by Glenn Taylor
He walked to the Ringer circle, where Orb had just won his fourth straight game. He patted the boy on the head and asked him where his father was. Orb didn’t answer.
Mary watched her little brother through the viewfinder of her movie camera. She wore a pair of her father’s old slacks, cut off just above the knee. She found that men’s trousers, when cinched at the waist with rope, made the best Bermudas. Two Band-Aids stretched across her ankle where she’d cut herself shaving. As always, Orb had been glad to supply the Band-Aids.
She quit rolling film and lowered the camera to her side. Harold walked over from the porch of his house and shook hands with Bob Staples. Mary waved to him, but he didn’t see her. She turned the hand crank on her camera, winding the motor’s spring. Fixing Harold through the lens, she rolled film again.
Ledford was up at the dog pen. He stuck his fingers through the chain-link and watched the tongues lap. “Simmer,” he told them.
His neck hairs stood on end. He could feel someone watching him. When he turned to find out who, it was Orb. The boy stood twenty yards off, still and blank. Ledford thought for a moment he was having an episode, but when he whistled, Orb came over. “I think they’re hungry,” Ledford said. “You feed em yet this evenin?”
Orb shook his head no and dropped two full bags of marbles at his sides. They’d been playing for keepsies again. He pulled the tarp off the food bin, swung open the lid, and started filling bowls.
“I don’t believe we’ll be able to let em run tonight Son,” Ledford told him. “Too many folks that might be scared of dogs.”
“Okay.” Orb was inside the pen, setting the bowls before anxious snouts.
“Did you rake em for ticks this mornin?” Ledford asked.
“Yessir. There was two on Tug. I burnt em.” But he hadn’t burnt them. Orb would not kill any bug, ever.
“Good boy.” Ledford put his hand to his brow and looked down the Cut. There was movement around the chapel and the circus tent. Jerry and Herchel were snapping kindling across their knees and tossing it in an old oil drum. Bob Staples was laughing at something Harold had told him. “I’m going to head on down,” Ledford told Orb. “Your mother’s in the house.” The boy just stood there, as he often did. Ledford bent to him. “Happy birthday Son,” he said. He pulled a newly handmade taw from his pocket, three-quarter-inch and shiny. It was a sulfide, clear, a clay man inside.
Orb took it and turned it over in his hand. He studied the marble. It was still warm.
Ledford hugged Orb hard. Then he took him by the shoulders and looked him in the face. “I love you Son,” he said.
He headed toward the circus tent.
Bob hadn’t seen Ledford in such a getup before. His white shirt was pressed and the polish on his loafers had yet to fully dry. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Bob said, shaking Ledford’s hand, “you own something other than overalls after all.” They laughed. Bob said, “And I see your beard is aspiring to grow as wild as my brother’s.”
Ledford pulled at the whiskers on his chin. “It’s coming in okay,” he said.
“I was just telling Harold about the Smalleys’ case. The judge threw out their injunction. Ordered them to file another one if they want to proceed. He recognized that we have the right to picket.” Bob was pleased with himself, and he didn’t care to hide it. “My phone’s been ringing off the hook, I’ll tell you what. There’s a lot of civil rights attorneys with an eye on this one.”
Ledford nodded. “Glad to hear it. How was the party in Charleston?”
“Well attended.”
“How many?”
“I heard five thousand. In the rain.” Bob held up his hand. “Kennedy shook it,” he said.
“Is that right?”
“Firm grip.”
“I bet it was.” Ledford loosed a cigarette for himself and another for Bob. They cupped against the wind and lit up. “Did he have much to say?”
“It was a short speech.”
“I bet it was.” Ledford watched Mary, who watched everyone else.
“He said the sun might not always shine in West Virginia, but that the people sure do. Said any other place, they would have all gone home to get dry.”
“Well,” Ledford said, “I reckon there’s enough out of work to fill the esplanade and Washington Street too. Maybe the coal dust has fortified their skin, made em waterproof.”
“What in the hell are you talking about Ledford?”
Ledford looked up at the sun. “I believe we’re out of the woods here. Isn’t a cloud for miles.”
Bob looked up and squinted.
The dogs bayed in the distance. A fox had scampered by. “Listen Ledford,” Bob said. “Charlie Ball was up in Charleston today.”
Ledford flicked the cherry off his cigarette and stuck the butt in his pants pocket. “What the hell for?”
“Well.” Bob cleared his throat. “He’s going Democrat.”
“What do you mean he’s going Democrat? That boy is a spoon-fed Arch Moore brownnoser.” Ledford had heard about Charlie’s rise up the ranks. He’d gone from hot end manager to city councilman to mayor.
“Not anymore. He’s planning a run for the legislature, and he’s switching teams to get elected.”
“Son of a bitch.” Ledford rubbed at the back of his neck.
There was a roar from the oil drum. Jerry had dropped in a fiery rag.
“You might be surprised Ledford. Ole Charlie may have grown up on us.” Bob was smiling his politician smile, an ugly remainder from his run in ’48.
“Ole Charlie can grow up as much as he wants to,” Ledford said.
“But he’s dumber than dirt Bob, and you know it.”
“Well,” Bob said. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose.
“I thought I ought to mention it.” He hesitated. “And I’d better mention that he said he wants to make peace, and, seeing as he has family in the area, said he might show up here today.”
“What?” Ledford could hardly believe his ears. Bob was too predictable, always an eye out for a political up-and-comer, but never a discerning one.
“Well,” Bob said. He looked around nervously. “Where is my brother anyway?”
“He’s in bed. Feelin poorly.” Ledford looked over Bob’s shoulder at two approaching figures. It took him a moment to make them out. “I’ll be durned,” he said.
Erm Bacigalupo stepped stride for stride next to his boy Fiore, who had grown tall for fifteen. The two of them had shown up once or twice a year ever since their first visit on the day Orb was born. Oftentimes it was unannounced, a side trip from Erm’s dealings at the Charles Town Race Track. At first, Ledford hadn’t wanted him around, but after Erm’s wife Agnes shot herself in ’55, he’d mostly felt sorry for the man.
From twenty yards off, Erm called out, “What time do Mr. Barnum and Mr. Bailey arrive?”
Ledford hollered back, “Soon as Admiral Dingleberry gives the go-ahead call.”
They shook hands. There had been no hugging or backslapping in years. “Fiore, you’re a regular beanstalk,” Ledford said.
“It’s Fury,” the boy answered.
“You look at a man when you speak to him,” Erm said. He put two fingers under the boy’s chin and pushed up, hard.
Fury wore double-kneed blue jeans and a fine plaid shirt, buttoned to the top. His hair was parted and held in place with ample oil. It reflected the sun. “Hello Mr. Ledford.” The boy looked like he never smiled.
“What time do the titty dancers take the stage?” Erm asked. He smiled. His tooth bridge had darkened a shade. His nose wore burgundy vessels matching those in his eyes.
“Erm, you remember Bob Staples.” Ledford stepped aside and Bob leaned in for a shake.
“How are you Erm?” Bob said. That politician smile was on again.
“I’m up a grand thanks to your Shenandoah bangtails,” Erm said.
“Say again?”
“Erm plays the horses up at Charles Town.” Ledford
wished Bob would skedaddle. The mention of Charlie Ball had turned his stomach.
“Oh,” Bob said. “You enjoy the races?”
“That your convertible in the lot Bob?” Erm thumbed toward the gate.
“It is. Bought it new last year.”
“How many miles you put on it?”
“Oh, I think about two thousand or thereabouts.”
Fury spit on his finger and bent to rub mud off his brogans.
Erm breathed in the smell of damp burning timber from the oil drum. “Ledford,” he said, “you got shit burgers on the menu tonight?”
Ledford watched Fury. The boy rubbed and rubbed at his shoe until no trace of dirt could be found.
“Well, I’d better go check on my brother,” Bob said. “Nice to see you again Erm. Nice to meet you young man.” Bob ambled off in the direction of the chapel.
Erm called after him. “We’ll catch up later big Bob, big butter and egg man.” He laughed and produced his flask. Spun the top off with a flick of the thumb. “Convertible Bobby,” he said to Ledford. Then to his boy, “Stand up straight Fury.”
“I didn’t think the state’s centennial was your style,” Ledford said.
“C’mon now, Ledford. You know I love Virginia.” Erm winked. He liked to get under the skin of his old friend.
Ledford looked at Fury. There was something unsettling about him. Ledford tried to make eye contact. “Fury, Willy’s up at the gym if you want to go see him.”
The boy walked off, slow and silent. “Goddamned teenagers,” Erm said.
Herchel and Jerry slid on their work gloves and tipped the fiery barrel into a trench they’d dug that morning. They tossed foil-wrapped squashes and onions into the coals. Sparks danced invisible on the evening air. The sun was getting low on the ridge, and the lot was filling with cars.
By five-thirty, people were walking in from the woods.
At six, two Corvair vans pulled in, trailed by a station wagon. Each van wore a white stripe down the side, and inside the stripe had been painted the words Radiant Light Gospel Choir. J. Carl Mitchum was at the wheel of the first, his wife the second. Eighteen singers unloaded—men in dark suits and women in pink-and-purple dresses. Their hats reached high and their heels made tracks in the mud. Each member hung a dry-cleaned choir gown over their arm, still in the bag. They strode up the Cut in a pack. Their children jumped from the crowded station wagon and followed.
Effie was the first to spot them. She ran over and hugged her mother and father. All around, white folks stared. Many had come for the free barbeque and punch. Few of them had known what to expect from the strange folks at Marrowbone, and fewer still had ever seen so many black folks in one place.
One local man, a skinny, out-of-work miner, took a long look at the parade of gospel singers and promptly swallowed what punch was left in his Dixie cup. He told his wife and daughter to do the same, and then they all set them down on a picnic table and walked back into the woods.
Mack turned the hand crank slow and steady on the rotisserie he’d fashioned for the occasion. The pig’s flesh was reddish brown and split at the armpits. The skewer ran through it, ass to mouth, and Mack had rigged up its legs with coat-hanger wire.
He checked his wristwatch. The pig had been over the coals for just shy of five hours. That morning, Dimple and Wimpy had told him six would suffice. They’d taken Mack and Ledford to W. D. Ray’s place, where the pig was asleep under a bench on the porch. Bedded down on an old dirty quilt. They’d paid Mr. Ray a hundred dollars for it and returned to the old butcher building, where Mack and Ledford had watched one brother hold the pig still on a block-top table while the other one stuck a ten-inch knife in its neck and rolled his wrist. The pig screamed for a full minute, a sound not unlike a child’s, while a wide jettison of blood rushed forth from the hole. It spattered the boots and pantcuffs of the twins, who paid no mind. It gathered and ran in a line to the pitched floor’s daisy drain. Ledford had walked out. Mack had nearly lost his stomach.
At 6:30, inside the tent, Ledford took the stage. He tapped the microphone and said, “Evenin.” People meandered in. Ledford estimated their number to be 150. The TV station had sent a reporter and a cameraman. They stood in the far right corner, whispering and fanning themselves with newspapers. In the far left was Mary, perched on a folding chair and rolling her own footage. “I want to thank all of you for comin,” Ledford said. The microphone whistled. “Tonight we celebrate the centennial birthday of this great state.” A few clapped and hollered. “And we also celebrate the ten-year anniversary of the first official batch of the Marrowbone Marble Company.” There were a few more celebratory calls. “But that is not all this day will mark. As some of you know, mine and Rachel’s youngest boy Orb claims June twentieth as his birthday. And this one makes ten.”
Down front, Willy hoisted Orb on his shoulders and began to dance in a circle. He whooped as he went, and the crowd applauded the boy. Orb looked this way and that, then up at the tent’s center post. He put his hands to his ears and a few people laughed.
“Orb’s got his own way of things,” Ledford said. “And that’s something else I’d like to speak on, if you’ll permit me, for just a moment before we get to all the eating and music.” His voice was loud through the PA. It seemed to echo. “What I mean is, Orb has his own way of going about life. He doesn’t see things the way most do.” Ledford cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “And I for one admire that breed of sight. Vision, you might say. I see it at work every day around me here at Marrowbone Cut, a new vision of how life can be.” His voice quivered. He looked at the floor. “I am a glass man,” he said. It had grown quiet. The katydids called from the trees.
The choir members and their children had all grouped at the left of the stage. All except the littlest ones stood close and looked around, as if expecting an ambush.
Ledford coughed into his hand. “There’s some literature on the table up here by the stage. It tells about our profit-sharing system for employees, our food and clothing pantry in the chapel.” He’d wanted to say more on the vision he had for Marrowbone, but couldn’t. He looked out at the people, their faces tinted orange, evening sun through tent walls. He went on, “We can’t hardly keep up with the demand for playing marbles, and Mack Wells’ invention of the Ringer cross-rack has caught on. So, if anyone’s out of a job, come on in and see me.”
He searched the crowd for J. Carl Mitchum, but instead found fat Charlie Ball, who stood next to Erm, of all people. The two of them whispered back and forth, laughed a little. It was unnerving. Ledford shook it off and continued. “And we put our heads together with others as much as we can. The West Virginia Human Rights Commission, to name one. We’re happy to have the vice president of that commission here this evening, Mr. J. Carl Mitchum.” Ledford pointed to him and J. Carl waved a hand. “We’re honored to have you sir, and your gospel choir.” He surveyed the crowd again. Looked back at Charlie Ball, who was handing a business card to Erm. The spotlight Jerry had rigged up was getting hot. Sweat ran cool down Ledford’s spine. “The Radiant Light Choir is going to sing for us a little later,” he said, “and we’ve got a boxing exhibition and a marble surprise for the children. So go on and fill up on the barbeque and all, and have a good time.”
Some applauded and some did not. Bob Staples looked at his pocketwatch.
Rachel had made her famous coleslaw. She and Lizzie stuck slotted spoons into it, four bowls’ worth. “Enough to feed an army,” Rachel said.
Lizzie nodded. Around her, the choir members shuffled to find a place in the buffet line and white folks in hand-me-downs kept their eyes on their own. A quiet had befallen all.
Stretch Hayes had brought along his mother. He introduced her to Rachel as they came through the line. Mrs. Hayes wore gauze over one ear, an elastic bandage circling her head. She spoke loudly. “Does my son talk with respect out here?” she asked. Rachel said he did.
At seven-thirty, Jimmy Ballard arrived in a blac
k Cadillac. He was a pro fighter, a contender for the welterweight title. He was the youngest son of Mr. Ballard, the filling station owner from Ledford’s old neighborhood, and he’d spent his formative years in Ledford’s boyhood home.
Jimmy Ballard was a celebrity.
A makeshift ring had been set up on the lawn by the big garden. Ballard stepped inside and raised his arms over his head. He unbuttoned his pressed shirt and winked at the women. Mack gloved him up. Ballard cracked his neck. He wore pinstripe suit pants, black wingtips, and no shirt, and he waved his gloved hands at the gathering crowd.
Willy climbed through the ropes across from him. His mouthpiece was already in and his headgear tied tight. He punched himself in the jaw a few times and danced on his toes.
Paul Maynard had declined the invitation to oversee the exhibition. There were a few others from the Maynard clan present, including Hambone and his older sister, Josephine. Josephine had her eye on Willy, whom she’d kissed the previous Saturday night.
Ledford stood between his son and Jimmy Ballard. “This is all in good fun folks,” he said. “Mr. Ballard here has been nice enough to make a contribution to our food and clothing pantry fund.” There was clapping. Ballard waved again. “And boys,” Ledford spun on the balls of his feet and surveyed them. They were black and white, young and lean. “If any of you care to work hard and follow rules, our gym is open Monday through Thursday, five to eight.”
When Mack struck the bell with his hammer, Willy came out of his corner like a bull at the gate. Ballard slipped the left, but Willy caught him with a roundhouse right. It stunned the older fighter, and it stunned everyone watching.
Ballard kept him at bay after that, working his jab and trying not to let one go on the kid. His expression went from charitable to frustrated.
In the third and final round, Willy again sent one home, this time a left hook. Ballard’s knees gave momentarily, and when he righted himself, he had to dance to avoid another one. When Mack sounded the final bell, Ballard hugged Willy and whispered to him, “You’re really good kid. I almost had to beat your ass.”