by Lewis Nordan
Yep, that’s it. Gilbert Mecklin done quit.
The boy with the ax handle mought as well have cracked everybody over the head at once.
Gilbert Mecklin?—are you sho about this? You mean he died, don’t you? Seem like that would be a more likely explanation.
Red said, “Gilbert ain’t quit drinking. That’s all there is to it.”
Somebody said, “That ain’t what I heard.”
Red said, “It ain’t. Gilbert’s too good a friend. Gilbert wouldn’t do that to me.”
Somebody said, “Well, I wouldn’t take it too durn personal, Red.”
Red wagged his head. He wouldn’t look anybody in the eye.
He jerked out his handkerchief from his back pocket, a big red bandanna, and blew his nose angrily into it.
The place fell quiet for a time.
Now here was the problem with the new boys.
One of them said, “He goes to them Don’t Drink meetings, what I heard.”
Everybody looked at the new boy.
Why don’t you just shit right in the middle of your dinner plate, while you’re at it, son?
Red laid the bandanna down on the counter.
He took a deep breath.
He reached up under the counter and took the enormous pistol from where it lay beside the Kotex.
He raised the pistol, level out in front of him, and held it on the boy.
The boy took a step backwards and froze.
Real slow, Red said, “Get your goddamn ass, out’n my goddamn store, or I’ll blow your goddamn head off.”
The boy started walking backwards, slow, till he reached the door, and then he pushed open the two screened doors with his back, without taking his eyes off Red, and then turned quickly and took off running, and disappeared, down the steps, through the cinder lot, and he was gone.
Red dropped the pistol onto the floor, and it clattered like pots and pans. He put his head down on the counter and wept.
He said, “It’s all over, boys, the world is coming to an end.”
Somebody said, “No, it ain’t, Red, come on now, boy, it truly ain’t.”
Red said, “It ain’t no use, there ain’t no comfort in the land.”
Runt said, “I got to be going, Red. You take care of yourself, you hear?”
Somebody said, “Get a grip, Red, you can do it, that’s all right, you get a grip.”
Runt slipped on out of the store.
He thought, Gilbert Mecklin has done quit drinking?—goes to Don’t Drink meetings? Now ain’t that the limit?
He thought, And Red!—Law, have mercy, did you ever see such a durn sight in your life?—that boy was a mess in this world, now wont he, that Red.
Coach Wily Heard, the one-legged arrow-catching coach, had been having a taste with the boys that autumn day. He followed Runt out of the store.
Coach Heard hadn’t been able to get Runt’s boy out of his mind, Roy Dale. It wasn’t like Roy Dale to shoot a classmate in the head. If it had been anybody but Smoky Viner, the situation could have been dangerous.
When Coach Heard had a few drinks in him, he took an interest in his students.
He called out, “Hey, Runt, hole up.”
Runt stopped at the bottom of the porch steps and looked back.
Coach said, “Can I talk to you a minute, Runt?”
Runt said, “Call me Cyrus.”
Coach said, “Oh, yeah, right. Sure thing, Cyrus.”
Coach said, “How’s your boy, Cyrus, how’s Roy Dale getting along these days?”
Runt said, “Well, you know.”
Coach said, “Yeah, I know.”
They kept on walking across the cinder lot.
Coach said, “How about I give you a ride home, Runt. I got my pickup parked right out yonder by the hellhound shed.”
Runt said, “Well, sure, Coach, that’d be nice, thank you. Call me Cyrus.”
Coach said, “Cyrus, right.”
They walked over and climbed up in the pickup. Runt slammed his door shut, and then Coach Heard pumped the accelerator a couple of times with his fiberglass foot and started up the engine.
Runt said, “You’re not wearing your peg leg today, I see.”
Coach said, “I got it slung back in the bed of the truck if I need it. My wife prefers for me to wear the one with afoot.”
Runt said, “It’s a little dressier.”
Coach said, “I suppose.”
Runt said, “Your shoes wear out more or less even, too, I’d guess.”
Coach said, “I guess.”
Coach drove on past the gin, out towards the edge of Balance Due.
Coach said, “Runt, I been concerned about your boy.”
Runt said, “Call me Cyrus.”
Coach said, “Cyrus, right.”
Runt said, “He’s mad at the world, ain’t no doubt about that.”
Coach said, “I’m fond of that boy, Runt, I’m not going to lie to you.”
Runt said, “Call me Cyrus.”
Coach said, “So you’re saying you want me to call you Cyrus, is that it? Do I understand you correctly?”
Runt said, “I’d appreciate it.”
Coach said, “Cyrus it is, then. You got it. No problem.”
They pulled up in front of Runt’s house. The truck came banging to a halt. The leg in the bed came sliding from the tailgate up to the cab.
Coach Heard opened up the glove compartment and took out a nipper, actually an army canteen, dented metal with a stained canvas cover. The cover was army green and had the initials us stamped beneath the snaps.
Coach said, “You want a little taste before you go in the house, Runt?”
Coach unscrewed the cap and took a swig of the whiskey he had stashed there in the canteen. He made a face like, oh yes!
Runt said, “Call me Cyrus.”
Coach said, “I did call you Cyrus. That is what I called you.”
Runt said, “No, it wont, but it’s okay, just call me Cyrus from now on.”
Coach said, “I could have sworn I called you Cyrus.”
Runt said, “No.”
He took the canteen from Coach, and held it in his hands.
Coach said, “Well, okay, have it your way, but I still think I called you Cyrus. I’m pretty sure I did.”
Runt looked hard at the canteen. He raised it up to his lips and took a taste from it. He thought about Gilbert Mecklin at the Don’t Drink meetings. Wonder what they do there? He took another taste, a bigger taste this time.
He said, “Uh.”
Coach said, “I picked up that canteen down at Swami Don’s Elegant Junk.”
He screwed the cap back on and put the canteen back in the glove compartment. It was a nice roomy glove compartment, one of the things Coach admired about a GMC.
Runt said, “Well, it’s a good one, all right. World War II, it looks like.”
Coach said, “That’d be my guess. I don’t have nothing left of my army gear. Uniforms, nothing.”
Runt said, “Is that right.”
Coach said, “After I lost my leg, it just made me sick to look at it, all them reminders. I threw it all away.”
Runt said, “Well—”
Coach said, “Now I miss it, though. I wish I had it back. All that stuff. Helmet, liner, fatigues, boots, green underwear, all of it.”
Runt said, “Come on in the house for a while.”
They walked up on the porch and into the house.
Runt said, “Sit down. Take that chair, there by the window.”
Coach said, “First aid kit, entrenching tool, C-rats, rain gear, gas mask. I threw it all away, I was in so much pain. Heart pain, you know. My leg hurt pretty goddurn bad too. I wish I had all of it back now.”
Runt said, “But you’re picking up some spare pieces, are you?—like the canteen? Replacing it as well as you can?”
Coach said, “You know, Runt, I didn’t come here to talk about getting my leg shot off.”
Runt said, �
��Call me Cyrus.”
Coach said, “Goddammit, Runt! I did call you Cyrus! Goddamn, man! I been calling you Cyrus till I’m blue in the goddamn face!”
Fortunata came in the room then.
She said, “Don’t get up, keep your seats.”
Neither man had moved.
When she said this, though, Coach Heard began to struggle to lift himself out of the sagging chair that he was collapsed into. His false leg had gotten stuck out in a funny direction, and he couldn’t get a grip on the floor with his plastic foot.
Fortunata said, “Really, just passing through, keep your seat.”
She touched Runt on the shoulders as she passed his chair, and went on out the door.
She said, “See you later, Cyrus.”
Runt said, “I’m thinking about meeting a friend somewhere tonight.”
When he said this, Fortunata stuck her head back in the door.
She said, “A friend?”
He said, “Well, yeah.”
She said, “Who?”
He said, “Just a friend I ain’t seen for a while.”
She said, “Well—”
He said, “I was thinking I might meet Gilbert Mecklin tonight.”
She said, “Gilbert Mecklin?”
He said, “Well, yeah.”
She said, “Well, okay.”
He said, “All right.”
She said, “Down at Red’s?”
He said, “No, a different place.”
She said, “A different place?”
He said, “I’ll talk to you about it.”
She said, “Well. Okay.”
When she was gone, Coach said, “You’re a lucky man, Runt.”
Runt just looked at him.
Coach said, “What? What are you looking at.”
Runt said, “Call me Cyrus.”
Coach said, “You sawed-off little motherfucker! If you say that to me one more time—”
They sat for a while without speaking. Coach finally cooled down a little.
He looked up and saw the parrot in its cage.
He said, “Is that the same parrot you won in a fistfight?”
Runt said, “Same old parrot, yeah.”
Coach said, “You ain’t got a little taste of something in the house, have you, Cyrus, by any chance?”
Runt said, “Naw, sho don’t.”
Coach said, “Does he still make that noise like a cash register?”
Runt said, “Oh yeah, still ringing.”
Coach chuckled. He said, “Still ringing.” He took a breath and let it out.
Coach said, “I could go out to the truck and bring in that canteen.”
Runt said, “You could do that. That’d be all right.”
Coach didn’t move. He just kept sitting there.
Coach said, “It ain’t the same, trying to replace all that stuff.”
Runt said, “I guess not.”
Coach said, “I think somebody had done peed in the canteen. It smelled pretty stout when I bought it.”
Runt said, “I didn’t notice nothing in the flavor.”
Coach said, “I wrenched it out.”
Runt said, “Uh-huh.”
Coach said, “Some people, boy like Roy Dale, for example, even a sweet boy like that, a murder like this can put a mean streak in them.”
Runt said, “Uh-huh.”
Coach said, “Murder ain’t no good for nobody.”
Runt said, “Well—”
Coach said, “Puts us in mind of what we ain’t got.”
Runt said, “Roy Dale missed his mama. Ain’t said one kind word to her since she got back.”
Coach said, “I ain’t got no children, Runt. Ain’t got no leg.”
Runt said, “Call me Cyrus.”
Coach said, “Ain’t got my army gear, even. I threw my medals away. I threw away a Purple Heart and a Silver Star. Can you beat that? That’s how much pain was in my heart. What’s my life amount to, Runt? I’m finishing up my life by drinking whiskey out of a canteen some stranger done pissed in.”
Runt said, “Uh, well, Coach, I hate to harp on this, you know, it might seem like a small point to you, but I swear I think I could hear your problems a lot better if you could call me Cyrus. I wish you’d give it a try.”
Coach said, “What I’m trying to say to you is, I never knowed about this emptiness inside me, until that little colored boy got killed and Solon and Dexter got let loose. That’s when it come to me. I want them uniforms back, and them brass belt buckles, them cartridge belts and Eisenhower caps and field jackets. I want my daddy, who died twenty years ago. I want every durn thing I ever lost.”
Runt said, “I’m trying to do better, Coach. I’m trying to give Roy Dale back some of what I took away.”
Coach said, “You’ll never be able to make it up to him. What’s gone is gone forever.”
Runt said, “I know. I think I know that.”
Coach said, “He’s a good boy, Roy Dale is. I hope this murder don’t kill him.”
Runt said, “Well—”
Coach said, “Why did they let them loose? Everybody knowed they was guilty.”
Runt said, “I don’t know. I wish I knew.”
Coach said, “Would you have let them go, Runt?—if you had been on the jury?”
Runt took a breath and let it out.
The parrot rustled in his cage. He banged his big strong green wings against the wire bars.
The parrot rang like a cash register.
The parrot said, “I love you!”
The parrot said, “Pussy is good!”
The parrot said, “Ree-pul-seevo!”
The parrot said, “We are all alone!”
The parrot said, “Call me Cyrus!”
Coach said, “Jesus Christ! You been working with that parrot some, ain’t you?”
Runt said, “It takes a while.”
Coach said, “It seems like it’s worth it. That’s a mighty fine parrot.”
Runt said, “Fortunata’s allergic to it, though. We’re talking about trying to find the old feller a good home.”
Coach said, “You’re having to get rid of your parrot? Just when you’ve got his engine running good?”
Runt said, “It’d be nice if we could keep him.”
Coach said, “I’d hate for you to give up your parrot, sholy would.”
Runt said, “It ain’t good for the wife, you know how that is. Affects her breathing.”
Coach said, “Well—”
Runt said, “They ain’t a big market for parrots, you can imagine.”
Coach said, “Well, shoot, I wouldn’t mind having me a parrot.”
Runt said, “You want a parrot?”
Coach said, “Well, yeah, hell yeah. I’d love to have me a good parrot. I always wanted me a parrot. That or a ventriloquist’s dummy. I’d be willing to pay top dollar for a good parrot.”
Runt said, “I’d have to talk it over with the wife, you know. We’d have to say something to the children.”
Coach said, “No pressure, Cyrus, no pressure at all! And the chaps can come over and play with it anytime they want to. Visiting privileges, you know.”
Runt said, “What do you want with a parrot?”
Coach said, “I don’t know. I already got me a peg leg. Seem like all I need now is a parrot.”
Runt said, “You gone sail the high seas, ain’t you, Coach.”
Coach said, “I’m gone get me a Jolly Roger.”
Runt said, “It’s a bad world, Coach. It’s an evil world we live in.”
Coach said, “I know, Cyrus. I know. We’ll just have to make do.”
14
IN JUNE, on the last day of school, when Alice’s first year of teaching was finished, Mr. Archer, the principal, stopped by Alice’s classroom and begged Alice to stay on, at least one more year, the school would absolutely go under without her, he said. Alice told him she was sorry, she had already made her mind up, she was moving on, it was th
e best thing.
She continued packing up her belongings into cardboard boxes.
Mr. Archer said, “We really need you here, Alice.”
Alice said, “You’ve been wonderful to me.”
Mr. Archer turned sideways in the doorway and leaned against the frame.
He said, “Is it some boy who is stealing you away from us?”
Alice smiled, thinking of Dr. Dust.
She said, “No, it’s not a boy.”
Mr. Archer kept standing in the doorway of her classroom and picked absentmindedly at his scalp, and then examined his bloody fingernail.
Alice moved quietly through the schoolroom. She picked up paper off the floor. She straightened the desks.
Mr. Archer said, “You needn’t bother with that, Alice.”
She said, “Well, I don’t mind.”
She removed the thumbtacks from the bulletin board that held the children’s dental hygiene charts. Glenn Gregg’s name tag was still among them, it had not been removed, so she took it down as well, and placed it on her desk in a neat stack with the others. The same with the name tag on Glenn’s desk, and his cloakroom hook, and his boot bin.
Mr. Archer came in the room, sat in one of the low desks, and turned his knees out to the side so he would fit.
He said, “These things happen, Alice.”
She said, “I know.”
He said, “People die. Children die.”
She said, “Well, anyway.”
He said, “Yeah.”
They were silent together for a while.
Alice was afraid Mr. Archer was going to try to talk to her from his heart, so she said, “These are the cumulative reading scores and the math booklets.” She pointed to two stacks of manila envelopes and folders.
He said, “Just leave them there, on the desk.”
She said, “Do you want these windows pulled down?”
Mr. Archer said, “Alice—”
Alice said, “Don’t say it, Mr. Archer.”
She was afraid he was going to tell her he loved her. She said, “I was in love with my college professor when I moved here. I guess I still am in love with him.”
He said, “I wondered if there was someone in your life.”
She said, “Just him.”
He said, “Well—”
She said, “Anyway—”
He said, “Anyway—”
She said, “Good-bye, Mr. Archer. You’re a very nice man.”
He said, “I wish I could stop picking at my scalp.”
