Walking Across Egypt

by Clyde Edgerton

  “Oh, nobody did anything.”

  “Did he try to do anything—you know, anything funny?”

  “Oh no, he’s a right nice boy.”

  “Somebody said they had him in jail for rape.”

  “Oh no. No. No. I think all he did was take a car without asking. That’s all. He’s never had anybody much to look out after him. He’s a right nice boy in some ways. Looks right nice, if he could get a little work done on his teeth.”

  “Then you’re okay?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m fine, Carrie. Thank you for calling.” After hanging up, Mattie wondered about taking her phone off the hook but decided against it. She’d heard of people doing that. She knew Elaine did it sometimes. But you ought to keep the line open. Anybody should. Somebody sick might call. If you didn’t want people calling, you ought not to get a phone. Nothing worse than to call Elaine, and get a busy signal, and you know her receiver is laying on the table, off the hook.

  XII

  Mr. O’Brien, the preacher, received a phone call from Clarence Vernon, the head deacon, at 10:15. After Clarence apologized for calling so late, they discussed what to do about Mattie Rigsbee’s involvement with the young criminal.

  “Well, the thing that bothers me,” said Clarence, “is we got the convention coming up and Miss Mattie being a Sunday school officer and heading up the Lottie Moon, if this thing got out and she gets charged with something . . . Then, too, it could affect our membership drive. It’s just a bunch of things all together. Not that I have anything against Miss Mattie—she’s as fine a person as can be. You know what I mean.”

  They agreed to pray about it. Clarence then called Beatrice. They decided that perhaps Beatrice should have a little talk with Mattie, that they were feeling the Lord’s guidance.

  To his fellow inmates Wesley described the girl who, driving an ’84 Camaro, picked him up within two hours of his escape on Friday. She had money. Big money. Friday night they ate flaming food at the Radisson in High Point. Best food he’d ever had. They spent the night there. Best loving he’d ever had. The things she could do. Saturday she wanted to fly to Las Vegas, but he told her he had to meet Blake behind the 7-Eleven in Listre. They waited behind the 7-Eleven and Blake never showed. So they drove back to High Point and spent Saturday night at the Radisson. It was damned hard to believe that he could be so lucky. And she had money. Insisted on buying everything.

  Sunday morning she wanted to go to church of all things—to church!—so he went along but the law was on his trail by this time, the FBI, and he fooled the hell out of them by putting on a choir deal and getting in the choir and then stealing a Cadillac, but they caught him in a chase which wrecked two highway patrol cars and he knew they wouldn’t put that in the newspaper because he outmaneuvered the hell out of them, even in that big old Cadillac, which talked out of the dash and told you if your seat belt won’t fastened.

  Wesley told his story in the RC dining room over a supper of beans and franks, powdered potatoes, canned string beans, white bread, and canned peaches for dessert.

  After lights out, Wesley lay on his back in his upper bunk with his hands behind his head. He stared through a barred window on the opposite wall at an outside floodlight, normally activated by darkness, now malfunctioning, blinking off and on. He thought about Patricia, how she wouldn’t let him do anything hardly, even after he told her he loved her and that she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever known.

  He thought about his grandma. He was, after all, from good blood, tough blood. She could cook better than anybody he’d ever known. He’d never known a piece of pound cake could be so moist and solid and sweet. Those biscuits were light and tasty and that cornbread crisp and hard on the outside, mushy on the inside. She was a magician.

  The light outside blinked out completely. Somebody farted. The light came back on.

  Maybe she would agree to keep him. That lawyer had said that if he could get a respectable relative to sign for him, then . . . He’d ask her on Sunday, if she came to visit, if him and Blake hadn’t already got out by then.

  After Carrie’s call Mattie couldn’t go to sleep. She kept seeing the weekend as some kind of odd movie in her head. There was the church, the warm, waiting church with Wesley in it. She had counted on it changing him somehow. It was such a warm, welcoming place, so homelike; but Wesley had just sort of flitted through with the deputies after him, got stuck in the choir. It hadn’t had time to do anything to him. It hadn’t taken. But she shouldn’t expect so much in so little time. He needed to go several times. If she could just get him out of the RC on Sundays and into the church, and do that for about three months, then maybe it would take.

  She pulled the short chain on the headboard lamp, sat on the side of the bed, reached for her housecoat, then sweater, put them on, pushed her feet into her slippers, stood and walked to the kitchen, turning on the bedroom light so she could see in the hall, the hall light so she could see in the kitchen. In the almost-dark kitchen, she got a biscuit from the bread pan, broke it in half, put one halfback, and put the lid on the pan. She opened the refrigerator to its bright light and hum, got out the quart carton of milk and poured half a glass. She remembered when they changed the spout on the milk cartons. The spout had been simple; you pulled open a little hole and poured your milk. Then they’d changed it so you had to to do all that work. The first time she used the new spout she had the hardest time getting it open; then when she did, she used the same angle—for distance—she would have used with the old-style spout and the milk poured right over the top of the glass onto the table. She thought of that so often. Robert remembered and mentioned it sometimes. When it happened—so long ago—he’d laughed and laughed.

  Mattie remembered how she fixed raw eggs and chocolate milk for Robert, Elaine, and Paul. One raw egg a day for each of them, beat up in a glass of chocolate milk. Paul had complained as much as the children—but it put some color in their cheeks and made them feel better whether they believed it or not.

  She ate the half biscuit and drank the milk. She remembered how Paul would get up, walk to the kitchen, eat a piece of cheese and a piece of pound cake, drink a half glass of milk—only a half glass to keep him from having to get up later in the night to go to the bathroom; but he’d have to get up anyway. He might as well have had a full glass. And he always woke her up when he got up. She’d get mad about that but never told him of course, and then she’d started having to get up once a night herself. Sometimes lately she didn’t miss him from the couch or from the kitchen table. But in the bed, his absence was always there.

  She took the last bite of biscuit, the last swallow of milk, stood, swept the crumbs into her hand, put them into the bird bowl, rinsed the glass, set it in the sink, and went to bed.

  On Monday morning at ten, Sheriff Tillman came by—holding a clipboard and a pad—to see Mattie. He needed to ask a few questions. While he asked questions, he and Mattie sat at the kitchen table with cups of coffee. He wrote down what Mattie said.

  Mattie said she got to know Wesley through the dog-catcher who cut her out of her rocking chair, she didn’t know anything about how he escaped, she did visit him because she realized he was somebody she could help, one of the least of these my brethren, and the reason she hadn’t pointed Wesley out was because the choir was too far away for her to see who was up there.

  “The choir?”

  “Oh me.”

  “He was in the choir when we were at the church?”

  “Well, I don’t rightly know. That’s the rumor. But it don’t seem to make much difference now.”

  “I’ll check that out. One other thing,” said the sheriff, writing. “Why do you think he came back here after he stole the car?”

  “Pound cake, I imagine. He knew that’s what I usually have and he likes it. Oh yes, it might have had something to do with the fact that he thinks I’m his grandma.”

  Sheriff Tillman looked up. “You’re not, are you?”

  Mattie looked
at the sheriff over the rim of her coffee cup. “Oh no. I don’t suppose so.”

  “Where’d he get that idea?”

  “‘Cause I went to visit him; and I’m certainly old enough. He just put all that together. I think he has a lively imagination.”

  “Did you tell him you won’t his grandma?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Did you tell him you was.”

  “Sort of, I guess.”

  “You probably ought to tell him you ain’t, next time you see him.”

  “I guess so.”

  “He told me you was.” The sheriff stood with the clipboard in his hand, stuck his pen in his shirt pocket. “Well, I think that’ll do it, Mrs. Rigsbee. You obviously aren’t involved in this in any direct way. I didn’t think you would be, but this is my job; got to have it all down on paper, you know.”

  “I know. You’re supposed to ask questions. I’m glad I got to meet you. I see your picture in the paper every once in a while. Do you have any children?”

  “Oh, yeah, three. They keep me busy.” He stepped out on the back step. “You take it easy now.”

  “Okay. Come back when you can stay awhile.”

  In the kitchen, Mattie poured cookie crumbs from the cookie jar into the bird bowl with the biscuit crumbs from the night before. Three children. She crumbled up the biscuit half she hadn’t eaten, put that in, and walked to the back door. There came Alora across the backyard, looking worried. Mattie stood on the step and scattered the crumbs, spoke to Alora. Alora followed her into the house.

  “What did the sheriff want?” asked Alora.

  “He just had a few questions. How long I’d known Wesley and so forth, if I knew how he escaped.”

  “Did you know?”

  “No, I didn’t. Wesley told me he was on leave.”

  “I declare it’s upset me terrible. I’ve started sleeping with my gun now.”

  “Sleeping with it? Under the pillow?”

  “Yes. Don’t tell that boy, if you go back out there to see him.”

  “No, no, I wouldn’t tell him that, but I don’t think he would harm a flea.”

  “He’s a thief. There’s nothing worse than a thief. You just don’t know what a thief will do. I probably shouldn’t have told you about sleeping with the gun.”

  “I won’t tell him. You want a cup of coffee?”

  “It could slip out though. And he might want a gun and break in and try to steal it. No, I don’t want any coffee. I got to get on back. Don’t tell Finner either.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “That I got a gun under my pillow.”

  “He don’t know?”

  “He thinks one is enough, but I don’t feel safe with one under just his pillow. Mr. Lowry gave a talk Wednesday night at prayer meeting about secular humanists. He said they were all over the place.”

  “What are they, anyway? I keep reading about them.”

  “Well, they do all these secular things for one thing and you just don’t know when one’s liable to break in your bedroom and start doing some of it.”

  “I just read something about one the other day somewhere,” said Mattie. “I’m not going to worry about them. You sure you don’t want a cup of coffee?” Mattie needed to start getting things ready for the yard sale on Saturday. She wished Alora would go on back. A little bit each day, putting stuff in piles, and she’d be all ready by Saturday.

  “No, I got to get on back and do some cleaning.”

  “I got to get stuff ready for the yard sale Saturday. Pearl is going to have it, and me and whoever else. I’m going to try to clear out all the stuff I don’t need. You got anything you want to sell, you can join us.”

  “Where’s it going to be?”

  “In Pearl’s yard—more traffic by there.”

  “Let’s see, I got a floor lamp I want to get rid of—that Mexican rifle with a lightbulb in the end of the barrel, and a great big shade. I’m so tired of it I don’t know what to do. Finner has had it for forty years. Bought it in Mexico. The thing is, with all those little bolts and stuff it collects dust and I’m tired of dusting it. You dust a rifle lamp for forty years, you get tired of it.”

  I’ll have to worry over it and bring her back the money, thought Mattie. “Why don’t you get up a bunch of things and go with us? I’m going to call Lamar, the dogcatcher, to pick up my stuff in his pickup; he could swing by and get you and your stuff, too.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think about it. I’ll bring the lamp over anyway. You might be able to sell it.”

  “Don’t you want a bite to eat?” I declare, she’s going to sit right here through my dinner, thought Mattie.

  “Oh, no, I got to get on back. I got a lot to do this morning. I’m sorry about the sheriff having to come and all that,” said Alora, leaving. “I’ll give you a call if I decide to do the yard sale.”

  “Okay, just let me know.” Mattie walked over and looked in the refrigerator. Maybe she’d just fix a sandwich. She had that pimiento cheese. She could eat by 12:30 and have thirty minutes to do a little survey, decide what she wanted to take to the yard sale. She could do that before her program came on.

  She warmed string beans and made a cucumber sandwich instead of pimiento cheese.

  At 12:30 she went into Robert’s room. Those encyclopedias could go. Somebody might want them. But they were so old. Late forties, and Elaine carried the W to school and lost it. But coming right before XYZ, maybe nobody would notice. If they did, she’d give them a dollar off.

  The desk. The little desk she and Paul gave Robert for his seventh birthday. She knew what was in each drawer: bottom left, arrowheads; middle left, Instamatic camera which didn’t work, one of two he owned—she’d been after him for a least twenty years to fix one of them. Top left, pictures of Robert and Bobby Larkin and all the Larkin dogs; top middle, binoculars, marionette head, a ruler, pencils; top right, three baseballs and a leather wallet with a tractor-trailer truck carved into it, made by a prisoner; middle right, his Boy Scout hunting knife, three compasses and the other broken Instamatic camera; bottom right, a baseball signed by all the Durham Bulls, two Indian headbands, and a sailor cap.

  She wouldn’t take the desk. It would be so nice for a grandson or granddaughter who would be happy to have all those things in the drawers to look at, to get Robert to remember and tell about. She wished she had things from her childhood to talk about, but of course she hadn’t had anything much, and went to work when she was thirteen. She’d never had toys except what her daddy made. And several dolls, except once after a revival her mother had made her and Pearl throw away all their dolls and books.

  She would take one of those Instamatic cameras and sell it for a dollar.

  And there were those other books. Those Spanish books she’d bought Robert after he made a D. A grandson or granddaughter could certainly use those. They were nice little books, but Robert had never used them. And in the cigar box: medals and certificates of achievement. If Robert had a son or daughter they’d appreciate all of that. If she gave the cigar box to Robert he’d lose it or throw it away and then if he ever had a child he’d wish he’d kept it. He could easily have a child—as long as he married somebody younger than himself.

  But he’d better hurry; she’d just read somewhere that sperm from a man over forty-four started losing its freshness. She’d been reading so much about sperm lately. Used to be you didn’t read the first thing about sperm, but it had got so you read about it in Reader’s Digest even. It used to be you could count on them to keep out that kind of thing.

  She’d better go see what time it was. It was almost time for her program.

  While Mattie was cleaning her dishes after “All My Children,” she heard a truck drive up. It was Lamar. Good. They could talk about what all happened yesterday. She watched him take a windowpane out to Finner and Alora’s garage and put it in, walk back to the truck and get some papers from his front seat. He came in, said he had only a minute, that he was just
passing by and had all these legal guardian papers that some caseworker had sent him a few months ago and that there was no way he could take on Wesley, he didn’t have room, but he was just wondering . . . the thought struck him that maybe Mattie could take on Wesley—legal guardian. She had right much room; all she’d have to do is sign the papers and if that Mr. Odum didn’t press charges, they’d probably let him out early. Wesley could get a job, rent a room from her, and it would be a little extra income for her. “You want to look the papers over?”

  “Lord have mercy. I can’t keep somebody here. No sir. It does get lonesome, you know, but you get used to living by yourself. And I’m slowing down. I couldn’t keep somebody here.”

  “I don’t blame you, but this caseworker keeps sending stuff, and I didn’t know. You can just keep it and look at it.”

  “Well, I ain’t even able to keep a dog with all there is to do around here. Let me ask you something before you go. We’re going to have a yard sale Saturday, me and Pearl and one or two more, and if you’re going to be running around in your truck—it’s going to be over at Pearl’s, and do you reckon you might pick up a few things from here? I probably won’t be able to get it all in my car. I’m aiming to get rid of a lot of stuff and if there are some things you want—I’m getting rid of some of Paul’s things—you can have them.”

  “Paul?”

  “My husband. He died four, no five years ago. Four? No, I guess it was five, and I still got some of his things.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do it.” Lamar thought of shoes, wing tips; he needed wing tips. “What size shoes did he wear?”

  “Shoes? Ten, I think. Let’s go see.”

  Later that afternoon, Mattie was cutting the grass in her backyard on the bank which descended down to a woods path. The bank was steep. She used to do the whole yard in one day, but had given up on that. She was thinking about how if Wesley lived with her, he could do the grass and she wouldn’t have to worry about it; but he wouldn’t trim, for sure. You couldn’t get anybody who would trim. She’d tried several boys, but they all did an awful job. It took her half a day to go around behind them trimming. She might as well do it all herself. She enjoyed the exercise. She ought to do her own grass.