She’s gonna be the one dealing with all the parents, Buck. And you don’t want to have your boy in a classroom with a teacher who doesn’t want him there, do you?
XXIX
THE THIN RIPPLES RUNNING ALONG Cordele Road rocked me gently sideways. Half a mile up, a turnip field ended and another of the Orbachs’ fields appeared. Two colored men were aerating the vast field encircling them. We followed it out for several miles, eased right at the first turnoff, and continued along another of their fields, this one covered with a smattering of hay. Dad slowed on the approach to our access road. We lumbered over its lip and continued past hundreds of haystacks arrayed in the field like headstones.
Dad pulled up beside one, hopped up and into the truck bed, and asked me for a hand. He summoned me down a rutted path and into the field. I had half a dozen pitchforks splayed in my arms, and it was all I could do to keep from tripping. I counted the tall mounds of peanut hay as I marched past row after row of haystacks. After a hundred and four of them, we entered the relative cool of our shade trees, and it was there that we arrived at a cluster of coloreds. They stared at me as I straggled up alongside Dad, cast and all, and let the pitchforks fall at my feet.
Kyle, I want you on the back lot today. Doris, you’re on the front five. Art, you’re on the back, too. Albert, you go with that new fella over there. Shapely, you help Doris. Maybe Kyle, I want you to be in charge today.
One by one, the men, women, and children picked up pitchforks from the pile and left, until the last one was gone. Dad picked up a shovel that lay in the dirt and headed for the thresher. I ran up ahead of him and jerked one of its knobs back and forth. Evan hopped down from atop the conveyor belt, startling me. I hadn’t noticed him. He took off his cap, held out his hand, and smiled. I looked over my shoulder at Dad. I didn’t know what to say.
Dad came over and asked Evan if Toby had taught him how to operate the thresher at maximum output without it overheating. Evan nodded and hopped back atop the conveyor belt and started priming it, then jumped down and began the difficult work of connecting it to the tractor.
Dad turned and left, satisfied. I reached for his hand. He signaled for me to wait. When he finished barking out orders to a straggler, he departed through a trammel of pulled peanut vines. A mess of crushed peanut pods, half-buried and withered, poked out of the dirt. The ground was covered with them. I ran up alongside Dad and took his hand.
What about Humphrey? I thought Humphrey was gonna be our new foreman.
Oh, him? It didn’t work out.
Why?
A foreman’s gotta do more than just follow instructions, son. He’s gotta think on his feet, solve problems, manage people—all that. It’s more than just coloring in the lines, you know.
I paused. And what about me?
What about you?
You know.
Oh. Don’t worry. You two will get along just fine.
Not that.
You mean school?
Yes.
You know, I’ve been thinking about that, too. You know how important the next few weeks are. And how we’re getting squeezed from above and below, what with every Johnny-come-lately setting up shop with forty acres and a goddamned mule, and consolidators like Herb snapping every foot of available acreage in sight. And I thought, No, sir. You’re much more valuable to me here. Right here by my side is where I need you.
The thresher fired up and started spewing dust. Evan was sitting atop it. He hollered something out and gave a thumbs-up sign.
And how—what’s that boy’s name?
Evan?
Yeah. Evan. Well, as you can plainly see, he’s still just a kid. And to be perfectly honest with you, I’m not so sure that he ever will be like his dad. I don’t put it past him to cut corners, if you know what I mean. Well, if you don’t, son, remember that the devil’s in the details. So he’s gonna need all the help he can get adjusting to how we do things over here. You know? Making sure things get done right the first time around. Why, you’re an expert in that department, aren’t you? And, so—well, I thought that maybe you wouldn’t mind showing him the ropes. You know, as my right-hand man. You’ll be sort of like a boss to him. Look at it this way—you’d be practically doing him a favor, what with his dad out of the picture and Goolsbee’s place gone. Where else is he gonna go?
I’ll read all my schoolbooks! I’ll do all my homework! I’ll never complain! I promise I will! Please! God! You gotta believe me!
I know, I know, I know. But it’s not that. I swear. It’s not that at all. It just works out better for all of us this way.
• • •
THE TRUCK STARTED on the first try. Dad turned on the radio, fiddled with the tuner, and started telling me about him and Connie way back in the old days of the droughts and gypsy moth infestations—how when Grampa Frank had shipped off for war, Dad was a teenager, and how for those difficult years when Grampa Frank was away, it was just him and Connie.
But you wanna know something funny, Huey? When Grampa Frank finally came back, years later, he was a changed man. But for all that war had changed your Grampa Frank’s outlook on pretty much everything under the sun, it hadn’t changed Connie’s not one bit. She was still the same woman he’d married all those years back. No one thinks of that when they think of the cost of war. But it’s true. Didn’t change her one bit.
Smoke appeared over the tree line up ahead and dimmed the sky. Dad stopped talking and continued down the road at half speed. Around the bend in a clearing, off to the side of the road, sat a fire engine beside the charred remains of what had been a grain silo. A fireman was beating on it with a pickax, knocking smoking embers to the ground. There was a line of cars and trucks parked along the opposite side of the road, watching it. Dad explained that the silo had reached retirement age and that old things have to get replaced eventually. I couldn’t tell if the people sitting on folding chairs eating hot dogs were happy or sad. Dad honked as we continued past. Said he recognized the fireman.
I rubbernecked as Dad sped off around the bend. I’d never seen firemen start a fire before. We continued on down that road with music playing quietly in the background and the tree-covered hills rolling slowly past. Several miles down, five school buses sat parked single file on the roadside. Dad pulled over at the turnoff in front of them and asked if I wanted to pick some plums before the season was over.
In the orchard, Boy Scouts were swinging from the lower branches while whistling “The Colonel Bogey March.” I said no. Dad pulled back onto the road. A man was selling nuts and fruit out of the back of his truck at the next turnoff. We slowed down and pulled into Kolomoki Mounds State Park, just past him. A car with steamed-up windows was parked in the far corner of the gravel lot, and beside it a family of raccoons was taking turns raiding a trash barrel. Dad pulled in under a couple of trees. He pulled a pair of shorts from a Woolworth’s bag and tossed them to me. Said it was just a little something he thought I deserved. They looked a little big, but I didn’t care.
We got out, and Dad pointed at a densely vaulted wood. I followed him into the clearing leading up to it. I made my way over a damp bed of pine needles with a pair of brand-new swim trunks in hand and Dad at my side, and as we made our way through thicket and bower, Dad picked up where he’d left off about him and Connie and Grampa Frank, and how as a young man, he wanted to be an officer in the air force just like Grampa Frank, and how when he fell short, Connie wouldn’t stop busting his nuts about it because it’d seemed to her that the ROTC hadn’t been good for much.
Dad never talked to me about stuff like that. So I knew it was special, but even if I was sort of interested, I had no idea what any of it had to do with me. I wanted to believe what he’d said out in the field earlier that morning, but I didn’t see how I could. I let myself fall behind him several paces. It was easier for me just to tell him that I was having difficulty keeping up. Dad turned around and waited patiently for me.
What’s wrong now?
/> Why’d we bother stopping by school?
Jesus, Huey. We’ve already been over this a million times—to tell Edna that I needed you with me, because of how behind schedule we are. And she understood. We weren’t the only ones. She just said to not be too long. And I said we wouldn’t. Heck, just until we get caught up. And she said to be sure to come back for your lesson plan and books. Which I will. So don’t worry.
You stood up to her, right?
Of course I did.
But I heard you!
You heard me feeling her out.
Then why didn’t you say anything about it earlier?
Because it was a last-minute kind of thing.
Does Mama know?
Who do you think’s going to be schooling you at home?
Wait—so I get to go back to school as soon as the harvest is over?
Yes. I said that already. This is all just until Evan gets up to speed, so don’t worry.
And it’ll be like nothing ever happened?
For goodness’s sake, Huey. Sometimes you sure can be thickheaded when you set your mind to it. For the last time, yes, yes, and yes.
I swore to myself that I wouldn’t cry. Promised myself not to let out one little tear because I was sick of him telling me that I was getting soft. But one slipped out. I couldn’t help it. I tried to wipe it away, but that only made it worse.
All you had to say was that I was sick. Now everybody’s gonna think it’s because I’m a goddamned ni—
Dad put a finger over my lips. Since when have I ever cared what other people think?
He turned on his heels and continued ahead like it was all just so much water under the bridge. Like nothing had even happened.
Now, like I was saying—you know, most people, they don’t believe there was much fighting down this far.
I ran up to his side, wiping the tears from my face. During the war?
Yeah.
There was fighting down this far?
Minor skirmishes mostly. It wasn’t the kind of fighting we should be proud of, so it doesn’t get talked about much. But you and me, we got the story handed down to us straight from the horse’s mouth. So we know better.
Don’t ask me why, but I felt a little better. I think it was the mention of family.
Last year during Flag Day, Missus Mayapple said no way in heck was there any fighting down this far.
Dad swiped at the tall grass and rambled on about the time, a few years before he was born, when the Thronateeska crested during a hurricane. It continued to rise for days afterward, so high that anyone wading within a quarter mile of it quickly found himself in over his head. Akersburg was six feet underwater that summer, the worst-hit town in the area. Entire houses were inundated and swept away. Cars floated off downriver. People were left stranded on their roofs, on top of cars, and in attics. Water swirled through living rooms. Children paddled away on garage doors. Trees were uprooted and entire fields wiped clean.
Dad said that when the National Guard had been called in to help evacuate people that Grampa Frank, knowing the area as well as he did, was given charge over some volunteers. He was tasked with rescuing some cabbage farmers stuck out in hard-to-reach areas. That was what had happened to Grampa Frank when one of his underlings disappeared underwater at a blind drop-off. Sadly, there was nothing that he could do but watch as the young man slipped underwater, never to be seen or heard from again. Anyone going in after him would be doomed.
Dad’s shirttail was spilling from his trousers. I grabbed at it.
Last year, on Flag Day, Missus Mayapple lined us up out front and walked us all the way down to Riverside Cemetery. You remember that, Pop?
For goodness’s sake, Huey. I’m trying to explain to you how it took real courage to do what your grampa did.
We emerged out from under the dense canopy of pine trees, and Dad stopped. He gazed out at a stand of dogwoods arched over the riverbank. The sun blossomed over my face. It felt good. Dad went up to them, amazed that they were holding onto their flowers so late in the season. I stopped beside him. The swampy plain before us extended like a ledge all the way to the water’s edge. I swatted at a butterfly and chased after him.
Dad knelt down to the water. This is what I wanted to show you.
How come?
You think a war makes heroes? Well, this is the spot where your grampa did the most difficult thing that he ever had to do in his whole life.
But what about that young man?
He drowned.
The ground was soggy and wet, and the rocks were cold and rough. Dad had brought a plastic bag and tape for me. He taped the bag over my cast, then kicked off his shoes and socks and rolled up his pants and waded in. I looked out over the murky water in awe. I was so used to my cast by that point that there was nothing that I could do with it off that I couldn’t do with it on. So it had nothing to do with that. But for some reason, the charm of the water was gone. Maybe it was because it was starting to get chilly, or maybe because I just didn’t trust it. I dunno. It was hard to say. All I knew for sure was that it left me feeling cold. I reached down and dipped my fingers in and ran them through the water.
If you ask me, Grampa Frank should’ve tried to save that young man. The Lone Ranger is always telling Tonto how it’s better to die in honor than live in shame. Everyone knows that.
The water whispered past Dad’s ankles. He waded up alongside me.
Whaddya say we work on that doggy paddle of yours?
Say, whatever happened to that little flag pin I got on Flag Day?
Dad tried to coax me in, but I tossed the swim trunks aside and sprinted up the shoreline, hollering out, It’s freeeeezing! He chased after me and caught me up by the back of my trousers. I sank to the ground and sprawled out over the soft grass. He collapsed beside me.
Hear that?
What?
Listen.
I did. I still don’t hear it.
He pointed to the murky water creeping over the shoreline.
The river is trying to tell you something. It’s trying to tell you that it’s not as simple as always duking it out at every turn and at any cost. Sometimes you’ve got to swallow your pride, just like your grampa did. He had to do it. Or else he’d have drowned, too, and no good done. And thank God that he did—because neither you nor I would be here if he hadn’t. That’s the wisdom of the river, Huey. It tells us to bend when there’s no other way.
• • •
A FOR SALE sign was leaning in the drainage ditch in front of the Camelot. Dad pulled over beside it. A man in a checkered sport coat and hat was boarding up a window. Dad hung his arm over the door panel and asked the man if he was with the real estate agency. The man said no. He was from the bank.
We sat there, just sort of staring dumbly out from the truck as the man hammered. There was the tap tap tap as he started another nail, then the banging and knocking. Dad hollered out, Mind if we have one last look?
Go right ahead.
Dad pulled up to one of the ground-floor guest rooms and we got out. I squeezed past the stack of upside down FOR SALE signs propped up underneath the carport. The front door was open, but there was lots of junk blocking the way.
It was dark and empty inside. I crossed over to the patio door and pressed my face against the cool glass. The terrace was bathed in a golden light. The patio tables and the deck chairs were gone. The tiki bar was gone, and so was the linen cart. The pool was empty, and the patio was lifeless. I knew it was closed, but somehow I still expected to see motel guests walking around in flip-flops and bathrobes. Danny feeding the Coke machine. Missus Burns slathering on Coppertone. Aurelia knocking on a door with a short stack of towels in her arms. Mister Abrams standing under the shade of the tiki bar, showing Missus Bigelow how to make one of those fancy drinks with an umbrella in it. Dad would be standing nearby, bragging how every Fairchild had been not just a good swimmer but a great swimmer, and how that hotshot Dixon kid who had been the captain of th
e high school swim team was just the boy to teach me.
I slid open the glass door and stepped out. A faint whiff of chlorine hung in the air. I sucked in a mouthful of the stuff and headed for the pool. I sat down on the fat lip of the ledge and stared down at the thin puddle of gray water in the bottom, strewn with dead leaves and dimpled with indentations of water striders. I picked up a pebble and tossed it in.
Dad was out front, chatting with the man from the bank. His voice carried through the bare halls and empty rooms. He was asking after the details of the foreclosure. I remembered the time Danny Dixon had yelled out to me that the trick to treading water was to keep my arms paddling, with my head above water and “oh two” circulating through my nose. How Derrick and the Tillman kid were sitting on the ledge, splashing their feet around by the shiny chrome ladder, laughing their heads off because Danny was telling me to concentrate, and here I was flapping and flailing on my way over to him, spitting out water like a tugboat, smiling from cheek to cheek, having so much fun that I wasn’t even paying attention.
Those six weeks that Danny Dixon was back from college for the summer were magical. To Mister Abrams, it was just a little something special he did for us local kids, but for us, it was like a dream come true. The ugly truth is, even if grown-ups would probably never step foot in the place again after Toby died, I would have leaped back into that water in a heartbeat.
Dad sat down beside me and asked how things were going. Sad though I was, I said, Fine.
He’s a nice fella, that man. Said this place might go to auction.
I shrugged. Where’s Mister Abrams?
Probably in the Ozarks for all I know.
We didn’t get a goodbye card or anything?
Nope. Why?
I tossed in another pebble. No reason.
You’re a bright boy, Huey. Tell me something. If the world went to hell in a handbasket tomorrow, does it make sense to you that it would all come down to this stupid little pool?
I reached for another pebble, but didn’t answer. I knew what he meant. And he may just as well have been right, for all I cared. But as the gravel crunched under the tires and we pulled out of the parking lot, a weather vane creaked thinly in the distance. I told Dad to hold on and craned my neck to see as far into Mister Buford’s peach grove as I could. But it was too late. Dad was already too far down Cordele Road for me to see anything except a perched ladder, steeply angled and disappearing, within a thick tangle of peach blossoms. Maybe Mom was right. It probably didn’t even matter anymore. The lush bed of low-lying peach trees crisscrossing the neighboring foothills grew dim in the distance.
They Come in All Colors Page 29
