She bit her upper lip and shook her head and closed her eyes. I saw her throat working, swallowing hard. She put her elbow on the table and rested her forehead in the palm of her hand, sort of shading her eyes from the light. “It’s just not working. The treatment. The treatments.” She took a deep breath but didn’t change her position. “They keep increasing them. I don’t know how many they’re giving now.” She dropped her hand from her forehead. “What is this? Wednesday? Well, that’s ten days. You’d think in ten days …” She put her head in both hands now. “I can’t go watch any more. Those wires on his head … Then the rubber thing in his mouth for protection from the convul—” she swallowed hard several times, “—sions. The convulsions are so … You can’t really look. I close my eyes but I can still see his body contort and twist and writhe. The pain … it must be … unbearable.”
“Alice, love, Alice,” the captain said gently. “Don’t talk. Go have a bath.” He sent a message to Mom with his eyes. She was up quickly and gone. “Hungry? A bite of Miz Milly’s lemon meringue …
No. No, thank you. Oh, I know how good it is …” a faint smile softened the anguish in her face. “But I think I’ll take that bath. If y’all’ll excuse me … ?” She stood and moved toward the door as we scrambled to our feet, nodding and murmuring, “Goodnight.”
Dad drove her to the hospital early every morning. By the time he was back, the captain would be outside with Junior at the helm of the cot ready to start the day. His energy was unflagging and depended less and less on the fuel in the glassholder by his side. Hours would go by before he’d notice his “glass of air” and send one of us back to the house for fresheners.
Some mornings the captain spent inside on the telephone or at a sort of writing tray that slanted at just the right angle for him to be able to write. I noticed when mailing his letters that they were primarily to addresses in the east. Mom had brought accordian cardboard files from cupboards at his request and his bed was covered with official-looking papers for hours on end. She’d help him arrange them back in the files and put them away.
“Have to get everything in order.” he’d mutter. “Just don’t know where all this is leading.”
Then one day when we were all waiting outside in the drive for Dad to return from taking Mrs. Jones to the hospital the captain suddenly turned to Mom and said, “What the hell is the matter with me? What am I trying to do? Kill us all?” He dropped his head back on the pillow and laughed. “Look at the boys, there. Both getting black from the sun working outside all day. And you, poor Miz Milly. How long has it been since you’ve had a day off?” Mom laughed and shrugged, “It’s been a time when we all…”
“Well,” he waved an arm to cut her off. “It’s been about a month since the son and heir went on vacation. We damned well need one too.” He was all excited. “Here, Carlton, you and Woody-Two go help Miz Milly pack us menfolk a lunch. Get out the hamper and I want it filled up to here with everything that’s bad for us. Then, fill up the ice chest with bottles of chablis—and I mean past up to here. That’s good for us. We’ll go off somewhere where it’s cool and make Miz Milly go suffer in the heat getting her head baked.” Mom looked puzzled. “Baked or burned or broiled or even toasted—whatever it is they do to torture you poor creatures in the beauty parlors— where I want you to have the works. Curls, waves, cuts, massages, facials, pedicures, manicures, the lot! We haven’t been looking after our prized possession properly.” He came as close to bouncing up and down on his cot as I’d ever seen him. “Come on! Get a move on. Woody’ll be back before you know it and have us all shovelling horseshit before we can tell him we’re going for a drive.”
We dropped Mom at a beauty parlor and then headed east out toward Camel Back Mountain, past Superstition Mountain whose sheer walls reminded me of the cliffs on James River and where according to local legend, many gold prospectors had been lost. Whether they lost their way once inside the peculiar rock formation that rose out of the flat desert or were done away with by a secret tribe of Indians was never made clear. It was wonderfully spooky and one could believe anything about it.
We drove up into the mountains along the Verde River eventually finding a rock-pool with some trees near it, the perfect picnic spot where even the swimming would be legal for a change. The captain’s cot was rolled out under the trees and Junior had his bourbon and water ready for him almost before Dad had him properly situated in the shade with a view of the rock-pool. Junior and I were in the clear cold water in our underwear in minutes. “What’s the matter with you. Woody? Don’t you swim?”
“Don’t like to swim in it any more’n I like to drink it,” Dad said with a grin.
“Woody-Two!” the captain called out. “Get back here to the bar. You have another customer!”
“Naw,” Dad shook his head. “I’d better not.” He indicated the car.
“To hell with that, Woody. You’ll have plenty of time to sober up on Miz Milly’s lunch. Besides, it’s not much fun drinking alone.”
Dad’s attempts at teetotaling were half-hearted at best. He and the captain had made quite a dent in the bottle of Jack Daniels by the time Junior and I flopped down on the picnic rug dripping wet and breathless from our splashing around in the shallow water.
“Get out of here,” Dad yelled. “Both of you. Like a couple of wet hound dogs. Go dry off in the sun.”
We ran about in the sun. We got out the wicker basket. We drank iced tea until I thought it was going to come out of my ears and still the captain and Dad went quietly and steadily on sipping bourbon and talking. Junior rolled his eyes at me and rubbed his belly. We were both dying of hunger. At last, the bartender gleefully announced as he handed the two men drinks, “Well, that’s it. That’s the last of the bottle.”
“I happen to know,” the captain said without looking at Junior, “that there’s another one in the glove compartment.” Junior’s face fell. The captain laughed his cough or coughed his laugh. “But there is no law that says we have to drink it. You boys are starving. Let’s eat.”
We set to with joy. I fixed a plate for the captain while Junior uncorked the wine with a fancy corkscrew the captain said came from France. As the screw went into the cork, two little arms on the side went up and then when pressed down, the cork came out as if by magic. It fascinated Junior and he’d become an expert with it. “Pour yourself some, Woody-Two. And some for Carlton. Let’s all celebrate.”
I’d had the white wine before and had already decided that if I ever became a drunk it would be on wine. Junior called me a wino and couldn’t understand my being able to gulp it down like water. Nor could the captain. “Take it easy, Carlton. That’s wine, not a Nehi. Sip it, son. Taste it. Feel it go all the way down.” He demon strated by rolling a sip around in his mouth and letting it slide down his throat with exaggerated delight. “Aaaaahh. There. I can feel it right there.” He pointed toward his middle with a finger. “Granted I can’t feel anything on the outside, but the good Lord left me that one little pleasure.”
We ate. We polished off three bottles of wine. I noticed the captain barely touched his plate, but his wine glass was kept brimming by our attentive bartender who began to frown when I held out my own glass. “Let him have it,” Dad said. “It’s time you both learn what happens when you overdo. Better do it with us than sneak it.”
“There is only one solitary pleasure that I know of,” the captain said thoughtfully. “Sadly denied me now. Masturbation.” Dad guffawed, Junior blushed and I looked blank—I didn’t know the word. “But that, like anything else, can be overdone. Just like your dad says.” He became serious. “That was part of Bradford’s problem. It became an obsession.” I turned to Junior for an explanation. He rolled his eyes heavenward, then glanced at the two grownups to make sure they couldn’t see and quickly made the gesture. Then I blushed. “I’ve been talking a lot to his doctor. They’re all frankly stumped. He’s not responding to the treatment. They can’t get him to talk, so they have so
little to go on …” He held his glass out for more wine. “I have to confess that I never understood the boy. We’ve never been particularly close. Maybe it’s partly my fault. I always expected more … well, he’s not like you two, you both are bright …” He turned to Dad. “I’ve always told you how lucky you were, Woody. You believe me now?”
“It’s beginnin’ to come home to me,” he said looking directly at Junior almost as if he were apologizing.
The captain lay his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes. We were all silent for so long I thought he might have fallen asleep. He’d had an awful lot to drink. We all stretched out, making ourselves comfortable on the rug. Dad was leaning up against the tree, but eased himself down until he was almost lying flat out. The wine was making me drowsy. We could hear the trickle of water in the river, the katydids were sawing away in the heat. I put my head on Junior’s stomach for a pillow and his breathing was so even and deep that I thought he was sleeping. When I heard the captain’s voice, I thought I was dreaming. He spoke softly as though to himself. “He isn’t mine, you know.”
Dad grunted, “Hunh?”
“Bradford. He’s not mine.” None of us moved. I could feel the tension of our straining to hear. “Oh, Alice is his mother, all right. I guess she knows who his father is. I don’t. But that was part of the bargain.” We all lay perfectly still, waiting. “After I crashed …” There was a long pause. “She’s a healthy woman, Alice. Healthy appetites. Naturally she wanted a child. We decided we’d do everything possible to have a child the minute we knew the extent of the damage to my system. The system. Quite simply, the system was finished. Fini. Kaput. Done for.” He let a hand flop limply and graphically from his wrist as he gestured toward his crotch. “I needed a stand-in” He made a rueful little grimace. “Alice had to get pregnant quickly if we expected our little game to be plausible.”
Dad’s voice was as quiet as the captain’s. “I thought the ac … accident happened during the war. Over there … overseas someplace.”
“Huh.” It was a derisive sound. “I couldn’t even get that right.” Junior rolled over onto his side, propping up his head on an elbow, and at the same time lifting my head so that I was able to look at the captain. Dad was sitting up straighter, too. “Made it all through the war. Not a scratch. Big hero! My squadron shot down more Krauts than any other. Oh, no. All that was fine. I was watched by the gods. Two years away in England and France. Not even a nick shaving. Home. Discharged. Decorated. Dashed to the arms of my beautiful young wife in a rented plane. Hail the conquering hero! There he is now! Look up there! Look at him! Her whole family was standing out on the rolling lawns of the old family mansion waving flags—some Confederate—and yelling. I could see all of them. See their faces. Alice’s shining up at me. I did a showoff loop-the-loop and crashed into a cotton field. Broke my fucking neck.” The silence was deadly. “The end.” He looked at each of us, in turn. “For Christ’s sake, I didn’t even kill one of their prize Nigras. You all look like I was dead or was about to be. I’m anything but. Hey, bartender! What the hell do you think you’re doing flat on your ass. Hop to! Let’s get that wine flowing before the tears start.” We all straightened up, blinking and shaking our heads. Keeping up with the captain’s moods meant keeping on your toes.
“Our story,” he went on, “a palpable lie, of course, was that the paralysis was a delayed reaction of some sort. Sort of crept up from my toes, I guess. And before it got to the family jewels … well, we’d somehow managed to make a child together. That was the story and we’ve stuck to it. We even worked up some cock-and-bull story about the doctors taking the casts off too soon and then something snapped or something. Anyway, so stupid that it wouldn’t have fooled a drunken child of three.” He raised a finger and tilted his head, “And let it be remembered that in Alice’s family they often began that young.” He roared at his joke. “But the point is, Alice was with child. Whose is anybody’s guess. She is discretion personified. If either of us was a bit more religious, we’d have attributed it to God—Immaculate Conception and all that shit.” His eyes bugged and he looked at Dad. “Listen, Woody, if you think my language is getting too strong for the boys,” his eyes flashed wickedly, “just say so. I refer to conception, not shit.”
“So far there’s nothing they don’t know or should know.” Dad laughed and looked at me. “Except maybe masturbate. I don’t think Tots …”
“Carlton,” he emphasized my name pointedly, “might not know the word, but he knows. Just look at that cunning look. You’re going to have to watch that one, Woody. He’s sensual… physical. I might even go so far as say sexy. Just watch him when he dances. Sexy in the sense of … well, for example, Woody-Two is cerebral, not sensual. Oh, totally physical in the sense of physical coordination … while that little one there…” He pointed a finger at me and looked deeply into my eyes. I held the look. “Ooo-oooh!” he shook his head. “You are going to have one hell of a time. And I mean a good time.” He made it sound naughty. I felt he was looking straight through me.
“Well, any man who says he hasn’t done it is a liar,” Dad stated.
“Oh, lordy, if I only could,” the captain said rolling his head on his pillow. We all tried to laugh along with the captain, but it was painful. I noticed Junior blushing. I wondered if he … but no, he just wouldn’t. “So, Immaculate Conception or no, along came our very own little Bradford Jones, Jr. Adorable he was. Perfect. Those dimpled little hands. That infinitely kissable, biteable, chewable little body. The first time I held him—naked and fresh from his bath—up in front and above me so I could really look at him—I was enraptured. It didn’t matter who the father was. He was Alice’s. And mine. I had a son and heir.” His arms were lifted up in the air and he smiled fondly at the memory. “And then he pissed in my face.” Dad fell over and spilled his wine he was laughing so hard. “Perhaps I should have known then …”
Dad was standing, brushing the wine from his trousers. “While I’m up and since you mentioned it …” He headed off behind the car to pee.
“Woody-Two, how’s the wine holding out?”
“We’ve finished four, sir.”
“As a bartender, Woody-Two, you must learn one thing. Never … but never tell anybody what they’ve drunk, how much they’ve drunk, unless you’re trying to collect the bill. Always tell them what’s left. That avoids making people feel guilty and also fills them with determination to bloody well get on with the job. Understand?”
“Understood.” Junior threw a napkin over his left arm and played his role. “There are two excellent bottles of Chablis,” he looked carefully at the captain to make sure he’d pronounced it properly and received a nod of approval, “in the cooler, sir. And I would say they’re chilled to perfection.”
The captain let out his full-throated laugh. “By God, you don’t miss a trick, do you?” Then, almost to himself, “Oh, how I shall miss you.” He took a deep shuddering breath and called out, “Woody! get back here. We’re about to pop another cork.”
Glasses were refilled—not mine, I got “The Look” from Dad this time—and the captain went on. “And so our son and heir grew and flourished. If there was a room big enough to swing a cat, little Brad would swing a cat. And usually sail it out an open window. If the window weren’t open, that presented no great problem. The weight of a flying cat can break most glass, if not, it still has a tendency to do the cat some damage. The mortality rate for any living pet was about three days until Brad was about six when it became considerably less. Of course inanimate toys were disemboweled or reduced to rubble in seconds.” He was obviously having a wonderful time recounting this family history and we listened attentively, knowing that he was exaggerating outrageously. “I don’t suppose he set fire to his first house before he was … oh, I guess he must have been eight. The cave man discovering fire couldn’t have been more delighted and fascinated with it than our boy. We didn’t buy tickets to the fireman’s ball, we gave it. Widows and or
phans are still on my pay roll.” He took a long swallow of wine and stared into his glass. “This is all in highly questionable taste. Forgive me. I’m making fun of a sick boy. My boy. As much mine as I could make him at the time. Perhaps that’s why … Maybe I always resented the fact that he wasn’t really mine. I cursed my dead body through him … Poor kid. Maybe he didn’t have a chance.”
We three exchanged nervous glances as he eased back on his pillow and closed his eyes again. Dad cleared his throat. “Well, maybe there was just something wrong… something went wrong maybe right in the beginnin’. Maybe some little …”
“Flaw?” The captain didn’t move his head. “Oh, no doubt. Some little flaw … a tiny chip, a microscopic fissure, like the famous San Andreas fault in California where the earthquakes will happen, like the one that happened before in Los Angeles. And San Francisco before that. It’s there, but you don’t really know it until it snaps, cracks open, separates. You can be born with it— that flaw—like the earth has its flaws.”
“It’s nobody’s fault … I mean, nobody can be “responsible for things like that. You shouldn’t think …“
“Oh, I don’t blame myself completely. But I have to accept some blame. Look at me. What kind of a father is this?” He held his arms wide, making his poor body look even more vulnerable and insignificant. “If I only knew how his mind worked. What he was thinking, what his dreams are … I don’t even know what he wants to do with his life. If anything.”
“He said he wanted to go back to Virginia and live like a … well, he said like a human being,” Junior said.
The captain lifted his head and he came alive. “Why didn’t I talk to you boys before. Come on, tell me. What has he said to you. He’d maybe tell you things that he wouldn’t mention to his mother or me. Tell me more … Anything. Anything at all that you remember. It might help the doctor if we could have some idea what was bothering him.” His eyes were beseeching, begging, imploring us both. “Try to remember. Both of you …” He turned to me. “Carlton? Something? Anything.”
In Tall Cotton Page 22