by Robert Inman
He sat on the side of the bed and stared out the window for a long time, heard a couple of cars drive up and park in the front yard, heard the mutter of voices in the downstairs hallway, too distant and soft to recognize. Jake hoped that would be the end of it. He didn’t need a caravan tooting out here from town to help him be sixty-five.
He felt, rather than heard, something at the doorway of his room and he turned from the window and saw Lonnie standing there. A bit taller now, but thin and drawn, the skin on his face pinched, neck and arms scrawny, sleeves and collar too big for him. He stood back, hesitant, waiting.
Jake stared at him. “Ha!” he finally snorted. “You look a little peaked, boy.”
“Yessir,” Lonnie said. Then he blurted out, “You don’t look so great yourself.”
Jake stared at him. “I’ve been a little sick.”
“Yessir.”
“God save a man from doctors. They’ll make you old before your time,” Jake said. Then, “You haven’t been around to see me.”
Lonnie ducked his head. “Well, I’ve been sick, too.”
“Yeah, I heard,” Jake said, and then he choked, the tears rising up. “I thought …” He turned his face away and stared out the window until he got himself under control again. “Well,” he said, “I missed the hell out of you, boy.”
“I missed you, too,” Lonnie said softly.
“We’re just a couple of old lame ducks, eh?”
“I guess so,” Lonnie said.
There was a long silence while they looked at each other and then Lonnie cut his eyes away to the window, where the Saturday afternoon was pale with thin washed-out November sunshine.
“How’s school?”
“Okay, I guess. They sent my books home while I was in the bed. I stayed caught up, mostly. Bugger Brunson come around and helped me about every afternoon.”
“Came around,” Jake corrected.
“Yessir. Well, he came around and helped me, especially with arithmetic. I ain’t much on decimals.”
“I’m not much on decimals.”
“Nosir, I know that. You always said you weren’t much on figuring.”
God, what a truth, Jake thought to himself. I thought I had it all figured out, but it turned out there was so much I didn’t figure on, so much that hit me blindsided. And thereby hangs the great question: Can a man truly take his life into his own hands and shake it for all it’s worth when there is so much he can’t figure on?
“Lonnie …” he said.
“Yessir.”
“Nobody’s to blame, I want you to understand that. Things just happen and nobody has any control over them. Sometimes a fellow gets run over just because he’s standing in the way. At the wrong place, the wrong time. You see?”
Lonnie nodded, but Jake could tell he didn’t see, and why should he? Talk to a thirteen-year-old boy about cause and effect? And what of any sense could come from a lame old man who didn’t know what he believed himself anymore?
“So,” Jake said, “how are things at the paper?”
“Okay, I guess,” Lonnie said.
“You gettin’ it out every week?”
“Yessir. Pa’s learning how to run the Linotype machine. He’s getting so he don’t make so many mistakes. Francine is doing the ads and most of the writing and keeping the books.”
“And you?”
Lonnie shuffled his feet. “I’m just helping out. They’ve got a printer. His name’s Holladay. He’s kind of fussy, don’t like nobody messing with the type cases, but I showed him I could hand-set and he’s letting me do some of that now. And I run the folder on Wednesday afternoons. I guess I’m not much help, really.”
“And Francine’s doing the writing.”
“Yessir. And Pa, too. He covered the Town Council meeting this week.”
“My God,” Jake said softly.
“When are you coming back?” Lonnie asked.
Jake waited a long time before he said, “I don’t rightly know that I am.”
“What?”
“Sounds like you-all have got things under control down there,” Jake said, and when he said it, he thought for a moment that he didn’t give a damn about it anymore. He had put forty-six years of his life into that goddamn newspaper, tried to speak a little truth, tried to do what a good newspaper was supposed to do — keep things stirred up enough so that fools would have to stop and think for a moment before they went on being fools. But now he was old and worn out. And they didn’t need him.
‘Yes sir,” he went on, “sounds like you’ve got things covered just fine. If you can write a newspaper and print a newspaper, then that’s about all there is to be done. That’s pretty much the be-all and end-all of putting out a newspaper. You don’t have to get fancy about it. Just write it and print it. Sell some ads, cover some meetings, throw in a little society claptrap and some births and deaths, then print it and take it to the post office. That’s newspapering, all right.”
Lonnie stared at him, mouth open. “But that’s what you do.”
“Did,” Jake corrected. “I haven’t done that for three months, and like you said, you-all are still getting out the newspaper.”
“But it’s your newspaper,” Lonnie protested.
“Hah!” Jake laughed. “Don’t seem like it.”
“But don’t you care?”
Jake waited awhile and caught his breath and calmed down before he answered. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just that a man has to know when it’s time to let go of things.”
A moment of time hung suspended between them before Lonnie said softly, “Quitter.”
“What?”
“You’re a quitter. You’re quitting on me now, just like you quit on me when the thing about the war memorial got hot and heavy. I wanted you to fight but you just quit.”
“Now, you just wait a goddamn minute …” Jake exploded.
“Quitter!” Lonnie hissed it again. “I ain’t been to see you these past weeks because I thought you were mad at me for messing things up and riding around with Pa on the fire truck and getting shot and getting you sick. I didn’t come over here because I was afraid if I came you’d die!” His voice rose and tears sprung from his eyes and his fists clenched. “But I ain’t coming to see you any more because you’re just a quitter! I counted on you!”
And he fled, leaving Jake stunned and speechless.
He was still sitting there with his jaw open when Pastine came in a few minutes later. “Ready?” she asked.
He looked stupidly at her. “For what?”
“The party,” she said.
“What party?”
“Your birthday party, for goodness’ sake.” She looked him over for a moment. “Are you all right, Jake?”
“No,” he shook his head, “I’m a worn-out old man.”
“Did Lonnie come up here to see you?”
“Yes.”
“Well? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have,” he said.
“Did everything go all right?”
“No, it didn’t.”
“What happened?’
“He called me a quitter,” Jake said.
“Ummmm,” she said. That was all. Then she picked up his walking stick, resting against the wall next to the dresser, and handed it to him. “We’ll be waiting for you downstairs,” she said, and left him sitting there.
After a moment, he heaved himself to his feet, using the cane for leverage, and stood there by the bed. I won’t go, he said to himself. I’ll just stay here. I’ll just get back into the bed …
But then he heard the rustle of bed covers beside him and he looked and saw Albertis Tibbetts there in the bed between the sheets, his face ashen behind the week-old stubble of beard, paper-thin eyelids closed. Jake’s heart leaped into his throat and he moved, one shuffling foot in front of the other, panic-driven, until he was out of the room and in the hallway. He stopped at the head of the stairs, chest heaving with exertion and
fright. He could see feet down at the bottom of the stairs, people waiting for him. I can’t go any farther, he thought, and then he heard the shuffle of ancient footsteps behind him and he lurched forward and started down the stairs, holding onto the railing with his good hand and propping himself on the walking stick with the other. One step at a time. Shuffle, clomp. Shuffle, clomp. He could feel Albertis’s eyes on his back, looking down at him from the top of the stairs, waiting for him to topple forward and spill his brains on the landing below. Halfway down, he teetered for a terrible second, then steadied himself, feeling his bowels lurch and praying fervently he would not lose control and shame himself with the foul excretion of his ruined body running down his legs. Shuffle, clomp. Shuffle, clomp. The noise of his laboring breath wild and thunderous in his ears, crowding out all sound. He feared for his heart, his bowels, his legs, his soul. He must stop, rest. But he couldn’t, not with Albertis’s dead eyes boring into his back. Sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus, he thought over and over, knowing as the cadence of it echoed through his brain how stupid it was for him, of all people, to call out “Sweet Jesus.”
Then, suddenly, he was at the bottom and there was a great empty silence around him, the kind that had been his place of abode in those first unmeasurable days after his stroke. He turned slowly, shifting the walking stick to his good hand, and looked back up the stairs. Albertis was gone. Albertis had never been there, had he? No, Albertis had always been there, always would be.
Jake straightened himself, smoothed the front of his shirt, and looked at them. Pastine, Rosh, Henry, Francine holding the baby. Lonnie, standing off to the side. All of them watching him. Then they applauded, all except Lonnie. “That was great, Jake,” Francine said.
“Well, here’s the birthday boy,” Rosh said. “Many happy returns, Jake.”
“The birthday boy,” Jake mumbled. “Yeah, I’m the birthday boy.” And then they all went into the parlor, where there was a coal fire going in the fireplace and in front of the fireplace a small table with the birthday cake on it — white with big red letters on the top that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAKE and a scattering of candles. There was a stack of small plates and napkins and forks next to the cake. Jake shuffled over to the wing-backed chair next to the table and sat down heavily, leaning his cane against the arm of the chair. The rest of them sat down, all except for Lonnie, who stood behind the couch where Francine and Henry sat.
Jake caught his breath and then he looked around at the rest of them and said, “Well, this is very nice. Very nice of all of you to come and help an old man celebrate his birthday.” My God, he thought, this is incredibly awkward. He avoided looking at Henry. He had not seen Henry since …
“You’re only as old as you think you are,” Rosh said.
“Well,” Jake said with a laugh, “I think I’m pretty dad-gummed old.”
“But looking better all the time,” Francine said. The baby gurgled on her lap, reaching up to grab at Francine’s hair.
There was a long silence and then Jake said, “Lonnie tells me things are going well at the paper.”
Nobody said anything for a moment and then Francine said, “We’re getting it out.”
Another long silence. “Ahem. And how’s Billy doing, Rosh?” Jake asked.
“Just fine. He’ll start school after Christmas. He’s going to State. To study aeronautical engineering.”
“What kind?”
“Aeronautical. Airplanes. He’s going to design airplanes.”
“Ah. Yes. I wanted to be an engineer one time, but that didn’t work out.” He nodded. “I think that was before we had airplanes.”
The silence was even longer and deeper this time, a great cocoon of quiet that held them suspended inside. Finally, Rosh said, “How about a little something to toast the occasion?” He looked over at Pastine, who sat primly, hands in lap, in a stiff-backed chair near the sofa.
“Fine,” Pastine said, and she and Rosh got up and went to the kitchen, leaving Jake and Francine and Henry and Lonnie and the baby there in the parlor. Nobody even attempted to make conversation. They all just stared at the floor, all except Lonnie, who stared at Jake until Jake could feel the top of his head burning. It seemed like an eternity before Rosh and Pastine came back, Pastine bearing a tray with crystal cups of red punch, Rosh carrying two cups that had a slightly different color. He handed Jake one of the cups while Pastine served the rest and sat down. Rosh towered over them, his great body filling the room, hand outstretched.
“I propose a toast,” he said. “To my friend and fellow sufferer Jake Tibbetts, who on this day marks a milestone worthy of any good man. He has cut a wide path, and sometimes he has cut a fine figure. I salute him.”
They all took a sip of their punch and Jake could taste the beautiful sweet tang of Lightnin’ Jim’s Best. Ah, sweet Jesus. Now that was something to say “Sweet Jesus” about. His first drink in three months. It burned all the way down. Godalmighty, it was good. He turned the cup and drained it completely, set the cup down on the table next to him, and smacked his lips, feeling the warmth of it flood his belly.
“Ahhhhhh …,” he said. “God bless you, Rosh.”
“And now,” Pastine said, “it’s time to cut the cake.” She rose from her chair and reached for the knife that lay next to the cake on the table.
“No,” Jake said suddenly. “Let me.”
She stopped, stared at him.
“It’s my birthday,” he said. “Let me cut the cake.”
“Well, all right.” She sat back down.
Jake pushed himself up with one hand on the arm of the wing-backed chair and stood wobbling for a moment until he got his balance.
“I … ahem …,” he cleared his throat. “I … ahem … have taken great pride all my life in being a stubborn fool and keeper of my own conscience, and now I am reaping the benefits. I have reached the age of great wisdom, surrounded by my friends and family,” he swept the room with his arm, taking them all in, “and I bask today in your great warmth. Speaking of warmth, would someone care to light the candles?” He looked around at them, looked directly at Henry for the first time. Henry. Gaunt, hollow-eyed, a ghost. But clean-shaven, hair neatly trimmed, wearing a coat and tie today. Jake could not remember ever having seen Henry Finley Tibbetts in a coat and tie. He sat next to Francine on the sofa, looking terribly uncomfortable with the whole thing. But there, nevertheless. Next to Francine. And wearing a coat and tie, by God.
“Henry, would you light the candles?”
Henry jerked his head up. They looked into each other’s eyes for a long time. Then he said, “Sure,” and got up from the sofa, fished his Zippo lighter out of his pants pocket, and lit the candles one by one. His hand trembled a bit, but he got it done. There were ten of them. Then Henry closed the lighter with a snap, put it back in his pocket, and sat down.
Jake took a deep breath, leaned over and blew as hard as he could at the top of the cake. One of the candles went out, but the rest of them barely fluttered. He tried again and got one more candle.
“Lonnie,” he said, looking up, “come over here and help this old windbag blow out the candles.”
Lonnie gave him a sharp look, hesitated a moment, but then came around and stood next to the table.
“Now let’s do it together,” Jake said, and they both blew on the cake at once and all the candles went out, leaving little fingers of smoke curling up.
“Now you stand here and help me serve,” Jake said. He picked up the knife from the table next to the cake, stared at it for a moment, put it back down.
Then in a twinkling, before any of them realized what he was doing, he reached up above the fireplace mantel to his right and lifted Captain Finley Tibbetts’s sword off its hooks. He stuck the scabbard between his left arm and his rib cage, and using his body as a vise, he unsheathed the gleaming blade and let the scabbard fall with a clatter to the floor. He did it with a swift grace he would have thought impossible only a few seconds before. He thou
ght fleetingly of Tunstall Renfroe, dashing to defend his women the day Billy Benefield’s airplane landed on Partridge Road, a moment of pure truth and beauty.
And then, while they sat transfixed by the suddenness of it, he raised the blade and brought the sword down squarely on the top of the birthday cake. THHHH-WHOK! It exploded under the blow, sending fragments of cake and icing flying in all directions.
“Ta-DAH!” he bellowed, and then he raised the sword and brought it down again, this time at a slight angle — THHHH-WHOK! — launching a big chunk of the cake zooming off toward the doorway, where it landed with a splat on the hardwood floor. The plates on the table next to the cake fell smashing to the carpet and forks and napkins scattered everywhere.
“Sixty-five and not a gray hair on my ass!’ he yelled.
“Holy shit,” Lonnie said softly, leaping back from the table out of the reach of Jake’s sword.
Pastine started to rise from her chair, but Jake brandished the sword in her direction. “SIT DOWN!” he commanded. “I’m the birthday boy, and by God, I’m running the birthday party!” She sat. “And,” he thundered, turning to where Henry and Francine sat on the couch, staring open-mouthed at him, “I’m still the goddamned editor of the goddamned newspaper!” Emma Henrietta, sitting in Francine’s lap, howled with fright and Francine clutched her against her chest.
He brought the sword up and whacked at the cake again. THHHH-WHOK! “We’ll all have a little cake” — THHHH-WHOK! — “and celebrate the return of the editor.” He looked over at Rosh, who was sitting speechless for once, eyes wide. “And you can tell those fools on the Town Council” — THHHH-WHOK! — “that if they think I’m through fighting over the war memorial, they can think again!” Pieces of cake and icing filled the air like the first snow of winter.
Then he stopped. The fire went out of him as quickly and magically as it had come and the sword felt incredibly heavy in his hands. He stared bug-eyed at each of them in turn, at the ruined cake, the deep slashes on the wooden top of the table, broken plates on the floor, napkins and forks scattered about. He thought then of old Captain Finley, standing here in this very parlor a millennium ago, slashing with this very sword at the brocade of the sofa, the same sofa where Henry and Francine now sat, dispatching whatever beast had leaped and grabbed him by the throat. There was one big difference, though. Captain Finley Tibbetts had died fighting. Jake Tibbetts — what was left of him — had to stay and face the music.
