The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter

by Kia Corthron

  “Okay.”

  “No later n 4:30.”

  “No later n 4:30.”

  At the hospital information desk, Dwight is directed to the third floor. He passes the room twice before seeing the name in the slot outside the door. The space is a double but only the bed near the door is occupied. And the very old man, wrinkled and white hair and colorless skin with the breathing apparatus and numerous other machines, Dwight now comprehends, is Roof. He walks through the doorway, approaching slowly. Roof breathes loud and uneven through his mouth. He’s asleep but at one point his eyes open wide, fixing on Dwight, but seeming to register nothing before they close again. And Dwight wonders if this is all a terrible idea, a selfish idea. Why’s he here? He prays not to upset Roof, and if he doesn’t, what does that mean? Absolution for himself? He takes a step backward toward the door.

  “Whoa! Careful there. You can go on in.”

  Dwight, startled, turns around to stare at a fortyish black man in a nurse’s uniform, a combination he has never before seen in Humble, standing at the room entrance. The man enters, checking on the various mechanisms of life extension. After a few moments, noticing Dwight still hasn’t moved: “Please come in. He seems to do better with company.” He indicates the visitor’s chair next to the bed, and Dwight warily takes it. “If you talk to him he might hear you, even if he doesn’t appear to respond.”

  Dwight stares at Roof, says nothing. The nurse marks on a clipboard. “Your first time visiting?”

  “We knew each other, kids. I moved away a long time ago.”

  The RN nods, not looking up. When he finishes with the chart, he hangs it back on the foot of the bed. “Talk to him.” He smiles and leaves.

  Dwight sits for a very long time, Roof’s heavy, labored breathing the only sound. Finally the visitor quietly walks out. The nurses’ station is right across from Roof’s room, and the surprised RN looks up.

  “He’s not. Is he in a coma?”

  “No. He’s just asleep.”

  “Oh. Because you said. About he might hear me but not respond.”

  “Sometimes when he’s very tired it’s hard for him to open his eyes. But other times he does.”

  “Oh.”

  A public-address system request for Dr. Mukherjee to come to the ICU.

  “I couldn’t really talk to him, not knowin whether he’s seein me. Knowin me. Too many years.”

  “Well. He might wake soon.”

  “My nephew and I jus happened to be in town. We gotta go back to D.C. this evenin, catch a plane. So I have a few minutes, but.”

  The nurse nods.

  “I live in San Francisco, my nephew’s visitin me this summer.”

  The nurse smiles politely before going back to his paperwork. After a few minutes he notices Dwight looking at a display of several photographs above his work area. Children.

  “She died. Dysentery.” Dwight is disconcerted, then aware that his eyes had settled on one particular child. “Spent a couple of years working in Ethiopia. They’re orphans.” He picks up the picture of the little girl. “I’m gonna adopt one of those kids. It’s complicated, taking them out of their own country, Americanizing them. But I don’t think as complicated as needless juvenile death. I’d do my best, make sure my child knew where she came from. Or where he came from.” He’s quiet a moment. “Other obstacles too. Prejudice.”

  “Lem. You doin a double today?” Another nurse standing at the station, this one white and female.

  Lem nods. “Be here till eleven.”

  “Okay.” She walks off.

  “You ain’t from here.”

  Lem laughs. “Detroit.”

  “So how you end up in Humble?”

  “I go where there’s need. Ethiopia, Uruguay. Small-town America. Thinking about New York after the end of the year.” He looks at Dwight with meaning. “AIDS is cleaning us out.”

  Whether by “us” Lem is referring to black men or the black community, or to black gay men—because the visitor had discerned a certain vibe from the nurse—Dwight cannot be sure, and before he can ponder on it, Lem says, “Look.”

  Dwight turns around to see Roof’s eyes open, staring directly at him. He cautiously enters the room.

  “Hey Roof.” His voice is quiet.

  The patient’s mouth open, allowing for more oxygen to enter his lungs.

  “Remember me? Dwight? From kids?”

  Roof continues staring, not blinking an eye. Dwight could interpret the expression as Roof remembering him and hating him, or Roof utterly baffled as to who stands before him. Finally, between breaths: “Whatever. Happen ta. The Architeck Club?”

  At first Dwight thinks Roof is confused, dreaming awake or mistaking Dwight for someone else. Then he remembers their boyhood clubs, and laughs. “I don’t think we quite made our membership quotas.”

  And then they’re talking. And in the talking Roof seems to start breathing easier, and so does Dwight. Tarzan movies and exploring the old Messengill house and Roof’s father dropping them off at the fair, Dwight’s father letting them on the train that time. Roof had married at seventeen, the girl the same age. “Yeah, I remember hearin about that. Gloria her name?” Thirty-seven years they’d been together. Eleven kids and he’s lost track of all the grands, and a couple of the next generation. Dwight’s mind is boggled by his contemporary speaking of great-grandchildren. No, Dwight didn’t marry, been living in California nineteen years. They never mention Carl.

  When there’s a brief lull Roof, grinning, says, “I done you wrong. Time or two. The movie thee-ater.”

  It takes a moment for Dwight to realize Roof is referring to the instances when he would come to the pictures with Dwight, then exercise his right as a Caucasian to abandon his colored friend and sit in the floor seats. “Yep. You sure did.”

  Then Roof’s eyes narrow. “An a time you done me wrong.”

  Dwight stares at him. Their eyes are frozen on one another, Dwight not knowing what to say, Roof not helping. Finally Roof looks away, trying to make himself more comfortable on his pillows. “But guess what. Useta picnic. Roslyn County. My wife n kids. They wanna swim the river.” He goes into a coughing fit. Every time it seems about to stop, it becomes more severe. Dwight looks at the nurses’ station but no one’s there. He stands, about to run out to look for someone, but Roof raises his hand, waving him to stay, and finally the bout ceases. “I cain’t keep em from swimmin. I ain’t swum myself since.” The rest of the story, which Roof doesn’t finish, is part of Dwight’s most catastrophic childhood memory. But he sees Roof remembering it, and he beholds Roof’s thoughtful calm. “Well I think. I had to, I could save em. Any of em drownin. I oughta thank you for that.”

  Dwight says nothing, his eyes soft, gazing at his old friend. Roof, lying against his raised pillow, turns to look out the window. “Eliot an that ole cat.” Roof laughs softly, his eyelids getting heavy. “Eliot, Eliot.” Minutes pass, both of them silent, and Dwight realizes Roof is asleep.

  It’s four when Dwight walks into the hotel. He and Rett have already checked out of their room, their bags in the rental car. Just off the lobby is a phone booth. Dwight, grateful for the privacy, closes the folded door and pulls out his address book. It has been a lot, the last twenty-four, but his second call in as many days to his sponsor is as composed as the first. He’d been concerned for his nephew on this trip, but only now is he aware with great relief the miracle that he didn’t fall apart himself. Toward the end of the chat he becomes remotely worried Rett may not be here at 4:30, that he may have gotten distracted or lost, and Dwight starts devising backup plans but his nervousness is for naught: when he slides open the door, he immediately sees Rett from behind sitting on the lobby couch, wearing his headphones and perusing hotel flyers for local state parks. Dwight walks over and gently taps his nephew’s shoulder.

  They go to Fer
guson’s Flowers, pick up their orders, and put them in the backseat of the car. Then head over to Lucy’s. She’s delighted they stopped by again, thrilled they’re taking a kitten, and elated to hear Dwight visited Roof. Dwight would like to be kept apprised of Roof’s progress. It’s the word he uses though he’s thinking deterioration.

  “You can call me anytime. An you can call Roof! Jus phone the hospital, the third-floor nurses’ station. Then ask for Lem. He’s my favorite.”

  “I met him.”

  “Ain’t he nice! First I thought it was weird, male nurse, but then I really come to like him. Anyways, jus tell him who you are, I’ll put your name on the list. An he’ll stand there an hold the receiver to Roof’s ear.” She turns to Rett. “Now, Eliot Junior, you said you wanted that tan one?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ll fix ya up a little box with newspapers, hold on.” Lucy goes inside. Three children stare at them from the second-floor window, none of them Ashley and Woody of the day before. Lucy returns with the carton. “I didn’t see the kitty you want. Ashley!” She gives Ashley a few moments to reply before yelling for her again.

  “What!”

  “Bring out that little tan tabby! I know you got her up there!” Lucy waits, as if expecting another verbal response, but none comes. “Yaw plannin somethin special for the Fourth?”

  Dwight and Rett, surprised, exchange glances. “I guess we ain’t looked that far ahead.”

  “We prolly goin on up to the park. Cookout, watch the farworks.” Ashley comes out with the tan kitten, and Lucy puts it into the box. “Don’t let her run loose in your car,” she warns. “She’ll tear it up.”

  “Thank you,” Rett says to Lucy and her granddaughter.

  “That was Mo, she was my favorite one,” whines Ashley.

  “Oh whichever one he’da picked you’da said that.”

  “I know!” Ashley, laughing, runs back into the house.

  Dwight and Rett get into the car. As Rett pulls out down the street, he slows in front of 124 Rock Hill Road, both of them gazing, silent.

  The cemetery is at the edge of town, on their way out. The box is in the front at Dwight’s feet, and they fold it closed, leaving a healthy breathing hole for the kitten, take the flowers out of the backseat, and walk to the Campbell family plot. They place the three arrangements on the three graves. They don’t speak for many minutes.

  “Where’s Keith buried?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “Was his family from Lewis?”

  “Near Lewis.”

  “He didn’t wanna be buried near his family?”

  “He hadn’t been in touch with his family since they disowned him when he was twenty. No.”

  Another silence.

  “You gonna be buried in San Francisco? Or here.”

  Dwight considers. “Tell you the truth. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “Good.”

  They fill up the gas tank, then get on the road. The plan is to drive back to D.C. now and spend the night in an airport hotel before the crack-of-dawn flight tomorrow. Fifteen miles outside of town, Dwight indicates a roadside truckstop. “Twenty years ago this place had a sign: BLACK TO GO. Never thought I’d set foot inside even if I could. Well. Dinnertime and ain’t nothin else around.”

  The music playing through the speakers is country, but they’re not the only black patrons, and the waitress, surprising to Dwight, is a middle-aged black woman. She recommends the chili.

  “I keep thinkin about what you said. Those refugee camps. I didn’t know about nunna that.”

  Rett sips his lemonade. “Don’t think I exactly inherited my parents’ drive. Injustice, they did something about it. All I ever did was talk, and when people didn’t listen I hid away.”

  “Think you still got a few years left in ya to figure out whatcha wanna do, Twenty-one.” Then he remembers. “Sorry, almost Twenty-two. July 11th right around the corner.” Rett smiles. “Thought about what you want for your big day?”

  Rett mulls it over, then shakes his head. “Right this second I can’t think of anything I’m in want of.”

  The next song coming out of the restaurant speakers is “Sixteen Tons,” and because Dwight does take stock in a certain philosophy that not everything in the universe is so easily explained, he believes the old miners’ tune is Roof sending him a So Long.

  As they get back on the road, dusk descends. They don’t speak, Dwight gently stroking the kitten on his lap, and driving through the Appalachians he gazes out on the valley, the stunning pink-purple sky. As a child growing up in the mountains, he’d never noticed their beauty. He had to leave and come back to see it. He thinks of the trip they should have made down this road all those years ago, or down the old route before the new freeway came through, the trip to the March on Washington in 1941 that little Eliot had so looked forward to and was devastated to find out would not take place, they should have come driving down here counting the cows and Eliot, tiny as he was but ingrained with such a sense of justice already, Eliot would have appreciated the March, would have remembered it but it didn’t happen, it wouldn’t happen until 1963, too late for Eliot and suddenly Dwight is bawling uncontrollably, huge and hysterical, the kitten jumping, staring at him, frightened, and Rett pulls over on the shoulder of the road and takes the kitten, not looking at his uncle, holding the animal on his lap as Dwight weeps and weeps and neither of them says a word. When Dwight’s sobs finally subside, the exquisite afterglow has reached its peak. They both stare straight ahead, and finally Rett speaks quietly as he gently strokes his infant pet.

  “You know what, Parker? Next time I come to Humble, it’s gonna be October, autumn. These trees.” Then Venus appears twinkling, ushering in the night.

  1960 Redux

  1

  Last Christmas, when the issue of possible war with Indochina arose at the table, Claris decided her meticulously crafted dinner was not going to be ruined by the grim discourse. So she announced she had a joke.

  “The saloonkeeper’s goin on vacation an he tells the man relievin him, ‘Listen. If Big John comes to town, he’s the biggest, meanest thing goin. Pack up! Run for the hills!’ The substitute saloonkeeper’s shakin in his boots! But the week goes by an no sign a Big John, so he relaxes. Then, on the seventh day somebody runs in. ‘Big John’s in town!’ Well the substitute saloonkeeper tries to hightail it but with all the customers runnin an a-pushin he gets knocked down, an by the time he’s back up ain’t nobody else left an in walks this man. Seven feet tall an lookin mean. ‘Pour me a beer!’ The saloonkeeper does, an the big man guzzles it, then slams down the mug. ‘Want another?’ The saloonkeeper shakin. ‘No,’ says the big man, ‘I gotta be gettin outa town!’” and Claris had nearly busted a gut laughing. Till she noticed everyone staring at her, confused. Her eyes searched the ceiling for whatever she missed.

  “‘Big John’s comin!’” Claris had blurted. “The big man says, ‘No, I gotta be gettin outa town. Big John’s comin!’”

  This memory, of his mother’s perpetual inability to get a joke right, was what little Leona had triggered for Eliot a half-hour ago with her jumbled riddle as he was bidding goodbye to her grandparents Martha and Jeremiah, and why Eliot still can’t stop laughing, pulling into Rosie’s yard. He sees Beau at the window waving, and Eliot waves back, shifts the car to park, and steps outside. It occurs to him that he should call the colored hospital to inquire as to the condition of Mr. Yancey, the elder who had been arrested and beaten after trying to register to vote yesterday, and he is about to go into Rosie’s to do so when Beau comes rushing out. “Roy’s dying!”

  Eliot gapes at Beau as if whatever he just heard could not possibly have been English. Then an agonizing keening from inside. Beau runs back in, Eliot on his heels.

  Beau’s sister Rosie sits on the living room floor holding her legless husb
and Roy in her arms. His eyes are wild, his body violently trembling.

  “I think he had a stroke!” Rosie wails. “He was fine five minutes ago, then I went to check on my turnips boilin—”

  “Where’s the hospital?”

  “The colored hospital’s hour an a half away,” she tells Eliot, “other side a Prayer Ridge.”

  Looking at Roy, Eliot fears the man doesn’t have an hour and a half left in him. “Let’s go.”

  Beau carries Roy to the car and sits in the back with Rosie as she holds her husband. Eliot accelerates.

  “Don’t speed,” Beau warns.

  “We gotta get him there!” Eliot is shaking.

  “He’s goin nowhere you give the Prayer Ridge police a good excuse to arrest that Northern nigger lawyer.”

  A vague memory of Winston’s ten rules for Dixie comes back to Eliot, but the thing about going as fast as your (g)as can carry you, he thinks, applied to driving at night and leaving town. Eliot still exceeds the limit, though not so appreciably as before. They pass the Nathan clinic, then further down the road the Prayer Ridge Hospital, both institutions servicing only whites, and after a drive of about forty minutes, having finally made it to the other side of Prayer Ridge, Rosie says, “He’s dead.”

  Eliot instinctively swerves around to look back, the car still in motion. Roy’s eyes remain wide open, his body frozen. “You feel a heartbeat, Beau?” Her voice flat.

  Beau feels Roy’s chest, then his neck. He shakes his head.

  “Then I guess he’s dead.” She sighs. “My husband’s dead, Eliot, we can turn on aroun.”

  “Maybe—”

  “He been like this ten minutes,” she tells the driver, “ain’t no maybes. Turn back the other direction. The Prayer Ridge Hospital don’t accept colored but the Prayer Ridge Morgue do.”

  For several minutes there is silence on the slow drive back. Then suddenly Rosie is howling, causing Beau to sob holding her, their hands on Roy. Eliot wipes his eyes.