by Jan Karon
‘But that’s th’ best of any. Besides, Mama likes a big tree.’
‘You right. She do.’
‘It would make her smile.’ Peggy would do anything, just like he would, to make his mother smile. He’d been afraid to ask, but now he had to. ‘Will Mama get well?’
‘She gettin’ well ever’ minute we stan’ here talkin’.’ Peggy grasped his shoulder; he could tell by the way she touched him that she was telling the truth. ‘Sho as you born, Jesus gon’ make yo’ mama well.’
‘So can we do it?’
‘We’ll get Rufe or one th’ other boys t’ chop it,’ she said.
He looked up at the tall, slender woman who could do most anything. ‘We could prob’ly do it ourself, Peggy. Jus’ you an’ me.’
Shivering from the cold, Peggy looked down at him.
‘Jus’ you an’ me,’ he said again. He liked her face; it was the color of Postum stirred with a drop of cream.
‘You know what you is?’
He knew, but he wanted to hear her say it.
‘You th’ aggravatin’est little weasel I ever seen.’
They laughed as loud as they wanted to. Then Peggy steamed ahead with the axe in her hand, and he followed with the sled. Peggy’s old coat was the same color as the winter gold of the broom straw, her kerchief a slash of crimson against the gray and leafless trees.
‘Pick up yo’ feet, now, let’s see can we do this thing. Lord Jesus, you got t’ he’p us, that ol’ tree be a hun’erd foot tall!’
‘Tall as a mountain!’ he hollered into the stinging cold.
They tied its trunk to the sled and dragged it home, its greenness dark and intense in the passage through winter woods.
But the tree wasn’t as tall as a mountain. Even nailed onto the wooden stand Rufe made, it was only two feet above the chair rail. Somebody had stolen their tree while they ate beans and cornbread in the kitchen; somebody had robbed the tall tree that would have touched the ceiling, and left a runt tree in its place.
But Peggy liked it. ‘What it lose in bein’ tall, it make up in bein’ wide.’
They turned on the radio to listen to Christmas carols while they trimmed the branches, but there was nothing but talk about war on Japan, and something scary about Germany, so Peggy sang instead.
‘Jingle bells
Jingle bells
Jingle all th’ way…’
Peggy gave him a hard look.
‘I can’t do all th’ singin’ m’ ownself. What kind of Santy is this, havin’ t’ sing by y’r ownself?’
He sang with her, his heart heavy.
‘Silent night
Holy night
All is calm
All is bright…’
He hung the fragile, painted globes, knowing that his mother wouldn’t like this tree when she came home from the hospital tomorrow. She wouldn’t smile one bit, not even a little…
“But she did smile,” he told his dog. “She said it was the most beautiful tree we ever had. And it was.”
He remained at the window for a moment, crossing himself, then walked into the kitchen.
The ancient boxwood outside the windows were gone; the room was luminous with summer afternoon light.
A far cry from the last time he’d seen this room. And a far cry from the days when Grandpa Kavanagh made his clandestine visits. His grandfather had sat at the kitchen table eating his mother’s cookies and telling her, in his oddly mixed Irish/Mississippi accent, how to run things. Meanwhile, his father was working in town, unaware that the old man was sitting in his kitchen at Whitefield, sometimes even in his accustomed chair.
His grandfather had done something “bad” to his father; that’s all he knew, all anyone would tell him. From what he’d overheard, his father had never forgiven Grandpa Kavanagh; he hadn’t spoken to him in years, and had forbidden his visits to Whitefield.
Yet, twice a year, his grandfather, who was widowed when his second son, Matthew, was born, came up from Jackson on business, and always when court was in session and the coast was clear at the farm. The taboo visits disarmed his mother, it could take several days for her to recover her spirits…
‘This boy needs to go fishin’, Madelaine. He tells me he’s never been fishin’.’
His grandfather was eating cherries very fast, and spitting the pits in a saucer.
‘His father doesn’t allow Timothy to go fishing; he believes fishing promotes sloth.’
‘Fishin’ promotes patience, Madelaine! Patience! A boy has t’ learn he can’t always have what he wants, when he wants it. Look at th’ state of th’ world. Most of th’ troubles t’day come from havin’ no patience. An’ take perseverance, that’s a absolute requirement if a boy’s gon’ make anything of hisself.
‘Another benefit is timin’. Fishin’ teaches a boy timin’. A mighty good thing to have in any kind of b’iness, ’specially if he goes into law like ’is daddy.’
‘I can’t send him fishing behind Matthew’s back.’
‘Matthew gon’ ruin this boy if you don’t step in an’ have yo’ say. Timothy’s got ’is nose stuck in a book ever’ time I come out here. What’s that book you readin’, boy?’
There was no way to avoid the truth; the title was printed plainly on the cover. ‘The Oxford Book of English Poets.’
‘English poets? Lord have mercy.’ His grandfather rummaged in the pockets of his rumpled suit and brought forth a large handkerchief, something like a dinner napkin, and wiped his forehead. ‘Now, what good is that gon’ do a boy out in th’ world tryin’ to make a livin’?’
‘He enjoys books,’ said his mother.
‘An’ here’s another thing to look at. Fishin’ promotes enjoyment. What kind of enjoyment can you get from a book?’
‘A great deal,’ said his mother.
‘Th’ trouble with Matthew is, he never learned about enjoyment, so how can he set a model fo’ th’ boy? You go on an’ go catfishin’ with Louis, you might even catch you a eel. Now, a eel is real slipp’ry, an’ wiggly, too, can’t catch ’em with your hands. Have t’ break you off a nice switch and tickle that ol’ eel kind of gentle, like you puttin’ it to sleep. First thing you know, it’ll quit wigglin’ an’ lay there still as a mouse.’
His mother suddenly rose from the kitchen table and collected their empty glasses on a tray.
‘Then you can grab it an’ chop off its head an’ skin it.’
‘Oh!’ said his mother. ‘Please.’
His grandfather snatched the last cookie from the plate before it was taken away, and put it in his suit pocket. ‘If I lived up here, I’d take ’im huntin’.’
‘Matthew says he’s not the sort of boy to go hunting.’
‘That’s exactly why he needs t’ go. It’ll make ’im th’ sort of boy that goes huntin’. He might bring y’all a nice brace of quail or a couple of rabbits.’
His grandfather emitted a resounding belch.
‘Step here a minute, boy, an’ listen.’
He laid the book on the table and did as he was told; a nerve jumped in his right eye as he viewed the old man’s monumental presence in his father’s chair.
His grandfather bent forward as if confiding something deeply private; the sour smell of whiskey mingled with the scent of roses in a vase on the table.
‘When Louis carries you over t’ th’ north fork of th’ river, take you a broomstick an’ catch you some crawlers. Jus’ thump that stick down in th’ mud along th’ bank, like this here, makin’ holes. First thing you know, crawlers’ll come swarmin’ out ever’ whichaway. Dump ’em in a five-gallon bucket with some river mud, they’ll last a good three t’ fo’ days.
‘How will I catch ’em?’
‘With yo’ hands, boy, with yo’ hands.’
‘Father Kavanagh…’
‘Madelaine, I know what you’re gon’ say, but this boy needs t’ get dirty. An’ what his daddy don’ know won’t hurt ’im.’
“I will not go against hi
s father’s wishes.”
‘Now, now, if you worried about what’s gon’ happen, ain’t nothin’ gon’ happen. Worst thing could happen fishin’ is ’e might get ’is line tangled in th’ bushes. As fo’ huntin’, I been huntin’ fifty-fo’ years an’ th’ worst thing ever happened was Albert Pitts gettin’ shot in th’ butt.’
His grandfather threw his head back and hooted with laughter.
He hated it when his mother wrung her hands like that…
SIX
Some peckerwood kep’ huntin’ dogs in th’ house before m’ brother bought it. Neighbor said fifteen, twenty at a time.”
Ray shook his head. “Mos’ people would’ve burnt th’ place down an’ kep’ goin’.”
“Th’ barn was caved in, along with a couple slave cabins in th’ bottom; we cleaned that up, salvaged enough brick for these steps and that path over yonder. I guess you remember th’ old washhouse.”
“That was my early correctional institute.”
T laughed and flicked his cigarette butt into a contractor’s wheelbarrow by the steps. “We took th’ washhouse down pretty soon after we came on th’ job. What was it, Ray, five years ago?”
“Four years August.”
“It’s about th’ longest I’ve stuck t’ anything,” said T, “but I wanted t’ do something for my brother. He’s been a big help t’ me, always there when I needed ’im. Anyway, I like seein’ th’ old place come back.”
They sat together on the front steps, in the late afternoon shade of a sycamore.
“We found a few odds an’ ends when we tore th’ washhouse down.” said T. “An old spoon, a ladle, a few bottles, stuff like that. You can go through th’ box. How long you stayin’ in Holly Springs?”
“I’m out of here Saturday, headed back to North Carolina.”
“Where you stayin’ at?” asked Ray.
“Silver…Silver something or other, this side of Memphis.”
“Whoa,” said Ray. “That’s a drug motel.”
“The black hole of Calcutta. But it’s the only place that would take my dog.”
“They’ll take your dog, your wallet, your shave kit,” said T. “I’d be showin’ my dust to that sucker.”
He loosened his collar against the heat. “What’s done is done, I’m afraid. Do y’all know a Tommy Noles, by any chance? His folks lived about a quarter mile from here.”
T thought it over. “Don’t know ’im.”
“Me neither,” said Ray.
“Jim Houck?”
“Weirdo,” said T.
“Keeps to hisself,” said Ray. “Seem like I heard somebody pushed his ol’ man down some steps. Ended up in a big trial or somethin’, way back.”
There it was. There it would always be.
“What about a man named Will or Willie, maybe William—don’t know his last name—missing his left thumb?”
They didn’t know him.
“Rosie Ponder? In his seventies. Used to work on this place with his family.”
T shook his head.
“I’m battin’ zero,” said Ray.
“Speakin’ of names,” said T, “what do we call you? Father? Rev’rend?”
“Call me Tim.”
“Good deal. I’m Theophilus, named after some dead Greek guy, but I go by T as in T-bone. Easier to spell.”
“Theophilus,” he said, “means loved by God.”
T laughed. “No way that’s gon’ happen.”
Barnabas lumbered up the steps, panting. “When did the little house down the road fall in?”
“It was history when we came. We got to get it cleaned up down there, maybe put in a garden. We been lookin’ at that project way too long.”
“That’s a winter project.” Ray took a long pull on his beer. “Right now it’s Snake City.”
“We found a few scraps down there, too.” said T. “Th’ head off a doll, some button, an’ whatnot. Tossed ’em in the box. I like diggin’ around old places, I worked on a dinosaur dig in Wyoming.”
“Ol’ T, he’s done it all. Dived on a Spanish wreck off th’ coast of Georgia, did a drivin’ gig for Elvis, mostly airport an’ barbecue runs…”
“Elvis kep’ a police light in his Caddy,” said T. “Liked to pop that sucker on th’ roof an’ pull people over if they were speedin’. Two or three months before he died, we pulled over a Corvette, it must have been doin’ ninety-five, an’ Elvis gave th’ guy a warnin’. When th’ driver seen who pulled ’im over, he fainted like a woman.”
“Tell ’im ’bout th’ time you were a show chicken handler fo’ that rich cat.”
“Showed Rose Combs,” said T. “Small; about three pounds. Good-lookin’ little chicken. Nice temperament.”
“What exactly does a chicken handler do?”
“You manage their diet, control their fluid intake, give ’em their shots. Before a show, you wash ’em, roll ’em up in a towel like a hotdog in a bun, finish ’em off with a blow dryer, clean their combs with a Q-tip—and bingo, you got a show chicken. Went to chicken competitions all over the country, won the Grand National three times.”
“Amazing.”
“Rich cat put ol’T behin’ th’ wheel of a air-conditioned RV wit’ leather interior,” said Ray. “Had five custom-built chicken cages an’ a three-foot flat-screen TV.”
“High cotton.”
“Course, he don’ eat chicken n’ more,” said Ray.
T lit a cigarette. “I’ve messed with cattle, owned a roofin’ company, got my plumber an’ electrician’s license, you name it. But next to workin’ on this place, my goin’ thing is kudzu.”
“Miss’ippi’s best kep’ secret,” said Ray.
“Kudzu’s got more by-products than petroleum.” T took a deep drag off the cigarette and exhaled a flume of smoke. “Fact is, you can use it for fuel, prob’ly gon’ be the comin’ thing if th’ oil crisis keeps up. You can make jelly, tea, noodles, use it for cattle fodder, put it in all kind of recipes. Ever heard of kudzu quiche?”
“Never.”
“It’s good, real good. Plus you can grind th’ root for coffee, fry th’ leaves, pickle th’ flowers, even make a kind of tofu.”
“My favorite.”
“An’ get this—kudzu cures diarrhea, dysentery, gonorrhea, smallpox, flu, skin rash—an’ that’s just th’ short list. Plus nothin’ goes to waste; you use th’ seeds, th’ leaves, th’ flowers, an’ th’ root.”
“‘Behold,’” he said, quoting Genesis, “‘I’ve given you every herb bearing seed which is upon the face of the earth. To you it shall be for meat.’”
“Th’ man upstairs did a number with kudzu, all right. Plus, there’s big money in it. Big money. I’m workin’ on a kudzu experiment that’ll make forty-five percent of th’ American male population better-lookin’, more self-confident, and—here’s th’ kicker—more popular with women.”
“Sounds like some of the spam I’ve been getting.”
“Spam?”
“Sorry. It’s a computer term.”
“I don’t mess with computers. Outside of this place, all my time an’ trouble goes into a revolutionary experiment that will grow hair. Dead serious. It’s got a kudzu base an’ I’m makin’ it in a cream—rub it on th’ scalp twice a day an’ in six months, you got hair. It’s gon’ blow th’ toupee b’iness in th’ ditch.”
Ray nodded. “It’s gon’ be big.”
T flicked cigarette ash into the wheelbarrow. “Th’ only holdback is distribution. Kudzu products have a tough time sellin’ through reg’lar channels. Me an’ Ray gon’ knock this house out by Christmas an’ take my cream on th’ road, see how it goes over.”
“Any test runs?”
“Not ready for test runs outside of yours truly, but we’re gettin’ there.”
“You have a name for it?”
“Hadn’ got there yet. Any an’ all ideas welcome.”
“I’ll be thinking about it,” he said. “That your Volvo out there?”
&nb
sp; “It is. Used t’ run a little taxi service out in th’ sticks, mostly people pickin’ up booze or goin’ after groceries.”
“I hear a Volvo will go ’til the cows come home. How many miles?”
“Gainin’ on four hundred thousand.”
“How many engines?”
“Gainin’ on three.”
“You guys doing this place alone?”
“Totally.”
“Plumbing, wiring, the whole nine yards?”
“Turnkey,” said T. “Between Ray and me, we can do everything but heat an’ air. Course with only two doin’ it, it takes a few years.” T’s laughter was followed by a rasping cough.
“Tell us about you. How long since you been home t’ Holly Springs?”
“Thirty-eight years and change.”
“Thirty-eight years. Why’d you take a notion t’ come back?”
“Long story short, I got a letter. Not even a letter. A note.”
“From kin, I guess.” T ground his cigarette butt under his heel and tossed it in the wheelbarrow.
“I don’t know who sent it.”
He took the envelope from his pocket and removed the lined sheet of paper and passed it to T, who looked at it and passed it to Ray.
“Don’ know if this would’ve got me back,” said Ray. “Ain’t no little note could get me back t’ Memphis, it’d take way more’n a little note.” Ray passed the note to T, who studied it.
“With no more’n this to go on, you must’ve wanted t’ come back.”
“I guess I did. Must have been waiting for a good excuse. But I dreaded doing it.”
“I hear you,” said T. “I lit out from Memphis when I was seventeen. For thirty years, I was a wanderin’ man like ol’ Louis L’Amour. Said I’d never come back t’ this part of th’ country. But here I am, here you are. No idea who wrote it?”
“No idea. No living kin that I know of, except a first cousin in New Jersey.”
“You lookin’ for whoever wrote it?”
“Don’t know where to look.”
“You’d have t’ whup me good t’ get me back t’ Memphis,” said Ray.
“Come on, Ray. You drove up with me one time.”