Killer Diller

by Edgerton, Clyde

  “A tub bath? Oh yeah. Yeah, I had a tub bath.”

  They stop at a side street for a car to pass. Then they cross the street.

  “But the law was after me, see, and they finally got me, but in the end, after she took me in and everything, she got me to thinking different about women, and people, you know. She’s the one I usually go see on Sundays after church.”

  Ben doesn’t say anything.

  Wesley knows what’s wrong with Ben: He hasn’t learned to respect a woman. He’s like most guys. They don’t see women as real people. That’s the way it used to be with him. It used to be that he couldn’t have fallen in love if he’d tried. He might have thought he was in love. Now there’s Phoebe Trent, and he is really in love. The kind of love that keeps you from doing just whatever suits you.

  The Columbia Grill is built onto the back of the Columbia Tobacco Warehouse. Inside are high-backed booths and two chalkboards almost too slick for chalk, where daily specials are written: four meats, six vegetables—pick one and two or one and three. The owner, Mr. Jimmy Champion, sits at a table near the cash register, smoking a cigarette. He looks up at Ben and Wesley. He has big bags under his eyes. He tells them to go ahead and find a seat, anywhere.

  “Three hot dogs all the way,” Wesley says to Mary, the waitress. “And a Pepsi.”

  “Me too,” says Ben.

  “We’d have these little practice sessions,” says Wesley. “And I learned about how a man is supposed to respect a woman. We’d be walking down the street, downtown, and if she was walking next to the street, she’d walk closer and closer to me until I finally switched sides.” Wesley demonstrates with two fingers on each hand walking on the table. “It was like a real education. And see, she connected all this stuff up to Jesus, and that got me interested in all that, you know. Accepting Jesus, and the stuff in the Bible and, you know, heaven and hell and all that. See, like I never had a family.”

  “How’d you get born?”

  Mary brings the Pepsis.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I ain’t sure. I just ended up part-time with this uncle because my mama and daddy won’t married for some reason—or something. But mostly, it was just the orphanage and the YMRC, and then Mrs. Rigsbee. She got me to thinking about the whole part of people that’s below the surface—the soft spot, the soft area.”

  Ben looks at Wesley, raises an eyebrow.

  “No, not that. Not that. I got to thinking about the whole part of people that’s below the surface. I even got to thinking about the communists—I mean, you know, they’re people. They understand about being in love just as good as people in America—or they could if they was taught. They got potential. Chinese, too.”

  “You better watch that shit, man,” says Ben, looking at Wesley. He raises both eyebrows, sips from his Pepsi, lowers his head, wipes his thin mustache. “Communists.”

  “What I mean,” says Wesley, “is in theory like.” He picks up the glass salt shaker and turns it in his hand.

  “I don’t know about all that,” says Ben. “I don’t know about ‘theory.’ I just know about facts. You can’t count on nothing but bare facts—and there’s no better bare fact than . . . than a good looking, firm bare ass. Nass.”

  “Everything’s got a theory. Everything. Anyway, you see what I’m talking about. And that got me to thinking about women and all, about how on the inside they’ve got the same feelings as me, and so I figure I don’t want to just up and crawl them anymore.”

  “You mean you got to do it Christian?”

  “Well, no, not exactly. That ain’t what I mean. But there is stuff in the Bible which makes it all okay. I was reading some stuff about David the other day, the one with the slingshot, killed Goliath? You know about him?”

  “Yeah, I heard of him.”

  “Well, he had this illegitimate son, see. But the thing is, didn’t nobody blink a eye, not even the one writing the Bible, the one getting it all straight from God.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “You serious about all this, ain’t you?”

  “Well, yeah, but I’m starting to think about it different than they do at church. A lot of the people there don’t seem like they could understand about falling in love—all of that. They don’t mix in stuff like that from real life when they talk about things. And anybody that wears the kind of clothes they do can’t understand much about falling in love. I mean they all dress the same way.” Wesley shakes salt onto his hand, sticks his tongue to it. “Don’t you date nobody?” He looks at the salt shaker in his hand. We could use one of these back in the room, he thinks.

  “Naw. That’s the reason I’m in BOTA. I got charged with rape, convicted of assault.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You do now.”

  Mary brings the hot dogs, starts to walk away.

  Ben says, “You think you could put a little more chili on there?”

  “Mine too,” says Wesley.

  She picks up the plates.

  Wesley waits a few seconds. “Rape?”

  “That’s what the charge was. That’s what she said. And she had a lawyer and everything. But what happened was she called me up to come over to her house and then she started insulting the hell out me. Yackie, yackie, yackie, yackie.” Ben stares at Wesley. “It was a nodnamned fight is what it was—we made love while we was fighting is what happened. And it ain’t the first time we’d done it—that way. We’d just kind of knock over things and lose our heads and stuff. Lamps, tables. A lot of kicking each other in the ass, stuff like that. Nothing bad, you know. Just having a little fun. That’s all it ever was, just having a little fun.”

  Wesley is visualizing the fight. “How did you . . . so I mean what happened after that?”

  The waitress brings the hot dogs, heavy with chili.

  Ben waits for her to leave, then says, “I got convicted of assault because she was kind of beat up. After I left, that same day, she hit herself in the head with a frying pan. I know that’s what she did. She had to. One of them cast irons. That’s all she had. That’s all she had in her kitchen. She’d cook everything in it at the same time. Some stuff would be too done, other stuff not done enough. Man, I hated eating over there. But, hell, I couldn’t take her out, you know, with the situation and all—her being married. I didn’t have no money anyway.” Ben takes a big bite of hot dog—talks with his mouth stuffed. “She called the nodnamn police. Can you believe that shit? It was the same chick I saved from the man with the gun, when I got shot.” He swallows. “She called the police—on me—and they came to my apartment and got my ass, man, nass, and she’d done pressed charges. The only reason the assault conviction held up was because she’d beat herself up a little. Damn frying pan.” He takes another bite of hot dog. “I told them I never touched her stupid head. The whole problem, see, was she just went kind of crazy, or something. She had these mental problems. Bad.”

  “So you don’t date or nothing?”

  “Naw. I don’t date exactly, naw.”

  Wesley looks at the salt shaker in his hand. “Don’t we need a salt shaker?”

  “Maybe I should have wrote her a song, huh?”

  “Yeah, maybe you should have,” says Wesley.

  “I don’t know, man. Let me have that salt when you’re through.”

  “I think maybe I’ll write another Phoebe song.”

  I went down to the river, yesterday afternoon.

  I went down to the river, yesterday afternoon.

  And when I got down to the river... I went fishing.

  And I sang this song:

  I got the sour sweetheart blues. I’m gonna jump in the river

  and drown.

  I got the sour sweetheart blues. I’m gonna jump in the river

  and drown.

  I think my woman loves me, then she shoots me down.

  I took her to the circus,

  I took her to the fair,

  I took
her down to the river for some loving—

  She wanted to go back to the fair.

  I got the sour sweetheart blues, muddy water in my cup.

  I wish my sweetheart . . . I wish she’d sweeten up.

  Chapter 10

  “And Colonel Trent, if you will, you can sit right here,” says Ned Sears to Phoebe’s father. He looks like Alexander Haig, thinks Ned. “Wesley, you and Phoebe sit right down there. Or, Phoebe, maybe you want to sit by your daddy, too.”

  “This is okay, right here.”

  “No, he hasn’t seen you in some time. Here . . . I’m sure you all have plenty to talk about.”

  Ted Sears comes into the dining room from the restroom, where he’s given himself a thrice-over in the full-length mirror he recently had maintenance install in there.

  A camera flashes—Greg Stephenson, in charge of Ballard’s PVA (Photo, Video, Audio) University History Program, is covering the new academic dean’s first school function: the Project Promise banquet.

  Stan Laurence, the new assistant treasurer, and his wife, Darleen, are standing back.

  “Stan, you and Darleen come sit over here,” says Ned. “There you go. Darleen, that’s a beautiful dress. You certainly don’t look like you’ve been taking care of four children all day.”

  “Thank you.”

  When they are seated, Darken whispers to Stan, “Isn’t that the boy from the halfway house—the one who was in the newspaper?”

  “Where?”

  “Beside that big redheaded girl.”

  “Oh, yeah. Without a tie. Benfield. Wesley Benfield.”

  “He doesn’t look like he’d get along too well with the girl’s father.”

  “No shit. You can say that again.”

  Wesley looks around at the heavy, leather-covered chairs back against the wall in this room, which he figures must be right under the cafeteria. It’s a room he didn’t even know about before tonight. To his right is Vernon, then Holister. To his left is Phoebe, then Phoebe’s father. This is a big deal. Phoebe finally phoned him and said yes to his invitation. Even said she would drive. His song worked, and the note. She loved it. She called him up and told him so, and he was so happy he hopped all the way down the stairs from the hall phone beside his room, through the TV room in front of Linda and Carla, out the front door and around the yard. And to top off all this good luck, somebody has said the band is going on a little tour.

  Darleen asks Stan, “What’s this room for anyway?”

  “It’s where they bring the trustees and other people they want to get money from. They call it the University President’s Eastern LinkComm Dining Room or something like that. Eastern LinkComm furnished it.”

  “Looks like they’d take donors to a shabby room, so they’d see the school needs money.”

  “Apparently it doesn’t work that way.” Stan decides not to go into the kind of thinking he’s hearing in this administration: people give money where money is, withhold money from where it’s not. Which seems to explain all sorts of things—like the president’s salary versus faculty salaries.

  Vernon punches Wesley on his shoulder. “Will we be doing this every week?”

  “I don’t think so. This is the kick-off dinner. The only one. How come? Don’t you like it?”

  “I don’t know why we’re doing it.”

  “For the Project Promise thing. The start-up.”

  “But I mean, ain’t nobody going to learn nothing here.”

  “Well, that’s right. That’s sure right. You’re just supposed to eat.”

  This is an unusual gathering for Ballard University. And Ned and Ted are not entirely at ease. Here are people of all stripes eating at the same table. Usually at dinners in the President’s Dining Room, the people attending are in most ways alike. Men.

  But tonight there are women here, and three mentally retarded youths—two girls and a boy—along with their three tutors from the halfway house, faculty members from the School of Social Work, several graduate students from over there too, and a client from the Nutrition House—all these mixed in with administrators and a few trustees. Ted and Ned can’t know with confidence that harmony and smiles will prevail.

  Wesley watches the older black cafeteria workers and several white student helpers bring in salads—lettuce and tomato —and iced tea. Iced water was set out earlier and the ice has melted. The glasses sweat. “I was laying in bed this morning,” says Wesley to Phoebe, “and my toe was itching and every time I scratched it with my other foot, my ear popped, kind of deep inside. When I scratched it with my hand nothing happened. It’s connected to that acupuncture stuff. That stuff is true. If I could have found out about that when I was little I might could have solved all those pisser problems.” I shouldn’t have said that, Wesley thinks.

  “What was that?” says Colonel Trent, leaning forward from the other side of Phoebe.

  “Nothing.” He ain’t going to like me, thinks Wesley.

  Father is not going to like Wesley, thinks Phoebe.

  The camera flashes.

  I don’t think I’m going to like that boy, thinks Colonel Trent. He probably doesn’t even own a tie.

  Ned Sears clinks his glass with his fork as he stands. “May we bow our heads and return thanks,” he says. He smiles, looks around at everyone, head held high, nose in the air, glowing. He closes his eyes tightly.

  Vernon bows his head and prays aloud, rocking. “God is good, God is great”—Holister grabs Vernon’s knee, Vernon keeps praying— “let us thank Him for our”—Holister squeezes— “food amen what are you squeezing my leg for?”

  Holister glares, hisses. “You’re not supposed to—”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Thank you,” says Ned. Who in the world is that? he thinks, consulting the laminated seating chart beside his plate. “Thank you very much, Jules Jackson. It’s good for all of us to pray, isn’t it?”

  “It’s Vernon Jackson. It’s good for me. I don’t know about you. Is it good for you?”

  “Oh yes, Vernon. Indeed it is.”

  “Shut up,” Holister hisses to Vernon.

  “Well, thank you for that, Vernon, very much,” says Ned. “Now let us all bow in prayer to our Savior. Dear Lord, we praise Thee and offer thanks for Thy bountiful gifts. We praise Thee for blessing us in our endeavors to bring quality Christian education to the citizens of North Carolina, and we ask for Thy continued guidance as we initiate a new community program, Project Promise . . .”

  “Wouldn’t God already know what it’s named?” Vernon whispers to Wesley.

  “I think so.”

  “. . . and make us ever aware of the Holy Spirit dwelling even within the least of us. Be with us as we welcome, tonight,” continues Ned Sears, “a new member to the Ballard family, Colonel Hampton Trent. And now bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies, in the precious and glorious name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

  Ned prides himself on his ability to say short but meaningful blessings. “And I’m sure it’s no surprise to any of us here,” he continues, still standing, “that we now, officially, have a new member of the Ballard family, a new dean, Colonel Hampton Trent.” Ned claps his hands enthusiastically. Others clap.

  Colonel Trent smiles, nods his head, rises to a stooped position, nods again, sits.

  I was hoping he’d be wearing his uniform, thinks Ted.

  “And now let’s enjoy the fine food,” says Ned, his chin held high, a smile on his face. He sits down and is suddenly stuck with cold panic. I forgot to find out whether Trent is divorced. How could I have forgotten? Surely Mrs. Trent is dead. How in the world could I forget to find out whether Trent is divorced or not? Please God, let his wife be dead. We can’t have someone this high in this administration divorced.

  Ned leans over toward Big Don, who is directly across the table. “What’s the story on his marriage?”

  Big Don turns up his hearing aid. It squeals. Everyone looks. He turns it down. “What?”


  “Never mind.”

  “What?”

  Ned shakes his head back and forth and frowns.

  Ted is considering the way he must be seen and thought of by the older black women and men serving dinner, what they must think about him. I do eat with the help, he thinks. The first Monday, every month. And everybody knows it. I eat with them and they eat with me. We eat together. Break bread together. The faculty knows it. They know I get down amongst the workers. It’s what Jesus would have done.

  The camera flashes.

  Ned tries again. He gets a business card from his billfold, writes “Is Trent divorced?” on the back and hands it across to Big Don.

  Big Don reads the note to himself, whispering— “Is Trent . . . what’s this, choired?” He looks at Ned and says loudly, “Is he what? ‘Choired’? I can’t read this, Ned.”

  “Nothing.” Ned blushes. “Never mind.”

  Big Don turns up his hearing aid again. It squeals. “What? Does this say ‘choired’?”

  People are beginning to stare.

  Ned holds up both hands, palms out. With slow, exaggerated lip movement, he whispers, “Never mind.”

  The greatest leaders mix with the help, thinks Ted. But why are these blacks so silent when I’m eating dessert with them? Why do they sit there through a whole dessert and not say a thing? Surely they’re not like that all the time. Maybe I should tell them I grew up saying “nigger” with people who said “nigger” but I stopped. Maybe they’re quiet around me because they’re aware they don’t speak the King’s English very well. They’ve probably heard some of my speeches, which I imagine are bound to intimidate them. And why none of them will take our night courses in grammar, diet, and personal hygiene is beyond me too. “Yes, thank you, Carlyle, and some of those rolls when you get a chance.” When I was growing up the black folk would take reading courses, talk to you, for heaven’s sake. They don’t seem interested in much of anything these days. But at least ours don’t complain. At least I’m doing my part to give them work, and hospitalization. And this Benfield fellow. The only man, well, male, here without a tie. Even the retarded boy is wearing a tie. It doesn’t go with anything, but he’s wearing one.