The Book of Marie

by Terry Kay

  As he was preparing to leave, Mark had asked, Are you looking forward to your trip to Georgia?

  I am, he had answered. And he had repeated, Yes, I am. The answer had tasted good in his mouth.

  You think you’re going to recognize anyone? Mark had asked.

  He had laughed easily at the question. I doubt it. But I also doubt anyone will recognize me.

  They’ll be testing you, Mark had advised. Don’t let them con you. If you come back with Confederate money, I’ll know you’ve been taken.

  As they drove away from Art’s home, traveling in the direction of Overton, Cole remembered Mark’s advice about being conned and he wondered if it was the reason for the visit with Art—a maneuver to bring him back to his childhood by omitting the chapter of the killing of Etta Hemsley and the burning of Jovita’s home. Art had said nothing of Etta Hemsley, or of the gossip about Etta Hemsley being a girlfriend. And maybe it was all forgotten, swept away by the heroics of young black boys and young white boys winning football games. It was best to leave it alone, he decided. He would soon be back in Vermont. In Vermont, only Tanya Berry knew of the house-burning.

  Art talked as they rode, reliving moments of humor.

  You remember that crazy play Coach put in before we played Wrens? he said, laughing. The Hoo-Doo Voo-Doo? The one that started out like a punt and then the ball got handed off three times in the backfield before it was lateraled back to you?

  Cole admitted he did remember the play. It had been like a routine by the Keystone Kops. The first time Cone Bailey called it, the Panthers had a first down on the twenty yard line of the Wrens team. He had called a timeout, had questioned Cone Bailey: Coach, do you really think they’re going to believe we’re going to punt on first down on their twenty yard line? Coach had replied in a bullying fashion, Listen, pissant, I’m the coach. You run the play. And they had. Three times in a row. They had lost forty-five yards.

  Way I remember it, he called it again, with us being fourth and fifty-five, Art said. You just had Wormy punt the ball and Coach thought it had worked.

  He laughed in a bellowing, warm outburst, then added, Lord, Cole, Coach was crazy as a loon. I guess you remember when he was put in an institution two years after we graduated. Like I said earlier, that’s where he died.

  Two years? Was it that soon? Cole asked.

  There was a beat of silence, then Art said, Well, you were gone by then.

  That’s right, Cole replied.

  Another beat of silence fell between them.

  Town looks pretty much the same, Art said finally. But, like they say, what you see is not always what you get. Tell you the truth, Cole, things seem be going from bad to worse. They closed the last textile plant we had last year, moved everything to Mexico or China or some other place. It put over three hundred people out of work, and that’s a lot of jobs for some place like Overton. We’ve got a couple of plants coming in to take their place, and that should help, but right now there’s not much house-building going on, I can tell you that. Right now, I don’t do much but repair work—new decks, painting, that sort of thing.

  He paused, shook his head in distress, then added, Town’s like a lot of little places. Got a lot of empty buildings now. Anybody wants anything big, they drive over to Athens or Anderson, where they can get it cheaper at one of them chain stores. You’ll see what I’m talking about. The old drugstore—Bell’s—has been everything but a garage. It’s a beauty shop now, run by Jennifer Mobley—well, Jennifer Reese now. You remember her?

  Wasn’t she a cheerleader? Cole asked.

  That’s her, Art replied. Dated Wormy some. Went off somewhere to study being a hairdresser and now she’s got her own place. From what I hear, she’s got a booming business. Nice woman, too. Her grandson’s on the football team now. You want to stop in and say hello to her?

  You’re the guide, Cole told him.

  Well, why don’t we skip it for now, Art said. We’ll see her on Saturday night. I know she’ll be there since she’s on the committee. I got somebody else I want you to see.

  Who? asked Cole.

  You’ll find out, Art answered. A soft smile covered his face.

  Overton was as Art had described it. There was a sameness about it, yet it was not the same. The closed-up buildings on Main Street, dark behind the windows, had a ghost-like appearance to them—the gaiety of life turned cold and somber. Cole did not recognize many of the names where businesses still operated, but he was not surprised by it. In his childhood, most had been family-owned, family-operated. Over fifty years, death would have closed as many businesses as chain stores in other places. It was the same in Raemar.

  One of the places keeping its name was Hendley’s, and he asked about it, saying to Art that he was surprised it still existed.

  They passed it on to their son, Joe, Art explained. You might not remember him. His name was Joe. He was four or five years behind us. Went off to Clemson and came back with the prettiest woman anybody has ever seen around here. Her name’s Tiffany. Still pretty and probably the reason the store stays open. Joe got to be a bad drunk. She puts up with it, but nobody knows why.

  It’s where I bought my first suit, Cole said.

  It’s where all of us bought our first suit, Art offered. And it’s where I bought my last one. Dark blue. Much as it cost, I’m going to keep it to be buried in. He chuckled, tapped the steering wheel of his car with the heel of his hand.

  It could be threads by then, Cole said.

  Art smiled, but did not reply.

  They passed the service station that had belonged to Earl Cartwright. It was still operating, but the signage was Texaco. Cole remembered it as something else—maybe Pure Oil, though he was not certain. As Texaco, it seemed cleaner, modernized. A group of men were standing outside the front door and seeing them caused him remember the last day he had been in Overton, more than forty years past. He could see Toby again, standing in his fight posture, daring the taunters who were gathered there. A pulse of sadness surged through him. He looked away, fought to push the memory from his thinking. He saw two boys on bicycles, baseball gloves hanging from the handlebars.

  We’re almost there, Art said. He braked his car in front of the Overton Community Hospital, switched on his left turn signal, waited for an on-coming truck, then drove into the parking lot and parked.

  The hospital? Cole said when they got out of the car.

  Not the hospital, the assisted living quarters next to it, Art answered. Come on. He began a strong stride across the parking lot.

  The assisted living facility of Overton County Hospital was small, having a waiting room at the entry door and a long corridor leading to a sunroom, where patients were transported daily to break the monotony of being isolated in their quarters, though many of them had no awareness of where they were, or even who they were. The quarters were behind numbered doors along the corridor.

  Art stopped at number 11 and knocked lightly on the door. He waited a moment, then opened it, leaned inside, said, You not naked, are you? He turned to Cole, winked, beckoned with his head, then stepped into the room. Cole followed.

  Inside, Cole saw a pale, emaciated man sitting lean-back in a cushioned chair. He was wearing white pajamas and a loose-fitting green robe. A plasic breathing apparatus covered his nose and mouth. He turned his head slightly as Art and Cole approached him.

  You’re looking perky today, Art said in a cheerful voice, leaning to the man. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were ready to go dancing.

  The man’s head bobbed. He blinked his small eyes. Cole could see a weak smile growing underneath the breathing apparatus.

  I brought a friend along to say hello, Art continued. Somebody you haven’t seen in a long time.

  The man’s eyes moved slowly to Cole.

  You know who this is, Cole? Art asked gently.

  I’m afraid not, Cole answered in a polite manner.

  Sidney, Art said after a moment. Sidney Witherspoon.
r />   Cole could feel his body recoil in shock. He thought of his writing of Sidney, telling the story of Cone Bailey’s rambling nonsense about Sidney being the quiet one, the one having more sex than the braggarts who talked about it. That Sidney had been broad-shouldered, muscular, wearing a bowed-down face to cover his embarrassment over stuttering. The man before him had no resemblence to the boy Cole had known. The man before him was small, bird-like.

  Sidney, Art said quietly, this is Cole Bishop. You remember Cole, don’t you? He was the quarterback on our football team. Remember when we played football?

  Sidney’s eyes moved from Cole to Art, then back to Cole. He dipped his head once. He lifted one hand weakly, let it fall back across his lap.

  He knows you, Art said happily. I knew he would. Praise God for it. He turned to Cole. Talk to him, Cole. He knows you.

  Cole stepped closer to Sidney, bent to him. He said, Sidney, it’s been a long time. I’m glad to see you.

  Sidney made his nod.

  I didn’t know you were still in Overton, Cole added. But like Art said, I’ve been away for a long time. I’ve lost touch.

  But you’re back, Art said. That’s what matters, Cole. You’re back.

  The visit with Sidney Witherspoon was brief. He sleeps most of the time, Art said on the walk back to the car. I try to drop in to see him two or three times a week, and I think he enjoys it, but it always tires him out.

  Cole asked what had happened to him.

  A stroke, Art answered. About five years ago. He’s been here ever since. His wife died about ten years ago of lung cancer and his children live away. Got a daugher in California and a son in Atlanta. The boy got rich in real estate out there and he provides for Sidney, but he don’t get over this way very much. I just think Sidney needs to know somebody’s thinking about him.

  He never left Overton? Cole asked.

  Stayed right here, Art replied. Got a job as a mailman. Married a girl named Claire Washington, but you wouldn’t know her. She moved here a couple of years after we graduated. Her father worked for the power company.

  They reached the car, got inside.

  I’m glad we saw him, Cole said. It means a lot to me. He was a good person, one of the best in our class. Just sorry to see him like that.

  Art nodded agreement. He started his car.

  It’s good of you to visit him, Cole added. I know it must help his spirits.

  For a moment, Art did not reply. He sat, both hands on the steering wheel, and listened to the idling of the motor. Then: I owe it to him, Cole. When we were growing up, I aggravated him a lot about his stuttering. He paused, shook his head regretfully. I did a lot of things I need to atone for, a lot of things that rested heavy on my heart for a long time. Just glad the Lord made me see my ways.

  He turned to Cole, smiled. Got one other place to take you, then we’ll get a bite of lunch and I’ll get you home before Amy sends out the national guard to find us.

  All right, Cole replied.

  The drive was a short one, a block away and across Highway 78 to a large brick building Cole had never seen. The sign in front of it read: Overton County Library.

  The library? he said. This is new—to me, at least.

  Been here twenty-five years, or longer, Art said.

  I’m sure my mother must have written about it, but if she did, I don’t remember it, Cole admitted. He added, It sure beats that little upstairs place they used to have.

  They’ve got a lot going on here, Art told him. A lot of programs for kids.

  Is this where Alyse works? asked Cole.

  That’s right, Art answered. She’s great at it. People love her. But I ought to warn you that she’s as silly as a teenager over you coming back for the reunion. She called me the day she got your letter. Wanted to know if I had any old pictures of the football team. Said she wanted to have some to put out for people to see. He paused, grinned. But more than anything, she talked about you. Told me she’d had a crush on you at one time. She’s still a fine-looking woman, Cole. You better watch out while you’re here.

  The memory of Alyse kissing him on the night of a dance fifty years earlier strobe-flashed for Cole, and in the memory—the strobe-flash of it—he could feel her mouth against his mouth.

  Like you said, some things turn out for the best, he said.

  Art laughed. Like me and Sally. He wagged his head. I hope she don’t decide to show up, but Alyse said she’d be there.

  You’ll handle it, Cole told him.

  Yeah, I guess so, Art mumbled. I’m just glad we’re doing it. We’re on the down-slope, Cole. If you’re like me, you like to think back to when we was on the other side of it. Makes being here now all that much better.

  I can’t disagree, Cole said. I think it’ll be an interesting night.

  Art chuckled. It’ll be different, he offered.

  They entered the front door and turned right into a large, brightly lighted area lined with bookcases. Cole could see a number of people browsing through the maze of shelves. A group of children—black and white, kindergarten age, he guessed—were sitting around a short, circular table, talking in animated whispers to a young woman sitting with them.

  Kind of nice, don’t you think? Art said.

  It is, Cole replied.

  A long checkout counter was on their left, and behind it a glass-enclosed office with cubicles. A young, heavy woman with a round, cheerful face was behind the counter. She looked up, saw Art, flashed a smile, then turned to Cole.

  You’re a man of your word, Art, the woman said. This must be Dr. Bishop.

  In the flesh, Art said, grinning broadly.

  The woman extended her hand. Dr. Bishop, I’m Linda Hendon. It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I loved your book on Joel Chandler Harris. In fact, I did a paper on it for a class at the university.

  You did? Cole said.

  You sound surprised, Linda Hendon replied. You shouldn’t be. It’s a wonderful, compassionate biography. All of us in Overton are proud of you.

  Cole knew his expression was one of a person taken off-guard. He said, Well, that’s—kind of you to say.

  Linda Hendon beamed. Let me call Alyse, she offered. She picked up a telephone, pushed a button, waited a moment, then said, They’re here.

  Through the window behind the checkout counter, Cole saw a trim, blonde woman step out from a cubicle, saw her pause to look through the window, saw a smile leap into her face, could read his name on her lips: Cole.

  Her embrace was warm, strong. She told him in a happy voice that she was glad to see him, and then she stepped back, inspected him, and said, You’re as handsome as ever, Cole. You look wonderful. We’ve missed you. It’s been far too long.

  I’m glad to know you still have kindness in you, Cole replied. No one’s called me handsome since I was twenty years old, and if I recall that occasion, it turned out she was ridiculing me, only I didn’t know it.

  Art laughed. Hey, you’ve still got some hair, he said. That’s more than some of us can say.

  Both of you, hush, Alyse commanded playfully. There won’t be any talk about age, not around me. I have to live with that awful fact every minute of the day.

  I think you’re as beautiful as you were when you were a teenager, Cole told her, and, to him, it was not a lie. The age-lines of her face were gracefully placed, as though an artist had put them on her. Her eyes were bright, the green of their color soft against her skin. She had the look of serenity.

  Stop it, Cole, she said giddily. You’re going to make me blush. She turned to Art. Did you show him? she asked.

  Not yet. Not without you, he said.

  Show me what? Cole asked.

  Follow me, Alyse said.

  She turned and walked into the main room of the library, to an impressive waist-high mahogany table, up-tilted slightly in the back, and glass-covered. She stood to one side, but said nothing. Art stood beside her, a grin lodged on his face.

  Cole stepped close to the table. He s
aw a thin plate of brass attached to the back of the table. Engraved in it was: In Honor of Dr. Cole Bishop, One of Our Own. Under the glass top, resting on velvet the color of dark purple, was a copy of Briar Patch, and beside it were copies of his three chapbook volumes of poetry. A card, written in calligraphy, read:

  These Documents are Placed

  Here in Honor of

  Dr. Cole Bishop,

  A Native of Overton County,

  Whose Writings Remind

  All of Us that Our Heritage

  Is Worthy of

  Celebration

  He stood at the table, staring at the display. After a moment, Art said, What do you think?

  I’m stunned, Cole whispered. He turned to look at Alyse and Art. But, why?

  Because, Cole, we wanted to do it, Alyse said softly. That’s reason enough.

  How long—?

  Has it been here? Alyse asked. Since yesterday. That’s when Art finished it. We set it up last night, after the library closed.

  Cole blinked in disbelief. He said to Art, You made this?

  I’m a carpenter, Cole, he replied proudly. Sure I made it. Been working on it since January. He reached out to touch the table. Pretty good job, if you’ll forgive the bragging. Best piece of furniture I ever made.

  It’s remarkable, Cole said. Beautiful. Amy told me you were a good builder, but she didn’t say anything about this kind of work. By the way, does she know about this?

  She should, Alyse said. She made Jake find the wood and she gave us a new set of books. We have some, but we wanted them to stay on the shelves. I talked to her about an hour ago, and she told me she’d left you with Art. We wanted her to be here when you saw it, but she insisted that we do it this way. She said she’d come back with you tonight, after Jake got home.

  I don’t know what to say, Cole said quietly. I really don’t. Thank you. Like I said, I’m stunned.

  All right, enough of that, Art said. I’m hungry. Let’s go to lunch, all of us. Alyse?