“You just have a seat while I do your mom special. Normally Mary Alice does the cuts and I do the perms and posture, but seeing as you’re Arthur’s kin and Mary Alice just quit, I thought I’d do you both special.” He went to my mother, freshly combed out by Levona and sitting calmly in a blue pastel dress, fingers shuffled into Audy Rae’s right hand. Lips set to flat, neither frowning nor smiling.
“Annie, I’m Mr. Paul, remember me?” Mr. Paul said loudly, as if Mom’s trauma had left her deaf as well. “I’m gonna do you special today.” Mom looked to Audy Rae for consent. Audy Rae nodded. Mom offered a tired smile as she gave Mr. Paul her arm and was led to the first station.
Mr. Paul parted her hair, pinned the left side, and began cutting and combing, checking the mirror as if he expected a wince of pain with each snip. He saw none and began speaking in bromides.
“Is this weather too hot for you? They say it’s gonna cool soon.” Mr. Paul had a habit of asking questions and never waiting for the answers. “Personally, I like the hot weather. Is it hot like this in Indiana? I heard in Texas it’s gonna be a hundred and eight degrees today.” And so it went.
“… well, since Jane’s been poorly, I just threw myself into this place, but with most of the mines closed, business is off a fair patch. And Mary Alice, she just got tired of cutting hair, I suppose, but me, I love it.”
Petunia Wickle, who had been idled in the washing department, breezed past Mr. Paul and announced, “I’m goin to Biddle’s for lunch.” She opened the door with a ring of the synthetic bell and was halfway across the street by the time it closed, vertebrae in the small of her back actioning with every step.
Mr. Paul finished cutting and wrapped my mother’s hair in chrome curlers and led her to a bank of ancient floor-standing silver-domed hair dryers. He fired one to a vacuum whirl, carefully fitting the half-egg-shaped dome on my mother’s head.
Two ladies, freshly washed by Levona and ready for service, were sitting on the vinyl chairs opposite Audy Rae and me.
“That’s her,” the first whispered.
“Who?” the other said, not looking up from Soap Opera Digest.
“You know, the lady that’s gone nuts cause her little boy died. That’s Dr. Peebles’ daughter.”
The other looked up from the magazine and squinted to focus. Audy Rae darted up from her book and fixed the women with a withering glare.
“That’s her, then? Heard about her; they say she’s gone plumb crazy,” the second lady said, returning to her magazine. “What her little boy die of?”
“Shish, Lorraine, don’t be ignorant; she’ll hear you.”
I shrank in my seat on the embarrassment of it and took up a Ladies’ Home Journal to hide behind.
Lorraine put her magazine down. “Under that dryer? She couldn’t hear a hammer to pavement.”
Audy Rae cleared her throat loudly—gave them butcher knives.
They both regarded her coolly; then the first lady continued. “Well, the family says he got hit by a car, but I heard it warn’t no such thing.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know exactly what, but Lida Wickle said she heard it was some real bad accident at home, poor woman saw the whole thing happen. Imagine, seein your child get kilt. It’s no wonder she’s crazy.”
“Where’s her husband, then? He die too?”
“No, he sent her to live with Dr. Peebles. Lida said Dr. Peebles an him had a bust-up ten years ago an barely spoken since.”
“What was the bust-up?”
“Lida didn’t know. That’s the thing about these Peebles—they don’t tell you their business. My friend Deloris is friends with Jeb Peebles’ wife and when Jeb died Deloris didn’t even know he had the cancer, never even tole her. Suffer in silence, them Peebles do.” They were quiet for a moment. “How bout Simp?”
“Flyrock size a basketball come down from number two. My friend Kitsy’s husband is a volunteer fireman, second truck on the scene, an she said Simp didn’t have much of a head left.”
“That’s awful. Poor Betty.”
“You don’t know the half. When them trucks pulled up she was out there with him jus holdin his hand. Kitsy said she had gathered up all the broken skull pieces an brain pieces an tried to fit them all back together on top a Simp’s head.”
I closed my eyes on the scene in Simp Dodger’s backyard only to be greeted by the visual of Josh dying in our driveway in Redhill. I shook my head and looked out the window for anything to pull me away from the reliving of that scene.
“You goin to Paul’s meetin tonight?”
“I don’t know, Bebe… more minin means more jobs. That’s a good thing. Ain’t like nobody’s usin them mountains.”
“You seen what they done to Corbin Holler. It ain’t there no more. Gone like it never was.”
“That ain’t a bad thing. Ain’t nuthin good ever come outta Corbin.”
“They say all the water round there is cancer water. I’m goin to the meetin to see what it’s all bout.”
Mr. Paul pulled the silver hair dryer off my mother and led her back to the number one chair, unwinding the curlers and poking her hair with the sharp end of a black comb, then fogging everything with hair spray.
The final result was spectacular given the steady decline Mom had allowed herself in the last three months. Even Mr. Paul was proud as he held the hand mirror for her to see all the angles. Mom nodded impassively. Mr. Paul led her to the chair next to Audy Rae. The Soap Opera Digest lady and her friend watched Mom, returning to their magazines only when they were met with Mr. Paul’s disapproving glare.
“Annie,” he said, squatting to face her, “I swear, you are surely as beautiful as your mother.”
Mom smiled, this time from her eyes. “What a lovely thing to say, thank you.”
Mr. Paul stood for an awkward instant, then turned to the magazine ladies with a sigh. “Hello, Miss Lorraine, Miss Bebe… Miss Lorraine, if you please.” Miss Bebe peeked over the top of her periodical until the bell on the front door jingled and Pops walked in, arms full of veterinary supplies, followed by Paitsel Meadows with a scoop of ice cream in a cup—mint sprinkles trailing from the top—and Petunia Wickle, fresh from her lunch break at Biddle’s.
“Well now, don’t you girls look pretty as peaches,” Pops said to us with a chuckle. Petunia looked at me and laughed. Mr. Paul brightened at the sight of my grandfather.
“Paul, you are an artist.”
Mr. Paul just smiled into Miss Lorraine’s thinning hair. Paitsel put the ice cream cup on the cutting-station counter. “They was out a chocolate, so I got you strawberry.”
Paul grinned and took the cup. “What a lovely surprise. I thought you had to go to Knuckle today.”
“He don’t got the part. There’s a place near Johnson City with a ton a Chevy blocks. He’ll have it.”
Paul moved to the trash can and began gently sloughing the sprinkles off the scoop with the spoon. We all watched as he cleared the ice cream of every mint piece. He must have felt all our eyes on him. He looked up and smiled. “I’m gonna just take a few of these off… such a nice surprise.”
Paitsel shook his head and smirked over to Pops. “Some people there ain’t no pleasin.”
Pops laughed. “I don’t even try.”
“You two hush up now,” Mr. Paul said and loaded a spoonful of sprinkleless ice cream. “Hits the spot on a hot day like today.” He offered the next spoon to Paitsel.
“Nah, I take mine with sprinkles.”
Pops chuckled and took the spoon.
“I guess I’ll get on down to Johnson City,” Paitsel said as he pushed open the door. We said good-byes and followed him out to the sidewalk.
I turned to sneak a last look at Petunia, but she was gone. All I could see was Mr. Paul, ice cream put to the side, looking into the gray double mirror in front of him, pondering the red ribbon, the exceptional hair. And the rifle-shot slap.
Chapter 7
THE NEW BEST KING
S OF THE EARTH
I left Pops and Paitsel talking about a tapping valve and walked up to the tree house, where Buzzy was plugging a bee-dug hole on a roof truss with chewing gum.
“Bout time.”
“Had to get a haircut.”
“You look like a dork.” He flashed a gap-toothed grin. “Come on. With a lame-ass cut like that, you’re gonna need the Treatment.” He was limb to limb before I could ask or argue. I got to the ground as quickly as I could and ran to catch up.
“What’s the Treatment?”
He stopped, turned back to me and laughed, then kept on down the trail, pacing faster than before. We crossed the valley, through cow fields and corn, until we came to Route 17 and the entrance to Grubby Mitchell’s farm.
“This is Runnin Creek. We follow it past the farm to the hollow where Mr. Mitchell dams it all up. The Treatment is in there.”
“What exactly is this Treatment thing?”
“It ain’t really a thing you can describe.” He took off up the creek.
A quarter mile into the hollow we came to a wooden dam and a wide pool held back by it. On the left edge of the pool was a tarn of black loamy mud, smooth and glistening like freshly poured black concrete. A twisted old hickory clung to the high bank, a big branch hanging over part of the mud pit. Thrown over the branch was a rope with a simple noose at the end. The bark on the branch had been worn smooth from use.
“This used to be called the Nigger Treatment, but my grandaddy hides us if we use that word, so now we jus call it the Treatment.”
I had read about the lynchings of blacks in the South, but I thought it all ended in the sixties. “Buzzy, why did you bring me here?” I asked, confused that he would speak so lightheartedly of murder.
He looked at me quizzically. “I thought you would like it.”
“Why would I like a place where they killed black people?”
“What are you talkin bout?”
“The noose… the Nigger Treatment! This is where they lynched black people, isn’t it?”
He looked over at it and started laughing. “It ain’t for hangin people.”
“What’s it for, then?” I said defensively. The noose, the tree, the name—it all added up to me.
“I’ll show you,” he said and stripped completely naked, hanging his clothes on a thick root jutting out from the bank.
The end of the noose rope was tied to another root. He untied it and handed it to me. “Tie this tight round your waist. When I swing out over the mud, you walk up the bank to lower me into the Treatment. Once my hands disappear into the muck, jump off the bank an your weight will pull me out.”
“Uhhhh… Buzzy, I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“I done it a hundert times.”
“What if I can’t pull you back up?”
“Then pull harder,” he said and climbed halfway up the bank. I wrapped the end of the rope twice around my waist, tied it, positioning it low on my hips, under my butt. He pulled the noose in with a long stick, grabbed hold, and tugged it tight. “Now I’m gonna swing on out over the mud. My weight’s gonna make you able to walk straight up the bank to the top. That’ll lower me in the Treatment. When the rope goes slack, jump back down the bank and it’ll pull me out.”
“But what if I can’t pull you out?” I said again. Buzzy outweighed me by at least thirty pounds.
He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “The Treatment ain’t a place you want to get stuck in. Best you pull harder.”
“I’m serious, man. You weigh a lot more than me.”
He looked down on me with mock seriousness. “Then I’m in deep shit.” He laughed and swung out over the expanse of mud. The rope tightened and I braced against the bank.
“Walk it!” he screamed, and I took a step up the bank, then another and another. I felt weightless, like Batman scaling the side of a building. With each step Buzzy sank deeper into the mud—up to his knees, his waist, his chest. I hesitated. “Keep goin,” he shouted. I took three more steps and his head disappeared into the black mud, then his arms and hands—nothing but the rope sticking out of the pit like the new wick out of a black candle. The rope went slack as I reached the top of the bank. I pushed off to rappel down. The rope tightened but the weight of him held me fast. I just dangled in the air, my feet against the bankside. I jumped up, pushed off again, but the rope made no movement. I jumped again with force, and the rope unstuck, lowering me to mudside. As I went down, up came onyx arms, a black head, an obsidian chest, coal legs. The watery mud was just thick enough to cling to him, leaving a thin black film on his entire body. He looked as if he’d just been plucked from the rendering vat at an India-ink factory. He smiled and his white teeth were pearls against the dark of it all. He swung his legs up and back to maneuver the rope onto solid ground, then let go and jumped to safety.
I fell back onto the ground at the loss of counterbalance, laughing hysterically. “Buzzy, you look straight out of the jungle.”
He picked up a spear-like stick and climbed to the top of a large rock overlooking the pool. Black and naked, he reached both arms up to the blue-cotton sky. “I claim this land in the name a the new best kings a the earth.” His voice boomed across the swimming hole. “Whoever chooses to be like marked will join me on the throne. You, young prince.” He pointed the spear at me. I stood. “Got you the makins of a king?”
“Uhhhh. I think.” I grabbed the noose and Buzzy wrapped the rope around his waist.
I climbed halfway up the bank and looked at the expanse of mud, glistening in the sun. It looked harmless, no deeper than a few inches, but I knew it was a treacherous bottomless pit.
“White-skinned prince, you must rid yourself of your princely clothes to become a king.”
I had never been naked outdoors before and hesitated. The king put his spear down and resumed his previous persona. “You don’t want to be gettin the Treatment with your clothes on. It ain’t a good idea. My brother Cleo did it and momma never got the mud outta em.”
I balanced on the root and slowly took off my shirt and stripped down to my underwear. I pulled my boxer shorts down and stepped out of them and threw them down to Buzzy. I gripped the noose tightly and pulled the rope tight. Buzzy wrapped the other end twice around his waist. “I got you now—jus swing on out like I done.”
I picked my legs up and Tarzanned out over the flat. Buzzy stepped up on the bank face and my toes hit the mud, then my feet. It was cold. The chill crept up my legs as I sank into the pool.
“Whatever you do, man, do not let go a the rope,” he said from the bank. “There’s ain’t no bottom to it.”
I tightened my grip on the noose.
The mud was like watered-down pudding as I sank deeper into the pit—past my navel, up to my shoulders. I took a deep breath and went under. It was black, probably blacker and colder than the deepest unexplored corner of the Telling Cave. I kept sinking, like I was being sucked down into a cold, black death, unable to move my limbs. I felt the rope go slack, and my upstretched hands sank below the surface. A stripe of panic seized me; I tried to kick to the surface, but the mud held me under. I couldn’t bring my arms down to swim to the top, and the more I struggled the deeper I seemed to sink. My lungs began to sear and my legs and arms thrashed around in the wet concrete–like encasement. In panic I dropped the rope. I groped frantically for it, but it was gone.
I turned myself around, sweeping the black expanse in front of me with my arms, lungs bursting, head ringing, frantic fingers feeling for the rope. It brushed against my cheek. I caught the end of the loop just as it was pulling away from me. The rope went tight and I started rising to the surface. My hands broke the mud expanse, just as dizziness from lack of air started to take me. Finally my head broke the surface and I felt the cool air fill my lungs. I opened my eyes to the bright new world. The colors on the trees, the blackness of the mud, and the blueness of the sky all seemed new and wonderful, like I had died and been pulled back to life. My m
outh was full of gritty, loamy mud, but I didn’t care. I was alive and everything was right again with the world.
I swung my legs up and over to the edge of the mud pit and dropped next to Buzzy. I put my hands on my knees and panted, searching for breath. “Man… I thought… you were never going to pull me up.”
“Works best if you soak in it for a few seconds,” he said and laughed. He jumped down from the rock. “Come, my brother king. Let us lay in the light an give homage to the sun god.” I followed him across, out to the sunbathed far bank, and lay in the sand to let the sun dry the black mud. I stretched out with my hands behind my head, as content as I thought I would ever be.
We were silent then, feeling the wet mud congeal on our bodies, the new best kings of the earth, black and naked with the sun baking us dry and me wishing a way to stop the world from spinning so that this singular moment in my life would never end.
Chapter 8
THE PRICE OF FUTURE MEMORIES
That evening, the porch seemed to meld into dusk slower than usual. Lo and Paitsel stopped by at six o’clock, and at six twenty Chester Skill eased up the worn steps and into one of the faded green wicker chairs.
Paitsel launched the night’s discussion. “The Company is tryin to buy the Mitchell place. Looks like they’re goin to create a second slurry pond down mountain. The one on top is definitely at capacity.”
Pops nodded. “Grubby said Bubba was courting him. Don’t think he’s going to sell out, though.”
“With that kind a acreage, Bubba’ll be expandin,” Lo offered.
Chester sighed. “We are talking mountains that have been here for ten thousand years. Mountains that have defined us for generations. We all went to bed soon after the sun set over them, and when we got up every morning, they were there. They were the one constant in this scratch-a-living life of ours, and now three are gone. Just gone. And nobody but Paul is raising a stink about it.” He shook his head. “But you know what pains me to my soul? The fact that they are not coming back. Indian Head ain’t coming back. Ever.”
The Secret Wisdom of the Earth Page 7
