"Why in the world do you ask something like that?" she'd said when Clifton posed the question. "Me and your daddy always tried to give you things."
"I was just wondering," he'd said as tears formed in his eyes.
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"Lots of kids at school say they get presents from their grandparents on their birthdays. At Christmas and stuff."
Mrs. Carlson had turned away for a moment with a subtle, pained look. She brushed the bottoms of her eyes with her finger and said, "Both your daddy's parents passed when he was pretty young. I never met them. And my mama died of cancer shortly after you were born. And my daddy, well, he's just not around anymore."
" Where'd he go?" asked Clifton innocently, the way a child will do, not realizing that she didn't want to talk about it.
"I don't know, Clifton. He's just not around."
"How can't you know where your own daddy is?" he had asked, perplexed.
Mrs. Carlson let out a deep sigh. "Clifton, honey, this is the way it is. My daddy wants nothing to do with me, okay? And I want nothing to do with him. We don't talk anymore."
"How come?"
Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, and black streaks of mascara began trickling down her cheeks. "Because your daddy was black, that's why. He didn't want me marrying a black man. When I did it anyway, he disowned me. Hasn't talked to me in close to ten years."
Clifton stared wide-eyed at his mother. The whole idea of differences in race and the problems it caused, despite the talk he'd had with his father at the Killing Pit, still hadn't
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really connected in his young mind. "Why does that matter? Who cares?"
"Unfortunately, a lot of people care. My daddy happens to be one of them. It's not right, and it's ignorant, but that's the way it is, Cliffy. A lot of things in this world aren't right, but you just have to learn to deal with them."
Clifton paused for a moment as he absorbed his mother's words. "Don't you at least have some pictures of him? Or any of them? I've never even seen my grandparents."
"There's a picture of you and Mama on my dresser--you know that. You've seen it a hundred times. Taken the day you were born." She paused and wiped at her eyes again. "Taken shortly before she died. All of our ... our other pictures were lost"--she hesitated again as if thinking deeply about something--"lost in the fire."
Clifton's eyes widened again at the mention of that. "What fire?"
"Don't be silly. I'm sure I've told you about that. Before you were born, your daddy fell asleep one night with a cigarette still burning. Nearly burned the whole house down. You remember those scars on his hand and arm?" Yes, ma am.
"Well, that's how he got them. From a fire. He never liked talking about it. Embarrassed him. Anyway, we lost all our picture albums."
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"But I thought he--"
"Now how about we get you some of those brownies for dessert?"
In his young mind, Clifton had felt confused as a faint memory of his father's scars tugged at him, but the promise of brownies easily superseded that thought.
But now he had a letter. A letter just for him. He felt foolish and childish, getting excited over something as simple as receiving a piece of mail, but he didn't care. He'd tossed those bottles in the river with hopes of finding something, and now that something had arrived.
Clifton felt his heartbeat increase as the sticky lip of the envelope peeled away. Inside was a piece of notebook paper, folded over on itself three or four times. Clifton pulled it out and began to unfurl it. Just like the address on the envelope, the black-inked writing was almost childlike.
Dear Clifton
I found your bottle and note. I live down on the river. Dont have a past address but I live on the river if you know where the palisades is, I live downstream. Or you can go to old Henrys dock take a left and walk
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the train tracks . Go a mile and my house sits on the hill. It's green . Aint no driveway but the house is green. Cant miss it really. Only one around except old Henrys. My names Swamper. Im 65 and mostly I fish. Hope to meet you.
Swamper
Clifton shook with excitement. Someone had found one of his bottles. It wasn't exactly from West Virginia or Cuba, but Clifton realized maybe this was better anyway. If someone in West Virginia or Cuba had found it, he'd never be able to meet them. But this was different. This man lived close by. He could actually meet the person who found it. He'd never even thought about that before. He'd figured he'd get a letter, write the person back, and then that would probably be the end of it. But now everything had changed.
He sat on the edge of the bed and read the letter again. He had a vague idea of where the house was. Of course he knew where the Palisades was, and he was plenty familiar with Old Henry's. Old Henry was a black man who had a small bait shop on the New River. Clifton had gone there many times with his father, and even now he'd sometimes go
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and get minnows when he couldn't dig up enough worms. For a dollar, Old Henry would let people fish off his rickety dock, day or night. One of the biggest catfish ever pulled out of the New was caught at Old Henry's. There was a faded picture of it tacked to one of the pine-slatted walls of Henry's shack. Old Henry stood on one side of the fish holding the end of a hickory branch, and a fat, bearded white man stood on the other end, both of them with big grins on their faces. The branch went through the gills of the catfish, and it appeared that the two men were giving it all they had to hold it up. The tail curled and swept the boards of the dock despite the men's best efforts to hoist it. It had always been Clifton's dream to catch a fish that big. Every time he went into the shop, he'd stare longingly at that picture while he waited for Old Henry to net him a bag of minnows from one of the holding tanks.
But now Clifton had a decision to make. He had no address, so he couldn't write this Swamper man back. If he wanted to correspond with him, he'd have to go to his house and search him out. But should I? he thought as he got off his bed and began pacing around his room. He stepped over wadded-up clothes that hadn't made it to the hamper, holding the letter as he read it a few more times. What if he's some crazy man living out in the woods? What if he's some weirdo who wants to lock me up in his attic? Crazier things have happened.
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You're being ridiculous. Maybe, but remember that kid from over in Bent Mountain who got kidnapped by some wacko farmer a few years ago? Kept him hidden away in a potato cellar for a year and a half? Didn't feed him anything but bread, peanuts, and Kool-Aid? Yeah, I remember, but come on. This Swamper guy's probably just a lonely old man who found your bottle. He's just writing you back like you asked him to. He's sixty-five. What's your problem? My problem is I don't want to be the next kid in the news. That's my problem.
Clifton carried on similar conversations with himself for the next half-hour, playing out different scenarios in his mind. But finally he decided he might as well check out the house. He didn't have to go up to the door. He could just scout it out, maybe get a glimpse of the man, and then make a decision. Besides, his curiosity was killing him.
Clifton went outside and grabbed his fishing pole from the mower shed. Just to make it look good, he figured. He had two options on which way to go. Since he had a pretty good idea of where Swamper's house was, if he went toward the Killing Pit, it would take less time. However, if he went through town and toward Old Henry's, it would take longer but he would feel more comfortable. Besides, once he got to Old Henry's, he might be able to ask a few questions about this Swamper man.
Clifton set out down the sidewalk of Kamron Street, his
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fishing rod over his shoulder and a plastic bucket hanging off the end of his rod like a hobo with a bindle. The logging trucks roared past him, one after the other, the sweet smell of diesel exhaust filling the air with every step he took. The poplar and oak logs teetered on the backs of the trucks, bouncing and jostling. Bits of bark and pulp littered the street, sticking to patches of
rainbow-colored oil slicks as the trucks flew by on their way to the big lumberyards across the river in Samford.
A mile later, he entered Crocket's Mill proper. The town had once been a thriving mill community, with red-brick buildings lining the street on either side. But now, the mill had shut down and a lot of the stores had closed shop, moving across the river, where there was more business. Crocket's Mill still had a locally owned grocery store called Good Enough's, a bank, a couple of gas stations, a Popeyes fried chicken place, a hair salon, and a small post office that had been there since the 1800s. Most necessities were still available in Crocket's Mill, but at a much higher price than could be had if people decided to go across the river into Samford, where there was a Sears, a Kroger, a Kmart, and every fast-food joint known to man.
When Clifton reached the one traffic light in town, he crossed the street in order to avoid going directly past the police station. It had recently been renovated and had a
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brand-new blue and white facade that sickened him every time he saw it. Ever since the events of that night, whenever he went into town, he refused to cut past the police station. He'd always cross the street and turn his head, choosing to watch his own reflection in the plate glass windows of the antique shop and the now-abandoned hardware store.
He'd seen the pock-faced policeman from time to time-- in a town the size of Crocket's Mill, it was impossible not to. Every time Clifton saw the cop, always from a distance, an intense hatred would swell inside of him. Some day, he would think to himself, some day I'll get him back. But more than the hatred, he felt fear. Scarface scared him more than anything else he could imagine. He knew what the man was capable of. He knew what kind of hate the man had inside of him. And that was also the reason, probably more so than any other, why he avoided walking near the police station. The thought of bumping into Scarface terrified him.
Once on the other side of town, he could see the New River slowly rolling along down below. In the distance was a steel bridge spanning the water that led into Samford. But he turned left down a side street well before that. If he'd taken a right, he would have headed toward the Star Night drive-in and been on the road where his father had been killed. So he gladly took a left.
It didn't take long before the cracked pavement turned to
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clay and gravel. The rumbles of the logging trucks back on Kamron Street dissipated, now overtaken by chirping birds and the flittering of grasshoppers in a cornfield on the left side of the road. Behind the cornfields were the heads of the mountains, looming tranquilly in the distance. Bare patches dotted the mountainside where loggers had been clear-cutting. The sporadic patches were ugly and looked as if God had reached down with His fist and snatched up handfuls of trees. Like He'd been pulling weeds out of a huge garden. On the other side of the road, locust trees blocked his view of the river, their trunks laden with poison ivy and Virginia creeper. However, the locusts, and also the oaks and sycamores, helped cast some much appreciated shade. He walked on the edge of the road, looking down at the purple flowers of morning glory that smiled up at him from a ditch, their vines fighting against honeysuckle and goldenrod for prominence and precious sunlight.
A pickup truck rolled up behind him and slowed as it passed. Two white men, both scraggly bearded and wearing oil-smudged baseball caps, nodded at Clifton as he looked over. He waved, and the man in the passenger seat waved back. The truck stopped.
"You headin' to Henry's?" said the passenger, eyeing Clifton's rod. A wad of chewing tobacco swelled in his cheek.
Clifton nodded. "Yes, sir."
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"Jump in the back if you wanna," said the man, gesturing with his head toward the bed of the truck.
"That's okay," said Clifton. "I'm almost there now."
"Shoot, son, jump on in. You look hot as hell. We're going there anyways."
Clifton hesitated for a moment and then said, "Okay. Thanks. I appreciate it."
He swept a line of sweat from his forehead and walked to the back of the truck, tossing his rod and bucket in before him. The reel clanged against the bed as he did so, resting against the men's rods and tackle boxes that were bungeed to the side. The bed was rusted-out in spots and there was no tailgate. He sat on the bump of a wheel well, facing the river, and held on to the sidewalls as the truck took off, spinning its tires a little and kicking up a fog of red dust. A plastic cooler sat in the corner, and a couple of crushed beer cans rattled and slid when the truck lurched into motion.
Clifton's body bounced and swung from side to side as the truck hammered over the ruts in the road. He smiled as he watched the white flowers of mountain laurel blur by, thinking that today was going to be a good day. The breeze flew in his face and cooled him. The man had been right: He was hot as hell.
After a couple of minutes of driving, the passenger slid the
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truck's rear window open and yelled to Clifton. "Hey, you mind grabbing me a beer?"
Clifton followed the man's eyes to the cooler. "Sure," he yelled over the whip of the wind. He scooted on his butt across the bed, opened the lid, and pulled out a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon that was buried in ice. He handed the beer to the man through the window.
"Grab one for yourself if you wanna," said the man.
Clifton politely declined, though the thought of something cold to drink did sound enticing, even if it was beer. He'd never tried alcohol before, mostly because of the way he'd seen it affect his mother. It was the same with cigarettes. He despised the smell that seemed to constantly fill his living room. He'd always enjoyed watching his father smoke, but his mother's habit disgusted him. And almost as if on cue, he caught a whiff of smoke trailing from the open window. Sure enough, when he looked into the cab, he saw the driver with a cigarette in his hand.
Five minutes later, the truck rounded a bend and then turned right down an even bumpier road that descended into a hollow toward the river. Henry's bait shop sat at the bottom of the road; its tin roof, turned orange in spots, reflected the bright sunlight. At the bottom of the hill, the truck bounced over the train tracks and then a second later they'd arrived. When the
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driver parked next to the only other car in the lot, Clifton stood up, gathered his gear, and jumped to the ground.
"Thanks a lot," he said as he came around to the passenger side where the man was getting out.
"Ain't nothing but a thing." He spat on the ground, leaving a stain on the clay like spilled coffee.
"Good luck," said Clifton.
"It's too damn hot to fish right now. Probably won't catch nothing. But a bad day fishing's still better than a good day working." He smiled, showing a bottom row of yellowed teeth. The bulge still protruded from his cheek, but he took a long swig from the can of beer anyway.
"Thanks for the ride," said Clifton, waving to the driver who was now at the back of the truck undoing the bungee cords. The driver, who was quite a bit older than the passenger, raised his hand and nodded but remained silent.
Clifton looked down to the end of the old, leaning dock where a solitary black man was sitting on an upside-down five-gallon bucket, holding a rod pointed at the clouds. Clifton put his own rod over his shoulder and decided that even if he didn't find this Swamper man, he could always come back to Henry's dock and do a little fishing. He had a feeling that the passenger man would probably keep him well entertained.
He turned toward Henry's shop, eyeing the sign that was
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fastened to the graying boards of the gable above the porch. henry's bait & tackle was written in faded block letters. The words were bookended with circular, red and white Coca-Cola emblems designed to look like bottle caps.
As he walked up the warped steps that bowed in the middle, a feeling of calm swept over him. A fat tabby sat on a bench, curled in a ball, and eyed Clifton with no interest whatsoever. He had always loved coming to Henry's, and as he thought about that, a brief remembrance of
the first time his father had ever brought him there flashed across his mind. He had walked up those very same steps, probably no more than four years old, holding his father's hand and looking up at him like he was the greatest man on earth. He remembered being ecstatic about getting to go fishing with his father for the first time.
As Clifton set his pail down and leaned his rod against the walls of the shop, the memory didn't make him sad. In fact, it was quite the opposite. He now repeated to himself the same thing he'd thought earlier in the truck. This is going to be a good day.
Inside, the shop was gloomy. Sunlight tried to creep through the windows, which were mostly covered in dust on the outside and blocked by iron racks filled with fishing lures, leaders, and hooks on the inside. Despite the lack of light, the overhead fluorescents were turned off. A smell of mildew
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filled the room, combined with fried pork, which cooked in an oversize fryer in the corner. A transistor radio rested on the counter, and behind the counter sat Old Henry, rocking slowly in a wicker chair, staring at the radio with deep interest and making no acknowledgment that Clifton had entered. The radio buzzed and crackled and Clifton couldn't make out what the newsman said.
"Hey, Mr. Henry," he said rather loudly as he approached the counter. Old Henry had notoriously bad hearing, and the radio, which seemed to be turned all the way up, didn't help matters.
Henry looked up, slightly startled, and squinted at Clifton through the gray light. He pushed himself out of his rocker, his ancient hands squeezing the arms of the chair so hard that the tendons bulged out of his skin. He got up, now slightly hunched over, and slowly shuffled his frail body to the counter as he scratched the wiry gray of his head. His face was dark and wrinkled; it reminded Clifton of a dried-out river-bank after the sun had baked it for a summer. "It's damn craziness, is what it is," said Henry as he turned down the radio. Clifton couldn't tell if Henry was talking to him or just muttering to himself. "You hear what that man was sayin?"
Gray baby: a novel Page 5
