Killer Diller

by Edgerton, Clyde

  “Now, since you asked, Stan, we at this table, and some of the folks at Eastern LinkComm, and another company or two are the only people who knew—I thought—about any possible expansion of the airport. And be advised if that decision ever is made, it will be a wise move. So, that’s that on that. Don’t leak it. Don’t even leak that there was a leak. In fact, there is nothing to leak. There are no plans in existence to expand the airport. If anybody asks, that’s what you can say and it’s the truth. There are no plans. Now, I got a memo from the faculty senate —which you apparently also received, Stan. Who from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “You do know?”

  “No sir.”

  “You said ‘yes sir.’”

  “I meant yes sir, I don’t know.”

  “Oh. Well, anyway I got a memo from over there, the senate, asking among other things that Ned and Hampton no longer be voting members of that group. Weren’t you-all there at the last meeting?”

  “Ned was, weren’t you, Ned?” asks Hampton.

  “No, I thought you were.”

  “Neither one of you was?” asks Ted. “Listen. Try not to let that happen again. If one of you had been there, I don’t think this memo would have been considered. I want you and Hampton to get on top of who’s stirring up trouble over there. So. That’s that. Any other questions, Stan?” This is your last year here, son, Ted thinks. We made a mistake. Your loyalty quotient is lower than dirt.

  This is my last year, thinks Stan. I’d rather work at a grocery store.

  Big Don is looking out the window at his white Cadillac. “Is anybody else getting his car door chipped in that parking lot?” He turns his hearing aid up.

  Nobody says anything.

  “Well, I am, and there ain’t nothing to do but get rid of that handicapped place and widen those four places across the side there. Put the handicapped space somewhere else. Mysteria, are you on?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Would you get maintenance on the phone, and get that done?”

  “Yes sir. Right away.”

  Jesus, where do you park, when you drive your car to town?

  Jesus, where do you park, when you drive your car to town?

  Do you park by the bank, or down where people are down?

  Do you drive a Cadillac?

  Do you drive a Pontiac?

  Do you park at the mall?

  Do you drive a car at all?

  Jesus, da-da da da, da-da da da, da-da da.

  Chapter 15

  Wesley spoons black-eyed peas from a bowl, at Mattie’s. “You were a little hungry, won’t you?” asks Mattie.

  “I guess I was. Could you pass that cornbread?”

  “That was certainly a nice article about you in the newspaper. I want to hear your band sometime.”

  “You can come to that luncheon they wrote about. Miss Pearl will be there.”

  “Yeah, she cut out three copies of the article. They put one on the bulletin board. They get free newspapers a day late.” Mattie squeezes lemon in her iced tea. “What was that about a song you’re writing about Jesus? Is that what you were telling me about the other day?”

  “Yes ma’am. It’s a song about what Jesus would be like if he was alive today.”

  “He is alive.”

  “Well, you know. I mean if he was in the world and all.”

  “He would be Jesus. Put your napkin in your lap.”

  “I know that. But see, I told you I started reading all the red print in the Bible, you know, Jesus talking, and that got me reading the rest of it—around the red print—and it’s amazing stuff. He’d get mad at these people following him around. He’d just get real tired and have to drop somewhere. And he hung around with these women some, too. Talked to this prostitute and stuff. No joke. It’s right there in black and white. And red and white. Anyway, they were a kind a gang or a posse or something, you know, these thirteen guys sort of hanging around without jobs. So I figured he’d have a hard time of it today. We got to talking about it in the band and so I’m writing a song about it. About whether or not he’d drive a car.”

  Mattie frowns, leans her head back, looks at Wesley for a few seconds. “Well, you need to be careful about that song-writing. You did that Texas song with that ugly word in it.”

  “That was before I stopped cussing. Oh, one other thing I found out: you know what Jacob did? He slept with all these different maids of his wife and had all these children, and he slept with his wife’s sister—and God was involved in that. I know where it is.” Wesley stands, walks over to the chest of drawers in the dining room and gets Mattie’s Bible. “Here it is . . . somewhere. Here it is. ‘And God harkened unto Leah, and she conceived.’ And all the time God knew that Leah was Jacob’s wife’s sister. Did you know about all that?”

  “Some of it, yes.”

  “And somewhere in there Jacob told God, ‘If you expect me to do such and such, then you ought to do such and such.’ It was like he was talking back to God, kind of standing up to him, somehow. . . . What’s the matter? It’s in there.”

  Mattie is staring at Wesley—hard. “You be careful how you talk about God.”

  “It ain’t me, it’s the Bible. One of them things they never preach about. Here, I’ll show you. It’s right here somewhere. I tell you, it’s like there are two Bibles—the one in church and the one between the covers. The one between the covers is better, but some of it don’t go together. Like those two different creations and all.”

  “Well, you be careful. There’s one important word you better remember, if you want to stay out of trouble.”

  “What?”

  “Respect.”

  Wesley is looking in Genesis. “It’s in here somewhere. Oh, well. I can’t find it. But just about everything else is in here, too. Everything you ever thought about.”

  “You just remember what I said.” Mattie stands, walks over to the stove. “About respect. And read some Psalms, for heaven’s sake. You sound agitated.” She moves a pot off a hot eye. “I forgot to turn this off. Your teeth doing okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t you want some more of these black-eyed peas?”

  “I’m about stuffed, but I’ll eat a few more.”

  “When we was living on Prichard Street in Raleigh back when I was about fourteen, me and Pearl ate black-eyed peas in the middle of the night one time. Do you want some more tea?”

  “Sure. I can get it.”

  “No. Keep your seat.”

  Mattie pours Wesley more tea. “You need some more ice,” she says. She opens the freezer door and gets out three cubes of ice, drops them in his tea. “What was I talking about?”

  “Eating black-eyed peas in the middle of the night.”

  “Oh yes. Well, Pearl had got up and packed her bags to run away. Merle what’s-his-name was going to pick her up. Merle and Pearl. I didn’t know anything about it. She was sleeping in the same room with me and when she got up, she woke me up, but she didn’t know it. So I stayed real still and watched her pack in the dark and leave the room. Well, it scared me to death. I didn’t know what in the world was wrong. I got up when she was out of the room, and what she did was go sit out on the edge of the front porch beside her bag, waiting for somebody. I could tell she was waiting for somebody. There weren’t any street lights back then and I could see her through the window from the light of the moon. I didn’t know what to do. She was going somewhere and hadn’t even said goodbye. For all I knew I’d never see her again as long as I lived. I didn’t want to be without Pearl, you know.”

  Mattie reaches for and stabs two cucumber slices with her fork. “I went back to my room, got dressed very quietly, got the cardboard box I kept under the bed, cleaned it out, and put some of my own clothes in it, went back to the living room to wait for whoever it was coming after her. I figured what I’d do is go with her, but I wouldn’t show myself until whoever
it was come. I didn’t know it was supposed to be Merle Bogart. Bogart, that was his name. It never crossed my mind that whoever it was would mind me coming along.

  “Pearl had this pocket watch that Merle had give her. She had it in her dress pocket, and she kept taking it out and looking at it in the light of the moon. I can see her now, holding it up to the light of the moon, reading the face of that pocket watch.

  “She came back in when it just started getting light. When she saw me, she put her face in her hands and started crying, just sobbing like nobody’s business. Then she looked up and said, ‘What are you doing up?’ and I said, ‘I was going with you,’ and she said, ‘I ain’t going nowhere. He didn’t come,’ and she started sobbing again. I said the only thing I could think of—‘Don’t you want something to eat?’ And she said yes, and so we went in the kitchen and the first thing I grabbed in the ice box was a bowl of black-eyed peas and we spooned us out some on two little flat plates, staying as quiet as we could so as not to wake anybody up. Pearl kept looking at me, crying, saying, ‘He didn’t come. He didn’t come,’ while we ate our little piles of black-eyed peas, ice cold.”

  “Didn’t anybody wake up?”

  “No. We got back in the bedroom and lay there awake for a little while before anybody got up. Then Mama wanted to know who’d been eating. I don’t remember what we said.”

  “We used to get up in the middle of the night at the orphanage and do things,” says Wesley. “But we didn’t ever eat any black-eyed peas. They locked up the food.” Wesley takes a drink of iced tea. “What happened to the Merle guy?”

  “You know, I don’t know. He was never mentioned again, and I never saw him again. Wouldn’t it be interesting to come across him somewhere and ask him what happened.”

  “I guess he chickened out.”

  “I guess he did. You about ready for dessert?”

  Phoebe and her father are eating supper at Brad’s restaurant in downtown Summerlin.

  “But, Daddy, I don’t think you know how serious he is about things. He’s not a bit like Pete or Randy. He’s really very nice. He’s had a lot of hard knocks in his background, and I wish you could meet this elderly lady he used to stay with. She’s something.”

  Phoebe watches the butter—left out long enough to be soft —spreading over her father’s bread, thick and even. She’s down twenty-five. About seventy-five to go.

  “That’s all fine and good, but the problem I’m confronting is a problem of assimilation. You’ve got a group of people who aren’t used to certain institutional norms, and they’ve got to conform or the institution suffers, the purpose suffers. The purpose of Ballard University is—in a nutshell—Christian Higher Education. It’s a higher goal, a higher cause. And can you imagine a more noble cause, or purpose, in today’s world?”

  “No, I don’t guess so.”

  “You don’t guess so?”

  “I was just trying to talk about Wesley. And I heard some of that conversation between Ben and the tractor driver. The tractor driver wouldn’t listen to anybody. He kept driving between those smelly Dempsey Dumpsters when he didn’t have to.”

  “I know, I know. But you’re missing the point. I’m not talking about the past. I’m talking about the future. This band thing can either be very good or very bad, and it’s up to the administration to see that it supports the college’s purpose. I am now a part of this administration. They pay me, Phoebe.” Trent lines up the salt and pepper shakers, side by side. “I’ll talk to the band. If they’re smart, they’ll heed what I say.”

  “What do you think about Wesley?”

  “What do I think about him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he’s got a way to go.”

  “Before?”

  “He’s just got a way to go, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know, exactly.”

  “Honey, I can’t tell you what to do. Who to date. But there is a fine student body on campus—eligible young men. And a fine ROTC.”

  The band members sit around in the basement. Vernon rocks. Shanita picks a spot on the wall to stare at. Larry turns his drumstick in his hand, scrapes its tip with his fingernail.

  “We’ve gotten all kinds of good reports,” Colonel Trent, standing, tells the band. “But we’ve had a couple of problems, and that’s why the president has asked me to share a few ideas with you.” He sits. “First, which one of you is Ben Ashley?”

  Ben raises a finger.

  “One more instance of your cursing or demonstrating other negative behavior while representing Ballard University and you will no longer be on any tour we sponsor. Is that clear?”

  “What you talking about?”

  “The hayride at the fair. The tractor. The driver was Herb Boiling from the religion department. You cursed him.”

  “You know what he did to me?”

  “No. And I’m not interested. No more cursing. Is that clear?”

  “Yeah. That’s pretty clear.”

  “We’ve got to be clear. We’ve got to understand each other.”

  “Why are you the boss of BOTA House?” asks Vernon.

  “It’s not a matter of being boss, son. It’s a matter of a relationship involving a lab setting within Ballad University’s School of Social Work that we—”

  “You’re talking like a boss.”

  “You’re the young man in Project Promise, is that correct?”

  “Yep. Are you my boss, too?”

  “I’m not anybody’s boss—here. But I do need to make a couple of points that I do have the authority to make. If you don’t mind. Now, secondly, in any organization—”

  “I don’t mind, if you ain’t my boss. My daddy’s the only boss I got.”

  Trent, sitting very still, looks at Vernon for a few seconds. This young man is retarded, he thinks. Patience is due. “You see, hierarchy is necessary in any organization. In fact, it’s the cornerstone of American democracy and the rise of so-called equality has been at the expense of excellence in our society—a point missed by not a few intellectuals, and others. There’s no need for me to get into all that, I suppose, but the way that pertains to this band is this: On this tour—and as long as you’re affiliated with Ballard University—it is necessary that (a) you do only gospel songs and (b) there be no use of profanity on tour. I can’t control your thoughts or your language off tour, but on this tour there will be no profanity. In fact, all the rules of BOTA House, those posted on the bulletin board, apply at all times on the tour. This way we all win. We’re in this together.”

  Vernon squints through his glasses at Trent. “That other song is the one my daddy likes. It’s about ‘everybody needs somebody to love,’ and God is love, so it seems like to me that it’s a song about God. If God is love. Because it’s about God and the Bible says God is love.”

  “Well, I don’t know about your theology there, but first, God is about more than love, and second, as I mentioned in (a) above, this group is to do no songs that aren’t strictly gospel songs. It’s very simple. What you do on your own time is of course up to you, but on this tour and subsequent tours, if we continue to recruit this way, the music is to be strictly gospel music. We just can’t afford any negative feedback. That’s the bottom line. And, by the way, we’re finalizing plans for a Christmas dinner over at Eastern LinkComm—something that’s been a tradition, I understand—for the folks at Shady Grove Nursing Home. It’s going to be on radio, and maybe TV. The president will be there and he’s suggested that—and this is my last point—Wesley, he’s suggested that you might like to give a brief testimony about your Christian faith, and perhaps a short tribute to Ballard University.”

  “Sure,” says Wesley. I’ll do anything you ask me to do, he thinks. Me and you get on bad terms and my love life might be in trouble.

  When I sleep in class I drool all down my desk.

  When I sleep in class I drool all down my desk.

  I like to sleep in Math, but I like to sleep in English bes
t.

  I don’t bother nobody, and nobody bothers me.

  I don’t bother nobody, and nobody bothers me.

  I been a graduating senior since 1983.

  Chapter 16

  “All right,” says Wesley. “I’ll let you do the whole thing from start to finish. First you got to open these cans.”

  On the counter beside the sink at Vernon’s house are a can of soup, cans of tomatoes, of corn, of butter beans, four small red potatoes, two onions, one wrapped beef bullion cube, a large cooking pot, and a half-head of cabbage.

  “I can open cans.” Vernon gets a bottle opener from the drawer and starts putting triangular holes around the top of a can of vegetable soup—Campbell’s.

  “No, no, no. Here, give me that. Here.” Wesley looks in the drawer, finds a can opener. “You’ve got to use one of these kind. Ain’t you ever opened a can?”

  “Hundreds.”

  “I mean the right way.”

  “I got everything out of every one I ever opened. Why ain’t that right?”

  “I mean—look—here’s all you do.”

  “My way’s just as easy.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I’ll race you.”

  “No, no, no. If you do it that way you get them little pieces of metal in there. This is what this is, a can opener. What you got is a bottle opener.”

  “Looks like if you open a can with it, it’s a can opener, too. Something that opens a can is a can opener, it looks like to me. All you have to do is—”

  “Listen. You could run over it with a car and open it. That don’t make a car a damn can opener.”

  Vernon pauses, looks at Wesley. “It would for just a second.”

  “Vernon. Open the cans any way you want to. I don’t care.”

  “You don’t have to get so upset.”