by Donn Pearce
Hey Steve! Come on out! Your mother’s here!
Quietly some of them swore to themselves,
Damn punk. Gets a visit every week and don’t even care. Wish I had somebody out in the Free World to bring me stuff like he gets. Spoiled little prick. That’s all he is.
Then Loudmouth Steve came out, pouting as he swaggered down the sidewalk, calling out to Boss Kean sitting on the gun platform at the corner of the fence,
Comin‘ out here, Boss.
Yeah, Steve. Come on out.
Boss Godfrey opened the gate and shut it behind him as Steve walked across the grass towards his mother, turning his face and offering his cheek as she advanced to kiss him. They sat down at the picnic table, Boss Godfrey sitting backwards on a chair about six feet away, his arms folded on top of the back rest.
A little later Curly’s wife and two kids drove up from Orlando where she had had a job and had rented a house for the previous three years in order to be near the same place Curly was. Then the parents of Little Greek arrived from Tarpon Springs. But it was another half hour before a late model pickup truck came up the road covered with mud and with dust of several colors. It stopped beside the other cars and then a boy and an old woman got out on one side and a man on the other side who went over and spoke to Boss Godfrey.
Luke waited on the porch until he was called and then marched down the sidewalk swiftly, his shoulders back and his head erect. His mother stood waiting, a thin woman in a plain cotton dress, her hair iron gray and swept up in a bun, her shoulders gaunt and stooped. Luke’s brother came forward, grinning, shaking his hand and leading him over to their mother. Then he stood aside waiting as they embraced each other. The old woman tried not to cry but couldn’t stop the flow of tears. Luke held her and patted her on the back until she could control herself and then the whole family moved to the table.
Inside the Building the radios were going full blast. Preacher had turned on some church hymns. Ears had turned on some jazz to drown him out. Others went back to their poker games and wallet making. But the rest of us stood on the porch and sat on the steps, smoking and watching and remembering how things used to be. Or better yet, as things should have been. With great interest we watched the picnic lunches being opened, the tidbits offered back and forth. We knew perfectly well that there wasn’t a word being said about a man’s Time, his guilt, his regrets or his felony. Except for the question of parole only the most ordinary kind of gossip was discussed. But we were fifty feet away and had to watch the melodrama of the afternoon as a silent pantomime. Except that later we heard about everything that had been said at Luke’s part of the table, getting it practically word for word from Loudmouth Steve who sat next to them with his mother.
Luke ate the lunch his mother had brought along in a basket but he ate very slowly and with a sense of decorum. His young nephew sat beside his father twisting and craning his neck to see all he could of the guns and the stripes and the fences. Turning his head he looked directly into the eyes of Boss Godfrey who sat just behind them. Abruptly the boy turned his head back to the family.
Luke’s brother tried to be cheerful, telling stories of the neighbors back home and telling a couple of the latest jokes he had picked up. Then he snuffled his nose and picked at his teeth with his thumb nail.
I saw Helen the other day.
Luke looked down at his plate, took a strong bite out of the piece of chicken he was holding and said nothing.
She’s got a fine lookin‘ young’un. A boy.
Luke said nothing. His brother said nothing. Struggling to find another subject he turned his head to look around. Then he saw Boss Godfrey sitting behind them, his old black hat pulled down low over his forehead, his eyes covered with the mirrored sunglasses, a cigar in his mouth, his arms folded motionlessly over the back of the chair.
His brother looked back at Luke, at his mother and then down at the ground.
She says to say, Howdy.
Again Luke took a bite out of his chicken.
Luke’s brother was wearing a suit, a white shirt and a tie. His hair was shiny with vaseline and plastered down smooth over his head. And even from the porch I could see that he was a farmer, as clearly as if he had been wearing overalls, brogans and a ragged old hat. You could see it in his hands, the weather-beaten complexion of his face, the awkward movements of his body. Jackson’s people were mountain people from that extreme northeast corner of Alabama which lies adjacent to Tennessee and Georgia, at the very end of the Appalachian Range. They were coal miners, timber cutters and livestock raisers who had always struggled without much luck to make a living out of a hard, tough country.
And I could see from there that Luke’s mother was the strong, enduring breed of woman that you find in those mountains. She was getting old and she was tired but she still had that expression of determination, of suffering long ago accepted without question.
Steve told us about it a few days later when Luke wasn’t around. Mrs. Jackson had been quiet, making sure that Luke got enough to eat but otherwise not saying much, just looking at him, ignoring the prison sights and sounds around her, ignoring Boss Godfrey’s eavesdropping and the pistol guard sitting nearby.
It’s been a long time, Lloyd.
Yes maw, said Luke.
About three years now, ain’t it? Since the war was all done with?
I reckon it is.
Still drinkin‘ like you were?
Aw, come on now, maw, interrupted Luke’s brother. You know Lloyd ain’t allowed no liquor in—while —he’s got to stay here.
I don’t mean that. He knows what I mean.
Yes maw. I know what you mean.
Have you been gettin‘ any religion? I asked you once. Before you went into the army. Please Lloyd. Wherever you are and whatever you’re doin’, take a little time out once in a while for the Lord. Give him just a few minutes of your time.
Luke said nothing. He reached for a piece of huckleberry pie and picked up a fork. But he stopped himself.
Maw. You know—maw—
They just looked at each other. Then Luke turned his eyes away.
Lloyd. I know how you feel. But I do wish you could forget about your paw. That was a long time ago. You were only a little boy.
Luke didn’t answer.
He couldn’t help what he done. If I can find it in my heart to forgive him, why can’t you?
Luke turned his head to the other side.
Lloyd. He couldn’t help it.
He couldn’t? He was a preacher, wasn’t he?
Yes. But he was flesh and blood too.
He was, huh? But didn’t he decide to call himself a man of the cloth? Didn’t he teach the Good Word? Folks ain’t supposed to steal? Ain’t supposed to kill and lie and sin? Gotta work real hard and go to church and have lots of faith? Can’t even drink or dance or play music? Just off. That’s all. I guess he’s still spreadin‘ the Faith somewhere’s ain’t he? Among the poor innocent heathen, most likely.
Lloyd. Please.
I’m sorry, maw. I wish you hadn’t mentioned it. You know I always get riled up.
The rest of the time was spent in idle talk. Some of the visitors in the park had nothing more to say at all. Curly played with his kids. The Greek just fidgeted, his parents holding hands and staring off to nowhere. Steve was anxious to get away and come back inside so he could peddle some of the groceries his mother brought him and get into the poker game. Boss Godfrey stood up and looked at his watch. Without his saying anything, everyone knew. It was already time, the two hours were over. Last minute greetings and assurances and instructions and questions were exchanged. People kissed each other, kids were called, men shook hands.
Suddenly Luke’s brother called his son and rushed over to the pickup truck, returning with a cardboard box full of Mason jars of preserved fruit and vegetables. The boy followed behind his father, grinning, holding out in his arms an old, scarred, scratched and beat-up banjo. Luke took it from him, holding it o
ut at arm’s length to examine it with smiling wonder.
There were the farewells, the last kisses and tears. The convicts gathered in front of the gate, clutching their parcels and sacks with one arm and waving with the other; short, embarrassed gestures, crippled by shyness and regret and pain. On the other side of the lawn the visitors began to get into their cars, turning to wave and blow kisses, the kids screaming out their goodbyes.
Boss Godfrey walked over and opened the gate. The men came inside the yard and stood on the porch as the cars drove off down the clay road in single file, a horn blowing, arms sticking out of every window and waving. One or two of the convicts made unconvincing waves, knowing they could no longer be recognized in the crowd of men standing on the porch dressed in the same gray prison clothes. Then they turned and went inside the Building to go to their bunks and inspect their packages. The rest of us stayed outside, trying hard to swallow down the lumps in our throats while pretending to be thinking of nothing at all.
After we recovered we went inside the Building to gather around Luke’s bunk. Again we knew that something great was going to happen. There was a silent hush as we crowded around. Luke sat on the floor crosslegged, his back to the wall. At first he just stared at the banjo in his lap, rubbing his hands over it, stroking its parts. In a low voice he began to mumble.
Hell, I ain’t played this thing since the day I got out of the army. Back in nineteen forty-five. Fort McPherson Georgia. Yeah, man. Took it home with me and put it up. Left it there when I took off and landed in Tampa. Never thought my kin folks would bring it down with ‘em. Well, hell. Got lots of time. Might just as well play it a little while.
As it happened, Koko fancied himself as a guitar player, occasionally strumming out a few awkward chords on a beat-up guitar that he had bought for three dollars, an alligator wallet and twenty-four haircuts on the cuff from a man who was going home.
Then Dragline ran outside to fumble through his locker for the rusty harmonica he had found in a ditch one day, coming back into the Building already huffing and puffing on it, his toothless gums and lips wrapped around it within the cup of his hands. Luke slowly ran his fingers over the strings, turning the pegs, the strings answering his touch with the strident yawps of chaos but then gradually allowing themselves to sweeten.
Slowly, very slowly, he began to pick out a few chords, stopping to flex his fingers and shake his hand from the wrist. Then he started. And once again we were far more than just amazed. Because Luke could play that thing. He was a master.
Koko’s simple chords and Dragline’s country-boy harmonica were nothing to what Luke could do to that banjo, his fingers beginning to loosen up, the memory of his former skills returning, fondling every chord with a certainty, a subtle strength and delicacy. Quickly he skipped from one thing to another, playing fragments of songs, picking out runs and scales, playing brief snatches of Dixieland jazz, spirituals and mountain hymns, long and complicated virtuoso pieces in the Blue Grass style.
Since the laws of silence were always enforced in the evenings by the Floorwalker, we could only hear Luke’s music on the weekends. He would sit on the floor crosslegged by his bunk, his feet and his chest both bare, his eyes closed and his head tilted backwards, a tiny smile on his lips which were parted just enough to reveal the white of his teeth. And as Luke fondled those vibrant threads his face underwent a transformation, his hard and youthful handsomeness beginning to assume a glow. Slowly he became two selves, his hands undertaking a life of their own while the rest of him drifted away.
And he would sing, his voice droning as if inspired by some distant source, his flying fingers going on with their melody. Then he might repeat what he just said. Or make noises, throw in odd words which were not meant to be sentences but which kept up the syncopated rhythm of his voice, half-talking in a mocking chant that alternated in pitch and intensity and became a kind of song, a kind of Talking Blues of a style and nature all his own.
For the first time we began to learn something of Luke’s past. In little snatches we caught disconnected glimpses of his life. But when accompanied by the banjo it all made sense. He was never really performing nor was he telling a story. It was more like thinking aloud, explaining it all to himself.
Come on you little fellas and gather around and your Uncle Luke will tell you all about the war. You remember the war. The big war. When everything went boom boom. And it also went—bang bang. And sometimes even—ka-zowie!
But just remember. You gotta play it cool.
Course I had to kill a couple fellas here and there. Killin‘ was my job. And my daddy always used to tell me to do a real good job. Him bein’ a preacher and all, carryin‘ the Word, I always did what my daddy said. Got to be pretty good at it. Got promoted. Got to be a corporal.
But you gotta be cool. That’s part of the job.
Bein‘ a preacher’s son and bein’ one of the good guys I just naturally had to have me a lot of faith. A drink now and then didn’t hurt none neither. Pretty tough fella. Pretty brave. Pretty good shot too.
But better’n that. I was pretty damn cool.
So the war went on and we went here and we went there. We’d walk awhile and we’d dig holes awhile. Then we’d walk a little more. Then we’d sit and we’d wait and they’d put us in some trucks and we’d wait. Then they’d drive us around and park a little bit. And we’d wait. But I never fretted like them other boys. Sooner or later ole Captain Luke would just hafta shoot. Or give up the gun. Besides. Preacher’s son. One of the good guys. Strong and silent type. So I’d just play the banjo here and pick out some new tunes. Just pickin‘ and pluckin’ and playin‘ it real cool.
Cause you gotta be cool. That’s part of the job.
After awhile we got tired of playin‘ soldier. So we went sailin’. We sailed to England. We sailed to Africa. We sailed to Sicily. But it seemed like no matter where we went folks kept shootin‘ at us. We kept tellin’ ‘em that we were the good guys. But they kept right on shootin’. Then we sailed to Italy. They took us out in this here big iron boat and put us in this little iron boat. And we kept sailin‘. And they kept shootin’. And I sat up on top of a big old tank in this here landin‘ craft so’s I could see what was goin’ on. Get a good luck at all them bad guys. And them bad guys was mad. Shootin‘ guns all over the place. Things blowin’ up. Water splashin‘. Airplanes flyin’ around. Everybody scared. So I played my banjo a little bit. And I sang to them boys. And I told ‘em. I come from Alabama. Oh, yeah. With a banjo on my knee.
And they saw me up there, pickin‘ away and not gittin’ shot. And they figured things weren’t so bad. So they perked up a little and weren’t afraid no more.
Cause you gotta be cool. That’s all. Remain refrigerated.
Later on the colonel he heard about how I could pick a banjo and all and he figures that’s pretty hot stuff. So he give me this here extra medal that he didn’t need. A star, he said. Bronze star. Like they make statues with.
Every weekend Luke would play and sing for us and we gathered round and listened. We listened carefully because we knew that this was the way it was, that when that banjo spoke to us, it was telling the truth.
And that old banjo had really been around. You could tell just by looking at it. It was a classic frontier model with a very long neck and four strings which Luke played in the same plectrum style that his family had for generations. The head was made of split calf skin, the fret board inlaid with bits of colored wood and mother of pearl that formed the suits of a deck of cards—spades, hearts, diamonds and clubs. According to Luke it had been made by Bacon and Day sometime before the Civil War.
One of the lower frets had once been repaired with a wooden plug. But the back of the hole in the neck was still rough and splintered, the result of the same bullet that had made the long scar along Luke’s left side and hip as he sat one morning in an olive grove a few kilometers north of Salerno. Luke sat on the porch steps one Sunday and told us the story just as he told us many
others.
So this here war went on and on. And the soldier business was really boomin‘. Never seen so many bad guys. They were all over the place. In uniforms. In overalls. Even in dresses. Every time we took over a town the folks would come out with flowers and music. Everybody kissed everybody. Lots of real fine wine. Then this here committee would jump up. These would be the good guys who were hidin’ out while the bad guys were around. Then they’d start draggin‘ these here collaborator people out of their houses. Got along good with the bad guys. So they lined ’em up by the courthouse wall. Preacher said a few words. And then bang bang. After that they hung ‘em up by the feet. Everybody stood around and made fun of’em hangin‘ there that-a-way. Upside down and all. Especially the women. Dresses hung clean down over their heads. Real dead too.
After that the good guys were even again. Everybody had some more wine. Played some more music. Kissed everybody.
But I kept pickin‘ and pluckin’ and playin‘ it cool.
Then we walked some more and dug some more holes. And waited. And shot guns. Houses got on fire. Guys got killed. People ran around with wagons and bicycles and wheelbarrows. Everytime we set up a field kitchen a whole bunch of people would gather round with pots and tin cans. Especially kids. Lots of kids. We’d always leave a little bit in our mess kits and then call some kid over and dump it in his can. Took it home. Back to the hut or the cellar where his maw was. Sisters and brothers and all like that there.
But one day this here new lieutenant he sees the commotion and he says, sergeant, what’s all the commotion? And the sergeant said, lieutenant sir, them is Eyetie kids what keep hangin‘ around for leftovers. And the lieutenant sir, he says that will never do. Men gotta eat. Can’t waste food on just kids that way. Obstructin’ the war effort. Might even be sabotage. Besides, it air.’t right that kids should eat garbage. Ain’t sanitary. So the lieutenant sir, he says, sergeant, send three men to dig a nice sanitary hole for the garbage.
