by Stan Hayes
“Knew you’d understand, pal. Well, I’m gone, then. Keep th’ rubber side down.”
“Fly Navy, shitbird.”
A car-horn staccato jerked Moses’ head up, letting the sweat that had been falling harmlessly onto the keg of Carling Black Label that he was tapping roll into his eyes. Squinting, he saw Roberta Webster’s Dodge convertible bounce through the gate, which had been left open for the party. “Look who’s here,” he called up to Jack and Terry, who had just brought down some folding chairs from the barn. Answering the Websters’ wave with a swipe of his forearm across his eyes, he got beer flowing through the tap before walking up the slope to greet the new arrivals, who had parked in the big temporary space along the fence set off by yellow police crime-scene tape that City Council Chairman David Browne had requisitioned. “Hey, folks. ’Preeshate y’all coming early so you could help us get set up.”
“What the hell’re you talkin’ about, early?” said Webster. “You said high noon!”
“I did? You’re sure I didn’t say I’d be high by noon?”
“Well, we’re here, whatever it was you said, Mister High Roller, an’ I fer one hope ya’ll don’t run outa whatever it is that got you high by noon,” said Roberta as she and Webster advanced down the slope toward him. “Hey, sweetie,” she said as the three of them collided and merged in a group hug. Marriage appeared to be agreeing with them, most visibly with Roberta, whose streaky blond hair parted around ruddy cheeks that had broadened somewhat since the wedding. “You asked us early a’purpose, didn’cha? I know about th’ two a’ y’all. But I cain’t hold it agin ya, ’cause I know how loveable ’is damn ole bawey is. Whatchoo want us ta do faya, honey?”
“Oh, how ’bout sittin’down here and le’s swap some bullshit before th’ great unwashed show up? This big box’s fulla Red Cap, or wouldja rather have a draft’r sump’m else?”
“ ’At fresh draft’ll be fine for me, big boy,” she said as they settled onto the lawn chairs’ interlaced pastel plastic straps. Nodding toward the trickle of Atlanta Crackers game announcer Hank Morgan’s voice out of the battered Zenith Transoceanic, she asked, “Who’re they playin’?”
“Th’ Chicks,” said Webster. “Double-header.”
“I figured no matter how outa control this party may get,” said Moses, “We’ll hold on to a little reality with th’ Crackers.”
“We’ll get some goddam tan sittin’ out here,” said Webster. “Glad you got these funeral tents to duck under.” Indicating the nearest midnight blue tent, which like the others was open on all sides, the name HARRISON emblazoned in white lettering on the four short flaps that ran around the bottom of its pyramidic outline, he asked, “Who’s handlin’ the barbeque?”
“Rollie- a friend of Ralph’s. Smells good, huh? Put that ol’ pig in th’ ground yesterday afternoon. We been sittin’ here all night with ’im, off and on.”
“Well, you don’t look too bad, bein’ up all niit,” said Robbie.
“Oh, I took a nap around four, and got back up around sunup. Even fished a little bit; caught a coupla cat for anybody that prefers ’em to that fine swine over there.”
“Hey,” said Roberta. Talkin’about catfish. J’you hear th’ one about th’ woman shoppin’ for a fishin’ pole?”
“Umm-um.”
“A woman goes into a sportin’ goods store to buy a rod and reel for her husband’s birthday. She don’t know which one to get so she just picks one up and walks over to th’ counter. This man in sunglasses is standin’ behind th’ counter. She says, ‘’Scuse me. can you tell me anythang about this here rod and reel?’ He says, ‘I'm completely blind, ma'am, but if you'll put it on the counter I can tell you everything you need to know about it from the sound it makes when you set it down.’ She didn't believe ’im, but she set it on the counter anyway. He says, ‘ ’Atair’s a Shakespeare Wonderod, with a President reel loaded with 10-pound test line. It's a good all around rig, and it's on sale this week for only $10.00." She says, ‘That's amazin’. You can tell all that just by the sound of it hittin’ th’ counter? I'll take it.’ She goes t’open her pocketbook and money falls out on th’ floor. She bends down to pick it up, and passes gas. She’s embarrassed, but then she realizes there’s no way a blind man could tell it was her. The man rings up the sale and says, ‘That'll be $16.50, please.’ The woman says, ‘Didn't you tell me it was on special for $10.00? How did you get $16.50?’ The blind man says ‘Yes ma'am, th’ rod and reel’s $10.00, but the duck call’s $5.00 and the catfish bait’s a dollar and a half.”
Their hooting trailed off as Moses looked up the hill once more. Serena had pulled her Hudson Hornet convertible into the driveway, stopping for the briefest of exchanges with one of the two off-duty Bisque police officers hired for the occasion, then pulling it up in the carport behind Jack’s car. “The minons are much in evidence today, my liege,” observed Webster.
“Yea, verily, they burgeon thus,” said Moses; “and more there be behind yon mullions.”
“What in th’ hail ’re y’all talkin’ about now?” grumbled Roberta.
Flipping a casual wave their way, Serena took a large box from the back seat and headed into the house. “That’s some boat,” said Webster. “Wonder what she’d take for it?”
“Wouldn’t hurt to ask ’er,” said Moses. “Buster gave her th’ deal of a lifetime on it last year, after he’d carried it as a demonstrator so long the bank was callin’ ’im about it once a week. She needed a new car; th’ wheels’d just about gone square on that damn old wagon of hers. She said she took it off his hands because she could get more in th’ trunk than she could in th’ old wagon, but that th’ red paint job was way too flashy for her. Probably be just about right for you; you could put ‘R&B Lee’ on th’ sides ’n write it off as a business expense.”
“Hell, I wouldn’t do that; that damn car’s a classic in th’ makin’. With Nash and Hudson mergin’, that’ll be one of the very few real Hudson Hornet convertibles ever made. Hell, it could be the last.”
“At least it’d shake you loose from ’at damn Searsmobile,” laughed Roberta.
“Unh-unh, baby. I can’t part with ’er. I’m pullin’ th’ trunk lid offa that lil’ darlin’, paintin’ ’er pink and parkin’ ’er in th’ back yard for a planter. Couldja handle a trunkloada pansies every spring?”
“How’d you get drunk so fast? You know ain’t no picea shit liike ’at goin’ in my back yard.”
Webster laughed himself into a coughing spasm. “You know, darlin’,” he wheezed, “sometimes you’re just too easy.”
Serena walked toward them, gently agitating a large Bloody Mary in a stemmed glass as she approached on bare feet. Her white sleeveless top scooped low in both front and back, extending an inch or so below the top of mid-thigh length aqua shorts. “Hi, sweetie,” said Moses. “Hang on a minute; I’ll get you a chair.”
Webster, anticipating him, was already on his feet. “Stay where you are; you’ve been up all night. Hey, Ríni.”
“Hey, Lee. Don’t worry about that chair right now. I just came down to see if anybody’d like one of these.” She raised her glass an inch or so. “Very few people have Mose’s knack with a Bloody Mary, and I found a gallon jug of ’em in the fridge. You made ’em, didn’t you?” she asked as she looked at Moses.
“Indeed I did, Madam; primarily with you in mind. You’re here a little early, or I’da had ’em in a pitcher.”
“There’s a lot of stuff that hasn’t been put out yet,” said Serena. “Terry and Jack’re just foolin’ around up there. You need those two folded-up school tables in the carport down here somewhere, doncha?”
“Damn sure do. Hey, Jack!”
“He’s not gonna hear you from here; they’re way up in the back. I’ll go roust ’em out.”
“Waydaminit, Ríni,” said Roberta, getting to her feet. “II think II’ll take y’up on one a’them Bloody Marys.”
“Well, Webster,” said Moses as they watched the w
omen walk back toward the house, “Life appears to be treatin’ you pretty well.”
The chubby broadcaster smiled, pulling a shiny blue bandana from his hip pocket and swabbing his brow and dewlaps. “You could say that,” he conceded. “I miss our seminars down at Ribeye’s, though.”
“Me, too,” said Moses, having begun his solitary mourning of their friendship’s impending end some time ago. “Most of what I learned about this burg was from them.”
“Not sure what I learned the most about,” said Webster; “probably a dead heat between how to piss off the natives or put th’ fear of God into ’em.”
Moses laughed uproariously. “God? Moi? I’d be the last one in town to do that!”
“Yeah, better edit that copy. Let’s just say that you showed a lot of ’em what their limitations are.”
“Funny how things turn out, hunh? If Walton hadn’t been ready to turn the Ritz loose, I woulda been headed on down U.S. 1 before I had the chance to do hardly any enlightenin’ at all, or to get any myself.”
“Well, buddy, we’d all’ve been the worse for that. Lemme tell you sump’m that’s long overdue. ’Til you showed up, I didn’t have a friend in this friggin’ town.”
“And you were definitely my first. Look what’s happened now; you’re an old married gent, and I’m still pitchin’ cards in a hat.”
“All I can say to that is, ‘some cards, some hat.’ You know damn well most people around here’d swap lives with you in a heartbeat.”
“Based on what they know,” said Moses with a brief wry grin. “Let’s top up these beers and check on th’ pig.” Moses slung an arm over Webster’s round shoulders as they walked toward the barbeque tent, quart-size paper cups sloshing onto the parched grass. Of all th’ Bisquites I’ll miss, he thought, you’ll be at the head of the line, ya friggin’ gasbag.
Webster lost his footing and stumbled against Moses. “Damn, you do need a caretaker.”
Webster laughed. “But she’d probably say ‘keeper’. Oh shit! Speakin’ of that, I forgot to tell you. Your old playmate Lindall’s gettin’ out of Reidsville next week.”
“Really? Seems like just yesterday he went in. Got paroled, did he?”
“Yep. Hey, there,” Webster said to the tall Negro who turned to face them as they stepped under the tent that covered the barbeque pit.
“Y’all ready fo’ a lil’ sample?” the man asked as he stuck a twin-tined fork into the pig’s hindquarters. He pulled a chunk loose and put it onto a paper plate.
“Thanks, Rollie; looks great,” said Moses. They stood at the corner of the tent, chewing tender pork.
“Lindall. I hadn’t heard. Your grapevine’s always been better than mine. Wonder what he’ll do to keep busy.”
“You mean aside from shootin’ you’n Lord’s asses off? I can’t imagine.”
“Then he is truly certifiable.”
“Bingo!”
“What I mean is, parolees can’t leave the state, can they? So long-haul truckin’s not gonna be an option. And that cute little thing he used to be married to’s not around any more, so he had to depend on somebody around here to give ’im a job.”
“Don’t know about that,” said Webster. “Last I heard, his pissant nephew was drivin’ one a’ Jernigan’s ready-mix concrete trucks. Maybe he’ll try to get ’im on there.” What he saw as he looked up toward the gate made him grin. “But here comes somebody who might shed some light on the situation.”
An officer waved a steady stream of new arrivals, which included the Bishop twins’ Buick, into parking spaces. As the white car slid into its berth, Moses, already in mental retreat, took a physical step back as Maxine Jackson and Sadie Lindall alighted from the rear compartment. Maxine, first out, turned and took a large box from Sadie, setting it on the front fender. “Oh, shit!” he breathed. “What th’ hell d’you suppose’s in that box?”
As they opened the box, Charlie and Walt Jefferson, two-up on Charlie’s Indian Warrior TT, pulled to a stop, interposing themselves between the tent and the car. One of the twins reached over Maxine’s shoulder and pulled a flag, mounted on a stick that appeared to be something over a foot long, out of the box. They could easily make out the flag’s stars and bars, even at a distance of more than a hundred feet. She gave the flag to Walt, who waved it above his head as Charlie u-turned the bike back up the hill. “That’s th’ new state flag,” said Webster. “First time I’ve seen one; th’ Legislature just passed on it a few weeks back. Looks like they’ve got a bunch of ’em,” he said as more people ran to the car to take flags from the women and give them drinks in exchange. Moses now saw that they were dressed identically, in blue short shorts and stars and bars tops of red, white and blue, both in the shiniest-possible satin. In a very few minutes, Rancho Notorious was studded by the new flags, which combined the Confederate battle flag and the Georgia state seal. “If that’s not tellin’ th’ Supreme Court where to stick Brown vs. Board of Education, I don’t know what is.”
“Somehow it’s nicer when you do it with tits,” observed Moses.
The hard-core partiers, including Nelson Lord, the Jefferson brothers and the “flag ladies,” had floated a keg of beer out into the pond, setting up a branch party on the raft. Everyone else was full of barbecue and gone by a little after four. The heat of the day had eased off sufficiently to allow Moses and Serena to sit at the water’s edge in chaise lounge versions of the pastel-slatted lawn furniture and observe what Serena insisted on calling “the high jinks.”
“Glad my folks shoved off before they started strip diving,” she said.
“They all seemed to have a good time,” said Moses. “Buster even mounted two of th’ new flags on his car.”
“Seemed to have,” Serena agreed. “I’m amazed Cordelia didn’t stay for th’ strip diving contest. By the way.”
“What?”
“How many of those flag bimbos’ve you screwed, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Realizing that Serena was drunker than he thought, Moses pursed his lips in mock thought before answering. “Not many.”
“Well, well,” she said. “What a lot we have to celebrate on this Independence Day. A nice new state flag, the bomb plant’s all finished and my lover’s left a town slut or two unsullied. Happy fuckin’ fourth, sailor.”
“And the same to you, madam. What’s this about th’ bomb plant?”
“Sheriff Wahoo had an indiscreet moment this afternoon while Little Evvie went pee-pee. Said they were finally finished over there. J’you ever do her?”
“What?”
She said it again, as she might have to a child, a word at a time. “Did-you-ever-do-Evvie?”
He blew out his cheeks. “Hell, no. She’s an employee. Or was, anyway. What th’ hell does Wahoo know about th’ bomb plant?”
“Apparently the Feds brief the local lawmen now and then. And apparently he thinks it impresses me to know it.”
“What a guy. All that knowledge and a Purple Heart too.”
“He can big-deal it all he wants,” she said, “as long as his people and the police do their job and help us get outa here if the Russians decide they’re gonna bomb the goddamn thing. I’m not interested in a Purple Heart of my own.”
“If they do decide to bomb the joint,” said Moses, “we probably won’t get enough notice to make any difference. And they’ll use enough planes to make sure they get the job done. That’s a big damn area they’ll have to cover, and I expect Bisque’d be likely to get some of the overflow.”
“Wahoo said they’ve had as many as forty thousand people working there.”
“He’us just full of information, wadn’t he? If any of these security spooks that’re hauntin’ the area got wind of that big mouth, we’d like as not have us a new Sheriff overnight.”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, struggling a bit to get to her feet.
“Sit still,” said Moses. “I’ll top you up.”
“You stay where you are,” sh
e said, “and keep score.” By the time Moses had concluded that at least some of the strip divers, having stayed in the water and moved to the far side of the raft, had become strip fuckers, she was back, with sandwiches and the Bloody Mary jug, which was seriously depleted. She had also changed into a pair of jeans.
“Just when I was countin’ on lookin’ at those fine legs of yours,” he said, reaching for a sandwich.
“I was countin’ on something more than that,” she said. “Remember the time when we talked about having sex at a picnic?”
“Yes. Yes I do. Those your trick jeans?”
“Right you are. Don’t see why a bunch of flag bimbos should have all the fun. At least we’ll be doin’ it on dry land.”
We got to the field just after five. The heat of the day still hung on. Mose had almost finished preflighting the airplane when Mom and I pulled up to the hangar. He looked at us around the F3F’s big round cowl and waved, flashing a fleeting conspirator’s smile. “Paul,” already sitting in the front seat squinting at a chart, twisted his head around quickly, and, recognizing us, flicked a quick wave too.
“Got everything?” I asked as we walked up to him. It seemed like the only thing left to say.
“All set,” he responded briskly, just as though fishing was all he had on his mind. I looked along the length of the airplane, loving as always its curious combination of sleekness and bulk, its fragile struts and barrel-like fuselage, the scarlet tail and bright yellow wings. The old warrior ready for its last mission.
Pulling on his flight jacket, Mose joined us at the port wingtip. His gray eyes skipped from mine to Mom’s. “Wish you were going with us.”
“Now that would be a fine kettle of fish,” Mom said. They looked steadily at each other for a heartbeat; then Mose grabbed us both in a fierce hug.
“See you Monday,” he said, letting us go and immediately turning to put his foot on the cockpit step. “Grab the fire bottle for me, Jack?”
