by Hob Broun
“New paragraph … Imagine all elements in the heat of our motion. Period. Trees are made of butter. Period. Buildings are soft cakes. Period. Only the roadway is solid and continuous …”
“Bloody maniac.” Pierce hit the “fast-forward” button.
“I kind of like it so far.”
“But he’s like a kid who never learned to read. He doesn’t know where the boundaries are. Wheeling along the Richmond Parkway, for Christ’s sake, with a canvas tied to the dashboard and a brush in one hand … Just listen. It’s coming up.”
Looie again, over varying traffic sounds: “At forty-five miles per hour I make my first stroke outlining the hills. Not the hills I am passing now, not the hills from two miles back or those two miles ahead, but all of them together. All motion/time images distilled to an essence of hills … Keep the wrist loose as you work, move the brush smoothly. As you grow used to these operations you will begin to see yourself as in a film, moving with grace and ease … Accelerating through a curve now, I mix a lighter shade of green …”
It began with a single small cry, the bleat of a surprised sheep, then clustered thuds and clatters as the machine sheered off to become part of the landscape, a final implosion of metal meshing with itself.
Christo, standing now, leaned horrified over the speaker. “Did he make it?”
“Barely.” Pierce extinguished and ejected the cassette. “He’s off the critical list now, but there was a lot of internal bleeding and they still haven’t assessed the damage completely.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Nobody has. He won’t allow visitors.”
“The rites of spring … Jesus, this has been a bad year.” Splaying his burned fingers, holding them away from his body like spoiled sausages, Christo made for the door. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Yeah, let’s move to the conference room upstairs. It’s time for more drinks.”
“You’re not hearing me, man. I’ll repeat it. We’ve got to get out of here.”
And Christo, with curved arms, made a gesture so wide that it seemed to encompass not just the city, but the hemisphere itself.
15
AMONG THE SEMINOLES OF south Florida there was respect for the rattlesnake, a respect based on fear; they believed that the soul of a dead snake would incite its brothers to take revenge on men. By the late 1970s, while there were places in Tampa that would pay four dollars apiece for dead rattlers in order to remove their poison sacs for research, fear (according to popular psychology experts) was a major obstacle to personal fulfillment. But some people began to find that just as they ceased to be frightened and their lives appeared to smooth out, they lost a kind of invisible protection: Events took on a monstrous finality and snowballed out of all control.
The air was so thick and heavy it felt like clothing, the kind of atmosphere that caused fruit to swell and sea worms to rise. Tildy, in a straw bonnet, made shallow grooves with her finger in a corner of the garden plot and planted cucumber seeds. Suspended between two trees in a canvas hammock he’d made himself, Karl leafed through a history of the Hispañola pirates, making notes in the margin with a pencil. A serene little scene, two dolls happily posed. When the telephone rang, it felt like a gunshot.
Tildy ran out from under her bonnet as she went to answer. Joby Daigle was calling from Ville Platte, too excited to bother with hello.
“Don’t like to disturb a person out of the clear blue but here it’s been so many months with the old place just standin’ there all empty and sad when you drive by. There’s that For Sale sign still up and it keeps prodding a spot in an old woman’s brain….”
“Mrs. Daigle? You’re calling about my father’s place?”
“That’s it exactly, hon. See I met some new folks down here, some of ’em your age, and they’re real interested in what we call the healin’ arts. We been talkin’ about why not start up a clinic that would be for all the people, but where to put it with costs so high. It dawned on me there’s Lucy’s place, God bless him and keep him, so I got up my nerve to call you.”
“You’d like to know my price?”
“Oh my, but you’re makin’ this so easy on me. I want you to know how hard we’d work to do it up as a fittin’ memorial to Lucy. We been goin’ out after the contributions to make you at least a little downpayment and there’s a fella in town says he can draw up the legal papers….”
“Fine. However you want to do it. Send whatever you like.”
Tildy stood stiff for some time, metallic bubblings from the receiver that dangled against her skirt, before she hung up. From a rag-lined shoebox at the bottom of the closet she removed the bronze canister and held it to her ear. It made a sound like sand in a gourd when she shook it. God bless him and keep him.
The treasure trunk sat uselessly under the bed, not one mumbling word from Sparn on fencing the contents. A cruel kind of wealth that wouldn’t buy a thing, another devil’s prank on Karl. So this new windfall—however small—came just in time. Karl’s teeth were bothering him and the Galaxie needed new brakes.
Out in the yard again, Tildy put her bonnet on, drawing it down over her eyes like a riverboat gambler’s.
“Who was that?”
“A social call.”
“Yeah?”
“An old lady who likes to talk about plants. No one you know.”
She knelt in prickly grass and, using a souvenir soup spoon with a dolphin on the handle, worked her father’s ashes into a part of the garden where she was planning to put some sweet peas in the not-too-distant future.
After dinner that night—T-bones fried in bacon fat, tomatoes stewed in milk—Tildy sat on the steps and watched the bats swoop as she smoked. Urgent music trickled out the door. Karl had something called King Solomon’s Mines on the teevee, so wrapped up in it he’d barely touched his food. Tildy thought maybe she’d go to bed early, sleep late.
High beams came arcing past the front of the house, over the grass. She heard the sounds of engine afterrun, a low, cracked voice she knew she ought to recognize.
White sneakers, white slacks, then a white face. There was Flora Pepper grinning ardently, and M.J. right behind her with hair so short she looked like a recovering chemotherapy patient.
“Evening, ladies. Run out of gas?”
Flora kissed the top of Tildy’s head. “Damn, but it’s good to see you. Been too long. We been on a motor trip, M.J. and me. Left Dayton last month and been on the road ever since, just goofing around, seeing what’s out there. But we figured before heading up to Jayville to get ready for the tour, we ought to come by and visit. Gonna be a long season without you.”
“Got a college girl to take your place,” M.J. growled. “Pete picked her up at a pinball tournament. Great reflexes, he says.”
Flora kicked the ground. “You can substitute for someone like Tildy, but you don’t ever replace her.”
Nothing left but to invite them in. Karl waved incuriously and pulled in closer to the glowing screen. Tildy passed out beer and cleared debris off the sofa. A long time since she’d entertained. There were wives who did it all the time, had the neighbors in for ice cream with cordial poured over it, thought up conversational topics in advance. But she was flummoxed by her guests. Had they really come all this way just to chum around?
“So what the hell have you been doing with yourself?”
“Taking it easy, Flora. Just resting and digesting. Worked at a drugstore for a few months, that was okay.”
“Looks like you’re in great shape.”
“I still do my pushups after breakfast, sometimes me and Karl throw a ball around, but that’s about it.”
“M.J. got me on weight training this winter. Put some more meat on my upper body, increased my leg strength; I ought to have ten percent more velocity this year. Mow ’em on down like crabgrass, won’t I?”
“They won’t even touch you, sugar. Our girls can just lay back and sunbathe.”
Flora stroked h
er pitching arm. “All the same, I took some night classes at Dayton Community. Auto mechanics. I want something I can fall back on, you know? I’m on the down side of thirty and it’s time to think practical.”
“Don’t let on to Pete,” Tildy said. “He’s got no show without you.”
“He already knows. We renegotiated my contract and he’s giving me an interest-free loan so I can buy my own garage. A garage with maybe a little store tacked on. Beer and fishing tackle and novelty key rings, that kind of thing. So what we been doing the last few weeks is scouting around for the right spot. Somewhere me and M.J. could live quiet, sit out in the sun by the pumps when it’s not too busy, and watch the traffic go by.”
“He agreed to all that? On paper?”
“We got a good understanding with Pete,” M.J. said. “Just a matter of learning to speak his language.”
“He still hasn’t forgiven you for skipping out. He’d probably throw a tantrum if he knew we were here.”
“For sure.” M.J. went tap-tap-tap on her aluminum can.
Karl shouted, “They found them diamonds,” and patted the teevee like a dog.
“Say, I could use a little something to nibble on. Pretzels maybe? Anything really to help soak up this beer. You know I’ve never been much of a drinker.”
“I’ll look, Flora.”
Karl joined her in the kitchen during commercials. “What’re those lezzies here for? You goin’ back on the team?”
“Not in this lifetime. Just slice up the cheese for me, okay?”
“You shouldn’t always keep me in the dark on what’s what. Man and wife’s supposed to hold each other up.”
Pitcher and catcher were nuzzling on the sofa, exhaling sweet nothings back and forth. Karl cursed them under his breath.
Flora jumped up. “This is such a cute house. I’d love for you to show me around.”
“What there is to see you’ve seen.”
But Flora wanted to talk about color combinations and closet space, to peer behind the furniture for electrical sockets. Tildy hung at her heels, absorbing all this women’s-page chat with an increasing sense of misdirection.
“I used to try and picture how it was, your place,” Flora said confessionally. She seemed to be counting the plates in the drip rack. “I’m like that with people, trying to get a bead on them. I thought of something a little more, you know, funky. But this here is nice. Like one of those little cottages in the old songs.”
Tildy doubted the profession of curiosity; on past evidence, Flora’s interest remained within the usual star’s boundaries. But none of this was bothering her exactly until they reentered the living room and she saw video images flickering on Karl’s sulking face like firelight and felt one of those sad maternal pangs that kept her both with him and irritated at her own forebearance.
She swiveled around on Flora. “So how long were you planning to stay?”
“Only a day or so,” M.J. said behind her. “We won’t disrupt you.”
“But we only have the one bed.”
“Don’t you worry none about that.” M.J. came up off the sofa like someone had asked her to dance. “We’ll sleep out in the car. The rear seat folds down and it’s real comfy, so don’t you give it a second thought.”
Second thoughts? Always. Tildy looked at Flora, blinking repeatedly, at M.J. moving forward with her stolid catcher’s waddle. She said, “Actually, we’re a little busy with, with a project right now.” And she thought: I’m overmatched again; another fishbone in the throat.
M.J.’s fingers, disfigured by a thousand foul tips, came to rest for a moment on Tildy’s cheek. “We know how to entertain ourselves.”
“Roadwork,” Flora chimed in. “We do miles of it.”
Karl, while pretending not to, listened with every nerve. On screen in front of him were the Technicolor plains of Africa, and Tildy thought of small creatures huddled in the tall, wavering grass, alert but still, and waiting out a passing menace.
Briskly, M.J. withdrew a toothbrush from the pocket of her shirt. “Now, if I could just borrow your sink.”
Tildy said, “Oh. Sure. Of course.”
Karl prodded her in heavy darkness, both hands scrubbing over her belly. Ripped away from a dream of snow and rifles, Tildy came quiveringly awake.
“Something inside,” he hissed. “Can’t you listen?”
“Stop.” She pushed away his hands.
No missing the noise though; a steady thunk-thunk that seemed to flow across the floor and under the door like water. Tildy sucked in her breath. She felt surrounded by jelly, distanced from the thunking, the clicks of the cheap clock behind her on the sill, Karl’s feet pushing and pushing.
“Baby. You got to go and see.”
“Leave off.”
She’d spoken sharply and whatever was out there had heard, went quiet now. Karl sat up, holding a pillow in front of him like a shield, but went no further.
“There, it’s gone,” Tildy said.
But the hush squeezed and squeezed like a tourniquet. It was the sensation of veins backing up, of tendons approaching rupture that made Tildy dash out and yank on the door. There came, in sequence, her own instinctive yowl, a metallic crash, one short syllable jerked out of Karl. Her hand slapped the light switch.
By the stove in a long raincoat, pots still rolling at her naked feet, Flora was transfixed.
“Dammit it to hell!”
“I didn’t … Please. I needed a glass of water. An aspirin. I needed a glass of water for an aspirin. I was feeling my way.”
“There’s a hose outside.”
“How could I know? I’m sorry….”
“Here, have a glass.” Tildy opened the refrigerator. “Have a carton of milk. Go on.”
Flora looked grateful as a starving child, hugged the coat around herself and slunk away. Tildy watched from the front window. The domelight flashed on in the car and M.J. reared up in the sleeping bag, asking questions with her hands.
Tomorrow, Tildy promised herself. I’ll get rid of them tomorrow.
But by morning, stupor had come in with the cloud cover. Maybe it would rain, maybe it would not. Things would have to take care of themselves.
“Honey?” Flora gestured with a toasted half of hot dog bun.
“Try jam.”
“Where?”
“Cupboard.”
Tildy was busy with a load of what they called shrimper’s coffee in Ville Platte—coarse grounds boiled hard with salt, eggshells and a few drops of Tabasco. Karl slumped over the table, flirting with sleep. He did not look up when M.J. came in from calisthenics, coughing deeply.
“How about a beer?” she said.
“Go on then.” Flora cranked open the window, tapped with her bun on the screen. “What’s that little colored boy I see up the way?”
“They live here.” Tildy was filling the cups now, holding the grounds in the pot with a big spoon. “You’ve got the milk in the car,” she told Flora.
“Oh. Well.”
“I’ll sure have a fucking beer.” Karl swung the refrigerator door into M.J.’s back, said, “Chicken-n-n-shit,” when he didn’t find what he wanted, stomped outside and flopped on his stomach in the grass.
“He’s not usually so cranky,” Tildy said.
“Men are very insecure these days.” Flora looked at her coffee, black as swamp water, and tasted some on the end of her finger. “Mmm. Yeah, I’ll get that milk.”
Tildy lit a cigarette at the gas ring and singed her hair.
“You’re wrecking yourself with those things,” M.J. said after Flora left the room.
“Not me, just my lungs.”
Alone, the two of them, and it felt prickly. Their eyes went all over the room, finally stopped, and the way they looked at one another was a little much for this hour of the day. Neighborhood rivals behind the stadium.
“So I don’t get no beer, huh?”
“We can make a run later.”
M.J. hefted her left b
reast like a machine part. “You ought to cut yourself loose from that beat-up hound,” pointing outside with her chin. “He can’t do you no good.”
“Hidden qualities,” Tildy said, moving her finger through warm grounds. “Below the surface.”
“I’ll just bet.”
Flora came flapping in, milkless, with a hornet sting puffing up behind her wrist. She whimpered and swore, gyrated as M.J. attempted an exam.
“Watch it, watch it. That’s my good hand.”
“Don’t baby it up.”
Too much noise. Tildy opened the freezer. “Ice,” she said, and drifted out to the yard where Karl was pulling grass like it was hair on his head. She knelt beside him, put a calming hand on his back.
“Nice day for weeding,” she said.
“Mmm.” Painstakingly, he tied a long green strand around her ring finger, clipped off the dangling ends with his thumbnail. “Too tight?”
“No, perfect. You have good taste in jewelry.”
“I should open a store.” He frowned and let go of her hand. “So what’s all that moanin’ I heard in there?”
“Nature taking its course. Pay no mind.”
“Couple of sickos if you want my view, but go on back and babysit ’em if you want. Don’t worry ’bout me, I’ll just doze off in my hammock.”
“It’s not exactly what I want.”
“Then you shouldn’ta invited ’em in the first place.”
“I didn’t.”
“Shit.” Karl pawed the air. “I naturally figured … They just showed up like strays you mean?”
“Strays.” Tildy pondered that one. “Maybe not.”
“Point is, you didn’t ask ’em and that’s a different-colored horse. I don’t like their sniffin’ around. Not one bit.” He stood purposefully, mopped his face, made for the hammock. “What you should do is help ’em decide to clear off.”
“I already had that idea. But today, I don’t know, I can’t seem to wake up.”
Later on, though, Tildy roused herself to take the girls for a drive. She had mad notions of abandoning them out in the piney woods to starve away like a couple of unwanted puppies. Wheeling up the gravel road, past where mailboxes gave out, she saw their rag-wound apparitions ducking from tree to tree. A monotonous hissing in the air out here; earth that would soon disguise anything you dumped. But the endless chatter in the car drubbed her back to reality. A couple of plain Janes who wanted to run a gas station.
