“My Father had a small Estate in Nottinghamshire; I was the Third of five Sons. He sent me to Emanuel-College in Cambridge, at Fourteen Years old where I resided…”
Lost.
Chapter 11
THE DRAWING UP OF IT ALL
My daddy says to me, he says, ‘You ain’t gonna be workin there no more no how.’ An I says to him, I says, ‘You ain’t gonna tell me what’s what, you ain’t nuthin but a pothead drunk.’ I called him that, girl. Do you believe I actually called him a pothead drunk?”
“No way, what he do?”
“He raises up his hand like he’s gonna hit on me an I says to him, I says, ‘You hit on me an I’ll tell Uncle Floyd an he’s gonna kick your ass again.’ So he puts his hand down an cusses at me an walks out the front door,” she said with a giggle.
On Sunday I was upside down in Petunia Wickle’s washbasin again, trying in vain to peek up the open space of her shirt bottom. I really didn’t need another haircut, but Mr. Paul’s telling of my grandmother and the rifle-shot slap left me yearning for more details, more stories. I felt that if I could gather up all that was known about her, I could somehow draw on her strength and wisdom and fearlessness. The opportunity to view Petunia’s breasts was a collateral benefit. She leaned over to reach for the conditioner and the bottom of her midriff shirt bent open; a flash of nipple jolted my stomach.
“My momma ain’t said nuthin,” Levona said. “She don’t care what I do. All she said was she ain’t comin in here no more, even with the discount.”
“I think it’s kinda cool, knowin one a them,” Petunia said. “Like it’s gonna put us on the map or somethin. In the beauty trade it ain’t a bad thing, you know. I may get one a them when I get my own place.” The front door chimed open and Petunia said, “Speakin a queer boys, look what jus come in.”
“Stop talkin smack, girl; you don’t know shit bout what went on.”
“Hissy seen him,” she said with certainty.
I picked my head up and could see straight through to the waiting room. Tilroy Budget was fidgeting at the front with his art supply case. Mr. Paul came out from the back and smiled. “Hello, Tilroy. How’s the future famous artist of Medgar, Kentucky, doing?”
“Good, I guess.” He seemed nervous, looked behind him, out the window, and back at us. Petunia pulled my head back into the basin.
“Well, that’s just dandy,” Mr. Paul replied.
“Well, that’s jus dandy,” Petunia mimicked. She puffed her cheeks and pushed out her tongue in faux vomit.
“Got somethin I drew I wanna show you.”
“Let’s see, then. I thought that rock poster you made was exceedingly good.”
Petunia was working conditioner into my hair, and the feel of her fingers on my scalp made it hard to concentrate on the conversation at the front. I heard the metal case click open and Mr. Paul take a breath. “My lands,” he said. “Son, I just don’t know what to say. I just don’t know what to say.”
“You can hang it up, you know.”
“Not only will I hang it up, Tilroy. I am going to have it framed. This is one of the nicest presents I believe I have ever received.”
“It was jus cause, you know, you got me this art set an stuff. I thought it would be cool to do you a picture a your place. Somethin you could hang up somewheres.”
“What is that loser kissin Mr. Paul’s ass for?” Petunia hissed. “I swear I’m right about him, girl. Hissy says she seen him an that skinny boy.”
“Then you can hire Tilroy for your place,” Levona shot back and chortled at her clever retort.
“Not a chance. My fag’s gonna be one a them French fags that all the girls fall in love with an can cut hair like nobody’s bidness.”
She washed the conditioner out of my hair and tapped the back of my head. “Go on an sit up sos I can dry you.” They were the first words she had spoken to me since I had arrived. I felt the awkwardness between us evaporate, her play at conversation giving me confidence.
“He drew a picture of this place for Mr. Paul,” I ventured, smug on my inside knowledge.
“What are you talkin bout?”
“Tilroy, he’s really good at drawing stuff. I saw the picture he drew of this place. It looks amazing.”
Petunia got excited now. She came to the front and positioned herself between my legs and leaned forward with her hands on both my arms. I was shot through with lightning. I couldn’t decide to where to focus: her breasts or her bright red lips.
“Am I in it?” she asked. “I ain’t never had no one draw me up before.” I opened my mouth to speak but really didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to change the mood. “He dint do me fat, did he?” she asked.
“Uh…”
“What? Am I in it or not?”
“Umm…”
“Stop lookin at my tits an answer me!”
“I think it’s only of the shop and Mr. Paul,” I finally said.
“What you mean you ‘think’—you seen it or ain’t you?”
“No, I’ve definitely seen it,” I said. The last thing I wanted Petunia thinking me was a liar.
“Then am I in it or ain’t I?”
“You’re not, sorry.” I could feel the air slipping out of our balloon end; the temperature around us dropped several degrees. She took her hands away from my arms as if I had been suddenly poxed. A towel hit my head as she marched into the back room. “Dry his ass, Levona.”
“Is your daddy still in town?” Mr. Paul asked.
“Uhh, yeah. He’s leaving today.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met him.”
I didn’t answer and focused instead on three framed photographs hung next to his faded beautician’s license. The first was Paul as a young man standing crisp with two rows of army singers, mouths open in frozen harmony. The second was him singing to a microphone with DECCA emblazoned on the capsule. In the third, he was standing in front of a wide table arrayed with knobs and meters and wires in and out. He was flanked by a man and a woman smiling broadly.
“What are those pictures of?” I asked to shift the discussion.
“Oh, they’re from my singing days. The one on the bottom is me, Patsy Cline, and Owen Bradley.” He stood straight up as he said it, and a rush of memory from those days brought a smile to his face and palpable wist to the moment.
“Who are they?”
“Patsy Cline was one of the greatest singers who ever lived. Owen Bradley was her producer. I sang for her a little back then. Took me under her wing, she did. One of the nicest ladies you could ever meet. You never woulda known what a big star she was. Took me around Nashville to auditions and such.”
“Did you ever make a record?”
His lips rolled into his mouth and he shook his head. “I was getting close. Patsy even got her friend Harlan Howard to write a song for me, but then my daddy got real sick and needed care. My brothers were out west somewhere, and with my momma dead, there wasn’t anyone to do for him. Patsy said to call her as soon as I got back to Nashville, but then she died in a plane crash later that year. Nineteen sixty-three it was. So I stayed for my daddy until he died; then I opened up this place with Miss Janey.”
“Do you still sing?”
“In the church choir and such.” He stopped cutting and took in a deep breath and began with a clear voice that filled up the old salon like it was Carnegie Hall.
This old mountain lives inside me
Always has and always will.
The hollows and the lonesome hard rock
Beating in my body still.
Even Petunia and Levona stopped gossiping in the back and turned to listen.
And though I’m far away from home now
Riding out a city chill
That old mountain still abides me
Always has and always will.
He smiled sadly and began cutting—scissors flashing under the fluorescent glare.
“What song is that? I’ve never heard it before.”
“That’s the song Mr. Howard wrote for me. It’s called ‘This Old Mountain.’ Marty Robbins ended up recording it.” He shook his head and shoulders quickly as if taken by a chill. He grabbed the hand mirror and held it up to my neck. “Enough of those old times. Let’s see how you look, young sir.”
Just then, the door jingled and Paitsel ambled in with a brown lunch bag. Mr. Paul’s back was to the door, and as Paitsel’s reflection moved into the faded mirror, he beamed. “I’m sorry, sir, we’re booked solid today,” he said with mock seriousness. “We’ll have to schedule you for later in the week.”
“Ha! You think I’d trust my good looks to this overpriced barbershop?”
Mr. Paul waved him away and grinned into the back of my head. Paitsel raised the lunch bag. “Made us BLTs an some a my spicy coleslaw. Thought we could picnic in the park today if your schedule allows.”
“After Kevin, I’m wide open for the rest of the week.”
“You mean the town meetin ain’t brungt the customers like we thought.” His eyes twinkled sarcasm and shared consequence.
“Six cancellations this week.” Paul sighed.
“It’ll pass.” He leaned his elbows on the counter. “More time for picnics.”
Paul took up a soft hand broom and began whisking cut hairs from my shoulders and back. Paitsel’s arm brushed the new drawing of Paul and the salon left by Tilroy. His face darkened. “He was here?”
Paul stiffened. “He was. I think the portrait is astonishingly good. Don’t you think?”
“What I think clearly don’t matter.” Paitsel’s mouth went to taut wire, hands to his back pockets.
“Pait, don’t be starting in with this again.”
“P, the boy’s a bad seed, an you helpin him ain’t gonna bring nothin good for him or us.”
Mr. Paul put his head down and kept at my now clean neck, brushing faster and with stubborn resolve. I started to chafe.
“Look, I get how you see yourself in him an his daddy in your daddy an all that stuff, but we need—”
Mr. Paul whirled. “Enough! This ain’t the time or place.”
Paitsel opened his mouth to reply but said nothing; he grabbed both sides of the counter and focused on the thread that had recently unthreaded from the vamp of his shoe. I paid and hurried out the door as he brought his head back up into the breach.
Chapter 12
THE OCCASIONAL SHIFTING OF BOOT SOLE ON PINE
The next day, on my way to meet Buzzy at the tree house, I took an inexplicable detour down a game trail into a thickly wooded basin. Two dead pine trees had blown down into each other, and the combined crowns created a house of perfect dry tinder—pinecones piled invitingly amid a thick of combustible pine needles. My hand went instinctively to pocket and fingered the old match pack I’d been carrying around since Redhill. I brought it out and turned it over in my hand, examined the worn flap edges, bent down one of the three remaining matches. I turned a circle, half expecting Buzzy to be watching me from a rock outcropping, but the woods were quiet.
I thought about my father’s betrayal and blame from two nights ago and how Pops had stood for me; thought of my developing friendship with Buzzy Fink and how his history was so deeply written in these hills with mine. How real friendship in Redhill had been only a curious concept and how Buzzy seemed to actually like me without any preconditions of cool—seemed to want to hang out with me regardless of my awkwardness. I put the matches back in my pocket and backtracked the trail to meet him.
Lo Gilvens tramped up the steps at six ten that evening and eased into a rocking chair with an overly loud exhale. Pops checked his watch. “Lo, you’re late tonight. I was starting to worry that you’d found a better offer.”
“No better offers,” he said. He went silent and unblinking, staring intently at the great hickory as if the patterns on the trunk could help him untangle his thoughts. The creases on his forehead rolled together like poorly installed carpet. He tugged at an eyebrow hair, then dug an index finger into his ear, moving it in a circular motion, the way one cores an apple.
“What’s the rub, Lo? You seem out of sorts tonight.”
He shook his head slowly. “Arthur, it’s… you know…” His eyes darted to me; then he whispered, “This whole Paul an Paitsel thing.” He opened his mouth for further comment, but nothing came out.
“What whole Paul and Paitsel thing?”
Lo mouthed something to Pops, then gave two sideways head jerks toward me.
“Oh, you mean the whole homosexual thing,” Pops said. Lo waved him off with both hands as if the mere mention of such depravity would ruin an impressionable boy.
“It’s okay, Lo. Kevin knows what homosexuality is. I don’t think talking about it will turn him”—he lowered his voice—“to the dark side.” He chuckled and winked at me.
“It ain’t to be played at, Arthur,” Lo said, clearly exasperated. “You jus don’t get it. The Budgets are gettin everybody all riled, sayin all kinds a things. Bad things.” Lo paused and leaned forward. “Like theys gonna teach him a lesson for bringing sin into the town.”
Chester walked up the steps and eased into a chair. I went to get him a glass of mash.
“Gotta be talking about the Paul scandal,” he said with an eye roll.
“Yup, we’re living in a regular Garden of Eden, aren’t we? That dang Paul and his queer apple ruining paradise for everybody,” Pops said and let out a belly laugh.
“It ain’t to be played at, Arthur, I’m tellin you. Them Budgets can get nasty. Say they gonna run him an Paitsel outta town.”
“Where did you hear this drivel… Hivey’s?”
Lo nodded quickly, lips tight.
Pops let out a breath and wiped his hand down across his mouth, then scratched his chin.
“They’re just big talking is all. This whole Paul thing will blow over and the Budgets will all get back to the important business of being hillbillies.” Pops took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed the tip at Lo. “You can bank that.”
“I don’t know. They’re all havin a meet-up tonight to decide what to do about it. I think it’s more’n big talk.”
That got Pops to sit up in his chair. “Who’s they?” His sharpened tone made Lo flinch.
“Jesper, Bump, Andy, an them… Gov Budget called it.”
“Bump? I thought he had more damn sense.”
“Well, it’s Gov what called the meetin.”
“What time?”
“Eight.”
“Gov Budget,” Pops said under his breath.
Hivey’s was buzzing when we arrived, fifteen or so men standing in clumps of twos and threes around the cold woodstove at the back. Bump Hivey, holding court with Bobby Clinch and several other men, was predicting the quantity of autumn rain.
Grubby Mitchell walked in and up to the group, shifting foot to foot, crossing and uncrossing his hands, nodding in agreement at the slightest declaration. Finally Bump acknowledged him. “Grub.”
“Best call me Raymond now, what with the farm nearly solt.”
Bump snorted; Bobby eye-rolled over to Andy Teel.
Jesper Jensen was with another group, waxing on the deficiencies of British culture. “You can’t get baked beans with dinner over there… they refuse to sell em.” A group of three others were complaining about the price of feed corn. I saw Sen Budget on the other side of the stove and froze; the memory of that horrific barnyard mule kill came forward. He was in close conversation with a taller, older version of himself. The older man had Sen’s same jutting Adam’s apple, same brush of stubble, but the frown lines and creases in his face cut deeper and to harsher angles, as if his was the tally board for every injustice the entire Budget clan had suffered at the hands of others.
I found an empty corner in the back of the store where I thought I could go unnoticed. Pops nodded to some of the men, shook hands with a few others, then sat in one of the rocking chairs around the circle. He crossed his legs and began chewing on
his pipe end. Lo came over, sat down, and started whispering, gesturing toward the cluster of Budgets. Standing just outside the family clump was Tilroy. He looked over. I awkwardly half waved. He frowned and went back to the group discussion.
The men began drifting over to the circle, taking chairs or occupying standing room. Finally, Bump stood up. “Seein as this is my place, uh, Gov asked me to spread the word about all of us meetin up an talkin bout this Paul thing.” He moved from foot to foot, as if the shift would help him configure his words. “An, well, we’re all here now, I guess. So… I guess… maybe…” He looked over at Gov Budget, who was standing rigid. “Gov, you wanna have your say?”
Gov Budget nodded slowly to acknowledge the seriousness of the topic before them. He walked purposefully to the center of the room, gaze moving from face to face, letting the silence around the room gather up until he spoke in an almost whisper.
“We got us a devil cancer right here, right now, in this town. A devil cancer it is!” The words devil cancer came out as a hiss. “Y’all know who I’m talkin bout.” Some folks nodded; most were looking at the floor. Pops was staring straight into Gov Budget, teeth clamped hard on his pipe.
Gov rambled on for about ten minutes, recounting the proud and virtuous history of Medgar, sprinkling in Bible quotes at appropriate intervals. Finally, in summation, with his voice rising to a high fever, he shouted, “We can’t be havin this kinda sick, Satan, devil cancer in our town. The Bible says it’s… it’s”—voice notching up—“it’s abomidational,” he shouted with a finger in the air. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “An it jus ain’t natural… it’s gainst the natural order a things.”
Sen Budget was mesmerized, staring proudly at his brother with unfettered awe, but the rest of the men seemed bored. Elrod Henry was testing the flexibility of his left thumb. Wade Wickle had taken his shoe off and was digging a splinter out of his heel. Bump Hivey was counting stock in the tool aisle.
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