“She do think she’s the smartest thing walking round, but somehow I feel sorry for her. You shoulda heard what her daddy say to her. Say she a disgrace, acting that way. Say she gonna have to spend hours doing stuff to make up for it. Say she gotta learn herself how to be more high-minded. Say she acting like her mother. Even when Mr. Myles come in and say he didn’t think she need to do all that, it just make her daddy madder. Her pa say he can take care of the situation. Course I wasn’t listening outside the reverend’s door. I was just passing by.” She slipped on her swimsuit bottoms and took off her T-shirt to slip on her top.
That night, Aunt Eugenia called the girls out for a walk around the lake. She told them what the leader had said—that they should stay another two weeks, if that was possible. “So what do you think? Perhaps a little longer would be helpful.” She looked at Tab. “It certainly couldn’t make matters any worse. I can write to Charles and Mary and say Bebe wants us to stay longer. I’m sure they won’t mind. I hear the governor’s race is beginning to heat up, and you know how you father likes to dabble in politics, no matter that it’s a hopeless cause. They’re probably so busy, they won’t miss us. In fact, I’ll call them tonight, if that’s what we want to do.”
Tab was not interested in being helped, but knowing that it would take at least a week for her eye to get back to normal, “Okay with me if you can pretend like that. I couldn’t do it.”
Eugenia looked to Tina. “Fine with me as long as she”—pointed but did not look—“doesn’t make a fool of us again. And I do feel I have an obligation to the water safety around here.”
CHAPTER 19
Reuben
WHEN CHARLES WALKED IN from the farm, Mary was waiting in the kitchen. “A.W. called earlier, said he might drop by tonight. You better hurry and take a bath so we can eat early.”
“Tonight?”
“I thought you would rather do it tonight and get it over with. Here, this’ll cheer you up. A letter from the travelers.”
“Bebe must be showing them a good time, since they’re staying on.”
“I guess. It’s from Tab, and you know Tab.”
Charles pitched his hat onto the hall hat rack, smiling even before he took the letter out of the envelope. “I’ll bet this is a doozy—oil and water, Tab and her aunt Eugenia.” He stood silently, reading the letter, his grin widening. “Ha, I love this part about them having an ‘enrichment experience beyond belief.’ Does that sound like Eugenia? It’s amazing how children pick up on what adults say.”
He put the letter back in its envelope. “Probably is a good experience for them, though a little out of the ordinary. Says she’s met a girl who speaks French. She’s never had a friend who speaks a foreign language.”
Mary stood in the doorway. “I know if Eugenia and Bebe are sending them to a day camp, it’s out-the-door progressive, Unitarian or something. We won’t mention that to your mother, but what did she mean, they’re sleeping in bunk beds? She said it was a day camp.”
“Oh, probably they take naps after lunch, or they’re all on the sleeping porch at Bebe’s. She has scores of cousins.” He dropped the letter on the side table and picked up the rest of the mail.
A. W. Ladd had been coming to ask for Charles’s support every election year since he started running for governor. How many times was this, seven or eight? He couldn’t remember. Of course, no sensible person could beat the rabble-rouser types that seemed to be winning nowadays. The only alternative was to find someone who was halfway decent and throw your support behind him. A.W. was a nice-enough old gentleman. Charles’s family had known his family for generations back. One year, he had even agreed to be A.W.’s campaign manager for the northern part of the state. Charles’s efforts never had much impact, but he was expected—he wanted—to take part in the political process. His grandfather had been a county judge. His great-grandfather had been a state senator.
A.W. seemed to know when they would finish supper and so timed his visit accordingly. He settled himself in a chair and said “Much obliged” when Mary offered drinks. “Milk, thank you, ma’am.” He winked at Charles. “The farmers like that, milk prices being what they are.” Milk was one of A.W.’s trademarks. Everybody knew A.W. would ask for milk—and he drank it. Rather than think it was hackneyed, Charles liked it. Showed the old fellow was trying to have the courage of his convictions. Not like the others, who would ask for something benign but want to have it laced with whiskey, as in their politics. Of course, that was probably why he never polled more than 2 percent of the vote. People expected a certain amount of duplicity from their candidates. Too much purity was not to be trusted.
A.W. had put together this wonderful pie-in-the-sky education reform bill, which wouldn’t have a tinker’s damn worth of a chance of passing the state legislature even if he were, by some God-sent miracle, elected. Had money in it for the colored schools as well as the whites—of course, a lot more for the whites. You couldn’t go too far. Candidates couldn’t be expected to offer themselves up to be shot in the back in some dark alley. After thirty minutes of pleasantries, A.W. got to the point.
“Charles, I hope I can count on you for your support this year.” No one ever came to Charles for money. They knew better, but people knew he was willing to give his time, and pledging his support to A.W. wouldn’t take much effort, because Charles knew there wasn’t much that could be done anyway.
“I suspect you can have my support and gladly, A.W., but I don’t even know who’s running yet—besides the usual.
“Except for Wallace, not many, as I know of. Heard tell Randolph Comer, state senator from down in the Black Belt, and Jennings Hardman, the road commissioner. That’s all I know about at this early date.” He smiled. “But ain’t nobody gonna beat me this time out. Been planning my strategy since the last time.”
Charles tried not to wince at the grammar politicians used, no matter how well educated. He remembered the first time A.W. ran. The man had put together a decent sentence then—one of the weaknesses he had corrected on running a second time.
“Well, I got to be getting on. Want to go over and speak to Big Abe Rosenstein while I’m in the neighborhood. Much obliged for the milk.
“Oh, I thought of another one.” A.W. had paused on the front threshold. “La Forte from down around Tuscaloosa, Brad La Forte. Too young, ain’t paid his dues, but they say he’s gonna run anyway. Waste of money, if you ask me.”
“Brad? Really?” Charles stood holding the door. “I know him. Good family. I can’t believe he’d want to run, subject himself to all that. . . .” He caught A.W.’s questioning look. “Well, A.W., like you say, he’s too young to know . . . to know the pitfalls like you do.”
A.W. laughed. “I sure as hell know them pitfalls, wouldn’t you say?”
Charles said he sure must by now, then shook hands and stood in the door, watching A.W. walk to his car.
Brad La Forte—if that was true, he’d be a halfway decent candidate. In fact, more than halfway decent—respectable. Probably wasn’t true, probably just another one of those rumors that got started every election year. He would have to ask Reuben if he knew anything about that. Reuben always seemed to know what was going on in political circles. It was because of Reuben’s father—Big Abe Rosenstein.
Maybe once a month, Charles and Reuben would play chess together. Reuben had suggested they meet more often, but Charles could barely squeeze in this time.
They always played at Reuben’s. He couldn’t imagine Reuben coming to his house, with his children and their friends in and out all the time. Reuben would have been completely out of his element, and Reuben hardly ever got out of his element. He had children also, two girls, but they were away at school all winter, and in the summer Charles never seemed to see them, although he knew they must be somewhere around. Maybe off visiting, as Tab and Tina were now.
That evening, he walked to Reuben’s. Charles didn’t live on Hawthorne, but a few blocks away, in an area of smalle
r homes. Hawthorne was lined with stately old Victorians and gas streetlights. Most Bainbridge houses that were older than these had been burned down during the war, when Federal troops rode through looking for Forrest and his band.
Set off from the others, Reuben’s house was enclosed by a stucco wall and wrought-iron gates. Big Abe had wanted Reuben to live in the best part of town, and this had necessitated tearing down a perfectly good house on Hawthorne and replacing it. Reuben’s only other sibling, his younger brother, Stanley, had been killed in a car accident when he had gone up east to live. Everyone assumed that this house was Big Abe’s bid to keep Reuben on home ground.
The older ladies of Bainbridge were seen to purse their lips and shake their heads when they passed the house on Hawthorne. It was perfectly understandable for Big Abe to indulge his son in this way, keeping him home where he belonged, but really—the color, the size.
Cypress trees lined the driveway and led up to a front sidewalk that was paved with hand-painted Spanish tiles. Charles stood before the massive wooden double doors, hesitating to ring the bell; gas lanterns silently flickered on either side. It was cave-quiet even out here on the front porch. The house overwhelmed its small plot of ground, reminding him of something out of Sunset Boulevard. Cream stucco walls were topped with turrets on each corner of the red tile roof. Every time the front door opened, Charles half-expected to see Gloria Swanson or Zorro come dashing out.
He could hear the door chime echoing down the inside hall. Eventually, Reuben appeared, looking completely out of scale to his surroundings. A scrawny gnome with big ears was the first impression. The large dark brown eyes were what there was to see of the outside of Reuben. Apart from that, he was skin stretched over lanky bones, wearing clothes that always seemed too large. He didn’t say anything, just smiled and held the door for Charles to enter, closed it and walked down the hall, a routine they had developed over the years. Inside, there was an ancient knight’s sword hanging in the foyer. Smaller replicas of the outside gaslights wavered as they passed, their footsteps echoing on the floor tiles. Charles could see Big Abe in his mind’s eye, sitting in one of his many theaters, sketching drawings of this house from scenes he had seen in the movies. What Big Abe had hoped would be the talk of the town was, but not in the way he might have imagined.
Charles smiled when he first settled himself in and looked around the den. It was such a man’s room: high-back leather chairs, exposed beams, hunting prints on the wall. There was a deer head mounted over the fireplace. And there was Reuben.
It was general knowledge that Big Abe had built the house and that Reuben hadn’t had much say in what it looked like, or hadn’t cared. Big Abe had also picked out a bride, gone up north to find a good Jewish girl, since there were few to none to choose from in Bainbridge. The house had been a wedding present.
Owning movie houses was a good business, especially if you owned them all over the state of Alabama and a few up in Tennessee, as well. It was understood, although never mentioned in public, that the Rosensteins stood atop the cash-money pyramid in Bainbridge. They were, in fact, the whole pyramid, which must have been disconcerting for Abe, as this gave him no competition. In a town—in a state—almost completely devoid of monetary largesse, other criteria for social acceptance held sway: being long-lived in the town, residing in the right neighborhood. Of course, Big Abe had no way of competing in the first category. Had he lived here even longer than his present forty-year residency, he would still be fresh out of New York. The big house, built for his only surviving son, was his winning entry in the second category. Big Abe himself had chosen to remain completely out of the fray and had acquired large acreage out of town, on the banks of the river. He had built something that would not possibly fit on the lot or lots on Hawthorne Street.
On the other hand, Charles’s family had an ample supply of longevity and right-sided residence, but after the war, from one generation to the next, there had been constant worry about where the next dollar might come from, and in Bainbridge society this had somehow been perverted, to the point of making it downright honorable to be constantly stretching to make ends meet.
Charles got out the chessmen as Reuben lit his pipe. Reuben had never warmed to the task of running movie houses. Charles, Reuben’s mother, his wife, and probably his children all knew that, but not Big Abe. Reuben flipped the match out and puffed several times. “May I ask what you are smiling about?” he said in the high-pitched voice that belonged to his physique.
“Oh, I was just remembering that time we were standing in here having drinks with the fellow visiting you from New York and he asked you if you had shot the deer over the fireplace and had it mounted.”
“Oh yes, and I said, ‘Why would I want to do a thing like that?’”
“You know, that kind of deer isn’t even native to the southeast.”
Reuben turned to look at the glass eyes staring down at him. “Abe ordered it from Montana.” He never said “Dad” or “Father,” always “Abe.” Big, fat, cigar-chomping, loudmouthed Abe had spawned . . . Charles wondered where the genes had come from.
“The thought of killing an animal is revolting.”
“Your go.” Charles studied the board and waited for Reuben to make the next move. “That’s why I never invite you to the fall dove hunts on the farm.” The truth was that Charles never invited Reuben to the fall dove hunts with the rest of his friends because he thought Reuben might accidentally blow an arm off if he ever tried to pick up a shotgun. Not the most coordinated fellow on the planet.
Reuben chewed on his pipe stem and moved his pawn. “I am right in the middle of Lanterns on the Levee. Do you know it?”
“Of course, but why would you bother? You’re not interested in the South.”
This was always the way the evening went, although they never acknowledged it. Usually, the chess game got as far as two moves at the most before they launched into conversation about other things; books or politics, or sometimes Reuben would tell about a trip he had taken with his wife. Charles and his family seldom had the extra money to travel, except to see relatives in neighboring states. They would drift from one subject to the next, never forced or awkward. For the one who didn’t travel, it was a languid trip into other realms; for the one who could, it was a grounding in a sense of place. At least that’s how Charles thought of their friendship. He wasn’t sure what Reuben thought.
After awhile, Bernice would appear with coffee and say hello. Charles would stand, asking after their two girls. Then she would disappear back into the house. Time with Reuben would pass so quickly, Charles was always surprised when he looked down at his watch. “I’m already an hour past the time I told Mary I’d be back,” he said now. He got up and headed toward the door. “By the way, did A.W. come by here to line up your support for the governor’s race?”
“No, he goes straight to Abe for that.” Reuben picked up a book to carry to the door with him. He would turn from the door and begin reading as soon as Charles left. “Did you know Brad La Forte was running?”
“Did you hear that, too?” Charles opened the door to leave.
“I know he is. He called Abe the other day. Of course, Abe says he’s voting for A.W., like everybody else we know. All you old-timers would rather save face than put it on the line, wouldn’t you?” He gave that inquiring smile, raising his eyebrows, pretending it was a valid question.
“Reuben”—Charles paused at the door—“don’t be a smart-ass.”
CHAPTER 20
Reuben: The Early Years
THEY HAD KNOWN EACH OTHER since grade school. Charles remembered first seeing him on the playground at recess. Reuben was lying on the seesaw, pretending to be asleep, while everyone else dashed around, frantic to take full advantage of outdoor playtime. One of the bigger boys had come over and pushed the other end of the seesaw down to the ground with his foot and Reuben had tumbled off on his head. On that occasion and many others, Charles had gone over to help Reuben up.
Even back then, his ears had been too big for his head: his head too large for his body. They were seated next to each other most of their school years: Rosenstein, Rutland.
They had gone to each other’s birthday parties when they were small—at least Charles had gone to Reuben’s. Reuben had been at only one of Charles’s parties. Dressed in a dark suit, he had spent the whole time sitting on the porch steps, holding his present and watching as the other children played in the front yard. He had insisted on holding his gift until he could present it.
It had been a beautiful, very delicate porcelain replica of a sailing ship done up in pastel blues and pinks and grays, imported from England, tiny porcelain flags flying from its masts. Reuben had fidgeted as Charles opened it, twisting his little fingers, pulling his shoulders up almost to the point of blocking his hearing, instructing Charles as to how the present should be unwrapped, explaining that he had picked it out all by himself. His mother had given him permission to go to Roland’s Department Store and use her account.
Charles’s mother gasped when it came out of the box. She had moved immediately to spirit it away from clumsy little fingers, but in the process, one of the children—“Look, Reuben gave a old-lady present”—had touched one of the little porcelain flags and it had broken off.
Reuben had turned ashen. “I . . . I was afraid, afraid of that, afraid of that,” he had said over and over, pulling at his shirt. “Now it’s all ruined.” Later, when cake and ice cream were served, he had said he was not hungry.
Reuben never seemed to be able to mold into acceptable behavior his most heartfelt desires to communicate. The other children immediately sensed this and took advantage. Each time he did something totally inappropriate—the china sailing ship—he became the laughingstock. All of the naturally kind but always awkward gestures were ridiculed by his peers. Others had already learned to erect social fences. He couldn’t seem to. He was brilliant in other ways. He read early and often. He stayed ahead of everyone else in math and science. Most of the time, his teachers would leave him to his own devices: reading during class time. To try to engage him in class discussions would only end in confusion—for the class or for Reuben.
The Summer We Got Saved Page 13
