Wade took awhile to agree to that. Then he persisted. “Tell Hutch you think he ought to call her. Not later than now. Hutch worships you.”
Boat laughed and tapped his own brow. “Nobody ever worshiped this fool midget.”
Wade shook his head hard, and splotches of color came to his cheeks for the first time in days. “My father literally worships black people.”
“He’s been kind to me—”
Wade’s color stayed bright; he was oddly thrilled to find again and say aloud here what he’d always known but never quite faced. “Hutch thinks black people, all bound together, are the angel burning to fuel human time. His words exactly. And wild as it sounds, I think he’s part right. I’ve thought at least that much, since my own childhood. Black people have burned—truly burned, I mean, for more than their share of all known history, them and the Jews (though Hutch never knew many Jews as a boy, not here in the South)—but also odd bands of most other people in various ages: brown, yellow, red, white, queer as coots, straight as rails. It’s nothing else—is it? all this old history—but a permanent bonfire, maybe a holocaust if that means anything, old at least as human time and somehow the literal oil it takes to turn the big wheel.”
“What wheel?”
“Oh the world, like I said. The poor old world. What African country is it today?—every month it’s a new little desert or valley where millions of children, gorgeous as ebony carved by saints, are starved to bones or hacked to ribbons in their dead mother’s arms: all burning, burning. For me and you.”
The smile that spread on Wade’s dry lips was as awful a wound as Boat had seen in all these years. He laid cool fingers on the lips to smooth them, then told Wade “Baby, you rest your mind. No need for you to be this far gone, in this fine house with your own people, not if you’ll rest more.”
Wade frowned to warn off any break in his frail line of thought. “Hutch tries to convince himself he’s a Klansman—see, he let Wyatt ruin his self-respect, when all of us knew Hutch bowed down deep in his mind to every black face he passed.”
By now Boat was used to most kinds of dementia. You listened and patted their hand and said Yes. He tried that here.
But Wade’s voice hardened. “Listen to me.”
So Boat tried his next trick, changing the subject or reverting to an old one. “I’m listening, baby, but I’m not God Above. If your folks don’t want to be here together, Jimmy Boat can’t force them—can’t and won’t.”
In all the years that Boat had known Wade Mayfield, in all the months he’d seen Wade through this hard slow fall and Wyatt’s brutal death, he’d never seen the trace of a tear on Wade’s face. Boat himself was a regular fountain of tears—he’d weep at television commercials where grown men phoned their fathers on Father’s Day—and more than once he’d felt real pity for Wade’s refusal or inability to vent his stifling grief.
Now, though, the sockets of Wade’s blind eyes were brimming water.
Knowing that even tears could carry the plague virus, still Boat leaned again and wiped at the tears with his bare thumb. He stood back and listened for Hutch’s presence—no sound from the kitchen or elsewhere near—so in almost a normal voice, Boat said “Oh baby, I’ll ask him someway or other between here and dark. Maybe your mother will even drop in.”
Wade waved away the thought of any drop-in. He said “Tell Hutch. Get Mother back here tonight. I’m ready to go.”
Standing that near a face as wild as Wade’s, Boat thought This boy can still do a good many things but no way left for him to stand up and call his mother in here for the final end. And all he could think to tell Wade here was that, yes, Jimmy Boat would find a chance to relay the message between this minute and tonight someway.
46
AT seven o’clock though, Hutch was still in town; and Ann stopped in on her way home. By then Wade had been asleep for hours. Boat had long since finished his cleaning and was in the kitchen, making rice pudding and vanilla milk junket when Ann let herself in through the back door. She’d known that a helpful friend of Wade’s would be there from New York, but she’d never met Boat and was startled to find a tiny black man busy at the stove. She thought she managed to cover her fear and at once went toward him, extending her hand. “I’m Wade’s mother, Ann.”
Boat had seen her clearly from the moment she left her car, walking toward him; so while he seldom thought of himself as the kind of black man always harping on how white folks have ruined the world and him in particular, he went a little cold and reached for a dish towel to hold in his hand. That would ease this rich-looking woman right off—him being an old-time kitchen boy. Still her sudden smile and hand were unexpected. Boat put down the towel, accepted her hand and said “I’d have known your face on Mars or in Panama.” The moment he spoke, Boat thought Crazy fool—he’d seen Panama in his navy years.
Ann went on smiling; she well knew how much Wade was like her. “Mr. Boat, I don’t think we can ever thank you.”
Boat wondered who she meant by we. He’d gathered that she and Hutch were as far apart as parents get. She means her and Wade. So he told her “Wade’s been good to me ever since we met long years ago. If I didn’t have my duties up north, I’d be his main help.”
“I know you would.” A quick look showed Ann what Boat was cooking. “That rice pudding smell takes me back a long way. I hope Wade can eat it.”
“No doubt about that. I fixed it for him up in New York every chance I got. He loves the raisins mainly.” Boat pointed north as if the city were closing on them and would be here soon.
Ann had long since forgot Wade’s childhood love of raisins. She’d tried every other food she could think of and failed to rouse Wade’s appetite, and now Boat’s memory rebuked her own, but she didn’t say she doubted Boat’s chances. She said “Is Wade sleeping?”
“Last time I looked. He’s barely been awake all today.”
“I’ll just tip in then and get his laundry.”
Boat pointed again, toward the washing machine and dryer in the pantry. “Every stitch is clean.” Ann’s face looked so forlorn to hear it—he wished he’d thought to save her a chore. “The dryer just finished; clothes’ll still be warm—you can fold them easy.”
She washed her hands at the sink and went to sort Wade’s clothes. Only at the door of the pantry did she look back. “Is Hutch all right?”
Boat said “As all right as any of us can be in these mean days. He’s in town catching up on things. Called and said he’d be back soon as they changed his oil at the shop.”
For Ann that sounded like a short reprieve. To her own surprise she folded a few of Wade’s white briefs and a green T-shirt, then came to the door and said to Boat “You understand I want to be here?”
By then Boat was seated at the worktable, reading a story in TV Guide. “Yes ma’m, I do.”
Ann managed a slight smile. “No ma’m—please, sir. I answer to Ann.”
Boat smiled and agreed.
“The reason I moved out of here had nothing to do with Wade.”
“I doubt he knows that. He wants you back. Told me so just now.”
Ann took a long wait. “That means he’s near to—”
Boat said “It mostly means that. I’ve seen it a lot, even when their mothers have shut them off. I’ve seen boys’ natural parents shut them off like rats in the walls; slam the door in their face and them as harmless as day-old pups, just needing attention—”
Ann said “Do you understand Wade’s father has made me keep this distance, ever since he was home?”
“Mrs. Mayfield, I can’t touch your business—Mr. Hutch’s and yours. All I know is, Wade wants you. When he told me this afternoon, it burned me bad. I couldn’t see a way.”
Ann’s face was wan in the late sun that broke through the windows beyond her, but it also looked remarkably young and as strong as she’d ever been. With Wade’s green shirt still warm in her hands, she came halfway back toward Boat’s chair and told him plainly
“Hutch’ll have to call the Law to make me leave here tonight.”
Boat thought The mothers, even the monsters, always smell death coming first. But he said “No way Hutch’ll do that much.”
Ann said “We’ll never know till we test him.” When Boat was quiet, she said “Will we now?”
“Let me say it one more time, polite as I can—this is your business, lady. Don’t make trouble for me. I’m just here to be an invited guest.”
Ann said “You claimed you were here to help Wade—”
“I wish to God I was. If you’d seen that sad boy today, you’d know nobody in this weak world got help for him—not where he’s at.”
Ann’s eyes flared up. “What a thing to say—”
Boat stood in place and shut his magazine. Leave out of here, Boatie. Call a taxi and run.
But as distant sounding as if it came by satellite, Wade’s voice called out a long high “Ann?”
She held in place, still facing Boat.
Wade called again. “I heard my mother’s voice.”
When Ann held still another slow moment, Boat called “You did. She’s on her way, baby.” When he finally faced Ann, he said “All yours. Go fix him please.”
That broke the lock on Ann’s last restraint. She laid the green T-shirt near Boat’s elbow, smoothed it carefully, then said “I’m sorry. I’m not my best self.”
“Few of us ever is.” Boat reached for the green shirt, opened it out and folded it again—a neater job.
So Ann went toward Wade, whoever he’d be when she got there.
47
WHEN Hutch phoned again a few minutes later to say his car was finally ready and he’d be home soon, Boat answered in the kitchen, said things were steady but didn’t mention Ann’s presence. She’d stayed on in Wade’s room. Boat had heard no words or moves; so when Hutch came in through the kitchen door, the house was still. Boat was reading The Farmer’s Almanac in a chair by the table and copying down the full-moon schedule for the rest of the year.
Hutch set two bags of groceries on the counter, quickly put a few things in the freezer and washed his hands.
Boat said “I’ll shelve the rest of those.”
But Hutch said “I see my wife’s car. How long has she been here?”
“Maybe half an hour. She’s in there with Wade.” Nothing on Earth made Boat feel weaker than family strife.
Hutch could see the misery, so he tried to smile. Then he gave his arms and legs a mock hand-frisk. “We don’t pack guns, Boatie. We can be civil.”
For all his unease, Boat knew he had to speak. “Mr. Mayfield, she’s back here for good.”
Hutch said “How’s that please?”
“Your wife told me she’s staying here till Wade passes on. She knows he’s close—”
“Close to what?”
Boat said “You know—to passing.”
“Who told her that?”
“Mr. Hutch, that woman’s his natural mother.”
“And that makes her magic?”
Boat well understood that the answer was Yes, but he held out his two flat palms—empty-handed.
Hutch kept his voice calm, but he said “No she’s not.” He stepped off in the direction of Wade.
So Boat stopped him with a powerful whisper. “Mr. Mayfield, Wade needs her with him here.”
“Did he tell you that?”
Boat’s head shook hard. “Right after you left.”
“How did he say it?”
“He told me he was ready to go; so he wanted her by him, along with you.”
Hutch was in the doorway that led to the hall. He stayed there, both arms raised and pressed to the doorframe. Again he meticulously gentled his face. “Were those his words?” When Boat hesitated, Hutch said “About me—wanting me with him too?”
Boat knew what he said was a technical lie; but since he’d heard Wade in New York talking so often about his dad and their good times together so long ago, he compounded his lie. “Yes sir, he asked for both of you with him.”
“You think Wade’s right?”
“About what?”
“Dying soon.”
Boat whispered again. “Maybe tonight, around four in the morning. No later than sundown tomorrow for sure.”
The odd precision somehow convinced Hutch. “How many of these boys have you watched die?”
Boat said “Mr. Mayfield, they were all grown men. To answer your question, I believe it’s twenty-three I actually watched. I may have lost count, it’s hurt so bad.”
An old high wall of Hutch’s pride crashed silently down. The nearness and service of this stunted young man, here at hand in the kitchen—apparently some kind of valid angel—was the strongest rebuke Hutch had met with in years. Boat’s face and level voice alone were a justified and fair reproach to feelings that Hutch still thought were his due, his right to rancor in Ann’s abandonment. But any will to usher Ann back to her car tonight, to refuse her presence, seemed not only petty but an actual evil. And Hutch believed that very few things were evil in the average life—the normal run of men and women being seldom awarded the chance or the force to make mistakes with enormous outcomes. He felt a new and deep-running relief, so he brought his arms back down to his sides and said to Boat “This kitchen smells better than it has in years. Anything ready to eat for supper—just the three of us: you, Ann Mayfield and me?”
Boat said “You brought in a big load of food, looks like. Go in and check on Wade and his mother; I’ll have something ready in, oh, twenty minutes. Any special requests?”
Hutch had heard Wade praise Boat’s kitchen skills, and he tried to think of something quick and good. Nothing came. “You choose, please sir. Maybe a little surprise would help us.”
“That’s exactly my intention, Doctor.”
But before he left, Hutch had to explain. “I understand you’re here as our guest and ought not to work as hard as you’re doing. But if you wouldn’t mind cooking a little, I’d be much obliged. So would Wade if he could thank you clearly.”
“Don’t give it a thought, Mr. Hutch. Not a thought. I’m here to help any way I can.”
“Hutch—call me Hutch.”
Boat smiled. “Sure—Hutch. You leave this to me.”
Hutch said “I wish I could leave the rest of my life to you.” Then he knew he meant it.
48
ANN was sitting by the side of Wade’s bed, her hand on the bones of his left hand, lightly riding the pulse that was only a feeble transmission. The main light came from the desk across the room, Wade’s old student lamp at its lowest power.
Hutch waited in the door, trying to gauge Wade’s rate of breath. It was all but inaudible, so wide spaced and shallow it barely moved the sheet that covered the leg bones and ribs and on to the chin. The eyelids were shut on eyes that had shrunk inward so far they seemed no bigger than the waxy fruit from chinaberry trees or healthy blueberries.
Ann didn’t turn; she hadn’t sensed that Hutch was there. By now she felt almost a part of the house again; and though she’d heard Hutch’s voice at a distance, talking to Boat, she’d heard none of their words nor Hutch’s steps toward her. As she sat on motionless, she was only fixing the line of Wade’s profile deep in her mind by gouging it again and again on her thigh—just her long dry finger on the cloth of her skirt.
At last Hutch cracked the joints of his right hand.
Ann looked round, then got to her feet and stood by her chair.
Hutch came on to the foot of the bed, touched both of Wade’s feet beneath the cover. “Son, I’m back.” Though he’d said it as a final claim on the boy, Hutch understood that Wade might not hear him—You’re mine; I’m with you.
But slowly Wade heard it. His head raised an inch from the pillow toward Hutch. The eyes stayed shut and he said “Aye, aye, sir.”
Ann was still in place; but she said “Sit down, Hutch, and rest a minute. I’ll go help Boat” (the sounds of work were coming from the kitchen). The set of
Ann’s eyes and mouth left no question that she meant to eat, and stay, here tonight.
And Hutch raised none. As Ann came past him, his hand went out of its own accord and brushed her wrist.
She gave a slight sound, nearly a moan, but never broke stride.
So Hutch went on to the chair and sat in Ann’s narrow warmth.
WHEN her footsteps faded off, Wade’s eyes opened, though his head still didn’t move toward Hutch. His mind had given up trying to see. When Hutch’s hand touched the crown of his skull, Wade drew his right arm out of the sheet and held it straight in the air above him like a lightning rod or a white antenna. Finally he got whatever message he waited for, and he said to the ceiling “Call Ivory and tell her.”
“Tell her what, Son?”
“That this whole tour is still underway, and I’ll be seeing her and her family any week to come. Soon.”
That seemed the first guarantee of dementia Hutch had heard—all the other strangeness, he’d half suspected of being intended for various reasons—but he said only “Fine, Son, I’ll call Ivory later this evening.”
“Remind her I want to be buried with Wyatt.”
“You told me you meant to be scattered on the creek behind the old Kendal place, on Grainger’s pool where he rescued you.” When Wade stayed silent, Hutch said “Remember?”
Wade appeared to try, then said “That’s not the first thing you’ve got wrong.” When the words had faded on the air, Wade laughed—a parched chuckle, the first in days. He turned his blind face in Hutch’s direction.
Hutch was compelled to turn aside.
“Don’t take this personally—you’re my good friend—but you know less about me than these birds here.”
Hutch tried a short laugh. “Aren’t the bluebirds especially smart this summer?”
Wade said “I’m talking about these birds that are helping me travel.”
“Then thank them for me, Son. Many thanks.”
Wade lay on, facing his father; and his eyes stayed open. But long minutes passed before he said “Big tall brown birds. Maybe storks but taller.” Then he said nothing else.
The Promise of Rest Page 30
