The dock boss smiled at the big man and stretched out an arm, gesturing toward the truck. The big man turned his head to look directly in Bernard’s direction, his expression haughty but impassive. Bernard would remember that moment the rest of his life. Their eyes met and a shiver went through him, though not the cold kind. It was a hot, volcanic rush of blood. The big man pointed at him with his crop and circled it in the air, meaning get out of that truck, boy, get up here, and let me look at you.
Bernard’s heart pounded, his ears throbbed. He got out of the truck then helped Bald Horace out of its bed as a stalling tactic. He needed time to calm himself. The two friends jogged double-time through the mud and up the steps to the veranda. Bernard felt as if everything was happening in slow motion. Every sound was magnified from the squish of their shoes in the mud to the clap, clap, clap they made hitting the stairs. He could hear every drop of rain hit the ground. He could hear Bald Horace breathe.
They stood behind the King of Prussia man with their heads down. The big man said, I hear you got an unusual name. Let me hear you tell it.
Somewhere in his pounding heart, Bernard knew who the big man was. He couldn’t say why. His scalp didn’t creep. But he was as certain of the other’s identity as he was of his own and so he told his name straight out, without the bowing and mimicry, told it with his eyes squinting against the light of the chandelier under which the other Bernard Levy, his name-twin, stood. Then he made a study of the man before him, a closer study than he’d made from the truck, one which took the measure of the other’s character, or at least as much as he could discern. He saw the mark of cruelty in the set of the big man’s jaw, the proud heart behind the steel gray eyes, the sensualist in the glossy lips, greed in the soft belly and thighs. He was handsome, alright, but his beauty had a spiteful core that frightened rather than seduced, at least that was the conclusion Bernard came to on that wet afternoon on the veranda of Ghost Tree Plantation as he obediently uttered his name.
Bernard Levy, sir, he said. The other did not laugh but snorted and smirked and proceeded to ignore him as if he were an object rather than a human being.
Quite a find you’ve made, Carter, the big man said to the boss. My wife will say you’ve found the mirror of my soul. Let’s keep him around for good luck. If the angel of death comes looking for me, it’s this ugly pup we’ll throw to the old fellow, eh? Now, who’s this blackie behind him?
A man named . . . ah . . . dang, I forget.
Bald Horace, Bald Horace offered helpfully.
Bald Horace, yes, thank you. He’s t’other’s man.
The two exchanged a look of unveiled mockery. His man? Bernard Levy the handsome repeated. His man. Well, then I guess he can stay, too. Looks strong enough. Put them up in the barn or the barracks, wherever there’s room, and we’ll assign them jobs after supper. Come back up the house after. I want to talk to you.
Carter took Bernard and Bald Horace over to the barn where a horse stall stood empty. He gave them dry blankets.
We’ll find you better beds oncet we know if you’ll be workin’ on the land or on the house. The house workers’re mostly eye-talian. We’re up to the finish work now. They’re layin’ tile and carvin’ gewgaws into the wood. My, but they’re good at that. They’re good at brick layin’, too. We got ’em in here when we laid the foundation, and they just stayed. Now, the land workers, well, they’d be mostly niggers. You’re a lucky boy, he said to Bald Horace, to land here. Plenty of your people goin’ beggin’ since the rains got bad. Lookie over there next to that first barrack, that’s the canteen. Supper’s in another hour. You go on over there and eat your fill, tell ’em Carter sent you if anyone asks. After supper, I’ll come back here and let you know what the big man’s decided to do with you. We pay by the job here, so I can’t tell you your wages ’til I know what you’re doin’. Payday’s every other Saturday. Just so you know.
They smiled and shuffled as they were expected to do but after Carter left, Bald Horace whistled and hugged Bernard and clapped him on the back.
Sweet Jesus, look at this. A dry spot to lay our heads, hot food, and steady work. How long’s it been, Bernard?
I couldn’t say.
Bald Horace walked up and down the barn aisle, marveling at the construction of the place. The aisle was brick, the walls cement, the stalls of the sturdiest wood with iron bars on hinges for windows. The horses in their stalls were quiet and in good flesh. The tack room was immaculate. There was another whole room devoted to carriages, some vehicles made for stylish travel, and others for hauling whatever needed it. The trappings were lush, of the best leather and shining brass.
Must be a dozen men workin’ in here to keep her up like this. Where are they all now, I wonder? Takin’ a nap? Bald Horace giggled at his own joke. My, oh my, I do believe we landed in the lap of paradise.
Bernard was not so sure. Everything looked fine around him, he could agree to that, but he sensed there was something else going on, something on the rain-soaked horizon, a thing all the hot food, good work, and dry beds in the world would not be worth. He studied his friend, his beloved’s brother, a man who had suffered as much as he had in the last year, who carried around a black skin in an unfriendly world the same way he carried homeliness. Bald Horace had wrapped himself up in his blanket and lay down to test the comfort of the stall floor, which was covered in wood shavings five inches deep. His eyes were shut. He was smiling, and a heartbeat later he was snoring. Bernard thought, Bald Horace is happy. He sighed, weighing that happiness against his own anxiety.
A breeze came up and a scent wafted through the barn like perfume. The aroma of rice came from the canteen where supper cooked. Bernard wrinkled his nub of a nose and inhaled the scent more deeply. Yes, rice and beans, for sure, maybe a bit of collard and cracklin’ throughout. Oh Lord, maybe even giblets. His mouth watered as if dirty rice and beans were the feast of kings. Alright, he thought, alright. We’ll stay here awhile. We’ll put a little meat on our bones and fatten up our purse.
He lay down opposite Bald Horace and tried to catch some sleep before supper and whatever work detail might follow, but the unease he’d felt stayed with him and he remained awake.
XII
Littlefield, Tennessee, 1962
WHEN MICKEY MOE OPENED THE door to the house next to the junkyard, Laura Anne just about jumped out of her skin and the car both. She had her hand on the door handle ready to swing it open when J. Henry said, Ho, now, miss, be careful. We’re still movin’.
It took centuries for the car to roll to a stop. She feared she’d faint from hyperventilation. And then she was in her lover’s arms. He held her close. She let out a little cry of relief. Oh baby, he said. It’s alright. You’re here now. He kissed her like there was no one else there. Then he moved her aside. She staggered a couple steps, turned around to see what it was distracted him. Mickey Moe had his hands up against the car’s rear window, which he stared into drop-jawed.
Who is that? he said, gesturing toward the man collapsed over the seat. He nodded at her driver. I know you must be J. Henry, and how do you do. But who’s that?
They told him what they knew, which wasn’t much. Mickey Moe opened the car’s door and leaning in, tried to rouse the man, who groaned once or twice but remained immobile with his eyes shut. With considerable effort, he and J. Henry managed to get the dead weight of him into the house.
The mechanic’s home was a mean place with scavenged furniture rigged to stand up straight with odd scraps of unrelated furniture lashed on with duct tape. There was an icebox in one corner next to a sink and a kitchen table with a double-burner hot plate set on top. Mickey Moe handed his girl a dish towel and told her to fill it with ice.
Let’s see if we can’t bring him to.
J. Henry put the wrapped up ice on the back of the man’s neck. He moaned and fluttered his eyes open then closed them again while he continued moaning. Mickey Moe dragged a tin tub into the middle of the room from a place outside,
then handed J. Henry a couple of buckets.
There’s a pump out there. If you could please fill up the tub, my gal here’ll heat up a pot or two of water. When everything’s nice and lukewarm, we can put him in it without sending him into shock. Gettin’ him cleaned up and conscious seems to be the first order of business. Don’t you agree, darlin’?
Laura Anne’s chest went warm with pride. How could Mama and Daddy not approve of my man? she thought. He’s so good in a crisis. He takes charge as natural as a five-star general. She found two big pots behind a chintz-curtained cupboard. She put them up to heat. Once she had the pots going, J. Henry worked at filling up the tub while Laura Anne helped Mickey Moe undress the stranger without shame at seeing him naked or revulsion at the wounds and filth that covered him. It took all three of them to lift him into the tub. His eyes opened for good then. They were wide and fearful. At first, he struggled against immersion, splashing water all around. When he realized they were trying to help him, he quieted. He’d try to speak, and then he’d cry. Speak and cry. Speak and cry. It took time and patience to soothe him enough to stop his blubbering. The owner of the shack, Billy Dankins, came home from the garage. The sight of Billy, a skinny white man in overalls smeared with axle grease, set him off again. Billy took in the strange goings-on in his living room with a twist of his head and a perplexed pout.
Good evenin’, J. Henry, he said. How’s your mama doin’?
Good even’, Mr. Dankins. I don’t know about Mama. I’ve not seen her yet.
Well, then you’d best go on or you’ll be leavin’ agin without the time to treat her right. Whatever on God’s green earth is goin’ on in my own livin’ room, I can take care of.
Why, thank you, Mr. Dankins, J. Henry said, taking his leave as fast as he could. He knew what kind of situation he’d landed in thanks to the irresistible temptation presented by thirty-five dollars. It had long passed being worth the trouble.
Laura Anne called out to him. Thank you, J. Henry, she said, but there was no response from him, just the sound of his car starting up outside. She felt a fresh sadness. From the way things turned out, J. Henry had been right about danger in the backwoods, and she should have said something before he left, apologized for brushing off his concerns. Oh, if I had it all to do over again, J. Henry, she wanted to tell him, I would never have put another in danger to satisfy my own desires. But even if she had the chance to do so, she wondered if he would ever have believed her.
Anyone want to explain to me what’s goin’ on here? Billy asked.
They told him what they knew, which still wasn’t much.
And you’re the fiancée, I take it?
Laura Anne nodded.
Then I am pleased to meet you. I heard enough about you these last few days that I feel I know you. You’re very welcome in my house. Now this fellah . . .
He kicked the side of the tub, which caused its occupant to yelp like a dog.
. . . I’m willin’ to bet that this fellah’s one of them Yankee agitators come down here to stir up the niggers and have ’em settin’ alongside white folks on the bus and in restaurants, have ’em votin’ in communists an’ whatever riffraff clings to ’em that they may lord over white men. Why, I’m willin’ to bet further that he got took from the car he was travelin’ in alongside one of his nigger buddies and taught a little lesson or two.
Billy Dankins gave Laura Anne a sheepish look meant to apologize for speaking plainly of matters ladies were better left ignorant of.
Look. I don’t appreciate what happened to this boy here. I got the call to join in the fun last night, but I said no. There’s a meanness in some men that I just don’t want to see or encourage. But I got to believe that this here Yankee interloper had no business at all comin’ down here and stirrin’ up people’s passions like that, and I do not want him in my house. You all got to go, and you all got to go now. I’m goin’ back to the garage to bring your car back, Mickey Moe. You was good company these past few days, but your car’s done and you’d be leavin’ in the mornin’ anyways, so get goin’ before my people discover he’s here.
Mickey Moe’s mouth worked soundlessly. Laura Anne knew he was filled up with emotion he fought to keep from spilling out. He shook his head. He raised his hands with palms up in a gesture of helplessness. He looked at Billy from where they knelt washing the wounds of the stranger with much the same expression Billy had when he’d entered his home to find him there. There was the same twist of the head, the same perplexed pout.
It’s your house, Billy. We’ll be going directly after you return, but I didn’t ask this boy to come down here and stir things up any more than you did. I want to be clear about that.
Billy shook his head. Well, alright, then, he said. One good old boy to another, I’ll buy that, but there’s people here that won’t. I got eyes. That boy’s buck naked in that tub. I can see he’s a Jew, same as you. Nine outta ten of those agitators are Jews. Everybody knows that. Folks say all you Jews stick together. That you got a method of signals and handshakes, and every one of you knows what the rest are up to.
That’s ridiculous, Billy. I don’t expect you to believe me, but I’d like you to remember I said it.
I will. I didn’t say I agreed. But you know, there’s people that read their Bible and people that don’t. It’s the ones that don’t who disbelieve me when I tell them the sweet mother of Jesus was a Jew, as you’ll recall we discussed t’other night when the subject came ’round. And they’ll be the same types you’d best be lookin’ out for when you leave here.
It took some time for Billy to retrieve the LTD, but they needed every minute to get the stranger dried off and into Mickey Moe’s set of spare travel clothes. The lovers dragged the tub out the back door and dumped the bathwater out. They took a few minutes to hold on to each other and make promises. Feeling the warmth and give of each other’s flesh built up their courage. Mickey Moe promised Laura Anne he’d get them out of this mess in one piece. Laura Anne promised she’d use the pistol she’d borrowed from Daddy if need be and not to worry, her aim was pretty good.
The what?
Pistol. Daddy’s Colt 45. I somehow knew I should have protection for this trip. Don’t ask me how, I just knew.
Mickey Moe suffered a sick feeling in the pit of his belly. Something in there roiled and rose and sought to choke him. Consequently, his voice came out of his throat weak and raspy.
I don’t like guns, he said.
Laura Anne looked at him as if he’d just said he didn’t care for sunshine or birdsong.
Then it’s a good thing one of us doesn’t mind ’em.
There are not many things that can pierce the manly confidence of a good old boy, but having a woman best him in an arena that by rights is manly turf is one of them. Mickey Moe’s mouth worked. He coughed several times to push down the fear or distaste or whatever it was that sent a burning lump of bile up his throat to begin with. He put a hand out to her, and they both tried to ignore how it shook.
Give it to me, he said.
No.
Give it to me, woman.
Given her generation and geography, Laura Anne felt that she was in one of those moments when a woman says to herself, this is wrong, this is disastrous, this is the most foolhardy, insane decision of my life, but this man, son, father of mine needs me to do this thing for his own sake, and it is my job to put my life on the line for him. In her most salient gesture of love yet, she walked with her head erect, her shoulders square as a queen’s, walked over to the kitchen table where she’d dropped her pocketbook, reached into the bag, and produced Daddy’s gun. She put it in Mickey Moe’s hand, showed him that the safety was on, and then closed his hand over it with her own. Mickey Moe filled his chest with air and thanked her. They kissed.
When Billy returned with the car, they put the stranger in the backseat and covered him up with a picnic blanket Mickey Moe’d kept in the trunk since his visits to Greenville, when he and Laura Anne would lie together b
y the riverbank planning their future. They settled in the front seat, the pistol on the space between them, and set off for Memphis.
It was night. The sky was clear. There was moonlight all around. Between the moon and the headlights, they managed to ride pretty well through the backwoods, going around the potholes and through fallen branches and puddles that littered the roadway in the manner paper goods and cigarettes litter more traveled byways. They were beyond anxious, expecting sheet-wearing kluckers to pop out of the woods, discover the Yankee in the back, and rain punishment on their heads for helping him. They didn’t talk much, but held hands whenever Mickey Moe didn’t need two to steer. That warm contact proved stronger comfort than any of dozens of speeches they might have accomplished had the situation been less dire. They weren’t five miles from the interstate, which they considered to be heaven’s gate to safety, when their passenger spoke up.
One More River Page 16
