by William Bell
“No, and I’m still alive, Mom,” I told her.
After I said goodbye I phoned my grandparents.
“What’s with the phone company?” Grandpa complained. “You’re not fixed yet?”
I assured him that the company had promised they’d be out tomorrow to check the lines.
“I’ll bet,” he said. “Heard from your mom and dad?”
I gave him a quick summary and promised to call again tomorrow.
I failed to find anything worth watching on any of the four channels, so I undressed and slid between the damp sheets. The rooms on each side of me were empty and quiet. The air-conditioner whined and clunked, smothering most of the noise from the highway, charging the air with stale odour more than cooling it.
I couldn’t sleep. Would I find my grandfather tomorrow? And if I did, how would he react to my springing up from nowhere without warning? What was the big secret that had come between my mother and him?
It had rained during the night, but not enough to clean the mud and dust from the Toyota, which looked forlorn and beaten under the late-morning sun. I tossed my bag into the cab, climbed into the truck and removed the Christmas card from my front pocket and read the name and address written inside it for the hundredth time. I consulted my Mississippi road map, poring over the inset map of Natchez, and started the truck.
“Well, Grandpa,” I said. “Here I come, ready or not.”
Chapter 6
St. Catherine Street was a tree-lined and canopied tunnel running between Pine and Cemetery Roads, flanked by grand old houses that favoured white columns in front and galleries running down the sides. I parked in front of number 19 and walked up a flagstone path through a vast cloud of fragrant rose bushes. Gathering my resolve, I knocked on the big front door. My grandfather must be pretty well off, I mused.
The door opened to reveal an older woman, tall and straight as the columns on each side of her, wearing diamond stud earrings and a pink dress that set off her strawberry blond hair with white roots. Her thick eyebrows came together in a frown.
“Deliveries are made round the back,” she said, her voice refined, her speech smooth and drawn out.
I had taken care that morning to wear clean pants and a white shirt. I hadn’t thought I looked like a delivery boy.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said in my politest tone, “I’m looking for Mr. Lucas Straight.”
“Y’all have the wrong house,” she said, stepping back and moving to close the door.
“But—” I drew the envelope from my shirt pocket. “This is 19 St. Catherine Street, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. But no one of that name lives here, or ever has. Or ever would,” she added with a withering frown. “I think you want the other St. Catherine Street, north of town. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
And the door closed. So much for Southern hospitality.
The other St. Catherine Street was a dirt road running alongside a meandering river outside of town between Cemetery Road and the Mississippi River. This, I said to myself as I drove past a clapboard shack with two decrepit cannibalized cars in the front yard, is more like it. A plume of yellow dust followed the truck as I drove slowly, reading the faded names on mailboxes that stood on the roadside in front of frame bungalows spaced far enough apart to allow glimpses of the river through thick-trunked and moss-shrouded trees.
My stomach ached. I was finally here; I could feel it, and my courage melted in the baking sun and drifted away on the hot breeze that carried the odour of tepid water and rotting vegetation from the river. Why wasn’t I excited, eager to shake my grandfather’s hand? Because the Family Mystery would loom over our meeting like an unfinished fight. Because I had no idea whether my grandfather would embrace me or push me down the stairs. For the second time since I had arrived in Natchez, I procrastinated. Maybe I should just play it cool for a while, I thought, feel things out a little bit, before I let him know who I am.
The houses grew farther apart, the road bumpier and narrower. I followed a curve and was almost past the mailbox before I caught sight of the letters on it, CAS STRAI, which I took to be the remains of LUCAS STRAIGHT. I shut off the truck and let it coast to a stop on the shoulder.
The cabin was sided with weathered grey planks, its rusted tin roof shaded by those tall, wide-canopied trees I had seen many times in movies that take place in the South—live oaks. A gallery ran across the front and down one side of the house, and a picket fence that looked as if it hadn’t seen paint since before I was born enclosed a hard-packed swept dirt yard. The place had an air of neatness and cleanliness. An old man sat in a chaise that hung on chains from the gallery rafters, fanning himself as he read a book.
Completely rattled by now, afraid to confront the stranger, I groped for a plan. I got out of the truck, opened the hood and pulled the ignition wire out of the coil. I climbed into the cab, turned the key and heard the motor turn over valiantly without firing. I got out again and stood in the dust of the road, shaking my head in mock frustration. I looked at the cabin.
The old man was watching me. I pushed open the front gate and walked across the yard. I stood in front of my grandfather.
It was him, all right. It had to be. His nose, sharply bridged and flared wide at the nostrils, was a double for my mother’s, as was his high broad forehead. His thick upper lip was dented, like Louis Armstrong’s.
I took off my hat, swallowed hard, and said, “Hi, sir, I—”
He put his book aside. “How are y’all doin’ today?”
“Er, fine, thanks. And you?”
“Can’t complain.”
“I wonder if I could trouble you for a glass of water.”
“Help yourself to a glass of tea, son.”
I’m not even going to try to reproduce his accent. He spoke in a deep, raspy voice and dragged out his words, slipping in extra syllables, as if he had all day to complete a sentence.
There was a pitcher of amber liquid and a few empty plastic tumblers on a table beside the swing. A walking stick leaned against the house beside the table. When I had poured and tasted the iced tea he invited me to sit in the cane chair opposite him.
“Y’all want me to call a tow truck for you?”
“No! I mean, no, thanks, sir. I think I can get the truck going again.”
“Y’all from up north somewheres, ain’t you?”
“Ohio.”
I picked that state because their licence plates were blue and white, like Ontario’s. I thought he might get suspicious if I told him the truth.
He nodded. “Thought so.” The fan began to move again and the chains holding the swing creaked.
“Sure is hot down here,” I commented. “And humid.”
The old man nodded. The fan wafted back and forth.
“Do you live alone here?” I asked.
Another nod. “Got lots of relations nearby, though.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I never have been good at small talk. So I set my empty glass on the table and stood up.
“Well, thanks for the tea. I guess I’ll get to work on that truck.”
“Give a yell if y’all need a hand,” he said.
The afternoon sun threw shadows across the road. I lay on my back in the dirt and pulled myself under the truck and looked at the oily underside of the engine for a while, dragging out my little masquerade and wondering what to do next. I shifted my position so I could see the porch. He hadn’t picked up his book. He was watching me. Maybe he’s suspicious, I thought. A young guy from up north turns up in his front yard asking questions, no wonder he’s wary.
I struggled out from under the Toyota, beat the dust off my pants and leaned over the outside fender, peering at the little four-cylinder engine like a surgeon working up a diagnosis. When I looked up at the gallery the old man was smoking a pipe. A while later he stood, picked up the cane and walked stiffly down the steps and through the gate.
He was taller than I had thought, thin an
d wiry, with a slight stoop. He leaned on the cane as he moved, as if his right knee was locked. Before he got to me I reseated the cable in the coil and straightened up.
“Think I found the problem,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Would you believe it, a loose wire.”
And I’m your grandson, I almost blurted. Instead I got into the truck as he stood leaning on his cane and looking at the motor. I turned the key and the engine came to life. I revved it a bit for show.
Now what? I asked myself. Maybe I’ll just take off home and write him a letter. I had dug myself into a hole by pretending and I felt stupid, conscious that, if I revealed my identity now, he would probably think I belonged in a mental home. I sat there, furious at myself for being a coward but not angry enough to rouse my courage.
Instead I said, “Sir, do you mind if I ask your name?”
“Lucas Straight,” he said. He paused, and when I said nothing he added, “And yours?”
This was my chance. If I told him, what would he do? Tell me to take a hike? Scream curses? Like so many other times in my life I sat mute, my brain in neutral. I took a deep breath. “Mike Wilkes,” I said, using Jen’s last name.
“Well, Mike,” he rasped around the stem of his pipe, “y’all seem right handy with motors.”
“I … well … I took auto shop at school.”
“Up there in Ohio.” He pronounced it Oh-high-uh.
“Yeah.”
“Tell you what, Mike. I got a old pump over yonder in the shed, don’t run at all. I use it to pump water up from the bayou when the well’s low. If you could get it goin’ again, I’d be glad to pay you for your trouble.”
I almost jumped out of the truck. “Sure.”
“Park in the driveway, then. They’s tools in the shed, you need any.”
And with that he turned and walked to the gallery.
Behind the house, the yard was shaded by live oaks trailing grey scarves of Spanish moss. A jetty jutted into the still, caramel-coloured water of the bayou, and a lawn chair was tied to one of the pilings with a length of frayed plastic rope. On the opposite shore was a cypress swamp, its skeletal trunks rising into the hard blue sky and striping the water with shadows.
The pump motor, an old four-stroke, hadn’t seen a wrench in a long time. The oil in the sump was black with age. The gas tank was full. I pulled the starter a few times and got no response, not even a cough. I lifted the pump onto the wide, waist-high shelf built into the side of the shed, then looked inside the shed for the tools. The spark plug was so fouled it would never fire again. The carburetor parts were varnished from sitting inactive for a long time, so I cleaned them with a brush and steel wool.
Working on the pump relaxed me somewhat. When I had reinstalled the carb I stood and stretched. It was then that I noticed the mud-smeared licence plate on the front of the truck and remembered that in most states cars carried plates only on the rear bumper.
I sneaked a glance at the house, then quickly removed the plate, skinning my knuckles in my haste, and tossed it under the seat. Then I scooped a gob of grease from the plastic container I had seen in the shed and smeared it over the word Ontario on the rear plate. And not a second too soon. I heard a screen door creak open and slap shut. My grandfather limped over to my work place, a glass of tea in his hand.
“Thought you might like something,” he offered.
“Thanks, Mr. Straight.”
“Call me Lucas, Mike.”
“Um, okay.” I held up the spark plug from the pump. “If you can tell me where to go, I’ll pick up a new one for you. This one’s shot.”
Lucas gave me directions to a garage on the edge of town. “Don’t go to the Texaco,” he stressed. “White man owns that one.”
I got there just as they were closing and bought the plug. Back at the house, I installed it, and on the second pull of the starter cord the motor fired and purred away like new. I let it run for half a minute and shut it off—without water flowing through it the pump mechanism would overheat. Then I disassembled the pump, cleaned it up, greased the parts and put them back together.
By the time I finished, night had begun to fall and the lights were on in the house. I cleaned my hands on a rag and knocked on the front door.
“Come on back into the kitchen, Mike,” I heard.
I stood there for a few moments, savouring the odours of pipe smoke and cooking meat—I was hungry—until I remembered that I was Mike. The door opened into a small parlour with a fireplace and a couch and chair with tattered upholstery. Passing through, I noticed his book, Panthers in Chains, on an end table and faded photos of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X on the wall.
The kitchen was at the back of the house, and it wasn’t exactly a contender for a home-and-gardens magazine. There was a single tap over the sink, a two-burner propane stove, a few cupboards. On a small round table two places had been set.
“Y’all can wash up at the sink yonder,” Lucas said, putting a platter of fried chicken on the table. “Supper’s ready.”
I was ready too. The cold fried chicken, bread and butter and iced tea were followed by raisin oatmeal cookies right out of the bag. We didn’t talk much as we ate—which was a relief to me since I didn’t have to think up a bunch of lies while I munched.
“Guess you’ll be movin’ on tomorrow,” Lucas said, settling back into his chair and wiping crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Yeah.”
I knew he was waiting for me to tell him where I was headed. I had realized by then that he thought it was bad manners to ask a lot of questions. I said no more. I nibbled on a cookie instead, putting off the moment when I’d have to leave.
Lucas reached into his pocket and laid a ten-dollar bill on the table.
“‘Preciate your help with that pump,” he said.
“No, that’s all right, Mr.— Lucas. I was glad to do it.”
“Mike, I asked for your help. Don’t let’s talk no more about it.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I took up the money.
“Where you plannin’ to spend the night?”
“The truck’s rigged for camping. I’ll find a spot somewhere.”
“Y’all’re welcome to camp right out there in the driveway if you want.”
“Okay,” I said, hoping my relief didn’t show. “Thanks.”
I bedded down in the truck, my stomach full, my head ringing with thoughts and questions. In a way I was satisfied now. I had met my grandfather. He seemed like an okay guy. And now that he was a real person to me rather than a distant abstraction I felt more confident. Tomorrow I would tell him who I was. If he threw me out, I’d go home without regret. But not until I found out what had happened between him and my mother, although I was beginning to have an idea. I had a right to know for sure. I was his grandson. He owed it to me.
Chapter 7
I slept fitfully, tossing and turning in the heat, until a sharp noise down by the river woke me. The damp, sticky air was dead still, heavy with ripe odours from the bayou. Straining to hear more, I caught only the chirrup of crickets, galump of frogs and the hum of insects. The memory of the cops’ attack pushed into my mind, setting my nerves on edge. Leaning on my elbow, I craned my neck to see out the front of the truck.
Down at the jetty, a strong light was trained on the water. A shadow passed in front of it.
My heart began to pound and my breath came faster. I willed my eyes to see more and failed—the sky was a black dome without moon or stars. Momentarily, something blocked the light again and I heard a faint splash.
I pushed my sleeping bag away and climbed through the narrow window into the cab, feeling for the keys in the ignition. If I had to, I could start the truck and get out of there within seconds. I sat behind the wheel in my underwear, eyes fixed on the light. Who was on the jetty? What was he doing there in the middle of the night? Had he come from the bayou to burgle Lucas’s house, knowing only an old man lived there?
A rifle.
The invader bent over, stood, bent again. Another splash. Now fully awake, my brain began to function. I had to warn my grandfather. I put my hand on the door handle, let go, letting out a long breath. I had almost made a mistake. I reached up and flicked the switch on the cab light so it wouldn’t come on when the door was opened.
Moving in slow motion, I slipped out of the truck, letting the door hang open. The ground was cool on my bare feet. I crept through the dark, along the side of the shed, my fingers gliding over the rough planks to guide me. I crouched behind a tree, held my breath and watched the figure on the jetty.
And I felt a fire of anger working its way into my limbs. Who did that jerk think he was, sneaking onto my grandfather’s land with a gun in his hand? A desperate plan formed in my mind.
I slipped back to the truck, reached inside and switched on the headlights.
In the white glare of the truck’s high beams, on the end of the jetty, a man rose and turned my way in one jerky motion, throwing one arm up before his eyes. As if in a photograph I saw that in his other hand he held a fishing rod. Beside him, next to the lawn chair, was a white plastic bucket. A second fishing rod leaned against a piling, the line curving gently from the tip to a bobber in the centre of the pool of light on the water.
It was Lucas.
“What the —” he exclaimed as he took a step backwards, hitting the chair with his game leg, and toppled off the jetty, uttering a cry as a fountain of water rushed up into the glare.
I began to run. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I shouted as my feet pounded on the jetty. I jumped off the end into the warm chest-deep water. My feet sank into mud that squished obscenely between my toes. Frantically I reached to grab Lucas and was rewarded with a clout in the eye from his thrashing arms. Unable to get his feet under him, he beat the water uselessly, throwing up a confusion of foam and muddy water.
