“What about the diver?”
“Gonna be a Yankee.”
“But he doesn’t know it yet?”
“He don’t know shit, but he’s learning.”
“How’d you do with the house-trailer guy?”
“Manufactured homes they’re called. Got him lined up.”
“You’ve been a busy boy.” Giving him the look again.
They heard the key in the lock as Dennis went off in a flying reverse pike, Robert’s eyes glued to him. Two seconds it took? Maybe two seconds falling sixty miles an hour. Robert turned, raising his arm.
“Hey, Jerry, you just missed the eighty-foot dive, man.” It seemed strange, seeing him with a beard.
Jerry took a cashier’s check from his pocket, laid it on the table and began opening a bottle of red saying, “How do you know it’s eighty feet?”
“I either went up there with a ruler,” Robert said, “or I counted the rungs. Take your pick. You win?”
“Course I won. You think I’d play if I lose?” He said to Anne, “How you doing, sweetheart? You show Robert your outfits?”
“I took a nap while Robert looked at the view.”
“The show,” Robert said, “it’s still on.” It didn’t make sense to him, Anne saying she took a nap, daring Jerry to check the bed for tracks. But that’s the kind she was, liked to fool with being caught. So sure of herself she didn’t see it: if Jerry ever did walk in on them she’d be the one would have to go.
Robert said, “Listen, I’m gonna leave you all. I told Dennis I’d come by his house for a drink. Wants me to check out his landlady. Says she’s fine.” It was for Anne, but she wouldn’t look at him.
Jerry was shaking his head. “You’re crazy, you know it? This whole business.”
“You’re gonna have some fun,” Robert said. “Be like olden times for you.” He finished his wine and started for the door.
Jerry stopped him. “Wait. I want to show you my uniform.”
They were in Charlie’s ten-year-old Cadillac he’d bought used in Memphis, on their way home.
“You did it again,” Dennis said.
“What I said out there? I was making the point of what you have to go through to be a winner.”
“I’ve been diving longer’n eighteen years.”
“They don’t know that. I say eighteen years each, right away it’s like I know what you been through.”
“Charlie, it was all about you.”
“Hey, didn’t me and Diane keep referring to you as the world champ? What do you want? All that getting ’em to applaud? You know what I’ll never understand? That business about you needing absolute quiet, like a pro golfer getting ready to take his shot, or one of those tennis players you see on TV. Somebody in the stands gets up to go take a leak as the guy’s serving—Jesus, he has a fit. You see that in baseball? Hell no. I’m three and oh on a batter in his home park, I’m trying to concentrate so I don’t walk him and the stands are going crazy, banging the seats. How about a batter, full count on him, they’re yelling their heads off and the ball’s coming at him ninety miles an hour.”
“Anything you talk about,” Dennis said, “you turn it around to baseball. You hear what Diane said? Somebody told her I was up on the ladder when Floyd was shot? I saw the whole thing?”
“I missed that.”
“She said it started in some bar and now it’s going around.”
“There you are, bar talk.”
“She couldn’t remember who told her, but thinks it was someone in the sheriff’s office. Like one of the clerks.”
Charlie didn’t say anything.
They got home and went in the house.
Vernice said, “You think I’m terrible, letting you down like that.”
So then Dennis had to tell her no, not at all, no, don’t worry about it—all that, even though he hadn’t thought about her since finding out she wouldn’t be there to call dives. No, what he’d thought about between dives, and waiting on the perch while Charlie gave his baseball talk, was Diane, what she’d heard. Charlie could call it bar talk because he didn’t want to think about it, give it any importance; but he could tell it was on Charlie’s mind. Charlie told Vernice about Diane Corrigan-Cochrane filling in, Diane with her personality, her professional delivery, and all that did was make Vernice act more depressed. Maybe she really was. Dennis felt either way it wouldn’t last.
They went in the kitchen for drinks, Vernice hanging back, telling them from the doorway she was going to catch up on her reading. She said, “I won’t disturb you. I’ll let you talk about the show and Diane Corrigan-Cochrane,” and closed the door between the kitchen and the dining L.
Getting out the Early Times and the ice, Dennis said, “Did somebody see me up on the ladder about that time? Then learn about Floyd on TV and believe I must’ve been there?”
“I told you,” Charlie said, “what I thought, it’s just talk, pure speculation. A clerk in the sheriff’s office hears a couple of smart-ass deputies talking about it.”
“Or Arlen Novis told somebody,” Dennis said, “one of his guys. Or Junebug was bragging about it. Charlie, I’m the one who ought to tell somebody, that CIB guy, John Rau.” He said, “I’m ready to,” not happy with the way he felt, like he couldn’t move because this redneck ex-convict had told him to sit.
Charlie didn’t care for that kind of talk. He said, “Let’s don’t rock the boat.” He said, “Leave sleeping dogs lie.” He said, “Don’t duck if nobody’s throwing at you.” And said, “You know I was never afraid to come inside on a batter. They knew it and you’d see some of ’em at the plate with their butts stuck out, ready to bail.”
By the time they were seated at the table with their drinks, Charlie smoking, Charlie telling Dennis the clubs he was with when he struck out those famous hitters—“With Triple-A Toledo playing Columbus when I got Mattingly”—they didn’t see the door open or look over until they heard Vernice.
“Charlie, there’s somebody to see you.”
Vernice sounding like she didn’t want to move her mouth.
“Yeah? Who is it?”
“Arlen Novis.”
Standing right behind her in his hat. No, a different one. Arlen putting his hands on her hips now to move Vernice out of the way. He came in and she closed the door, staying out of it.
Arlen sat down at the table with them, no one saying a word, sat back in his chair staring at Dennis—Dennis staring back, getting a close look at the hat, one soldiers wore, not cowboys, military from another time, soiled and misshapen, a gold braid turned green around it instead of a band. Arlen said, “I finally got to see you dive. You’re pretty good.”
The man’s eyes holding on him, not letting go.
Dennis stood up, turned to get the Early Times from the counter and placed it on the table. Sitting down again he said, “How would you know if I’m good or not?”
Arlen turned his head to Charlie. “You better introduce us.”
“I know who you are,” Dennis said. “What I don’t understand is why you’re telling people I was on the ladder when you shot Floyd. You make it a funny story? I’m so scared I’m shaking the ladder?”
Arlen seemed surprised. He did. But then gave Dennis his stare and was about to speak when he looked up.
Vernice was in the doorway again.
She said, “Dennis, it’s somebody for you.”
Robert, leaving the highway, turning that shiny S-Type front end toward downtown Tunica—where small-town friendliness was still a way of life—had been thinking about Jerry and his uniform and all the shit that went with it: the boots, the sword, the pair of revolvers, big .36 caliber Navy Colts. He had watched Jerry put the uniform on—cut by his tailor—and pose, the guinea hard-on trying to look like General Grant. The likeness was close, but not all the way there till he put the hat on. Hey, now, with the beard, the beard making it, the motherfucker was U. S. Grant in person.
It was the idea of getting dressed up
that had drawn Jerry into the deal, the man having just enough a sense of humor the idea worked for him. Robert telling him, “Man, you get to wear a uniform, carry a sword.” It might’ve been the sword closed the deal. Jerry saying, “You know, I never used a sword before.” Then maybe thinking about the different weapons he had used, from baseball bats to car bombs. The man even knew things about the Civil War he saw on TV.
School Street.
Robert made the turn and saw he believed two cars in front of the house, coasted up the block and pulled in behind the second car, his headlights telling him it was the ’96 Dodge Stratus back again. Worth five bills at a chop shop.
Hmmmm.
Robert got out of the Jag. Then reached into the back for his attaché case.
10
CHARLIE BELIEVED HE LIKED THE way this game was opening up, seeing Robert as a new pitcher coming in who didn’t have a bad arm. Threw one seventy miles an hour on his third try.
“You know Dennis,” Charlie said, “world champion diver. And that’s Arlen Novis. Arlen was a sheriff’s deputy till he went to prison.” Charlie got Robert seated, facing Arlen across the length of the table, Arlen putting his stare on Robert the whole time. Neither one bothered to reach out to shake hands. Charlie motioned to the briefcase Robert held on his lap. “Can I put that out of the way?”
Robert said no, he’d set it here on the floor.
“Beer, whiskey, a soft drink?”
Robert said the Early Times would do fine and Charlie put ice in a glass for him. They were all set and Charlie said, “Well now . . .”
And Robert said to Arlen Novis in his pleasant way, “I see you’re wearing the authentic Confederate slouch hat. Looks good on you. Like it’s been to war.”
Arlen took the hat by the curled part of the brim and adjusted it to his head, the way men did who wore hats, but didn’t say thank you, didn’t say anything, and Robert kept talking.
“I saw you out by the diving tank yesterday evening? That was a cowboy hat you had on. Out there with that other fella. But you didn’t get to see Dennis perform his dive, did you? I saw it. Did a beautiful flying reverse pike and I gave him a ten.”
Nothing like getting right into it. Charlie raised his glass and was taking a sip of whiskey as Dennis spoke up.
Saying to Robert, “We were just talking about last night. I was asking Arlen here, how come he’s telling people I was on the ladder when he shot Floyd?”
Arlen was staring at Dennis with a look that drew lines in his face and made it appear rigid, like he was having a time holding back. It surprised Charlie Arlen didn’t speak up.
“I asked him,” Dennis said to Robert, “if he told it as a funny story. I’m so scared I’m shaking the ladder.”
Arlen still held back. Cool-headed or confused, wondering what the hell was going on here.
Robert said to Dennis, “Mr. Novis and that little dude, they were the only ones out there?”
“And Charlie.”
“I was in my cage,” Charlie said. He believed Arlen was deciding what to do, and would come out of his chair mean and ugly once he did.
Robert said to Dennis, “Was somebody told you one of ’em is saying that?”
“Somebody who heard it spread the word around and it got to the TV news lady, Diane. She’s the one told me.”
“Reliable source,” Robert said. “So it was either Mr. Novis here telling people you were on the ladder, or the little dude, Junebug. I would tend to think it was the Bug and not Mr. Novis. See, I was out to Junebug’s place. I met him, bought some product off him. He didn’t say nothing about shooting Floyd that I heard, but he seemed like the kind would tend to brag on it.”
Charlie watched him looking straight ahead now at Arlen, frowning a little, like he was curious.
“Were you there, Arlen, at Junebug’s? You weren’t some of them came out to look at my Jag-u-ar, were you?”
Robert, the next moment, was smiling.
“I sure like that hat. I bet there’s nothing farb about you, huh? Am I right? You’d take a hit before you got caught wearing anything wasn’t pure Confederate. And I mean a real hit.” Robert raised his hand toward Arlen’s eyes, stones set in his head. “Listen, I’m not fuckin with you. I mean what I say as a compliment to your integrity. I’m wearing the gray same as you account of I’m Southron going back a ways.” Robert paused and gave Arlen a serious look now. “Did you know there was sixty thousand African Confederates fought for their homeland same as white boys did? But see, nobody wanted ’em at first. I mean either side. The high-ups would say, ‘We don’t think these colored boys will stand and fight. They don’t have the background.’ The what? Over in Africa the motherfuckers are chasing lions naked, with spears—they don’t have the background? You know what I’m saying, Arlen? They warrior stock, all the motherfuckers brought over here.”
Robert sipped his whiskey, put the glass down, and his pleasant expression was back.
“Yeah, for Brice’s Cross Roads I’m gonna be in Forrest’s Escort. I heard you soldier with Mr. Kirkbride in these reenactments. That’s gonna put us close in the field, huh? The field of battle. Listen, I like to show you something, prove my Southron heritage. Also show me and you have a tie to the past.”
Charlie said, “I’m going Yankee this time.”
As Robert reached for his briefcase and made room for it on his lap.
“I think Don Mattingly was the only Yankee I struck out during my career in organized ball.”
Robert was snapping the briefcase open, raising the lid.
“But there weren’t that many Yankees faced me, that I can recall.”
Robert said, “Where is it?” His head bent to look in the case.
They watched him take out a file folder and lay it on the table.
They watched him take out a handful of maps and lay them on the table.
They watched him take out a pistol, a blue-steel automatic, and lay it on the file folder on the table, Robert’s head still bent over the case.
Charlie saw Arlen not moving a muscle staring at the pistol now; Dennis watching the show, Dennis calm about it, not appearing anxious or surprised.
Robert said, “Here it is,” and Charlie watched him bring out a photograph that looked like an old one—turning brown—people on a bridge—and watched him reach to place the photo in the middle of the table, next to the Early Times.
Robert said, “Arlen, you know who that is?”
Arlen hesitated. He leaned over the table for a moment, sat back again and said to Robert, “It looks like a nigger hanging from a bridge.”
“Lynched,” Robert said.
Arlen nodded. “What it looks like.”
“That’s my great-grandfather,” Robert said. He paused to look at the photo, upside down to him on the table. “And you know who that gentleman is wearing the suit of clothes? To the right, up on the bridge?” Robert’s head raised. “That’s your great-grandfather, Arlen.”
Charlie caught Robert’s eyes move to glance at Dennis, Dennis still cool, no expression on his face to speak of, both of them waiting as Arlen reached for the photo and brought it to him.
He said, “That ain’t Bobba.”
“I believe you talking about your grandfather,” Robert said. “This is your great-grandfather, not your Bobba.”
Arlen kept shaking his head.
“Lawrence Novis,” Robert said, “foreman at the Mayflower plantation, Tippah County.” He said to Dennis, “Isn’t that right?”
“According to county records,” Dennis said.
Charlie looked from Dennis back to Robert, Robert saying, “Born in Holly Springs, Marshall County, I believe 1874.”
“’73,” Dennis said.
Arlen, still shaking his head, said, “Uh-unh, that ain’t him. Goddamn it, I was a boy I knew him.”
Robert said, “Listen, Arlen? Listen to me. I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought maybe you already knew your great-granddaddy lynched that man in the pi
cture, my own great-granddaddy, rest his soul. And cut his dick off. Can you imagine a man doing that to another man—even one you gonna lynch? Listen to me, Arlen. Lemme have the photo back before you mess it up.”
Dennis took it out of Arlen’s hands and passed it to Robert, Robert saying, “I wasn’t gonna show you this. Then I found out we’d be soldiering together at the Tunica Muster and I thought to myself, Lookit how our heritage is tied together, going back to our ancestors. Yeah, I’m gonna show him the historical fact of it.”
Arlen pushed up from the table to stand there in his starched shirt, took hold of his hat to reset it down on his eyes and said, “I’m gonna tell you this for the last goddamn time. That is not my fuckin grampa.” He stared hard at Robert saying it, gave Dennis a look, then Charlie. Said to him, “You know what the deal is,” and walked out of the kitchen.
“He still thinks I was talking about Bobba,” Robert said. “I told him no, it’s your great-grandfather . . . asshole. The man doesn’t listen, does he? Got the brain of a chicken and believes whatever’s in his head.”
Robert sat there a moment, then jumped up and was in a hurry now, something on his mind. He laid his case on the chair and ran out of the kitchen.
Dennis and Charlie looked at each other.
Charlie picked up the Early Times and poured himself a good one. He said, “You know where he’s going?”
“I imagine to tell Arlen something.”
“Like what?”
Dennis shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“He’s a talker, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, but it’s always a good story.”
“You believe that’s his grandpa was lynched?”
“His great-grandpa.”
“I’m as bad as Arlen. And that’s his kin up on the bridge?”
“According to Robert.”
“You sounded like you knew about it.”
“Not much.”
Charlie let it go. He looked at the pistol lying on the table and wanted to heft it, but decided he’d better not. He said to Dennis, “Why’s he carry a gun?”
“He heard there’s a lot of crime here.”
Tishomingo Blues Page 9
