The Promise of Rest

by Reynolds Price

  9

  WITH all his failings Straw’s body was still as strong as an engine—arms, legs and back. So in late afternoon when Wade had rested from the hard trip and managed to eat two slices of bread, and Hutch had put a clean diaper on him, Straw solved the problem of how to bring the two frail men on the place together. Grainger could never have walked to the main house and climbed the porch steps; today Wade couldn’t have made it to Grainger’s. So Straw led Grainger out of doors and sat him on a chair by the nearest hickory in cool dry shade. Then Straw went back to the main house and, with Hutch beside him, took Wade in his arms and brought him down the steps and over the seventy yards of shadow and sun to another chair three feet from Grainger. Then Straw and Hutch left the two men alone and waited on the back steps, in sight but not hearing.

  Grainger had seen Straw set the boy down and help him get his balance in the chair. By the time Wade had faced him and said “Old friend,” Grainger’s morning memory had faded to where he had no recollection of this starved face or who lived behind it; but he answered politely “Fine, thank you, sir. How you making out?”

  Though Wade knew that his smiles were frightening, he had to grin for the first time today. “I’m bound to tell you I’ve seen better days. I got carsick on the way up here and had to keep stopping along the road. I can’t vomit though; there’s nothing left in me.”

  “You’re slimming down all right—scarcely see you.”

  “I told you I don’t see much now, remember?” All Wade could see, even this nearby, was a darker patch on the screen of his mind where he felt Grainger’s force. Wade’s hand came up in the air between them and traced what he could see of Grainger, the faint tan shimmer.

  “Not missing a thing, Son. Nothing left of me. Right pretty leaves on these old trees though.” Grainger was still not sure who was here, but the boy seemed to know him.

  Wade understood that much—the blind were leading the blind again. And he managed to wonder why he’d gone through this strenuous trip, and put his parents through it, to sit here briefly by an ancient man who hardly knew him and might well die before Wade himself. In their feeble strength though, both men were patient with the quiet calm of prisoners; both pairs of hands lay harmless on their knees. And after a while, Wade thought of his point in coming at all. He took slow care to lean toward Grainger and not lose balance (his blind sense of objects had grown even keener; the way they reflected his voice would tell him what was near; sometimes he only had to think like radar, and he’d locate things and people precisely). Now when Wade thought the old eyes had found him and recognized his face, he said “You know that place back here in the woods, down by the bend in the creek? You used to watch me swim down there, saved my life that time?”

  Grainger’s scaly hand came across the cold space and found the boy’s bone wrist. He pressed it once.

  Wade thought that was Yes. “I’m going to die fairly soon after this. I’ve asked Hutch to bring my ashes up here and scatter them on that pool in the creek where you rescued me. Can you show him where?”

  “That drowning hole where you fell in and I drug you out—nineteen and seventy?”

  Wade sat back. “Yes sir. I was nine years old.”

  “I know my way down yonder like my hand.” Grainger stopped as if to think his way again into the woods and on downhill. Then he may have tried smiling; the muscles had forgot. “No, I fixed it for you. Safe as can be. Widened the banks and filled up the deepest hole with rocks. Bring your boys anytime.”

  Wade laughed. “I will; thank you. You remember my friend I brought up here a few years back—a Bondurant fellow, older than me?”

  Grainger said “Colored boy with the sharp gray suit?”

  Wade had forgot Wyatt’s handsome suit, bought specially for the one trip he’d made south with Wade. “Those were fine clothes.”

  “Set him back a fair piece of money, I could tell.”

  “Money meant less to Wyatt than ruts in the road.”

  Grainger said “Me too. And look at me now—” He patted around his chest and flanks as if frisking himself for hidden cash. “I’m trusting to be a big banker in Heaven though.”

  “You going there?”

  “No doubt about it. Any minute—”

  Wade said “You’ll outlast me, for sure.”

  Grainger looked him over as if for a written date of death. “Never happen,” he said.

  Wade smiled but said “I’m too weak to argue.”

  “Not arguing one bit at all here, Son. I’m bound for Paradise is all I know.”

  “And you’re looking forward to that prospect?”

  Grainger said “I’ll tell you the honest fact—in the Bible it sounds mighty tacky to me: a whole city made out of jewelry and gold. And I doubt I can stand to sing all day or listen either, not all day, not if they let many white women sing. But no, I’m planning to take plenty rest and get some questions answered finally.”

  “Want to say what they are?”

  Grainger said “I don’t; you not old enough.” But the faint start of a smile tugged at him, and he said “You drop by and see soon’s you get there—I’ll tell you then, everything I know.”

  Wade agreed to that. “And vice versa. Between now and Paradise though, do me a favor? Show Hutch the place I mentioned, in the creek?”

  Grainger’s slow head agreed. “Ease your mind.” Then his mind hooked back to the memory of Wyatt, the sharp gray suit; and he said “That colored boy called me a house pet—you hear him?”

  Wade could no longer call the phrase to mind; but he guessed it sounded like something Wyatt might have said, half whispering near Grainger. Rather than deny it, Wade said “People have all grades of pets, you know. There’s people with royal tigers asleep on their beds every night, tamer than rabbits.”

  Grainger said “He didn’t mean that but thank you.” The moment in which their vague minds had met at last hung on around them, a mild reprieve.

  From the faint direction of the main house steps, Wade could hear the mixed voices of his father and Straw. It was one of the better sounds of his childhood on summer visits here, the undercurrent of safety mixed with the coiling invisible scent of his early body’s unspoken desire—the lives and shapes of men worth reaching for and tasting. It turned Wade’s mind completely away from the old man near him; and he rose in place, facing the main house. Then he gave a wide wave toward his father and waited for guidance.

  Grainger said “You’re the luckiest child I know.”

  Wade tried to laugh; it sounded like leaves. But he said “You’ve known a million children; how did I win the lucky crown?”

  “Win what?—you losing, Son. You fading on off.”

  Wade finally laughed. “You said I was luckier than all the kids you’ve known. I need to ask how.”

  Grainger took the time to recall his meaning. Then he lined it out on the air with a finger as if Wade could read the actual words. “You dying in trusty arms like you are. Like me and you. That’s some kind of luck. I seen men die in the mud like hogs—” Grainger didn’t sound finished but he stopped there firmly.

  Wade barely recalled Grainger’s service in France, but he said “It does beat jumping out the window.”

  “—And leaving young. I ought to left this world, young like you, with my teeth and good health. Would have left a better memory behind me, not this old gunny sack of gristle and bone.”

  Gristle and bone—Wade knew that Grainger could see him at least, whether he truly recognized him or not. There was nothing else to say except “Show Hutch the place but wait till I’m gone.” Then Wade balanced himself upright for Hutch and Straw—he’d gained a little strength in the shade. When they reached him. Wade said “I better lie down awhile before the trip home.”

  Straw said “Mr. Walters, I’ll get Wade in; then come get you.”

  Grainger said “Take your time.”

  In his old half-comic grumbling way, Hutch said “Nobody but you’s got time.”
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  Wade laughed. “Nobody.” He put out a hand again, straight to its target, and found Grainger’s ear. He slowly leaned and whispered “Adiós.”

  Grainger said, full voice, “I don’t speak French no more.”

  Wade paused, reeling a little to be upright in warmer air. Then he decided against the clear word Goodbye. He reached for where he knew Straw stood.

  Straw gathered him in again and lifted him gently in one long move.

  Hutch recalled for the first time in maybe three decades how Straw had lifted him similarly one night in Oxford, as easily as if skin and bone were weightless. He’s not a bit less powerful now. That constituted a small reward.

  As Hutch and Straw took Wade away, Grainger could see them through the first few yards of gradual distance; and he thought I finished my whole job now. It meant he could leave any day he chose—he meant to die in broad daylight, to spare anybody finding him cold with his mouth gapped open some early dawn.

  10

  WADE had slept so deeply through the afternoon, even with his family moving around him, that Hutch and Ann felt able to stay on at Straw and Emily’s till nearly dusk. The women had served the food, washed the dishes and gone for a long walk up the road (by then the heat of the day had broken). The men had sat on the front porch, waving toward the scarce cars of a holiday weekend, calling out to a few familiar walkers—all of them black and lifelong acquaintances. They were trying to cool their minds with small talk.

  Straw as usual had just read a new and inflammatory book on the Civil War, an occurrence he still chose to call the War of Northern Aggression; and he had to give Hutch a feverish summary—some overeducated son of a bitch had published a book claiming Robert E. Lee was a mediocre general and a dishonest man.

  Hutch responded with the latest foolishness at Duke—a campus fracas on the question of whether or not the all-male, ninety-nine-percent-white-and-alcoholic fraternities had the faintest right to continue existing (Hutch was sure they didn’t; Straw oddly agreed). Then Hutch said his newest poem for Straw, written this year at the first sight of spring, a week before they brought Wade south. The poem was a ten-line memory of a day Hutch and Straw had spent at Warm Springs, Virginia many years back—both of them stripped in their best young bodies, suspended in thoughtless fetal ease in the huge natural spring at precisely blood heat.

  Straw responded with thanks and a reiteration of the blanket request he made each time Hutch wrote any poem about him. “Don’t let Emily see it.”

  Since Emily had never read a serious poem in her life, Hutch had always known their past was safe. Even Ann had barely responded to anything Hutch had published in the past dozen years.

  On the porch after that, Straw and Hutch turned to making whatever plans seemed sensible for the time left to Wade—what Straw might be called on to do by way of help. At about five-thirty, as the light dimmed a notch and Hutch was thinking it was time to find Ann and start home with Wade, Straw leaned in closer. “Was this Ann’s idea today—coming up here with you?”

  “Not really. My student helper’s gone for the weekend, my nerve failed me for coming single-handed; and at the last minute, Wade asked for his mother.”

  “I’d have run down and got you.”

  Hutch said “I always know that. You saying I’m wrong to give her this much?”

  Straw took his time. “No, it may well be the best thing you’ve agreed to in years.” He grinned at the road first, then brought it back to Hutch.

  “What’s the joke here, friend? You and Emily stage this someway?”

  Straw looked back to the road. “Oh no, this has the unmistakable handprints of Fate all over it.” Now the grin was a laugh. Straw had drunk three glasses of wine with lunch, but there’d been time to sober.

  Hutch couldn’t quite laugh but he lightened his tone. “Read the handprints for me.”

  “You think you can do this alone; you absolutely can’t.”

  “I’ve got good help and, hard as it sounds, this can’t last long.”

  Straw said “It’ll last the whole rest of your life. How in God’s name could you ever blot out the memory of your one child in a hell like this?”

  “I don’t plan to blot it. I wouldn’t if I could. If I outlive this, it’s bound to be at the awful center of anything else I ever write. You well know I’ve dwelt on the past too much and am too old to change.”

  “Then ask for Ann back.”

  Hutch said “I don’t follow you. It was Ann that left; I never asked her to.”

  “Hutchins, there are millions of ways to ask. You hadn’t seen Ann for the last twenty years till the day she left.”

  “That’s your flaming imagination again. I loved Ann Gatlin every day we spent together. That wasn’t enough, not for her anyhow; she said I couldn’t make her believe it. So frankly I’ve learned to like the relief she left in her wake. There’s a lot of things worse to live among than quiet empty air.”

  Straw said “You’re how old—sixty-two?”

  “Sixty-three on the twelfth of this month; you missed it.”

  “Twelfth of May?”

  Hutch smiled. “Falls on the twelfth almost every year.”

  “Well, damn. I’m sorry. I miss a lot don’t I?”

  Hutch laughed. “That’s all right; some of my young friends remembered.” By now they were back in their old slow teasing; these days they seemed to manage it only when one of them hurt.

  Straw said “I know you see yourself stumbling on to the grave like some old sourdough trapped on the salt flats; but don’t plan to do that, Hutch—I couldn’t stand to watch.”

  “Who says you’re going to outlast me?”

  “The handprints of Fate again—don’t forget my forebears: Mother’s still living at a thousand years old.”

  Hutch said “She’s eighty-three.”

  “And looks a lot older than a redwood thicket.”

  “That’s because she’s chain-smoked unfiltered Camels since before Walter Raleigh brought the blond weed to white folks.”

  Straw said “Exactly. If she’s eighty-three under all that tobacco tar, then I’m bound to last till a hundred at least.”

  Hutch’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Take me in then. Otherwise I’ll croak in a nursing home.”

  “Oh no, not me; hire yourself a trained nurse. Cranky as you are, set in your ways—I won’t come near you. You had your chance.”

  “At what?”

  Straw faced Hutch and, simply by thinking back, produced a strong live trace of the power of his young face and eyes—the boy he’d been. “Your final chance at young Strawson Stuart. He’s beyond reach today.” The power held on, at a high hot burn.

  For an instant Hutch looked and saw Straw was right. It felt like an immense hot loss and worthy of grief. But he said “Look, if you’re in touch with that fine boy still, give him bountiful thanks from an antique friend.”

  Slowly Straw let his present face return. “He accepts all gifts with shameless gratitude.” In his chair Straw bowed from the waist toward Hutch.

  Hutch had just seen Emily and Ann top the rise in the road to his right. They were each walking with five-foot sticks like shepherds in an old Bible engraving. Hutch pointed to them. “Lo, Ruth and Naomi come leading the herd.”

  Straw said “Thank Christ. You be good to yours. Emily Stuart may be a Methodist missionary, but she’s saved me from drowning more times than I know.” Straw waved broadly to the distant women.

  They seemed not to see him, but still they came on.

  11

  IN fact Ann had seen both men as soon as she and Emily topped the rise; and for a bad moment, she felt the chill of abandonment she’d always felt at the sight of Hutch and Straw together. Till now she’d put off asking again the question she’d asked in her letters to Emily—the second letter had never been acknowledged—so these few yards of distance would be Ann’s last chance to ask for help again. She said “Do you think Straw’s spoken to Hutch?”
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  At first Emily was honestly puzzled and creased her brow.

  “About me, Em—asking Hutch to let me share in this, just a rightful share.”

  Emily said “Ann, I feel awful about this; but I need to tell you the local facts. When you first wrote me, I spoke to Strawson; all he did was turn his back and head down to Mr. Walters’ house. So I can’t say more. See, I promised myself to give up mingling in Hutch and Strawson’s business, oh, twenty-five years ago. It had truly eaten me up by the day, just knowing how fully they’d shared each other before I came into Strawson’s life. I finally had to step back and ease off or die.”

  “Can you give me the directions for how to ease up?”

  “You’ve made your break.”

  Ann said “Making a break and changing your mind—the whole way you think—are two different things.”

  Emily said “But I did it.” Her face was as firm and self-confident as a young reliable terrier’s.

  Again Ann wanted to press for more than she knew. She’d never learned the entire story of Hutch and Straw and had never asked. But she’d somehow known from the start not to seek possession of facts and mental images she couldn’t use or live beside. And here with Emily walking so near, with what Em implied was available knowledge, Ann told herself Stop her right here, girl. Spare your mind. So she said “Don’t worry yourself a moment. I’ll find a way to speak to Straw, or I’ll phone him from Durham.”

  “Strawson won’t support you—you’re bound to know that.”

  With those words, Emily’s face changed again in a way Ann had never seen till now—an almost scary intensity that looked like something you’d glimpse at the scene of a bloody collision and turn from at once. Ann said “I honor Shaw’s loyalty to Hutch. If Hutch doesn’t see his own way to decency, the next few days, I’ll have to ask Wade himself to speak up.”