THE HOMEPLACE

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Reading about the tallest building in the world,” Cody said. “It says here the Empire State Building is one thousand four hundred and fifty-four feet high. Boy, how’d you like to fall off of that, Davis? Look what it says here.” He shoved the paper over to Davis, who was sitting cross-legged eating his popcorn. Davis glanced down, but as Lanie expected, he only said, “Yeah, I see it.”

  Davis’s reading problem was a very real crisis to Lanie. He was behind in school and no one could figure out why he couldn’t read. He made straight A’s in math where no reading was required and in other subjects that required very little. She had had his eyes examined, and Doctor Bell, the optometrist, had said, “He’s got twenty-twenty vision, and there’s nothing wrong with his eyes at all.”

  Corliss had climbed up into Lanie’s lap and was eating the popcorn delicately. She looked up and smiled sweetly. Lanie gave her a squeeze and said, “You’re a sweet punkin’.”

  “So are you, Lanie,” Corliss piped up. “Can I play the piano?”

  Corliss loved the piano. It was a matter of wonder to everyone that even at the age of three she was able, with her stubby fingers, to pick out tunes. Cody had announced that she was going to be a famous concert pianist one day.

  Maeva, who was lying on the couch, was fishing in her bowl for popcorn. “Look at this. There’s nothing in here but old maids.”

  Everyone turned to stare at Maeva, and Davis demanded, “What do you mean, old maids?”

  “Why, that’s what you call popcorn that don’t pop,” Maeva said. She was in her pajamas. Looking with disgust down at the bowl, she then held it out. “Look at them. Half of ’em didn’t even pop.”

  “I don’t know why you call them old maids,” Davis said.

  “Why, because. Popcorn that won’t pop is like a woman that’s never had a romance.”

  Aunt Kezia was sitting in her chair dozing. She complained constantly about her lack of sleep, but actually she slept all the time. Now she woke up and cackled. “Old maids, eh? I never heard popcorn called that, but I’ve known plenty of women that didn’t have no romance in their life.”

  “You ought not to call people old maids, Maeva,” Lanie said. “It’s not nice to call names.”

  “I didn’t make it up. I read it in a story,” Maeva protested.

  “When my husband was the peace officer in Abilene, a funny thing happened.” Aunt Kezia reached down and picked up a handful of popcorn, stuffed it into her mouth, and then talked around it. “There was this little, two-bit newspaper and what we called in those days a maiden lady, one that never had no husband, died. Her name was Nancy Jones. Well, the fellow that wrote the obituaries was in the hospital. He was a part-time dentist and he got shot by a patient that didn’t like the way he fixed his tooth. So the editor had to ask the fellow that wrote the sports news to write her obituary. ”

  “What’d he write, Aunt Kezia?” Cody asked, a grin spreading across his face.

  “Well, he done the best he could. I remember every word of it. It said:

  “Here lie the bones of Nancy Jones, For her, death held no terrors.

  She lived an old maid, She died an old maid.

  No hits — no runs — no errors!”

  Davis whooped with laughter and cried out, “That’s the best obit-uary I ever heard.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s funny. You shouldn’t make fun of people. Not every woman is going around looking for romance,” Lanie said stiffly. “You know Miss Effie Johnson runs that bank and she never married. And if it hadn’t been for her, we would have been put out on the street.”

  Indeed, Effie Johnson had helped save their homeplace by refusing to foreclose against the demands of Otis Langley, but Maeva shook her head, saying, “She’d trade all that money in the bank for a husband and kids, Lanie. Besides, she’s ruined her sister Cora’s life trying to make her just like she is. She’s nothin’ but a frump.”

  The argument went on loudly for some time, but soon their favorite program, Fibber Magee and Molly, came on, and Lanie was glad to sit back and relax. After it was over she shooed the kids all off to bed. There were the usual protests, but she insisted, “Tomorrow is church day, and we don’t want to be late like we were last week.”

  Lanie washed Corliss, put her in bed, and told her a story. Corliss went to sleep almost at once, so Lanie went back to the kitchen and began, as usual, making preparations for the breakfast the next morning. She liked to have everything all ready, the eggs in one place, the flour in another, all the dishes washed and ready for a meal.

  Aunt Kezia wandered in and walked over to the cabinet. She took a brown bottle out and poured an empty jelly glass half full then complained, “I can’t sleep no more without my medicine.”

  Lanie picked up the bottle and sniffed it. “Why, this is pure alcohol!” she exclaimed.

  “It ain’t neither. It’s my sleepin’ medicine made right there in Oklahoma by a purebred Cherokee Indian, a medicine man in his tribe.”

  Lanie watched with apprehension as the old woman swallowed the mixture, smacked her lips, and put the cap back on the bottle. “There,” she said. “That ought to put me to sleep.”

  “You shouldn’t be taking all those patent medicines. You don’t have any idea what’s in there.”

  Aunt Kezia sat down and studied Lanie. “Don’t you worry about my patent medicines. What I’m worried about is you. You look plum peaked. Maybe you ought to have some of Doctor Alexander’s Liver Potion.”

  “I don’t want any of your old patent medicines. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “Well, why do you look so worn out, then? I know you work hard, but it’s more than that. Ever since the county fair you been mopin’ around like a sick coon.”

  Lanie suddenly sat down on the chair and cupped her chin in one hand. She really had no one to share her feelings with, and the urge became overwhelming to tell someone what was going on in her life. “I’ve been having sinful feelings.”

  “What kind of sin? There’s sin and then there’s sin. They ain’t all the same.”

  “I know that, Aunt Kezia. It’s — well, I have impure thoughts about a fellow who hugged me.”

  “Who was it — that Langley boy?” Aunt Kezia demanded. She leaned forward, her eyes bright, and added, “I expect it was. I’ve seen him huggin’ on you.”

  “I’m not telling who it was, but it bothers me. I don’t think a woman’s supposed to have feelings like I’m having.”

  “Well, stuff and nonsense!” Aunt Kezia exclaimed. “You just pas-sin’ from one stage to another, Lanie girl. I’ve seen it happening ever since I’ve been here. When a young girl becomes a woman, things happen to her outwardly. You’ve seen that when you’re bustin’ out of your clothes that you wore last year. Your figure’s developin’. Well, things are happenin’ on the inside too.” She grinned suddenly and said, “You’ll have to tell me all about it, but right now I’m gettin’ sleepy. I’ll get up early in the morning and you can tell me everything.”

  Lanie laughed suddenly, got up, and went over and hugged Aunt Kezia. “I’m not telling you anything. You’re terrible.”

  “I guess I’m a hellion just like I was when I was fourteen years old. Good night, sweetie.”

  Lanie waited until the old woman left the room, then she looked over at Beau, who was asleep braced against the wall. A smile crossed her lips, and she walked over, picked up his tail, and let it fall with a thump. The big dog did not move. Lanie picked up his head, and it was like picking up a dead weight. She dropped the head and it thumped on the floor, but Beau did not even condescend to open his eyes. “You sleep like a dead dog, Beau, I declare!” Lanie exclaimed.

  She turned the light out and went upstairs. She washed her face in the bathroom, brushed her teeth, then came back and put on her nightgown. It was only ten o’clock and she felt wide awake. She sat down in her chair, picked up her Bible, and began to read. She could not concentrate her thoughts, and when Cap’n Brown came o
ver and pawed at her, she let him get on her lap. “Well, Cap’n Brown, you can’t sleep either?” She stroked the silky hair of the big Manx cat and leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “I’m going to tell you what I wouldn’t tell anybody else. Those impure feelings I had were for Doctor Owen Merritt. Don’t you think I’m awful, Cap’n Brown?”

  But Cap’n Brown apparently did not think she was so awful. He began to knead his claws into her thighs, something that seemed to give him pleasure. He leaned forward and butted her with his head, and Lanie put up with the discomfort for the sake of baring her soul. Sometimes she shared these thoughts in the journals that she kept, but there was always a chance that somebody would find them. Aunt Kezia was nosy enough to ferret them out! Nevertheless she picked up her journal and began to write, intent on getting her soul on to the page:

  I know Roger likes me, but he’s young and so am I. That’s why I think it’s wrong for me to have feelings for Owen. He’s almost thirty years old and I’m only seventeen. Of course, some girls marry older men, but he’s engaged to Louise. Her family has money and she’s educated. I’ve just got to stop making a fool out of myself.

  She grabbed Cap’n Brown’s ears and looked into his face. She pulled at them until his eyes were slitted, and he said, “Wow!”

  “Wow to you. Now get off my lap.” She shoved the big cat off, picked up the Bible, and began to read.

  She read for some time, concentrating on Scripture. She was reading the story of the temptation of Jesus, and a thought came to her suddenly. Ideas for poems came like that to Lanie. She didn’t know where they came from, but suddenly they just burst, like someone striking a match in a dark room, throwing off light.

  “I wonder what the devil thought when Jesus came telling everyone he was the Son of God?” she murmured. Even as she spoke, a poem began arranging itself in her mind. She sat there moving words around, exchanging lines. It was one of the pure pleasures of her life. Her high school English teacher, Eden Marie Dunsmore, had taught her how to write dramatic monologues. She had said, “You’ve got to put yourself inside the body of the one you’re writing the poem about. Have him or her speak out. Pretend you are that person.”

  Lanie had written many dramatic monologues, but lately she was concentrating on biblical figures. Now she was stumped. “How can I try to put myself in the body of Lucifer? That wouldn’t be right.”

  Still, the idea was fascinating, and finding her writing pad and pencil, she began to write. She worked quickly, writing down what formed in her mind, and as she wrote it changed. Finally, after much scratching, she recopied the poem and looked down at it. “Got to have a title,” she said. “I guess I could just call it ‘Lucifer.’ ” She read the poem aloud softly.

  Lucifer

  “And he was there in the wilderness forty days, tempted of Satan.”(Mark 1:13)

  They call him “Carpenter” — but O, ye spheres

  I see in him mine ancient enemy

  Made flesh! Thus now I race in full career

  Defeated by this one from Galilee.

  How many dignitaries , prophets, pries ts

  I’ve lured up to temptation’s razor edge,

  Then plucked them down to death without release.

  Now hear, ye hellish powers, my deadly pledge:

  I’ll empty hell! With demons fill the earth

  Until it cracks! We’ll sweep on mighty pinions

  Wreaking nature to untimely birth;

  We’ll have this healer under hell’s dominion!

  What though he spurned my bread — my power — my glory?

  When he lies dead, earth will forget his story!

  For some time Lanie studied the poem, taking pleasure in how the words and the rhymes had worked out. She had never understood why writing poetry gave her such pleasure, but for a long time writing had been therapy for her. When life pressed in, she could always go to her poetry and find peace.

  Finally she closed the tablet, concealed it under the clothing in the bottom drawer of her chest, then turned the light out and jumped into bed. Cap’n Brown joined her, shoving against her back and purring like a small engine.

  “Good night, Cap’n Brown,” Lanie said. “You sleep well tonight.” Cap’n Brown answered, “Wow!”

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