Miss Taylor opines how she wishes she’d been born in some past and sweeter time…or perhaps in some gentler place. I take full advantage by agreeing, sharing my experience in both… only to be rudely interrupted by the deep rumbling burp of an emu.
But if earlier seems better, then bigger is best, the next pavilion dedicated to proving it: a 12’ sunflower as tall as a fairy tale stalk; a 100-pound squash, a half-ton pumpkin, both round as the fifties Ford pickup from which they bulge. The pavilion displays the best from the farm and the pick of the garden, each winner arrayed with a ribbon: yellow peppers, golden shallots, cherry tomatoes, green slicing tomatoes, ripe pickling cucumbers, perfectly symmetrical sweet corn-on-the-cob next a first-prize flat Dutch cabbage. The best of the henhouses, too, up for grading by discriminating judges: brown eggs, white eggs, gray-blue eggs, yellow-green eggs, even the olive-green giants of the gangly emu in line for awards of their own – the lot being admired by Miss Minnie Ruth Taylor as I stand admiring her, the attention-grabbing noise of a public announcer distracting us through the open end doors.
“Harness racing,” I explain, my arm dropping casually to her waist, the rush of the throng to crowd round the track excuse enough for protection - a pistol shot, and “There off!” signaling the event underway.
“And, it’s F-i-r-s-t T-i-m-e,” the loudspeakers blare. “After a late scratch of Rash Judgment, it’s First Time taking the lead inside, with Dewey, Cheatem and Howe battling for second. Dead Eye Dick’s on the outside - closing in - with Tailor Made running last,” the similarity to my charge’s name bringing a squeal of delight.
“Look at them go!” she cries, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a Southern Baptist camp meeting song leader, “and their little chariots, too! They remind me of Pharaoh and his generals running hard after dear old Moses!”
“Except there’s no Red Sea to swallow ‘em,” I add, my arm not relinquishing its hold, “which means Pharaoh has a chance this time-” the speakers overhead interrupting:
“It’s Dead Eye Dick and Tailor Made now neck and neck with Cheatem…and into the first turn they come…Tailor Made finding the rail as First Time falls back with Cheatem…then it’s Dead Eye Dick with Dewey and Howe close behind-“
“Oooh!” Miss Taylor bubbles, looking up into my eyes with a pleasure I’ve only imagined, “do you think she’ll win?”
“She’s tailor made for it, if you ask me,” I say, thrilling to her worldly enjoyment, the race changing as the announcer calls out the order:
“And through the far turn, it’s still Tailor Made, but with Dead Eye Dick on her tail…and Howe-“
“She’s still ahead!” Miss Taylor shrills, jumping up to bestow a kiss on my blushing cheek, a kiss that leaves me numb for the finish. “And I can see her now…her purple colors streaking by…her number the same as mine-“
“Yours?” I manage, hoping her horse - her abandon - will both post a win today.
“Number eight,” she says, craning to see the finish, “the number of power, of money, of-“
“I-i-i-t’s Tailor Made by a nose!” cries the announcer, “with Dead Eye Dick by a length, finishing strong over a winded First Time,” the roar of the crowd suspending my inquiries, and Miss Taylor’s asides, on the mystic meaning of numbers.
“I won! I won!” Minnie Ruth Taylor effusive, the race becoming a personal triumph. “It’s the number, eight, I tell you. It’ll win every time!”
“Eight’s my number, too,” I assure her, wishing I had something to measure up, “…or at least, it’s a number I’ve always envied.”
But Miss Taylor seems not to hear, exuberance deafening her ear; my suggestion to watch the pig race down by the stream setting her off on another foot-bouncing, song-leading dance; her syncopated versing of Take Me To The River unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Her jubilance leaves me wanting more; her toe-tapping, knee-slapping, hand-clapping rhythm arousing a response in my own lithesome frame that brings a blush with the thought it accompanies: a grass-skirted, hip-swishing Swahili temptress closing in on my naked readiness, her breast-swinging, lip-licking, moan-making motions too much for the vision to hold, my randy roar of, “Take me to the river! Take me!” cracking my decorum; her, “My, oh, my! We should go dancing sometime!” suggesting her religion is cracking, as well – the husky bark of the pig race caller drawing us down in the dirt:
“I-i-i-t’s Shaken’ Bacon, folks…shakin’ it out early ahead of Swine-before-Pearls, with Noah’s Arse givin’ a’hell-of-a chase… Shem-Sham and Ham-Bone closing fast at the turn, with little Japheth squealing in the rear.”
“I love it!” comes a cry from my side – whether to my searching hand or the call of the race, I can’t be sure, Miss Taylor responding to both. “Noah’s sons are still in the running!” she exclaims, “and I’ll bet you anything Ham’s going to be the winner!”
“What’s good for the goose is good for the-” I start to say, a sudden perplexity stopping me short. “Damn,” I mutter, shaking my head, “those civil union provisions are starting to show up everywhere, what with sows being named after sons.”
“And Ham-Bone it is, ladies and gentlemen!” calls the announcer, Miss Taylor looking as smart as her bet, her biblical commentary proving it:
“Legend has it, you know, that Ham was the father of our dark-skinned people on the great continent of-“
“I won my share of little gold stars in Sunday School,” I quip, cutting her off before color can shade our morning. “Not to imply,” I add quickly, “that I’m not eager to win another!” a palmist’s tent, but a few steps away, seeming timely for a needed diversion; my “want to?” as understood and accepted as my hand tracing the curves below the pinch of her waist.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” she says, the excitement in her eyes, her voice, revealing an eagerness to explore. “But…” she appends, and with a touch of her old evangelism, “I’m only doing it because a fair is the stage for amusement, right?” a quick glance at the adjacent entertainment apparently justifying her choice, a toy-gun shooting gallery and a teddy-bear for tiddlywinks not up to her height of interest. Instead, a geranium-red bandanna catches her eye, its octogenarian owner - if not a direct descendent of Ham, a very close relative - beckoning us in; the whites of her twinkling eyes, of her gleaming teeth behind an approving smile, making friendly our escape from the crowd.
“Ca-moan-in,” the decrepit old woman calls over the stoop of her shoulder, hobbling round to a splint-bottomed rocker behind an unpainted table. The poverty of a melmac ashtray, and a milk carton of daisies wilting over a tattered cigar box, decorate the pine-board top. “Y’all pull up a cheah deah ‘n make y’allselfs comfey,” she rasps, a chest-rattling cough dropping her roughly into the rocker. “I jist luvs readin’ young folksez life-lines,” she professes, a trembling hand reaching for the familiarity of the dingy, pollen-dusted cigar box. “Da mysteries of da magnet,” she rattles on, finding a stogie stashed in the box, one wholly inferior to the brand still faintly discernible, “…sweet Jesus…sweet Jesus behind ‘em all, too…every one of ‘em, yessiree. Da kind of magnet dat’s attractin’ da bees to da flowers, da fishes to da rivers, da sailor mens to da seven seas,” the strike of a match momentarily obscuring her behind a pall of smoke, “…and mostest of all,” she continues, “da hansom boys to da purdy girls.”
I’m standing behind Minnie’s chair, unnoticed by the drooping oracle; her attention elsewhere, her eyes closed, her next statement barely audible: “I charges twenty dollahs for a readin’…thirty-five, if’n I reads fer two.”
“It’ll be forty if it’s a nickel,” I reply, drawing up a folding chair to sit beside Minnie, Miss Taylor’s smile at my easy charity brightening the old woman’s dim canvas salon even more than the coal oil lamp she’s lighting.
“God bless ya, chile…’n, me, too, considerin’,” our host snuffing a match between a gnarled finger and thumb as though feeling is restri
cted to her heart.
“Considering what?” I ask, before I can think better not to; Minnie sliding me a look of chagrin.
“Considerin’ I owes da boss man a sawbuck fer ebery hand I reads,” she explains, taking a long drag on her stogie; the thought of a gratuitous five dollars apparently worth the reflection. “But what ‘e don’t knows don’t hurt ‘im,” she adds, suggesting her “two for less” offer is worth an extra fifteen if the boss isn’t counting the bodies.
“Read hers first,” I say, producing two twenties and nodding at Minnie. I draw closer to the pine-board table so as not to miss what her hand might reveal. “That is, if you can find any creases in that perfect little hand!”
“I knowed you’s a charmer soon’s I seen ya a’strollin’ my way,” the old lady chortles, stuffing the bills down the front of her gray cotton dress and winking a large, dark eye. “I could tell by da way you’s a’lookin’ round fer da chance to go a’pattin’ your sweetie on da bee-hind wid no one else a’noticin’”
“You didn’t!” Miss Taylor gasps, pretending ignorance of pleasures unspoken, “why…you naughty, naughty boy,” she finishes, trailing off in the guilt of pretense.
“Maybe ‘e couldn’t hep it,” the delighted old woman teases, reaching for Minnie’s hand, “maybe you’s a witchin’ ‘im all da way!”
But if Minnie is about to admit to something, it isn’t a spell, her fluttering of heart, her flirting with sin, all allowed within the context of “fair-going”, this amazing venture into the “devil’s den” proof enough it’s all in fun.
“Well?” I ask expectantly, watching the old woman’s eyes for any sign of revelation, the arthritic hand tracing over Minnie’s palm as slow as the stogie burning away in the other. “Any major indications there regarding Miss Tay–, regarding my sweetie’s career?” I amend, taking the opportunity.
“Lawd-a-mercy!” comes the sudden reply, her intensity causing Minnie to jerk her hand back in freight. “Why don’t ya warns me dat you’s a man o’da’cloth ‘fo’e dis po ol’ body cuts out wid su’prise?”
“You mean a lady of the cloth, don’t you?” I correct, taking Minnie’s hand to offer it anew.
“Now she is,” the superstitious old creature cries, snuffing her stogie on the near edge of the table with a vigor making graphic her fear. “Now she is…but da misses, she was a mistah befo’e!”
“We’re not going to be angry with you if you make some mistakes,” I reply, patting the top of her hand, underscoring my assurance, “but I’ve got to tell you, ma’am, taking Miss Taylor for a man is one mistake no good pair of eyes is ever going to make!” Minnie’s eyes lowering in a look of surrender for which Madison Avenue would gladly pay millions.
“Ya not a’understandin’ my p’int,” she replies, exasperation diminishing her fear, “da misses, heah, she done lived befo’e; a’preachin’ in dat life, too!”
“Aaahhh,” I sigh, sitting back in a quandary, trying to decide whether it would be advantageous to admit this unexpected support for my past life theories or proscribe it for its primitive source.
“And I’ll giv da misses all da proof she needs,” the old woman insists, her red bandanna nodding affirmatively, bringing Minnie and me to head-touching, body-leaning attention over Minnie’s tentative, outstretched palm - a toothy, “but it sho’nuf ain’t in da hand, deah,” setting us back hard against the rust of our metal chairs. “It’s dat dad-blamed birthmark,” the old woman’s belief in “impressions” appeasing what fear remains, “dat dark spot on da misses’ right hip deah dat looks like a good deacon’s medicine bottle; da kind dat poahs out dat lite’o’d’moon fer what ails ya in da deep o’da night.”
“A flask?” I query, putting words in her mouth, “because if that’s what you mean, you’ve got us confused. I’m the one with the birthmark, not Miss…not my sweetie; although it is in the place you indicated,” the excitement of such a direct hit bringing me to my feet; the wag of a gnarled finger alerting me she isn’t finished – Minnie’s cry, “But it’s true! I do have such a mark on my hip!” forcing a momentary pause as she twists in her chair for the pleasure of surprise in my eyes.
“You do?” I mouth incredulously, smitten by the infinity of odds that would produce such a likeness. “And your ministry? you-you were once a-“
“And just when I thought I had you convinced!” Minnie retorts, convulsing in laughter. “Of course not. I’ve never been a man,” she goes on. “But let’s keep the sweet lady going here. I’m having fun…the while proving what I’ve suspected all along.”
“And that is?” I ask, confounded by her claim of an identical birthmark.
“Well, first, that the same man who would so nonchalantly drop forty dollars on the nonsensical, would even more readily wager a fortune on his creed,” she answers, turning back to solicit the old woman’s support, “and second, that I want to be that creed,” her unabashed admission driving me deeper into bewilderment.
“Must be the number eight,” I say, “must be that power thing you were telling me about. I’ve been thinking about it ever since - and this is the eighth tent, counting those on the right, since we left the pig race; and-and just a moment ago, I held your hand for the eighth time this morning; and now you’re the eighth customer this dear lady has read for today-“
“How-how can you know that?” a flummoxed Minnie breaks in, giving the old lady a questioning look, as well, “explain how you’ve counted her customers when we haven’t-”
“The ashtray,” I say, pointing to the melmac monstrosity in front of us, “count the burned match stems in the ashtray. Allowing one for the lamp and one for her stogie each time she begins a reading, sixteen matches would suggest eight customers.”
“Da boy’s right,” the palmist offers, “an’a keepah, too, Miss Taylah, I do decla-ah!”
“Now that’s good!” I shout, beginning a nervous pace behind our chairs, “damn good! Reading the name of your customer from a crease in her hand!”
“T’ain’t dat,” she explains, giving Minnie’s open palm a motherly pat, “it’s on account o’me a’hearin’ ‘er on da radio, dat’s why. I’d ne’er fergit a voice like dat. Like an angel’s, i’tis, yessiree. I listens to ya ebery Sunday, Miss Taylah, when e’er I’s down home.”
“And where’s home?” Minnie beaming with pride to have a fan.
“Macon,” she answers, her smile broadening. “Macon, Gee-ah-gia.”
“Otis Redding,” I follow unwittingly, still stung by Minnie’s affirmation of creed.
“Lawd, yes!” the old Georgian seconds, her dark face aglow, “I use ta he’ah his daddy preach down da Vineville Baptist Chu-ich, n’da boy would be a’singin’ in da choi’ah, ‘e would. An den when ‘e was growed to a hansom man, I seen ‘im at da Douglass Theatah theah in Macon, jist a rockin’ da house, he was.”
“These arms of mine,” half talking, half singing, I mimic the tragic author’s soulful voice; Minnie and the old woman melting to his sensual verse as I begin pouring out my heart in earnest, singing about loneliness, feeling blue, yearning, and how grateful I would be if Minnie would let me hold her in my lonesome arms.
The fortune teller joining in, swaying to the heart-tugging beat. Minnie, too, humming harmony to a song she’s never heard, accepting my offer to dance - the darkened tent becoming a lover’s lair, as the old woman trims the lamp, then hobbles under the flap of her canvas den to leave us alone, sheltered from the clamoring world.
A mystical world, as we dance, as I sing about Minnie being my woman, treating me right, holding me tight…how I need her tender lips -
Our kiss an unwritten verse Big O would have blushed to sing.
To be great is to be misunderstood. (Emerson)
XXXI
Entrepreneur or no, Simon Farley, Jr. has never evolved into a man about town, his social life restricted to the pleasantries exchanged with his patrons; so it isn’t unusual for him to be conversing with
the saucy Dorothy Compton while she culls and mulls over his psych section. Not unusual, that is, until he asks her to accompany him on a spur-of-the-moment whim, a sudden urge to close his store and motor south for the unplanned insouciance of a day at the Tunbridge Fair.
Dorothy has no conscious aversion to the tall, graying, wisp of a man; their sparkling discourse, over a common interest, like an excellent wine redeeming a poorly prepared dinner. But were it not for Melvin’s absence, she wouldn’t accept - the would-be-restaurateur unexpectedly making excuses for the day: meditating on his pending decision, he tells her; a pondering that requires the changing of leaves on some quiet and bowered lane meandering through the riverside uplifts. With Dorothy’s idea of meditation falling closer to the flash of strobe lights than the temple of falling leaves, it’s uncomfortably obvious how Melvin’s pother gains him the woods - like he’s given thought to her greatest dislike, opting to spend a day in Nature’s silence because he knows she’ll refuse his offer to tag along.
The Tunbridge World’s Fair, on the other hand, is more to her liking – even if it means an hour’s drive through the woods with a small-talking Simon. With her “Darn tootin’” understood as a “Yep”, and her flash of a smile an acquiescence to most anything else the friendless Simon might wish to throw in, they’re off on a back roads jaunt.
Desert yellows, sunset golds and burnt oranges highlight the deep forest greens - recalling her meditating Melvin. He would be discoursing on the colors, if she were with him. She’d have to think of something else to say, something more pertinent than nature - Simon intruding with a query she’s heard dozens, even hundreds of times:
“What did you think of Melvin’s party? did you believe any of that stuff he was mumbling?”
Twice Melvin Page 25
