She shook her head No. “You never said.”
“It did—the pure truth.”
“Hutch, if that’s meant as flattery, I can’t take it here.” Yet his deepset eyes met hers—unaged, undimmed—the one part of him that could always reach and, most times, hold her.
He shook his head No and again said “The truth. I thought I’d die for the first few days, flat-suffocate. It’s still like another great rock on my chest.”
“Then I’m more than amazed.” There was no keen edge or burr on her voice; she was aiming at honesty buffered by the years of sympathy she hoped they’d laid down, a hanging bridge between them.
Hutch met that offer with his own precision. “You know I’ve had trouble all my life telling people I love them. I’m afraid it’ll spook them, maybe even kill them. It killed my mother.”
Ann said “Hutch, your mother died of a hemorrhage.”
“—Caused by me.”
“Not you, never you. She’d loved Rob Mayfield and wanted to bear his child—plain as that. She was grown when she chose to bring you to life; her eyes were wide open. The doctor couldn’t stop her bleeding the day you came; it was plain as that.”
Maybe it was. Hutch had never seen it that way, not that simply. It might even serve as a skeleton key to some old locked gates. But he still owed Ann more explanation. “You and me though—I couldn’t convince you we were barely two people. In forty years we’d grown into being all but one thing, one thing with two minds. I was fairly content. You seemed to need proofs of love, on the hour—proofs of how separate we were but how needy—and I couldn’t give that. All I had to offer was a visible fact, the homely fact that there I was. I couldn’t and wouldn’t, not two years ago and maybe not now.”
Ann said “Let’s don’t even mention love yet, not between you and me. What I’m asking for is a room in this house, whosever it is, and the right to do my duty to our son. I can’t love Wade one bit less than you; grant me that much, Hutchins.”
“It’s not up to me to grant you that. I’ve never doubted your care for Wade.”
“Then let me near him, any hour of the day or night.”
Hutch said “I remind you you’ve got a key. I’ve never once bolted these doors against you.”
“You bring people in here that I can’t face—”
“They’re not yours to face, Ann. They’re my trusted help.”
Before her lips had closed just now, she’d heard her mistake. I left this house; it’s his to fill—or torch if he chooses.
Hutch gave no sign of hearing; but he took a second draft of his coffee, then got to his feet. “Wade’s waiting. He’s called your name all afternoon.”
Ann heard the small compensation in that, the tidy offering—Wade still knows you—but as Hutch turned from her and moved toward his study, she knew she wouldn’t be sleeping here soon.
32
AT nine that night Hutch phoned Ivory Bondurant. There were nine or ten rings, then a silent pick-up; then nothing but the distant weaving of music, Debussy or Ravel on a harp. He finally said “This is Hutchins Mayfield. Is Miss Bondurant there?”
After five more seconds of music, Ivory said “Good evening”—no trace of surprise or welcome.
Hutch had to say “Are you all right?” “I think so, yes”—very cautious and slow.
She’s drugged or sick. But he said “I’m afraid I’ve waked you. Sorry, I’ll call another time.”
“No, no, Mr. Mayheld. How are you?”
Only then did he realize She must think I’m calling to say Wade’s dead. “Thanks. I’m well, Miss Bondurant. Wade’s had pneumonia but is back home again and a little stronger maybe.”
Ivory said “And his vision?”
Hutch had noticed, from the start, how everyone’s dread at the thought of Wade went straight toward his blindness (as recently as two weeks ago, Dr. Ives had repeated her offer to treat Wade’s eyes with the single drastic remedy at hand, however late). So Hutch lied now, to ease the news. “He sees a little, odd times of the day; but no, his eyes are a good deal worse than when you saw him last—I think so at least. He’s confused more often, and of course he’s thinner still.”
Ivory said “That’s expected,” then waited for more. Behind her the music solved its way toward a tentative ending, followed by silence.
Had a radio died? Had some live harpist been in another room of Ivory’s apartment and shut down this moment? In the calm Hutch couldn’t remember why he’d called, and his uncertain wait stretched out like tension.
At last Ivory said “Mr. Mayheld, what has Wade told you?”
Late as it was, Hutch heard nothing strange in the question. It even triggered the memory of his purpose. “Wade mostly lives in the here and now—I think his memory’s almost gone. But today he did bring up the apartment; he asked me if we still had Wyatt’s portrait. I can’t recall seeing any such picture. I thought you might.”
“I have it, yes. It’s safe with me.”
“Is it a photograph or a painting?”
“A painting—the absolute soul of Wyatt Bondurant.”
“Who painted it?”
“I did, years ago, when I still painted—when my hand could still do it. I gave it to Wade once Wyatt died; but even with his failing vision then, Wade told me he couldn’t stand to have it in sight—he regretted Wyatt so grievously. It’s been here with me, turned to the wall. I can’t watch it either. Wade can have it anytime.”
“I’ll tell him that you said as much. If he wants it down here, I’d pay of course for your gallery to crate it.”
“Just let me know.”
“Did you ever paint Wade?”
Ivory paused. “I did, eight years ago, but now that’s gone.”
Hutch was interested. “Sold?”
“No, it’s with my mother out on Long Island. She cherished Wade and asked me for it.”
Hutch said “Thank her for me, over again. She’s written us kindly.”
“She’s far more than overqualified for a saint—my sainted mother. I wish I had a tenth of her grit.” Ivory waited again.
So Hutch came to the point. “You’re getting the rent checks I send on time?”
“No problem with that, except I wonder if you don’t want me to clear out those rooms and let them pass to a new set of people. I could ship everything that matters on down; it wouldn’t fill up more than three more boxes. It may be a crime, paying this much rent on useless space.”
Hutch said “It’s useful to Wade, I believe. Shutting it down might actually kill him.”
“Would Wade have to know?”
“I couldn’t lie to him; he grills me occasionally, to be sure it’s there; that we haven’t ended his old life without a sign at least from him.”
Ivory said “I didn’t know his mind was that clear.”
“Clear’s not the real word. But even now he sometimes speaks of going back up there to work again. He knows the last drawing he left on his desk.” Hutch hadn’t quite understood he felt that till then, though he knew he’d never grudged the steep rent, both Wade’s and Wyatt’s shares (Ann’s absence from the house had freed up some cash).
Ivory said “Then I see what you mean; that might well throw him. I know my brother’s empty space in this building keeps my hurt strong.”
“I hadn’t considered that.”
“Then don’t—Lord, don’t. I can last it out. It’s a small task compared to yours and Wade’s mother’s.”
Hutch couldn’t recall that Ivory had mentioned Ann before, and he wondered what contact they might have had. Had Ann ever phoned her or vice versa? Stay out of that. So he only thanked Ivory.
She politely denied that Hutch bore her a debt; but when she could hear he was near hanging up, she said “Mr. Mayfield, is there something else?”
“No, not really. Nothing but the sadness, and you share that. It doesn’t slack, does it? I thought it would.”
“You’re terribly right. No, I just though
t you might have something on your heart or mind.”
Her tone was so gentle Hutch couldn’t imagine she meant Wyatt’s hatred of him and Ann, but he said “You mean about Wyatt’s refusing us?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.” With that she went silent, plainly finished.
Hutch heard it. “Would you say the name Hutchins once please?”
Ivory said “Hutchins” in her richest voice.
For a moment it gave Hutch his old childhood thrill at hearing his name, two syllables of noise that were somehow him. “Thank you, Ivory—if I may call you that.” For an instant he thought God, she’ll think I’m playing massah; but he said “I’m almost old enough to be your grandfather. Please call me Hutchins or Hutch from here on.” Awkward as it felt, Hutch wasn’t embarrassed. He’d suddenly needed a woman’s kind notice; it might help him through one more restless night.
Ivory said “I’ll try, if we meet again.”
Just as the phone moved down from his ear, Hutch thought he could hear her music renewed—one wide and darkly chromatic chord.
33
BUT well after midnight Hutch still hadn’t slept, so he reached out into the dark and dialed the operator. For some odd reason he lied to the woman and told her his lights had suddenly failed, he couldn’t see to dial, would she please connect him to a long-distance number?
That late, the woman took time to be pleasant. “In the dark all alone, eh? I know how you feel—believe you me.” She assured him he’d get the cheap rate all the same, and the number rang twice.
Strawson answered “Late,” sepulchrally. No one alive could be far off and still establish, with voice alone, the vivid sight of his physical body and the air around him quicker than Straw.
“It’s nowhere near late for you, old watchman.”
“I was just lying here awake thinking of you.”
Hutch said “Much obliged; your thoughts must have reached me.”
“They do that, yes. It’s the last of my powers; all else has failed me.” But he laughed around in the lower reaches of his deep bass register for a good while longer.
Hutch had not spoken with Straw in ten days, not since Ann’s night-time phone attack; and he suddenly needed to mention that surprise and hear the effect on whatever Straw had meant last April when he said Hutch had failed to request his life—Straw’s own young life as it sped through its brief prime. Now was almost surely not the right time to ask; still Hutch said “Where are you at present?”
“Lying beside my legal spouse, who’s snoring nicely.”
Hutch said “Good” and felt he meant it.
Straw said “Wade”—more a hope than a question.
“Wade’s about where he was when we talked last.”
“Would he know me if he saw me?”
“Pretty surely,” Hutch said. “For part of the time; he still goes and comes.”
“Then I’ll be there soon.” Straw had never been prone to guilt; for once, he sounded caught out and sorry.
“How about tomorrow? Come spend the night anyhow.” Hutch knew that Straw had the countryman’s aversion to spending a full night away from his groundings; he’d never spent a night in Hutch’s Durham house.
“I’ll do it soon but, no, it can’t be tomorrow.”
“You busy watching weeds grow?”
Straw’s wait was so long Hutch thought he’d hung up or drifted to sleep. Finally he said “I’m drunk at the moment. Been drunk five days. I’ll be there when I can face you and Wade.”
“You sound clear to me.”
Straw laughed. “Cast your mind back through the slow centuries, friend; the pageant of S. Stuart’s profligate course—when did you ever hear me sound less than clear as the evening lark at dusk?” By the time he’d reached the end of the sentence, he was more than half serious.
Straw Stuart, soused, was several notches clearer than the average air traffic controller; and Hutch well knew it. “Then come on here. I’ve weaned you before.”
“You weaned me from you—that’s absolutely all. No, I’m tapering off my usual way, a half pint less a day. I don’t want Wade to smell a drop on me; he never has yet.”
That instant, Hutch felt painfully single. I can’t see this thing through alone. He could think of nobody else alive, since Grainger was ancient and Ann disqualified, whom he’d trust to watch Wade’s last days with him. But he also knew Straw meant what he’d said—Straw had always kept his drinking from Wade. Even in the worst times, twenty years ago, the surest way to sober Straw was to tell him young Wade was on the way up for a few country days (Wade had literally never seen Straw high, much less drunk). So now Hutch only said “Hurry please. Wade’s all but gone. I’m running out of guts.”
“You’re not and you know it. You watched your father die, hard as this; and you helped him right through.”
Hutch said “Not so, old friend. I watched Rob, sure, for a few long days just before he went; but even lung cancer’s a moonlight walk compared to Wade’s plague.”
“You mentioned—who was it?—young Jimmy Boat awhile back. He seemed like a truly old-fashioned gem. Is he still coming down from New York for the Fourth?”
Hutch had forgot the letter from Boat; the thought encouraged him. “Boatie wasn’t really young and anyhow the Fourth is still a good while off.”
“Call him up. Speed his plans. You could put him on salary as long as you need him.”
“Straw, Boatie’s got his hands full up there.”
“Boat’s taking the Fourth off somehow—remember?—to bus himself to—where?—Macon, Georgia and his old grandmammy in her cabin in the cotton. Call him tonight and tell him you’ll pay his substitute to work a while longer if he’ll help you out.”
“Did Boatie say he’d arranged a substitute?”
Straw said “Bound to. He’s an angel of God; wouldn’t leave his boys to starve alone.”
“You got his number then?”
Again Straw lingered as if paging slowly through a universal phone book. At last he said “You do, in that book you brought from Wade’s kitchen—Ivory wrote all the numbers down there in the back.”
So she had. And Hutch had not called one, not since New York. He’d barely ever cracked the book open; it threatened to unleash its piece of the past. But even before he finished with Straw now, he reached for the lamp on his bedside table. The clock said twenty minutes to one. No, Boatie works hard; let him sleep till day.
34
STILL Hutch couldn’t wait. When he’d hung up on Straw and gone to Wade’s door to check on his breathing, Hutch went to the study, found the composition book and Jimmy Boat’s name with a number beside it. After eight rings Hutch was ready to quit.
Then a woman said “All right,” an old black voice more native to here than the heights of Harlem.
She repeated herself before Hutch could ask for Boatie or Boat.
“Nobody named that.”
“Is Jimmy Boat there, please ma’m?—I’m sorry.”
The woman said “Man, I’m sicker than you’ll ever know, to get woke up here, dark as this place is; but hold your water, I’ll try to get James.”
It took three minutes and Hutch would have quit except for the fact that, right through the wait, he could hear the old woman shuffling through rooms and muttering sentences to what seemed cats or maybe dogs named Arthur and Pepper before she finally knocked at a door and said “James, some sick man in trouble out here.”
Eventually James picked up the phone. “Boatie’s awake. Can he help you please?”
The way Hutch felt, few questions could have been more welcome. “Boatie, this is Wade Mayfield’s father—Hutch Mayfield—in North Carolina. Wade was Wyatt Bondurant’s friend, remember?”
“Mr. Mayfield, sure. And Wade—Wade’s on my mind every other second.” Boat felt a reflex moment of cheer before it dawned on him that Hutch’s news could hardly be good. So he rushed to say “Jesus, say it’s not so.”
“No, it’s not, not yet.
Not tonight anyhow. But we need you, Jimmy.”
“Well, I’m hoping to see you—like I said—round the Fourth of July. That still sound good?”
“What would sound like manna from heaven tonight would be you saying you could fly down here tomorrow morning. I’d make all the plans, make it well worth your while.”
Boat seemed to be considering the plea.
Behind him the old woman cranked up again with cries at her cats and loud swats with what seemed like an old slapstick.
Then Boat said “Mr. Mayfield, excuse my aunt; she’s crazy as me. Fact is, we’re no kin on Earth; but she took me in when I was a raw kid up from Georgia with no more sense than to know I should run from where I’d been. She’d fold now without me—eighty-six years old. And don’t you know I got men up here counting on me, by the hour and minute, for air to breathe? I can’t cut loose. These boys up here would strangle alone, and then I could never forgive myself.”
The voice was mild and stripped of the blackface-comic growl it had by day, but Hutch felt a sting of shame. Marse Hutchins givin his orders to de hands. “I understand that,” he said. “Forgive me, Jimmy.”
Boat said “No sooner said than done. But listen, you haven’t got no help at all?”
It felt like a dead-right diagnosis. No help, no. Not a soul I truly want, anywhere near me. Hutch’s throat dried on him; but finally he said “I’ll get by, sure. I was just feeling sorry for myself in the night.”
“Every reason on this wide Earth to feel sorry. Go on and bawl, sir; I’ll sit till you’re through.”
The thought of Jimmy—the size of a jockey—waiting through long-distance tears in a room with a cracked old aunt and her stray cats was a palpable relief. Hutch said “I’ll try to spare you tears. Truly though, if whoever’s spelling you in early July can help awhile longer, I’ll gladly pay him for all his time so you can stay longer with Wade and me. Of course I’ll pay you too.” Even laid out meekly, it sounded too grand. “Jimmy, help me—I sound so goddamned rich. I’m not, not in nothing.” Hutch had never confessed that much bankruptcy to anyone before.
The Promise of Rest Page 25
