by John Farris
Mally stirred and yawned and found, in the fruit basket in her kitchen, a browning apple. Leaning against the sink she pared the McIntosh slowly, cutting away the bad place with its deep-down curl of worm as the boy had excised his heart, speaking to her in his only voice of suspected guilt on the part of his father, planting in that raw place a fantasy to absorb his anguish, beguile him as he grew. Mally's heart felt like a cold seed deftly opened by the stroke of her knife so that she loved Alex Gambier not for what he could be to her, a thirty-two-year-old colored woman in her own prison of scars, but for who he was and what he continued to suffer.
"She'll only be here for two or three days," Cecily Gambier said to her husband. "Until her own house has aired out. Mom just can't bear the paint fumes, Bobby."
They were in bed, aglow from pure sensation, their humid bodies still deliciously sensitive to the slightest touch. The lingering allure of youthful fecundity, her tangy skin tone and deft contours: Bobby was in the mood to give Cece anything she asked for. Even though he sensed that once his mother-in-law had taken possession of the guest room down the hall, a For Sale sign would pop up in the front yard of her own place. Which was why she was spending close to eight hundred dollars on painting and roof repairs.
"She'll be next to Alex," he reminded Cecily.
"I don't see why Alex couldn't make an effort to be civil to Bernie for a couple of days. Do you?"
Bobby was feeling sleepy in her arms. He didn't say anything. Cecily took his silence as assurance that the matter was settled. She kissed the bridge of his nose and after some deliberation plucked a single coppery chest hair—which had become a ritual of secret, loving significance (Bobby wondered what she did with them)—before slipping away to their bathroom to shower.
THREE
A Traffic of Mourners
Bernie's Wing-Ding
Night Visitors
On Sunday, the last full day of Mally Shaw's life, she attended the funeral service for Priest Howard at the Evening Shade Presbyterian Church, which was on the opposite and lower side of the courthouse square from the Baptist church. The Baptists had claimed the high ground, but the Presbyterians' needle spire rose a good ten feet higher than the Baptists' spire. They also could boast of a few more pews inside, and a new education building.
Six hundred mourners were in the church by ten-thirty of another calm, hot, August morning. The tall windows on either side of the sanctuary were open, which scarcely helped relieve the heat inside but invited flies to the tiers of flowers behind the closed bronze casket in front of the altar. Hand-held fans were a necessity, downstairs and in the cramped balcony shared by the colored seating section, the choir stall, and the pipe organ.
Priest Howard had arranged every detail of his passing weeks before his subsiding heart sent a last tremor through his frail body. He had been a vain, thin-skinned man who did not relish having anyone gawk at his remains. There had been no wake, and he had not wanted anyone to dwell on his mummified profile during the service. Better they should dwell on a four-thousand-dollar coffin that glowed in supernal light from the large, round, stained-glass window behind the altar as the pastor, T. Lowndes McClure, and others whom Priest Howard had specifically designated, eulogized him.
Mally, crowded in among members of Burnell's big family, down to the newest grandchild in pink taffeta and beribboned pigtails, found her attention diverted from the expensive casket—a last expression of Priest Howard's vanity—to the squarish jars of sealed tomatoes in a pristine row on a shelf of her kitchen, and her heart felt constricted in her breast. If she had been a fool, at least it was done with, and whatever dark mischief had been in the mind of the dying man would never be revealed.
Her attention shifted again, to the man whose vanity was in his walk and his style, his gold toothpick (not in evidence at this solemn hour), and his combers of blond hair. If hair could have swagger, Leland's surely qualified. He was seated in the first pew facing the bier with his visibly sorrowing brother and Sax's pregnant wife, sorrow and tears also not in evidence in Leland Howard's bearing. Most everyone knew he'd been disinherited. He bore this stigma with stoicism; his own father's distaste for him would be no problem with the voters statewide. Many men, and women, had never got along with their fathers.
Much of what was said from the pulpit had been printed in Priest Howard's lengthy obituary. He had "immersed" himself in community life while achieving success in the banking profession. Name the fraternal or charitable organization, and Priest had at one time or another been the head of it. His office walls were lined with brass-on-walnut distinguished-service citations. The Boy Scouts had awarded him their coveted Silver Beaver.
More appropriate, Leland thought, looking for a little humor to entertain himself on a depressing day, if it had been the Girl Scouts.
Pastor McClure reiterated with his own stab at humor that Priest had been an "avid" golfer not above "improving" his lies. He loved life, his family, his church, and his fellow man.
Long before the eulogies had been concluded, everyone was restlessly anxious to move on to the cemetery.
At twenty past twelve, Priest Howard's burdensome casket was carried down the front steps of the church and stowed inside the old-fashioned horse-drawn hearse the deceased had ordered for himself. The director of Hicks and Baggett Funeral Home had spent ten days locating the hearse, which was found negligently stored in a southern Missouri barn, and a week having the pigeon droppings removed and the brightwork restored at considerable cost.
The cortege, preceded by a Boy Scout color guard, moved slowly to Priest Howard's final resting place. A traffic of mourners in devil sun, all throats athirst. Death and interment a cool dream to the tormented living who found shade to be scarce at this hour in spite of oaks planted near the family mausoleum by Leland and Sax's grandfather Solomon, oaks with a sturdy lifespan to outlast all flesh and its histories of truth, rumors, and lies.
The mausoleum, already ostentatious (it stood alone among much humbler monuments in the twenty-acre cemetery) had been rejuvenated and enlarged for Priest's arrival. Another wretched expense, Leland thought; he was seated uncomfortably in the foreground of the family archaeology. Not to mention the time it took. Cremation was a far better idea, although Leland conceded that having your ashes scattered by the four winds was like spending your last moments on earth as dandruff. He unwrapped a piece of hard candy in his pocket and sneaked it into his mouth, pretending to cough. His face remained impassive but his mind seethed. Hating the dead wasted mental energy and clouded his view of actions that must be taken immediately to save his political future and, more than likely, keep him out of the Atlanta federal pen. But his patience did have limits. Women could cover their heads with appropriately somber wide-brimmed hats, but it was disrespectful for a man to wear his hat at a funeral. Consequently Leland's leonine head was overheated, his dark poplin suit soaking up more heat. The immediate family was seated beneath a canopy in front of the miniature Greek temple with its anomalous stained-glass windows, but the glowing canvas overhead afforded little relief. They all were edgy waiting for the final commendation of Priest Howard to God, Eternity, and scabrous decay. The casket was draped with an American flag. One more ceremony to be observed, VFW honor-guard rifles firing in salute to Priest and his family's modest military tradition. Grandfather Solomon, on Lee's staff, had fallen at Appomattox Courthouse. Priest had been assigned to the War Department in Washington during the First World War, where he lost his young wife (and Leland's mother) to influenza. After retiring as a major in the Army Reserve, he continued his patriotic mission by serving as the head of Evening Shade's draft board.
The family of long-time houseman Burnell and other Negroes employed through the years by Priest or his bank were strung out beneath a carnival array of parasols on a rise to the left of the main body of mourners and near the long line of parked cars on the road. Leland had no trouble distinguishing Mally Shaw in their midst. She was holding an infant he was sure
wasn't hers, rocking gently side to side, probably giving the fatigued mother a break. Mally stood out from the others in beauty and in the mildness of her coloring, not high-yellow but definitely quadroon, with a sweetness of eye and demeanor that obviously had appealed to Leland's goatish if-no-longer-capable old man. As striking a woman as Leland ever had known in the flesh, during his wilder flings at Cotton Carnival in Memphis, New Orleans any old time. Mally appealed deeply to him on very short acquaintance, but there was uneasiness in his interest, an edge of caution or even, although he would endure torture rather than admit it, fear. He had been cursed in a way he didn't yet understand, and Mally Shaw was an instrument of that familial curse. Therefore she had power over him. Always a dangerous situation with women, including the two he had knowingly impregnated but avoided marrying at serious expense to himself.
He didn't know yet what Mally wanted. He could only be sure she wanted something from him. And it was important enough for Mally to bide her time, Leland thought, scheming all the while.
Alex Gambier, well removed from the burial site, idled on his bicycle in circles and figure-eights around homely tombstones while taking in the military-style funeral. He had nothing better to do except to go swimming. But this late in summer and after months of drought most of the popular swimmin' holes or ponds were low, scummed over or infested with cottonmouths. An exception was the only home swimming pool in the county, which was on the Swifts' place. They bred and showed Tennessee Walking Horses and had money. Francie Swift had invited Alex to a pool party once, her twelfth birthday, but the evening hadn't gone too well because Alex had scuffled with his chief nemeses, Charlie Tiller and Ben Hodge, Alex's usual hair-trigger response to being imitated when he got carried away trying to express himself with his hands. Ben should have known better because Alex had both height and reach on him, although he really hadn't meant to pop Ben hard enough to break his nose.
Francie was forbidden to invite Alex back to her house, but Alex had observed that all of the Swifts were at the cemetery. He also knew that a certain amount of socializing was called for after a big funeral, in this case a catered affair at the Howard homestead. The Swifts' farm was only about a mile cross-country from the cemetery, and Alex was perishing. The notion of riding over there and jumping in the pool for half an hour he found irresistible. And what if they did come home in time to find him there? His brother was undersheriff of Evening Shade, and that, he knew very well, generated tolerance for Alex.
Francie probably wouldn't mind seeing him. She usually had a smile, a genuinely pleased smile for him when they bumped into each other at school or around town. Although he wasn't always in a mood to acknowledge her.
Bernice Clauson had brought her own sheets, pillowcases, and extra pillows to the Gambier house, so her first order of business, even before she unpacked some clothing and personal items, was to remake the four-poster bed in the guest room. This was not intended, she assured her daughter, as a criticism of the quality of the linens Cecily owned; but she was partial to her own made-in-Belgium sheets because, frankly, anything of a lesser quality easily irritated her susceptible skin. Bernie offered all of her assurances with breezy good cheer immediately after noting defects in just about everything she came into contact with in her daily life, from the suspect freshness of a loaf of Sunbeam bread in the grocery store to pigeon poop on the marble threshold of her bank to the cleaning abilities of the Gambiers' maid, Rhoda Jenks: "Well, you know when they get older, and of course they're slow to begin with, they tend to leave dust; that's just something we all have to put up with, Cecily. And I know Rhoda is wonderful with Brendan. Although that does remind me—"
The only thing likely to spoil her little visit, cast a pall, really, was unfortunate proximity to Alex Gambier, who—frankly—Bernice loathed, although she was careful not to express the true depths of her animus even to Cecily. Knowing full well Cecily's own feelings; but there was a marriage to respect. Cecily was bringing her young husband along very nicely, inspiring him to better himself in the world. Bernice thought it would be tragic if the continuing presence of Alex Gambier in the household should lead to difficulties between Bob (she never called him Bobby, which in her view was not a fit name for a man, suggesting a lifelong streak of immaturity) and Cece, difficulties that could blight the purity of their love for each other. Bernie was doing her best to help Cecily find a way out of her dilemma. Willing to spare no expense. But Bob seemed unwilling to accept her generosity (pure stubborn male pride), reluctant to seriously discuss the considerable good a school for his brother, well away from Evening Shade, would provide.
But if her offer of financial assistance wasn't going to be enough to convince Bob that his brother would be better off in a different, structured environment, well, there were other ways to skin a cat. Frankly.
Once she had settled into the guest room, Bernice ventured into the bathroom next door that she would be forced to share with Alex.
Rhoda had cleaned to the best of her abilities, opened windows wide to what freshness a hot afternoon could provide. But, really, Bernie thought, looking around with a hand pressed over her heart. This arrangement was not going to be at all satisfactory. There were lurid pulp magazines stacked untidily in a basket between the toilet and the claw-footed tub. A typical cover had a hawk-nosed westerner with blazing six-guns in each hand and a darkly tressed, ruby-lipped woman in a torn blouse cuddled in the crook of a protective arm. Such lamentable taste, when there were so many classic books to be enjoyed by a boy Alex's age. He simply had not been encouraged in the right directions.
Windowsills were scarred with cigarette bums. No effort for Bernice to picture Alex lolling in the tub, smoking, reading; or hunched naked on the commode, picking his nose (all boys picked their noses). Or, much nastier—as her imagination took a heated turn—engaging in self-abuse. Cecily had told Bernie about the semen-yellowed handkerchiefs, his best handkerchiefs—thrown under his bed. Only the worst sort of boys . . . but it went without saying Alex Gambier was not of a good moral nature.
Blond hairs in the soap on the wash basin. Little smudges of toothpaste on the tile backsplash. Bernie shuddered, then gathered up all of the pulp magazines so offensive to her eye and carried them into Alex's room, where everything looked slapdash and tribal to her. She was treading carefully, as if she were afraid of toads hopping out from under the bed. She couldn't find room on any of Alex's loaded bookshelves for the magazines and finally dropped them on his student's desk, where there was a portable Royal typewriter with a sheet of paper in it. Always writing something, Cecily had said. Often typing late at night. To Bernice it would be worse than hearing mice in the walls. She was a very light sleeper.
It was probably too much to ask, Bernice thought, that Alex be required to use Bob and Cece's bathroom while she was in residence. But there was a perfectly adequate little room with a toilet and shower partitioned off from the rest of the basement. Rhoda sometimes stayed overnight there when Cecily needed extra help with Brendan. Why, Bernice asked herself, couldn't Alex move to the basement for the short time he was to remain in the house?
Alex didn't have to be persuaded that it was a good idea, because it certainly wasn't up to him. Bernice could count on Cecily to be in agreement. Bob would say Alex was being evicted from his room, make a fuss about that, what had his brother done to deserve such treatment . . .
And of course he hadn't done anything, really; Bernie had to admit that.
She was looking idly around the cluttered room when she spied a jar of petroleum jelly on the table beside Alex's bed. The force of her inspiration nearly staggered her.
Now all she needed to do was work up a suitable amount of resentment in Alex toward her, for everyone to observe, but that shouldn't be hard. During most of her visits to the house, Alex never even looked at her, sensing in the way of children a natural enemy.
Bernie turned to leave, and there was Alex in the doorway to his room as if on cue, looking daggers at her. She
was startled. Recovered with a smile that had an edge of its own. She heard Cecily down the hall with Brendan.
"Well, hello, young man," Bernice said to Alex with a lifting of her heavily plucked eyebrows. "You do have a way of sneaking up on people." As if she wasn't the intruder. Bernie was a small woman, but even her normal speaking voice carried like a sawmill's whistle. "I was returning some of your reading material that I found in the bathroom. The paper of those pulp magazines attracts all sorts of insects, so since we'll be sharing the bath for a few days, I'll ask you not to leave them lying around in there." Alex just stood there with a displeased expression that hadn't quite matured into a glower. His sun-streaky hair falling every which way and his clothing, what little he had on (didn't he ever button his shirt?), looking damp, as if he'd been swimming. "I will be staying," Bernice went on, "until the paint fumes are completely aired out of my own house. I am already somewhat acquainted with your, hem, creature habits, but I would like for you to know what I require from you, so there will be no misunderstandings."
Alex was looking around for his magazines, saw them on the desk. He couldn't walk into his room without walking into Bernie, and she wasn't giving ground yet.
"As you know, I'm asthmatic, so if you must sneak a cigarette, please be aware of my condition and do it outside. Hem. Now, about my bath schedule. Mornings at seven and again at nine-thirty in the evening unless dinner is unusually late, before I retire. I'm sure that Cecily will find a little table for my bath things, which I kindly ask you not to touch. As for when you bathe, you must leave the tub absolutely sparkling clean—"
Cecily appeared in the hallway behind Alex, carrying Brendan.
"Mom, everything okay?" she said, anxiety-niche between her eyes. Giving Alex the once-over as if with a wire brush.
