by Terry Kay
Moses said nothing. He made his head-bob.
Do you know who started the fire that burned Jovita’s home? Cole asked.
Moses did not move in his chair. His eyes did not leave Cole’s face. After a moment, he said, You sure you want to bring all that back up?
A long beat of silence held in the room. From below, there was a muted sound of weeping. It’s personal, Cole told him. I have no wish to make anything public, but I hope you understand how that single incident has affected my life. I’ve carried a lot of guilt over it, and there’s no reason to tell you why that’s so; you know why.
Again, Moses offered his head-bob. I’ve learned it’s sometimes best to let things lie where they fall, he said. There’s been a lot of change since then.
It was a put-off remark and Cole knew it. Moses Elder did not want to pick at the scab of old wounds. It was better to talk about change.
Yes, Cole replied. Thank God. We were standing still fifty years ago. He paused, then added, I’m sorry. I’ve put you on the spot, and I didn’t want to do that.
Moses blinked once, a slow blink showing relief. He said, That day you were here after his mama’s house was set on fire, you wanted to see Littlejohn, but he was burned too bad. Would you still like to see him?
Cole had always had a haunting image of Littlejohn Curry after the fire—an image exaggerated by his sense of guilt. It was a face grotesquely scarred from seared skin, the burned side shrunk in size, leaving him with a hideous reminder of a night of terror. The image flashed again in his seeing before he replied, I would. I’ve often wondered about him.
He’s managed, Moses said. Still lives in Milltown.
Milltown was both familiar and unrecognizable to Cole, the chilling, déjà vu sense of having been in a place never before visited. The neighborhood did not seem as congested as he remembered, leaving him to believe many of the homes had been bulldozed away, and the changes of the landscape were enough to confuse him. He could not remember where Jovita’s house had been and had to ask Moses about it. Moses pointed to a spot between two homes, a narrow strip of land that had the look of a place where boys played their own version of baseball. It was there, he said. Took them a few years to clean it up, but they finally got around to it.
People still live here, I see, Cole said.
Mostly old people, Moses told him. Don’t know what’s going to happen when they die off, unless some young folks come in and try to fix things up. They do, they’d get what’s standing at a good price. We been talking about it at the council. Some of the ladies want to turn it into a historic area, tying it in with the mills that used to be around here. They think they can get some federal funds for it. He paused. I hope it works out, he added, but there was no confidence for it in his voice.
What happened to Jovita and the rest of the family? Cole asked.
The explanation from Moses was brief: Jovita had died in the late 1990s, Albert was retired from the army and lived in Florida, Seba and Sarah, both married, lived in Atlanta with their families.
They come back once in a while to see Littlejohn, he said. They all wanted him to move in with them after their mother died, but he wouldn’t. Said he would stay here where he felt comfortable.
What does he do for a living? Cole said.
A smile, barely visible, crossed Moses’ face. He used to paint houses for Art Crews, he said softly, but he gave that up a few years ago when he hurt his back. You’ll see what he’s up to now, but he’ll want you to keep it to yourself.
Sounds mysterious, Cole said.
I guess you could say it is, Moses replied.
There was nothing unusual about Littlejohn’s Milltown home, other than an addition to the back of it that seemed out of place, seeing it from the street. Cole guessed it had been the doing of Jovita’s away-children, an add-on to make things more comfortbable for their mother in her late life and when he asked about it, Moses confirmed the guess, saying it had been built by Art Crews, with no cost for labor, to honor all the years Littlejohn had worked with him. The sideboarding of the house was white, its trim forest green. Flowers bloomed in small islands of flower beds near neatly trimmed shrubbery crowding close to the house.
You sure it’s all right to drop in on him? Cole asked quietly, hearing jitters in his voice.
I called him this morning to tell him I might be coming by with somebody, Moses said. Just didn’t tell him who it was.
I doubt if he’ll remember me, Cole suggested.
He will, Moses said confidently. But I guess I better tell you he still acts like a little boy sometimes, still gets excited. Some people just never grow up all the way.
He knocked on the door.
In a moment, the door opened and a small man, bent slightly forward at the shoulders, stood behind the archway, in the shadows of the room. He was dressed in brown work pants and a white oversized t-shirt displaying a picture of an eagle in flight. Underneath the eagle was the word Soar. He wore an Atlanta Braves baseball cap. The disfiguring of his face was noticeable, but not as severe as Cole had imagined. Where he had been burned had the look of thin, delicate paper that had been crinkled in a fist. Only his right ear was shocking to the sight. It was small, folded, discolored, more nub than ear. He offered a smile to Moses, a look of curiosity to Cole.
Littlejohn, you know this man, Moses said, but you haven’t seen him in a few years.
Littlejohn did not respond. His gaze stayed on Cole.
This is Dr. Cole Bishop, Moses added. You remember him, don’t you?
Littlejohn’s eyes narrowed on Cole’s face and the look of curiosity became confusion. Cole knew he was struggling to fit face with name.
Hello, Littlejohn, Cole said softly. But it’s not Dr. Cole Bishop. It’s just Cole.
Suddenly, a startled expression flashed in Littlejohn’s face. He stepped back, lifted his hands, clapped them together once, like a boy catching a firefly. His mouth opened, but he did not speak.
Moses laughed softly. You remember, don’t you?
The orange turtle, Littlejohn whispered in delight.
That’s right, Cole said.
Littlejohn extended both hands to Cole and Cole received both.
I’m glad to see you, Cole said.
The orange turtle, Littlejohn said again, his voice rising in excitement. He added, Miss—Miss Marie.
Moses smiled, chuckled. I should have guessed, he said. Then, to Littlejohn: He wanted to know what you were doing. You want to show him?
Littlejohn nodded vigorously. He turned sprightly and began to rush-walk toward the back of the house. He pushed open a door to the add-on room and stepped inside. Cole and Moses followed.
The room was no longer used as living space, as it had been during the lifetime of Jovita; it was a gallery, its walls covered with paintings, majestically done. Landscapes and portraits in bold explosions of colors, as though the colors had muscle.
Cole was stunned. He stood in the doorway scanning the room, painting to painting. My God, he whispered. This is unbelievable.
Near him, Littlejohn giggled joyfully and rubbed his hands together.
That’s what he does, Moses said. His sisters sell them in Atlanta. They tell me he’s getting a name for himself.
Cole turned to Moses. The painting in your office? He did it?
Moses nodded.
Here, see this, Littlejohn said happily. He caught Cole by the arm and began to guide him across the room to the far wall.
Cole was not prepared for the painting.
It was a large portrait of Marie Fitzpatrick, shoulder-length. She was wearing her prom dress and Cole knew immediately that Littlejohn had taken the painting from the photograph of prom night made by George Fitzpatrick. Its likeness was startling, yet also different. The background was a faded blue, like morning sunlight on a cloudless day. Littlejohn had given her face a slight downward tilt, as though observing the world from some place private to her. Her eyes held a radiance not seen in the pho
tograph. The expression on her face was an expression of tenderness, having the look of someone far older than the girl of the photograph.
Cole did not speak. He could feel the hard pumping of his heart, the welling of sadness.
It’s Miss Marie, Littlejohn said, his voice having the glee of a child’s voice.
Yes, I see, Cole whispered.
My mama had the picture, Littlejohn added. She said Miss Marie gave it to her.
It’s—remarkable, Cole told him. He swallowed hard.
It’s my favorite, Littlejohn said joyfully.
Mine, too, Moses said. Mine, too.
TWENTY-TWO
The home Marie Fitzpatrick had lived in—the Bailey house on Church Street—was still standing, though part of its wraparound porch had been removed and replaced with what appeared to be a greenhouse room with panels of glass. The garage was still as it had been when Marie used it as a classroom, giving him the thought that there should be a plaque on it, one reading, In this place, Overton County began to change.
He let the words play again in his mind. No, he decided, the plaque should read, In this place, the artist Littlejohn Curry received his first lessons from Marie Fitzpatrick.
Such landscapes in history deserved to be marked, he thought.
He remembered a visit he had taken to Europe, a desultory driving tour through France and Germany and Austria, carefree and golden and enrapturing, and he remembered being fascinated by off-road gardens where wars had been fought and the blood of men had drained from curled, pained bodies and had congealed and blotted into the soil, turning it black. Flowers grew in rich, vivid colors in those gardens, fed by the blood-fertilizer of dead men. Small, bronze plaques told their stories of horror in postcard brevity and the messages were always the same, regardless of the language: In this place history was planted and harvested.
The garage of the Bailey house, the house where Marie Jean Fitzpatrick had lived for a year, needed such a proclamation.
He had parked his car on the street and had got out and was standing on the sidewalk, not far from the garage, when a woman—middle-aged, he guessed—came out of the house. Even from the distance, he could see a look of concern worm its way across her face, causing her mouth to tighten in a small O.
You looking for somebody? the woman asked suspiciously.
No, ma’am, he answered in a pleasant manner. I used to have a friend who lived here and I have some good memories of that time. I just stopped to see the place.
Who was it? the woman asked.
The Fitzpatrick family, he said. But I’m sure you wouldn’t know of them. It was fifty years ago.
Never heard the name, the woman said, relaxing. She stepped off the porch to the yard. My husband and I have been living here for about fifteen years now. We bought the place from the Reinharts.
He offered a smile, said, And that’s a name I don’t know. A lot changes in fifty years.
You’re welcome to see the place if you want to, said the woman.
No, that’s all right, he told her. I was taking a little nostalgic drive through town and remembered it. I always thought it was the prettiest house in Overton.
The woman’s face brightened. We think so, too. We’re the Powells. I’m Linda. My husband’s named Dewey. He’s an accountant.
I’m Cole Bishop, he said. I grew up near here.
Bishop? Linda Powell replied. That name’s familiar. Seems like I just saw it somewhere.
I have a sister who lives in Crossover, he said. But her married name is Gleason.
The library, she said suddenly. I saw it at the library this morning when I took back some books. That new display case they’ve got. You’re that Cole Bishop?
I’m afraid I am, he admitted. I’m flattered by what they did.
Well, Mr. Bishop, I’m flattered to meet you, she chirped. I can’t wait to tell Dewey that you have fond memories of our home. I’m sure he’d like to meet you.
That would be a pleasure, he said. Please give him my regards, and forgive me for intruding on your day. It was good meeting you.
You, too, Mr. Bishop, she said. I’m going to read your books soon.
He nodded, smiled, returned to his car and drove away. In the rearview mirror, he looked again at the garage and a thought came to him about the lettering on his imaginary plaque: In this place, Cole Bishop became a different person.
That afternoon, in his room, he wrote another letter to Marie Fitzpatrick:
Dear Marie,
I did not know I would be writing to you again so soon, but to borrow from an overused Southern colloquialism, your ears must have been burning today.
In short, you were talked about, praised to the hilt, and there wasn’t a word of exaggeration in any of it. Not much, at least. Not from my judgment.
This is what happened:
I wrote to you that I had plans to visit with Moses Elder. We went to see Littlejohn. Yes, Littlejohn. He still lives here, still in the Milltown area, and, Marie, you would be stunned, as I was, by what has happened to him. He has become an accomplished artist, gaining a considerable reputation in Atlanta, yet he prefers to stay in the background as a kind of happy recluse. From what I gather, he has a small circle of friends such as Moses, but I do not believe many people in Overton have any idea who he is, or what he does.
You would be in awe of his talent. His use of color would make you wonder if he dipped his brush in rainbows. I cannot describe his style because his style ranges from primitive to portrait. He is both miniaturist and mammothist (if there is such a word). He works with particle board and canvas, with tin cans and old tires. He is like the piano prodigy who can hear a tune—from Mozart to Madonna—and reproduce it instantly.
And here is the news that left me weak with wonder: he has a portrait of you. It was painted from the photograph taken of us by your father on prom night. I wept when I saw it. Not outwardly, not to show tears, but inwardly, where the aching resides. I would buy it from him if I thought he would sell it, but I know he will never part with it.
And we talked of you—Littlejohn, Moses, and I.
We sat for more than an hour and cobbled together fragments of our memory of you. Much of what we said was about the teaching. It is still vivid to Littlejohn, even as small as he was at the time. He called it the happiest period of his life, said he worshiped you. He loved telling the story of our prom-night visit to his home and of my tale about the orange turtle. Moses had never heard the story. He found it amusing.
I did not ask Moses about your letters. I decided against it. That’s a private matter. Yet, I believe in my soul he still has them and I would guess he occasionally reads them—the way I read my letters from you. On impulse, or out of some need. One thing he said gave me an indication of it: “She was a force, one you could never quite get away from.” The way he said it—gently—gave me the thought that he has been in love with you all these years, and there may be some truth in it. He has never married.
Don’t you think that’s a revealing statement, Marie? What he said about you being a force?
But, of course, it’s true.
I did not tell them about writing to you yesterday. There are some things I am not prepared to share.
I do not think I will see Moses or Littlejohn again before I return to Vermont. We made no plans for it. Still, knowing how they have succeeded has been the best part of this journey into what I consider the lost years. Both are extraordinary men, in great part because of you.
Yes, you are a force.
One other thing: Moses told me that Julian Overstreet is dead. You remember him, don’t you? He was the Overton policeman who stopped us that night we were leaving Jovita’s home. He ran for county sheriff and was elected, but I suppose he never changed. Someone shot him one night as he was parked in his patrol car not far from Milltown. Moses said they never found the killer. The avenger in me—as benign as he is—would like to think Moses or Littlejohn did the deed, Godfather-style. Change, helpe
d along.
It was a good day, Marie. A very good day. I feel at peace, yet it is not closure. A friend has taught me that closure is a poor description for settling with things. She calls it a beginning, and I think that is what is happening. Today, driving back to my homeplace—now Amy’s home—I had a longing to be in Vermont. I am learning it is more than the location of my runaway; it is where I now belong.
The reunion looms, and as promised, I will write to you about it, which will likely include a detailed account of my heroic act of survival.
For dinner, Jake insisted on going to McDowell’s Barbecue in Crossover, swearing it featured the finest ribs not only in Georgia, or the South, but the world. Finishes them off with orange juice and honey, Jake said. Hard to imagine hog meat melting in your mouth like cotton candy, but that’s what it’s like. You take one bite, Cole, and you’ll have everything you own in Vermont crated up and shipped down here to you; you’ll never go back.
Jake’s boasting was closer to truth than fiction. The ribs were tender, succulent, cooked to perfection, and the brunswick stew served with them reminded Cole of the stew his mother had made on the cold days of hog killing. Almost ceremonial, the hog killing—the single shot in the head, the cut throat for the blood-letting, the barrels of scalding water to peel off hair, the hoisting chain to pull the hog up for eviscerating, the flashing knives, the cutting table, the slabs of meat. As a boy, it had been one of his duties to keep the fire burning under the large cast-iron pot for the rendering of lard, taken from cubes of fat in the trimming of the meat. It had been a fascinating thing, watching the pot fill with the soupy, tea-colored liquid that would cool to a silky white. He had marveled at his mother’s timing in scooping the floating crackling out of the liquid before it turned black. Nothing was as good-tasting as a thumb-sized piece of crackling, still hot, and the crackling cornbread his mother made from it would have caused war among gods.
