Slow Fall

by Edgar Warren Williams

  “Wasting my time mostly.”

  “Lady looking for Mark, huh?”

  “Yeah, among other things.”

  “You know it.”

  They both stared at Li-Po in silence.

  Finally, Pickett said: “You wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?”

  “Me? Why we colut folks don know much bout—”

  “Jesus, will you cut that out? You sound like Al Jolsen.”

  Trap looked up, jaw set, eyes narrowed. Both quickly settled into a smile. “Yeah, guess I do sometimes.” He kicked at the dust with the heal of his boot. “Learnt that up at A and M. The profs figured me for uncle Tom, then, when I gets back home, my Ma calls me a comnist. Hell, caint much win like that, can I?” He made an expansive gesture with his arms. “So, I goes either way. Both ways. Depending.”

  “Depending on what?”

  “Don't rightly know. How it come out, I guess.”

  Pickett shook his head, then put a hand to his forehead as if to still it. “You never answered my question.”

  “No? Well, now, which question you talking bout? You axe a whole heap a questions, m'man.”

  “About Mark—you know where he is?”

  “Well, like I told the snake lady in there, I aint seen the boy.”

  “But do you know where he is?”

  “Why'd I know where he is?”

  “You're worried about him. It must be for some reason.”

  “Mark don't need no reason to be worrisome.” Trap nodded back to the house. “Tween those two and being seventeen, he don't need no more problems.”

  “Looks like he's got them, though.”

  “Yeah?” Trap thrust his hands deep into his chinos, turned his back to Pickett, and watched Li-Po crunching hay. “Maybe has at that.”

  “Why do you think he ran off?”

  “Don't know he has.” Trap turned. “Do you?”

  “His mother does.”

  “Know why?”

  “I might. Funny things going on over in Belle Haven. Funnier than usual anyway. Mark's mixed up in them some way or other.”

  “It's that girl,” blurted Trap.

  Li-Po stopped chewing. He looked up, straw bristling from each side of his mouth like uncooked spaghetti.

  Pickett straightened. “Which girl?”

  “The black-haired girl. Mark found out she been coming here.” Trap looked back at Pickett, pained. “With his papa, for Chrissake.”

  “Mark? You are talking about the woman in the photograph, right?” Pickett fumbled in the breast pocket of his work shirt and pulled out the torn photo. He held it up to Trap, but Trap stared past it at Pickett's face.

  “Knew her? Christ, man, he like to marry her.”

  “Marry her? Hell, she was old enough to be his mother.”

  Trap wasn't listening. “I didn't know, I mean, really. I didn't know it was his girl. I mean, hell, the kid talked about her, sure, but how's I to know she's the same one? I sure as hell wouldn't a mentioned it to him if I had. Jesus fucking christ!” Trap smashed his fist against the Nova's fender, and glared at the dull white enamel. “I aint got Li-Po's sense half the time.”

  Pickett's face flashed white; he grabbed Trap's arm and swung the black man around facing him. “What did she look like? I mean, you said that she was like the girl in the picture. Isn't that what you said?”

  “Hey, hold on now, man.” Trap's face distorted in anger. He froze; then, through force of will, softened.

  Pickett released Trap's arm; but his eyes ranged nervously, he licked at his swollen lower lip. “Look—” Pickett's breath was short and shallow. “I'm sorry, but this is important. Real important. Was it the woman in the picture or not?”

  “I said it could a been—I don't know. Looked like her anyway. That same long hair. She could a been younger, though. I don't know. But Mark—Mark like to go through the ceiling when I mentioned her name.”

  “Christ! You know her name?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Well what is it, man?”

  “Amy. Her name's Amy. That's what Brother Ed called her anyways.”

  “Damn.” Pickett rolled his eyes skyward. “When did you tell Mark? About Amy and his father, I mean?”

  Trap's eyes narrowed, and he stepped back.

  “Look,” Pickett pressed, “it's important.”

  “To who and for what? Man, I don't know you from Malcolm X.”

  “For Chrissake, when did you tell him?”

  “What's it matter to you? There's a whole lot a white folk leaning on Mark right now. He don't need it—none of it. You the fuzz?”

  “Jeez—”

  “What's your interest in this?”

  “The girl. Her father asked me to look after her.”

  “Well,” Trap laughed without humor, “you sure as hell been sleeping on the job.”

  “Come. On.”

  “I got my own looking-after to do. Now you get outta here.” Trap stepped to Pickett and thumped the back of his hand against Pickett's chest. “And don't be fuckin' none with Mark. I aint a violent man, but I'll tell you something. That Mark, he got half a chance if you white bread fascists leave him alone. And I aim to see he gets that half chance. Now… You get in your Dee-troit motor there and go back to wherever you comes from.”

  The two glared at each other above Li-Po's mastication.

  Finally, Pickett turned. He got into his Detroit motor and went back where he'd come from.

  21

  Amy was dressed as she had been that morning, but her features had altered under the weight of recent experience. Her house coat hung open to the lavender negligee‚ beneath, bruising her face with cool blue from the reflected glare of the sun.

  “Amy…”

  Amy neither moved nor changed her expression.

  Bodie Pickett exhaled slowly. “May I speak with you for a moment, Amy?”

  “Roger's at work.”

  “Your father?”

  Amy looked at Pickett, the calm of resignation leveling her eyes. “No, Mister Pickett, not my father. You know that. I'm not deaf, you know.”

  “It's you I want to talk to, anyway. It'll just take a minute. It's probably better that your father—that Roger not be here.”

  Amy's eyes played on Pickett's face for a moment, then without a word Amy turned, leaving the door open, and walked into the still dark living room. Pickett shut the door, walked to the sofa, and sat down.

  “Amy, I want to know what your mother really told you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you know what I mean.”

  Amy dropped to a straight back chair, staring straight ahead, past Pickett, to the window. Closed venetian blinds barred it with thin bands of light.

  “I wanted to be good. I… Can you understand that, Mister Pickett?”

  Pickett looked into her eyes for a long moment. “Yes, I think I can.”

  Amy closed her eyes and shook her head in exasperation. “No. No, I can't…”

  “Amy—”

  “For I know that in me”—Amy struck her nearly bare breast—”in my flesh—dwelleth no good thing.” She paused to let the remark sink in. “The Apostle Paul said that. He was a good man.” Amy struck her chest again. “He was talking about me.”

  Pickett smiled gently. “He was talking about himself, Amy. Just a man—troubled maybe, but still just a man… a man who tried to figure out his life as best he could.”

  Amy was shaking her head even before Pickett had finished. “For the good that I would, I do not; but the evil which I would not, that I do.” Amy looked to Pickett, a need in her eyes. Their cold blues melted, and translucent greys streaked her cheeks. She raised her chin toward the tall man's face, and the grey, wet tracks glistened in the narrow light. “Do you understand now?”

  “I don't know, Amy. You have to help me.”

  Amy paused, then looked up. “You know.”

  “Wha--”

  “Did my mother t
ell you?”

  “Tell me what?” Pickett's eyes were suddenly alive, his attitude wary.

  “That…” Amy closed her eyes. She exhaled slowly, and as slowly opened her eyes once again. They focused on the floor at her feet, then rose, slowly, to the hazel eyes of Bodie Pickett. “Find out about… Edmund. Who told you?”

  “No one, really. But I suspected. Did your mother tell you?”

  “Tell me?” Amy started at the question. “Tell me what? I had to tell her.”

  “Wait—” Pickett paused, licking his lower lip, his brow furrowed. “Your mother… well, you learned from her didn't you?”

  He paused and studied Amy's face; she returned the gaze, astounded. Hysteria lay behind her quick eyes; between Pickett's arched brows appeared a deep cleft. He tried again:

  “About your father, your real father—she told you, didn't she? Your mother, I mean?”

  Astonishment became expectation. Amy's mouth fell. She rose slowly to her feet. “You know who my father is, don't you? Please, you must tell me!” She rose.

  “You don't know? I thought your mother—”

  “What? What did you think?” Amy threw herself to the sofa beside Pickett and gripped his arm with both her hands. “She didn't—wouldn't tell me. Please, you've got to tell me. What—”

  Amy suddenly loosed Pickett's arm.

  “Who did you think I was talking about?” Slowly, Amy rose, her face slack. “You thought that I was talking about my father, didn't you?” Amy leaned forward and caught the thin man's shoulder in a claw-like grip. “Didn't you!”

  Pickett appeared lost.

  “Oh, God…” she whispered, eyes wide and wild. “Oh—my—god. Help me!”

  Pickett extended open hands to the girl. “I…”

  Suddenly, Amy looked up and away from him, opening her mouth in a silent scream, some self-induced terror masking her features. Just as suddenly she clamped both hands to her open mouth, as if to trap the terror inside, to keep it from the world for fear that it might become part of it.

  Pickett reached for her. “Amy, please—”

  “Don't touch me!” Amy stepped back. “Can't you see?” She held her hands open before her staring eyes. “God help me… Unclean… else were your children unclean.”

  “Stop it.” Pickett took Amy by her shoulders. But Amy was somewhere else.

  “Their throat is an open sepulcher. With their tongues they have used deceit.”

  The front door opened. Rage spread across Roger Mooring's face like a rash. “You—what are you doing?”

  “Let me go!” Amy pushed Pickett off balance. Throwing a desperate glance to the man once her father, she rushed from the room into the hall.

  Roger Mooring and Pickett followed Amy with their eyes. She disappeared; a door slammed in the darkness. Roger Mooring advanced on the taller man who moved to meet him.

  “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

  “Roger—”

  “Get out of here! How dare you? What kind of man are you to come by when I'm gone and—and attack my daughter?”

  “For Chrissake, Rog, I didn't attack her. I was trying to—”

  “Just who do you think you are? You've treated me—everybody—like dirt all your life and now you think that you can just walk in here—”

  Amy dashed in, dressed and in a hurry. Frantically, she searched the room, all the while tucking a yellow t-shirt into her jeans.

  “What are you—where are you going?” demanded Roger Mooring.

  Amy pushed past him. She pulled a small shoulder bag from beneath the red jacket that still lay on the easy chair.

  “Amy!” Roger cried, but Amy was already out the door.

  Pickett took two steps after her before Roger caught his arm. He spun around from his own momentum and Roger threw a fist in his face, catching Pickett below his left eye.

  “God damn you!” screamed Roger Mooring, moving in as Pickett fell backwards against the kitchen partition. Pickett rolled to the side as he hit the wall, and Roger smashed into it, pinned against the rough plaster by Pickett who rolled back on top of him.

  “God damn you—” Roger screamed into the wall. “Who do you think you are? Coming in here—”

  “Stop it!” hollered Pickett into Roger Mooring's ear.

  The yelling stopped. Roger began to sob. Pickett pulled away. Roger's legs folded under the weight of his body. He slid to the floor and curled up with his knees to his chin. Through his sobs, Roger Mooring spoke. But he spoke to himself, and in tones indecipherable save for one word. Amy.

  As Pickett came down the steps of the Mooring house for the second time that day, Amy's VW turned east on Main. By the time he had his Nova on the road, the blue VW was nowhere to be seen. Pickett hesitated for a moment at the corner of Main, then headed east; he drove as if sure of his destination.

  #

  The Friday traffic was heavy, and, with the heat, mean. Pickett made good time nonetheless.

  A blue speck curved over the Osteen bridge as Pickett was still a good mile away. Half a minute later, he pushed his Nova up the same grade. The Ayers' house was just visible through the late afternoon haze; a thinning trail of dust connected it to the highway. The Nova reached the Ayers' drive before Pickett knew it. He hit the brakes hard and went into a skid that left him broad side to the road. Throwing the transmission into reverse and then into first, he returned the twenty yards to the Ayers' turnoff.

  As the Nova's front wheels left the asphalt, the blue VW skidded in front of it and slammed sideways into the front bumper, throwing Pickett's forehead against the steering wheel. Pickett looked up into a blue-brown haze of dust and steam. He heard the VW's engine rev, and the transmission grind. Through the haze, Amy was barely visible, wrestling furiously with the gear shift.

  Pickett pushed open the door and stepped out onto legs made of rubber. He collapsed into the dust just as the VW's gears meshed; the blue bug lurched forward and skidded onto the blacktop, its rear wheels spinning like broken flywheels. An image of Amy flashed past, her head thrown back from the sudden acceleration, her mouth twisted in a death's-head grin.

  As the VW swerved back toward the bridge, Pickett grabbed hold of the Nova's open door and pulled himself up. He stumbled out onto the highway. Amy's blue car zigzagged down the quarter mile stretch to the bridge. Pickett half trotted, half staggered down the hot asphalt after her.

  The VW moved in fits and starts. The brake lights flashed irregularly until the car shuddered to a halt not more than a hundred yards from the bridge. Pickett yelled. The sound was lost in the vastness of the savannah.

  The black smoke came first, then, as if in answer to Pickett's cries, came the shrill squeal of her tires. The bug jumped forward, accelerating up the grade. Pickett screamed now, and sprinted dead out for the bridge. His cries were lost beneath the VW's laboring engine.

  As he reached the smoke, Pickett pulled up, winded. He breathed hard, bent at the waist, his hands on his thighs, filling his lungs with the dry heat, and the stench of burned rubber. Amy's VW crested the bridge. The right front tire struck the curb, skidded across the walkway climbing the guard rail. The rear wheels bit into the concrete and drove the front end high into the air. When only the left rear wheel touched the pavement, the rail gave way. The blue bug hurtled into open air, falling in a slow, shallow arc like a discarded match box toy thrown to the hazy grey water below, hitting the water with a thud, its wheels to the sky.

  Grey blossomed white. Poised momentarily on the surface while the curtain of spray hissed down around it, Amy's VW fell suddenly beneath the foam in a rush of compressed air. Time slowed to the tempo of nightmare. Pickett's limbs pumped to the pilings at the river's edge. The slow fall of the little blue car repeated itself as if in some comic replay as Pickett belly-flopped into the warm river. He was an engine now, a machine without purpose or intent other than to arch one arm over the other and suck in the hot, wet air. His eyes, glancing high above the river, curved down in a
slow fall toward death, and his body raced to meet them.

  Cutting through concentric rings of waves toward the point of impact, he stopped only once, to pull what remained of the gauze wrapping from his right hand. The water writhed with rainbow hues as Pickett sliced through an expanding slick of oil and gas to the center of the circle. He kicked himself high above the water, pulling in air, then jack-knifed at the waist, kicked his feet into the air, and followed Amy down into warm, grey water. Quickly, it was cold and black.

  He pushed downward through the dark, following the tendrils of bubbles that wound up from the depths like particles of light escaping from the wreck back to the world above. A grey smudge in the darkness below became pale blue; the VW had righted itself on the way to the bottom. The doors, sprung open like vestigial wings, flapped vainly in the swirling currents created by its descent. Amy's car bobbed awkwardly, its rear wheels sunk in the mud, its nose inclined toward the surface, suspended above the bottom by some hidden fragment of weightless upper air. With cheeks puffed and eyes almost swollen shut by the pressure behind them, Pickett reached for the door jam and pulled, thrusting himself into the driver's compartment; it was empty—save for miscellaneous debris and a pocket of air trapped in the concave ceiling. Pickett pressed his nose and mouth into the musty fabric and inhaled deeply. His lungs expanded with new air and the fragrance of a young woman. He pushed himself from the wreck through the opposite door and squinted up toward the surface light.

  Amy hung suspended above him in silhouette, her limbs limply extended as if frozen in free fall. Silver bubbles like pearls trailed up around her black image, then slanted to the surface and a vanishing point in the upper air. Pickett coiled on the roof of the VW and pushed. He pulled against the water, toward Amy and the light. A curtain of black hair covered her face, the individual strands spreading out in all directions from her head like a halo. Pickett caught his right arm under Amy's chin, pulled her head toward his body and kicked for the surface.

  It wasn't far, and though the shore was, the shock of the hot, dry air on Pickett's face seemed to revive him, driving him on. And when he reached the wet sand beyond the pilings, he dragged Amy from the water and gently laid her on the warm earth. Shivering, Pickett knelt, brushing sand and strands of ebony hair from her face.