Suder

by Percival Everett

  His face is blank at first and then he starts to frown. “Ain’t there no words?”

  “No, just music,” I tell him.

  He’s silent for a few seconds and then, “Well, thanks for letting me hear that, Suder.” And he gets up and walks into the bathroom, where he stands in front of the mirror combing the few strands of hair he has.

  I pack up and walk out and down into the clubhouse.

  “What’s up, Craig?” David greets me.

  “David,” I says, “I’ve got something I want you to hear.”

  He’s reaching into his locker for his shirt. “What is it?”

  “A song by Charlie Parker.”

  “The saxophone player?” He’s putting on his shirt.

  “Yeah.” I can’t find an outlet, so I says, “Come on in here,” and I walk into the bathroom.

  “Come on, Craig. I want to warm up.”

  I balance the phonograph on one of the sinks in the long row of sinks. “This won’t take but a minute.” I plug in the machine and drop the needle down on the record.

  “That’s great,” David says and walks away.

  I don’t call him back because echoes of the song in the bathroom have got me sorta hypnotized. I ain’t never heard anything like it, the way it’s bouncing off the tiles, and I turn up the volume and sit on the toilet. Pete Turner walks by and looks at the record player and then at me. “You heard this?” I ask.

  He doesn’t say anything, just walks out.

  “Give it a chance,” I says.

  So, the game’s about to start and I walk out and tonight I head for the bleachers out in left field and I’ve got my phonograph and record in my lap. I watch the game, but I ain’t really paying attention. Everybody around me is jumping up and screaming and carrying on, but I’m just sitting. Butch Backman steps up to the plate and drives an off-speed pitch high and left. I follow the ball up and then my eye catches this bird that somehow has got into the Dome. I follow the bird all over and up into the rafters and around the beams and then I notice the game is over.

  I wait for David and the two of us head out for some drinks. We go to this little bar not far from the Dome and sit down at a table. There’s a band playing some music and people are dancing and it’s pretty crowded. David’s looking closely at the behinds of women on the dance floor.

  “I love this place,” David says.

  The waitress stops and pulls out her pad and scratches her head. “What’ll it be?”

  “Beer,” David says without taking his eyes off the dance floor. His hand is tapping the table in beat with the music.

  The waitress looks at me.

  “Beer.”

  “David, did you like that song I played for you in the locker room?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He’s smiling and watching the women dancing.

  “That song does something to me. I mean, that saxophone solo … Well, here, I’ll let you hear it.” I get up and start looking for an outlet.

  David looks at me. “What are you doing?”

  I don’t say anything. I spot a jukebox across the room against the wall, between the rest rooms. “Over there,” I says and take off.

  “Craig.” David follows me. “What are you doing?”

  I’m looking behind the jukebox. “They have to plug these things in, don’t they?”

  “You can’t-”

  “There it is.” I unplug the jukebox and plug in the phonograph.

  “There’s a band playing,” David says. “You can’t come in here and play a record.”

  “It’s not a long song.” I put the record on the turntable and drop the needle and I turn the volume all the way up.

  “Craig, turn that off.” David reaches for the record player.

  “Just listen,” I says, blocking him out.

  The band stops playing and the people stop dancing and people stop talking and David takes a few steps away from me. The manager of the place comes over and says something, but I can’t hear him, so I lift the needle off the record.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the manager asks.

  “I was just playing a song for my buddy.”

  “We’ve already got music here.”

  “Yeah, and they sound swell,” I tell him, “but it ain’t Charlie Parker. This here is Charlie Parker.” I point at the record.

  “Okay, Charlie,” he says and he’s getting mad, “get out.”

  David steps in and tries to calm this fella down and he tells me to pack up. He’s looking at me with disbelief. Everybody is watching us as we walk out and the band strikes up as we pass through the door.

  In the car, David keeps looking over at me. “Have you been drinking?”

  “No.”

  He looks at the road. “How’ve you been feeling lately?”

  “All right. Why?”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  David looks at me. “No reason.”

  There’s a long silence. Then I says, “I think Thelma is seeing somebody.”

  “Thelma? No, I can’t imagine that.”

  “Can’t you?”

  David looks out the side window. “I don’t like your tone.”

  “I’m just touchy,” I tell him. “I’m probably just dreaming all this up, right?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Say you ain’t the guy.”

  “I ain’t the guy.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  David exhales. “Jesus Christ.”

  He lets me out at my car.

  Chapter 8

  “Guess what?” Daddy said, slapping his hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Powell is coming back through Fayetteville.”

  “Is he coming here?” I asked.

  “Yep.” Daddy sat down with me at the kitchen table.

  “He’s coming to dinner,” Ma said, placing a platter of hotcakes in front of us. “Dr. McCoy is coming, too.”

  “Who?” I asked and I looked to see a puzzled expression on Daddy’s face.

  “Your dentist,” Ma said.

  “That man is coming here?” I asked.

  “You are joking,” Daddy said.

  “No,” Ma said, “I invited him and he accepted.”

  “Jesus,” Daddy said.

  “Ma, that guy is crazy,” I said. I turned to Daddy. “He prays before everything he does. He dresses all in white. His office is all white.”

  “Kathy, I don’t believe you invited that McCoy here for dinner,” Daddy said, pulling a few hotcakes onto his plate.

  “Where’s Martin?” Ma asked.

  “Asleep,” I said.

  Ma turned to face Daddy. “Why shouldn’t I invite him to dinner?”

  Daddy didn’t say anything. He just pushed some food into his mouth and chewed quickly, leaning on one elbow. “The man’s a damn bigot.”

  “He saw Craig as a patient,” Ma said.

  “So what? He’s the worst kind of cracker.” Daddy punctuated his words by pointing his fork at Ma.

  “Well, he saw our son as a patient.”

  “I don’t know why he did. He probably got paid twice his usual fee. Who knows why this sick cracker took Craig as a patient. Jesus Christ, Kathy. Somebody would think that you—”

  “He’s coming to dinner and that’s final.” Ma dumped the skillet into the sink and stormed out of the kitchen. Then she pushed her head back in. “It’s okay for you to invite somebody to dinner. A man who jumps into the river after a catfish.”

  “Jesus,” Daddy muttered.

  “Why don’t you invite Lou Ann Narramore to dinner, too!” Ma screamed.

  Daddy ignored her.

  “Did you hear me? Lou Ann Narramore!” Ma ducked back through the doorway. I could hear her in the other room. “From down at the drugstore.”

  All the kids in the neighborhood gathered around and stared at the sight in our driveway. Parked behind Daddy’s Mercury was a white Cadillac convertible with white upholstery and white sidewal
l tires. Out of the big car climbed Dr. McCoy, wearing a white shirt, white shoes, a white tie. The late-afternoon sun was playing off his white hair. His socks were bright red. He walked across the yard toward the front door. I was beside Daddy at the front window, watching Dr. McCoy approach.

  “Jesus,” Daddy muttered.

  The doorbell rang and Daddy let Dr. McCoy into the house.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Suder,” said the dentist.

  “Dr. McCoy,” Daddy greeted him.

  “Isn’t this a beautiful day that God has presented us with?”

  “Beautiful,” Daddy said.

  Ma came into the room wearing her heavy coat and her high-top sneakers. She bounced over to the man in white. “Hello, Dr. McCoy.”

  “Mrs. Suder, you’re looking wonderful. The Good Lord has blessed you with beauty.” Dr. McCoy looked down at me. “How are you, Greg?”

  Martin came into the room and stopped, confused, as he caught sight of Dr. McCoy.

  “Come on in, Martin,” Ma said. “This is Dr. McCoy.”

  Martin nodded.

  McCoy smiled.

  Daddy was watching all of this without any expression. Then the doorbell sounded again. Daddy opened the door.

  “Hey there, Doc,” said Mr. Powell.

  “Bud.” Daddy stepped aside to let him in.

  “New car, eh?” Mr. Powell said as he passed through the doorway. “Pretty fancy.”

  “Not mine. Bud Powell, I’d like you to meet Dr. McCoy.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Powell,” said McCoy, extending his hand.

  Mr. Powell’s hand closed firmly around McCoy’s rag of flesh. The contrast was striking. “I was just admiring your machine,” said Mr. Powell. I could tell he didn’t know what to make of McCoy. We sat at the table and McCoy closed his eyes and put his hands together.

  “Heavenly Father, we thank you for this meal…”

  “Just fine,” said Mr. Powell, glancing at McCoy. “It was real hot there. People don’t come out when it’s hot.”

  “And bless these peas and sweet potatoes…”

  “Atlanta’s going to be even hotter,” Daddy said.

  “Lord, help us through these trying …”

  “Yeah, well, at least people down this way are used to the heat.”

  “And Lord God, bless these good colored folks who I’m eating with.”

  Daddy shook his head and smiled and Mr. Powell laughed out loud.

  “Amen.” McCoy opened his eyes and looked sternly at Daddy and Mr. Powell. “If you folks believed more strongly in God, maybe you wouldn’t be colored.”

  Daddy sat up very straight and his eyes narrowed. He leaned forward on his forearms. “What are you doing in my house?”

  “What?” McCoy asked.

  “I want to know why a peckerwood like you comes to a Negro house for dinner.”

  Mr. Powell raised his napkin to his mouth to hide his smile.

  “Ben?” Ma tried to call Daddy off.

  “Well, Dr. Suder, I just wanted to see what colored folks was like. So, I could pray for you, like real people.”

  “McCoy, you half-baked, Bible-headed redneck, just get out of my house.” Daddy stood up. “Get up and get out.”

  Mr. Powell stood up, too.

  McCoy looked at Daddy and Mr. Powell and slowly pushed himself up from the table. He looked at Ma, but she didn’t say anything. McCoy walked out of the house.

  I’m sitting in the living room listening to the song and looking out the window when Thelma comes in.

  “What time does the drugstore close?” she asks.

  “Which drugstore?”

  “The one on Maple.”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “Great. You’ve got ten minutes,” she says.

  “What do you need?”

  “Kotex.”

  “Jesus, you know how I hate to buy those things. Especially there. I can’t stand that old lady.”

  She doesn’t say anything. She just stands there looking at me.

  “Okay, I’ll go.” I hop into the car and drive over to the drugstore and all the while I’m trying to think of what else I should buy because the old lady seems to notice the Kotex pads less if they got company on the counter.

  I’m in the drugstore and I pick up a couple of boxes of facial tissue with the Kotex and set them on the counter. The old lady comes out of the back room,

  “Hello, Mr. Suder.”

  “Mrs. Wilson.”

  “Is that it?” She picks up the Kotex. “These ain’t going to help your leg much.” She laughs. “Sometimes I just crack myself up.”

  I drive home and when I walk through the door I see ribbons strung all along the ceiling and a banner that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

  “Surprise!” shouts Thelma. David Nicks, Lou Tyler, and my brother, Martin, also shout.

  Thelma runs to me and kisses my cheek. “Happy birthday, honey.”

  I look at each of their faces and then at the cake on the dining room table. The cake’s got a baseball diamond on it and the message HAPPY 33RD, CRAIG.

  “It ain’t my birthday. My birthday ain’t for three days.”

  Everyone is quiet.

  Then Lou says, “Well, better early than never.”

  I smile.

  “Let’s cut the cake,” says my brother.

  “After he opens his presents,” says Thelma.

  I turn and see, beside the table, three boxes on top of one large box. I open the gift from Thelma. A pair of silk pajamas. I thank her and kiss her. I open the present from David. An electric razor.

  “Thanks, David.”

  “Don’t cut your throat with it,” David says.

  I open the present from Martin. It is a Water Pik. “Thanks, Martin.”

  “Open mine,” says Lou.

  “Sure is big,” I says.

  “Just open it,” Lou says.

  I rip through the paper and open the box and I’m looking down at a stuffed dog. It’s one of the dogs we picked up on the road. I am speechless.

  “Pretty good, huh?” says Lou.

  “Yeah, great,” I says and I look at Thelma and she’s frowning and I look at David and he’s doing all he can not to laugh out loud.

  We sit around eating cake and all the while that dead dog is staring right at me. The dog’s mouth is sewed shut but his tongue is poking out the side and I really want to put him back in the box.

  “Pretty good job, huh?” Lou says.

  “Yeah,” I says.

  “Look here.” Lou puts down his cake and walks over to the dog and turns it over. He’s showing me the belly and he says, “Look at that stitching. That’s a job, huh?”

  “Sure is,” I says.

  “What do you think of it, Nicks?” Lou turns the dog’s belly to David. “I should be a goddamn tailor. Look at that needlework.”

  “That’s something else,” David says softly.

  Martin moves to the dog and pulls up on the dog’s lips as Lou is holding him and looks at the teeth, revealing the long, jagged sutures keeping the animal’s mouth shut.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” says Lou. “I got a letter from Roy Rogers.” He puts the dog down.

  “Oh, yeah?” I says.

  “He sent me an autographed picture. I don’t know what it means. I’m gonna write him again.” Lou looked at the dog. “I wonder how tall he is.”

  “That’s great, Lou,” I says. “Ain’t that great, David?”

  “Yeah, great,” says David.

  We sit in silence for a little while. Then I get to thinking about the song and I get up and start toward the stereo.

  “I want you all to listen to something,” I says. I drop the needle down on the record. “Listen to this. You’re going to love it.” I listen for a second. “Ain’t that something?” I close my eyes and listen to the saxophone solo.

  One by one, Lou, David, and Martin excuse themselves. And so, I’m all alone with Thelma and the stuffed dog.

  Thelma
starts clearing things off the table.

  “I suppose Peter’s at your mother’s,” I says.

  “Yes.” She takes the dishes into the kitchen and comes out pulling her sweater on.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “For a walk,” she says.

  “This time of night?”

  “It’s not late.”

  “Where are you going?” I step in front of the door.

  “Craig,” she whines.

  “I want to know where you’re going.”

  She starts taking off her sweater. “Noplace.”

  “Who are you going to meet?”

  “I’m not going anyplace.” She sits.

  “Who have you been seeing?”

  She picks up a magazine. “You’re being ridiculous.” She gets up and shuts off the music. “You’re not well, Craig.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This music, this paranoia. You’re like your mother.”

  I open the front door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “For a walk.” I leave.

  Chapter 9

  Ma draped the wool blanket all over me. This was after she made me curl up on the floor in the back of Daddy’s Mercury.

  “Stay down,” Ma said.

  “Ma, it’s hot.” I was already sweating profusely. I started to rise.

  She pushed me down. “Stay. Craigie, I’m depending on you. When your daddy stops at the drugstore, you get out and sneak in and then you’ll see. You’ll see them in the act.”

  I could taste the salt of my perspiration in my mouth and all I could see were a couple of stripes of light crawling under one edge of the blanket. “But—”

  “I’m depending on you. You’ll see. That Lou Ann Narramore.” She closed the door.

  All the windows of the car were rolled up tight and I was good and soaked. Then the driver’s-side door opened and Daddy got in. I wanted to get up and tell him of my presence, but Ma’s words echoed in my head: “in the act.” It was a short, uncomfortable ride to the drugstore. After Daddy got out I waited a few seconds and then I tiptoed from the car to the drugstore door. I opened the door slightly and pushed my hand inside, grabbing the bell which dangled from the inside door handle. I slid the rest of me inside. I crawled down the aisle of colognes and hair tonics to the end so I could see the prescription counter.