the chance to catch today’s broadcast. Not only that, but Josh’s indifference caused Darryl to peg Josh for an outside agitator. Soon after, or so it seemed, Darryl went after Dewey. All of which led to the vague recollection that Dewey had some run-in years back over voter registration. And there was something else about hard labor down at Parchman Farm in Clarksdale. Plus, according to Ada Mae, Darryl and this Bubba guy Darryl was so determined to find were in league at around this same era way back then. Added to this hazy scenario was the fact that Alice recently fell in with Bubba which may have stirred things up all over again.

  Josh turned the volume all the way down and reminded himself to remain cool and detached, to stop overloading the circuit if he was to have any chance of sorting things out and patching things up. “Quietly and unobtrusively take things in and then recalibrate,” he muttered to himself.

  In this same vein, he let other current realities filter in. Like the Hunter Cobb editorial in The Morning Star intimating that candidate Lamar Dean was well acquainted with those fostering private academies in the state. The object being, that white students could exercise their freedom of choice to attend a sectarian school if their parents were wealthy enough. Or choose home schooling—anything to avoid enrolling in predominantly all-black public schools, especially in the Delta. Cobb had gone on to suggest it was those factions under the guise of people’s liberties that had given Lamar Dean an edge in the polls.

  Josh reached over, pulled the journal out of the plastic carry-all under the dash, selected a blank page and added some jottings under “The Lamar Dean Factor.” That done, he replaced the journal and turned up the volume just as Russ Clayton’s voice boomed out once more through the tinny single speaker.

  Before resuming his conversation with the governor-elect, Clayton went on a tirade about the federal government attempting to drag the country into European-style socialism, redistributing the wealth and killing free enterprise. Leaning hard on these notions, he declared what a great thing it was that the people’s voice had been heard by electing a native son who would stop piling up debt after years of tax and spend. A man who would streamline government and reduce spending on social services, encourage entrepreneurship and guarantee the state’s solid citizens no new taxes. A politician who traditionally had dedicated himself to fending off all that was alien to our national character.

  At long last, Clayton gave way and let Lamar Dean get in a word edgewise. Perhaps it was the contrasting slow mellow drawl that was so appealing to Josh’s abiding need to cool it down. Whatever it was, Josh found himself easily drawn in as Mr. Dean took over the airwaves:

  “Hey, Russ, I’ve been thinking. Now that this last battle’s over, maybe we should tone down the rhetoric some. Especially with this Christmas season almost upon us, it might do a world of good to maybe see if we can locate some common ground. Find agreement, say, in the simple pleasures. Like a good cigar. Now don’t get me wrong. I do understand about banning cigarettes in public places and all. However, and I’m sure all you ladies out there will agree, there is nothing like a fine aromatic smoke. Hey now, hope this doesn’t sound like a pitch or anything. But after all the politicking, sitting here in my favorite leather chair I can’t help but want to take a break. Don’t mean to steal your thunder, Russ, but if you need some controversy, how about something like conspicuous non-consumption—if you get my drift. Or that old standby: Ole Miss’ chances and do they really deserve a bowl bid?. . .”

  Not at all interested in Clayton’s response to this mellow tack, Josh switched off the radio and hit the ignition. In truth, he didn’t know what to make of Lamar Dean as he continued to roll on toward the outskirts of Oxford. It wasn’t that he was taking Ada Mae’s preaching to heart and was in need of a personal angel. It was simply that he was out of his depth, didn’t really know how to take all that had happened and could use some advice. Or at least talk to someone who might help him put matters in perspective. The only one who came to mind was the selfsame Hunter Cobb: the wily seasoned man of journalism who, on the surface at any rate, had given Josh the benefit of the doubt.

  Then and there Josh decided he would definitely pay a call, just as he told Bud and Travis he would. After making doubly sure Alice was safe and sound and things were on the mend. As if sound judgment still had some cachet in this loopy world. And touching on his own well-being and prospects just a tad was perfectly within reason.

  . . .

  Tilting the scale in his favor, the sunlight that had pulsed and faded by Ada Mae’s Dixie Dollar, held firmly and brightened the cloud cover. New condos came into view along with a gaggle of strolling retirees dressed in wool cardigans, soft-leather coats, colorful fleece jackets and the like. Some were walking their dogs and stopped to chat with one another, and one or two were seated in their open convertibles leisurely turning their faces toward the sun.

  Josh made a few more deliveries in the north end of town without a hitch, got out his cell phone, reached The Bottletree and received a benign set of answers. The message LuAnn left assured him that Alice had a mild shoulder sprain, was going for X-rays to make sure and then they’d be off to get a temporary arm sling. They’d meet him back at The Bottletree by about two o’clock if he was free by then. LuAnn added that Cody’s own frowning Cora got it from Strother that Darryl was back at his old stand in the boonies licking his wounds.

  As a precautionary measure, Josh called Cody’s. Strother got on the line amid the lunchtime noise bragging about how he was holding his own. Wasn’t winning a lot but wasn’t losing much either. Josh’s tips had enabled him to slowly but surely recoup his losses. As for Darryl, Strother reconfirmed the news he was back at his ramshackle Rebel Spirits, grumbling to himself and had apparently lost his sense of humor. According to one of Strother’s card-playing buddies from out that way, Darryl was “awful sore around his midsection and can hardly get around.” Strother added that either Josh’s punches did him in or else “Darryl rammed into somethin’ extra hard in the exact same place.” At any rate, he was in no shape to set out again for a spell. Further, according to Sonny Drew, Darryl was in no mind to get into any more trouble than he was already in. Of course, where Sonny got off making remarks like that was a little suspect, but there you had it. Anyways, it was fine for Josh to check back from time to time as long as Strother’s luck held out.

  Duly satisfied, at least for now, and so hungry he couldn’t stand it any more, Josh pulled into a Cracker Barrel and had the breakfast he’d missed this morning and then some: scrambled eggs and hickory smoked country ham with Sawmill gravy, buttermilk biscuits with jam and apple butter, fried apples and hash-browns and a pot of coffee. The meal and the friendly moon-faced waitress who kept commenting on how he’d “cleaned up real good” since the last time she’d seen him only added to the growing sense that things could calm down and even merge into the everyday. That and her delight when scooping up her tip hoping he’d be back for supper and some spring water rainbow trout or rib eye steak.

  With another hour-and-a-half to kill before meeting up with LuAnn and Alice, Josh drove through town and headed west on the main drag, made another three d
eliveries without a hitch, returned and found a parking space a few blocks west of the Square. He left a phone message for his mother saying he was fine and was spending a little time in Oxford catching up on overdue deliveries. But more importantly, he had a follow-up appointment with Hunter Cobb who also ran a seminar and had an office at Ole Miss. Adding even more of a gloss to it, Josh mentioned that Cobb was happy to discuss ways Josh might resume his reporting career. Josh then called the Southern Studies Department and, as luck would have it, did arrange to drop in on Cobb after Cobb’s last student conference at five.

  As he approached the Square, his pressing concerns continued to dissolve and he found himself drawn into the ambiance. The hazy brightness was a constant, the air cool but no longer damp. The sense of calm and ease was sustained by passersby who smiled at him and nodded. The sunlight glinted off the bronze statue of William Faulkner perched behind the ornate iron railing that fronted the city hall. There, on his bench, with his arm draped over his crossed leg, his Stetson pulled back at a rakish angle, his face tilted toward the warmth, Faulkner too seemed to be taking everything in stride.

  Walking on, the white balustrades rimming the Square seemed more like a harmless movie set; the Confederate soldier topping the spire-like memorial appeared to have taken a more restful stance since the last time Josh was here.

  Even as he passed the Square and headed down a side street toward The Bottletree, the illusion of normalcy held on and was modified only a tad when he ran into Virgil. It was thoughts of Virgil that had run through his mind when perusing Hunter Cobb’s piece on then-candidate Lamar Dean’s association with “Freedom of Choice”--parents exercising their right to send their kids to sectarian private academies. In response, Virgil had remarked, “You know, my man, I might’ve amounted to something if I had me some other folks to be with and maybe some better teachers at that all-black public school. But then I look at you.” What Virgil had meant in that good-natured joshing way of his, was that Josh had all the advantages and now look at him.

  Still about to carry on about it, wearing his customary beige jumpsuit, Virgil put down his long-handled squeegee and called out, “Hey, brother, what’s happening? Gone and lost the beard and come out cleaner than this store window. I don’t know about you, I just don’t know.”

  Picking up on it, Josh said, “That noticeable, huh?”

  “That noticeable and a relief. The other week I says to myself, that boy is so down on his luck, he’s liable to be after your job. Then where you gonna be?”

  Josh patted him on the shoulder and said, “No worries, Virgil. I am on the verge of finding myself.”

  “You serious? Now wouldn’t that be somethin’? Last thing I need is competition from you hungry, jobless folks.”

  “Like I said, I’m bound to make something of myself yet.”

  Virgil patted him back, let out a hearty laugh and said, “That-a-way, you keep at it. Now if you don’t mind, I got a streak to remove on this otherwise perfectly shiny piece of glass and have to concentrate.”

  As an afterthought, Virgil called him back and said, “Hey now, since you’re still after finding yourself, why not take a peek in Square Books? More’n likely you left it there.”

  “Good tip.”

  “And then there’s that folk and blues place just opened up again. Better try both.”

  “Another good tip. Much obliged.”

  Josh could have told him about Dewey whose music Virgil had always admired, but there was no good reason just then to compromise Virgil’s sprightly mood.

  Walking on, the final carefree moment happened on the opposite sidewalk only a storefront away from The Bottletree. A rail-thin middle-aged lady in a pink chemise did a little jig right in front of him, eyes half-closed, blocking his way. Stopping herself in mid-motion, holding up a letter she’d clutched to her bosom, she exclaimed, “I am so sorry about that. Now I know what you’re thinking, but I have not lost my mind. It so happens I just now read the contents of this letter and it appears an old beau will be joining me for Christmas dinner. Can you stand it?”

  Josh didn’t know what to say and merely returned her smile and let her pass. Covering the few remaining feet, Josh couldn’t help recalling the words of the taciturn New Yorker at the gaming table at Caesars Palace: “Don’t you believe it, kid. This is a bad sign. Too many smiles, too much glitz, way too many winning hands. Ups and downs I can live with. Lots of downs, I’m used to, that’s life. But this--watch out. I may not get outta here alive.”

  . . .

  The Bottletree was hopping that early afternoon due in no small part to the smattering of students who’d finished their final exams before the Christmas break. Why this hangout was called The Bottletree was anybody’s guess. There were no renderings of bottles hanging from pecan trees to scare off the spooks. Instead, the walls were lined with the traditional hodgepodge of photos of debutantes resplendent in their ball-gowns, gatherings of brothers and pledges posing in front of their pillared fraternity houses, and a few shots of magnolias in bloom leading to nearby Rowan Oak, Faulkner’s old spacious mansion. In between were an array of ferns and thick-leaved potted plants. Most of the male undergraduates occupying the tables were debating where to go to celebrate before settling down to holiday dinners with their folks. On display were also the resident beauties who weren’t at all interested in what was being said. For some unknown reason they all seem to possess the same high cheekbones, blondish hair and expectant looks as if any moment some attractive upper classmen were about to swoop in and offer them a ride in their new sports cars. Or reporters would doubtless pester them yet again to model for a photo shoot. All in all, no one in the place seemed to have a care in the world. No one except for LuAnn.

  At this moment, she and Josh were sitting at a small table in the rear directly across from each other. She hadn’t much of anything to do as most of her staff was expertly handling orders behind the wooden counter and glass covered bins that ran the length of the opposite wall. Though assuring Josh it was perfectly understandable why Alice didn’t feel like joining them and would rather be ensconced in LuAnn’s flat directly above, he could hear the growing uncertainty in her voice. Especially after she told him how Alice wouldn’t stop jabbering the entire way over, in the waiting room, after the X-rays were taken, through a bite of lunch upstairs until LuAnn left her in front of the TV. In that hesitant, self-effacing way of hers, LuAnn recounted how Alice had carried on about everything except what had befallen her. Unless you count “how weird it was that teddy bear Josh keeps cropping up and coming to the rescue.” Alice even repeated the doctor’s diagnosis and instructions over and over: “Ice pack and elevate every fifteen to twenty minutes . . . it’s only a mild strain, slight swelling and tenderness at the outside tip of the collarbone . . . gotta stick with the arm sling for a while and let the pouch cradle the arm . . .”

  Thinking it over, LuAnn suggested it was the kind of prattle you get from girls her age. How they say the first thing that pops in their mind because they can’t deal with silence. Maybe for fear what’s really bothering them will take over.

  Trying to keep the conversation as offhand as possible, Josh suggested that Alice was much better off all patched up and cozy as can be. LuAnn was far and away the superior rescuer and Alice’s prattling was perfectly understandable and was probably doing her some good.

  LuAnn patted his hand. A gesture Josh took to mean it was okay. They didn’t have to go on with it. LuAnn had only told him to let him know, not to add to all he’d been through.

  They sat there in silence until a hassle ensued over at the checkout counter by the front window. Nothing serious. It had something to do with a student’s bill and a credit card that had expired.

  He bided his time while LuAnn went over to deal with the issue until he found himself perusing the photo on the wall. Till now, along with the rest of the décor it meant nothing to him. One more keepsake in the collections of campus eateries all across the countr
y. One more excuse to lift the steins to dear old alma mater, or hum the college fight song, or recall those happy days gone by. But those days gone by was exactly the point. The longer Josh gazed at the photo, the more prominent the date scrawled in the upper left-hand corner became. The date led his eye to the figure in the foreground: a younger version of Lamar Dean brandishing that same I’ve-got-it-covered smile radiating under his pledge cap; the same look plastered on the campaign poster featured in Darryl’s store window.

  The figure immediately behind Dean caught Josh’s eye as well. Everyone else in the photo kept their distance. After all, they were part of a freshman class who’d only recently met at the start of the fall term and some may not make it through hell week and initiation. But the wide-shouldered guy in the crew cut seemed to be guarding Lamar. Knowing he’d be a fixture for some time to come, backing Lamar up while peering out for a sign of some unseen foe. Just as importantly, the date jibed with the time frame rumor had it Dewey Charles had been shipped off to Parchman Farm.

  Josh’s attention shifted when, as though someone had blown a whistle, the remaining students were in line, paying their checks, leaving a tip and rapidly clearing out. The altercation over the credit card apparently solved, LuAnn came whisking back, not with a sigh of relief but with a renewed air of concern.