Southern Cross

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “Are you a student at the college?”

  He nodded and stuck out his hand, suddenly the hearty booster. “Furman Hobbins, Junior. From up near Spartanburg.”

  I managed to hold my own against his grip. “I believe I remember the name. Psychology major, right?”

  He shook his head. “Phys. ed.”

  “Ah, yes.” I glanced back at the apartment. “Do you know Colin well?”

  “No better than I have to—the dude’s a total possum. Him and the rest of those Alliance rejects.”

  “The Alliance for Southern Pride. Yes. That’s the activity I’m concerned about. Colin’s political views are somewhat … extreme, I’m afraid.”

  Furman summoned some Southern pride of his own. “He’s a fucking Nazi, is what he is.”

  I gestured toward the swastika. “Does he conduct political activities from this apartment?”

  “Used to, till a bunch of us got together and told him if he didn’t stop bringing those skinheaded geeks around and playing those fucking marching songs all night, we’d dump him and his flags in Colonial Lake.”

  “He held meetings here?”

  “Meetings; speeches; singsongs—always had their ears laid back about something. The sorry sumbitch even tried to get me and Royal to join up, but me and Royal told him we didn’t want none of it.” Furman lowered his voice. “I mean, it’s not that some of their rap’s not legit, you know? Welfare rip-offs; discrimination against white people—it’s happening, right? But the Nazi trip ain’t the way to levitate the situation. The media made Duke and them look like morons because of that Klan crap, which makes real conservatives look bad, too. Take care of business without making a federal case about it, is what I say; look out for your own, but don’t advertise it.”

  Furman’s de facto embrace of the Alliance credo had me at a momentary loss. “Were the other ASP people mostly students?” I asked finally. “Or were there older people involved as well?”

  Furman looked suspicious at that line of inquiry, so I had to come up with a rationale. “We’re trying to nip ASP at the source,” I explained. “Find out who’s financing the overhead, preparing the literature, that kind of thing. And whether they’re linked with established groups like the Klan. What we’re particularly interested in is who’s responsible for linking ASP to the college. As you say, our reputation is at stake in this matter; we’re quite certain Colin Hartman is only a tip of the iceberg.”

  Furman nodded a tribute to my strategy. “Mostly all I ever saw was kids,” he said. “Students and Nazi wannabes. Except once there was a guy in a suit. Old dude; business type. Came around one weekend, went in Colin’s pad for a couple minutes, then came out and walked toward town. Don’t know if Hartman was there at the time or not.” Furman glanced at the parking lot. “I was changing my valve covers, is how I know about it.”

  “Did you recognize the man?”

  He shook his head.

  “Ever see him since?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Would you say Colin Hartman was the leader of the student adherents of ASP, Furman?”

  Furman made a face. “Colin? He couldn’t lead a drunk to a urinal. Guy named Bedford’s the honcho. Forrest Bedford.”

  “That name’s somewhat familiar.”

  “You’re likely thinking of the reb general—Nathan Bedford Forrest? After the war, he was a Grand Dragon in the Klan or some such, he maybe even invented it. The ASP guy borrowed the name from him.”

  I looked down the corridor. “Forrest Bedford lives in the building?”

  “Used to, but no more. He was chief agitator; me and Royal ragged his ass so much he moved out.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  Furman shrugged. “But good riddance, right? The thing is, when I get out of school, I want me a good job, a damned good job, maybe with the shipyard or the mill. But if Hartman and that bunch keep on with their Nazi shit, makes the rest of us look like numb nuts, too. What I’m saying, there are ways to help white folks without throwing a keg party on Hitler’s birthday, know what I mean? A lot of other students are with me, too. So if you need help getting rid of him, just holler.”

  “I appreciate your cooperation, Furman. The college won’t forget it.”

  “Great. Well, I got to get to class. Making up an incomplete in psych this summer—got heavy into partying last term, time to suck it up. Good to meet you, sir.”

  “See you on campus, Furman.”

  Furman trotted off. I didn’t know whether he or the swastika was more depressing.

  NINETEEN

  On the way back to my apartment, I followed Jane Jean’s advice and took a trip down Market Street, which proved to be a true bazaar, a whirlwind of homespun commerce smack in the center of town. A series of covered stalls down the center of the bifurcated street offered everything from seashells to T-shirts to bonsai trees to ready-to-cook packets of red beans and rice. Some of the jewelry looked interesting, but the most compelling items in the array were those Jane Jean had recommended—the baskets woven by local black women out of sweetgrass and pine needles and dried flowers.

  I bought one for my friend Betty. The woman who sold it to me was working on a large basket that lay in her lap, half finished, its unbound stays flopping in the breeze like the tongues of large lizards. When I asked how long she’d been making them, she told me she was sixty-three years old and had been making baskets since she was five. I don’t know why it bothered me; it didn’t seem to bother her.

  When I got to the apartment, I called Seth and asked him what was on the agenda for the evening. Hurried and apologetic, he told me I was on my own—he had a dinner meeting of the Restoration Committee of the Preservation Society and couldn’t skip it. I told him not to worry, that I could amuse myself just fine; I’d been doing it for thirty years and had almost gotten the hang of it.

  At some point, I fell asleep. When I woke, the light in the room had paled several shades, and the shadows had moved ten feet toward the east. It took a while to get my bearings. When I had them, I realized I was hot. And tired. And lonely. I decided to address two of the three and take a shower. I made sure no one was lingering on the porch, then collected my kit and a fresh set of underwear and scampered down the veranda to the bathroom at the end of the building. If anyone saw me, they didn’t bring it up.

  The coldest water the system could produce cascaded over me for ten minutes, till goose bumps had replaced the glaze of perspiration on my flesh and the fog had lifted off my brain. I dried off, put on the underwear, wrapped a towel around my waist, clutched my clothes in my free hand, and beat a retreat to my room, leaving watery footprints in my wake. I might have heard someone toss a wolf whistle at me from behind a darkened window, but I wasn’t sure.

  When I got where I was going, someone was there to greet me. “Figured that was you down there,” she said, arms crossed, grin as wide as a river across her face, enjoying my attire and my discomfiture. “Not many locals make use of the shower.”

  “They should; it’s a good one. You ought to try it.”

  She raised a brow. “Now?”

  “Why not? I can give you some hands-on instruction in the finer features of the implement.”

  Scar Raveneau poked me in the ribs. “I think I’ll pass, thank you very much. I was wondering about dinner.”

  “What were you wondering about it?”

  “Whether you intend to observe the tradition this evening, for one. And whether you’d like to join me, for another. Or do Seth and Jane Jean have you booked up?”

  I shook my head. “Seth has a meeting. Restoration or some such.”

  “Ah, yes. Rich folks preserving our precious heritage for future generations. As long as they get a tax break for their trouble.”

  I shook my head in mock exasperation. “You’re far too cynical for a Daughter of the Confederacy, Ms. Raveneau.”

  “Thank the Lord for small favors, Mr. Tanner.” She looked me up and down. “There aren
’t many places in town that get real enthused about people having dinner in their underwear. I know it’s retrograde and all, but … Shall I leave the room while you finish your toilette?”

  “I can finish my toilette if you look out the window for ten seconds.”

  I was in my trousers by the time she looked back, which she did in precisely the allotted time because she counted it off out loud.

  “Rats,” she said when she saw my nether regions were demurely ensconced. “I could have used a cheap thrill.”

  “In due time, Ms. Raveneau,” I said, and put on my socks and shoes. While I combed my hair and put on my shirt and transferred my wallet to the clean trousers, Scar roamed in search of treasure. Although her interest in Seth was certainly more than platonic, its precise dimension didn’t seem to be my business.

  “Seth has one of my paintings in his den,” she said at one point.

  “That’s a compliment; Seth has good taste.”

  “I think it’s more a trophy than a compliment,” she said. “Or maybe it’s a welfare grant.”

  I looked at her. “Is the thing between you and Seth anything you want to talk about?”

  She sighed, less with anguish than regret. “Not really. He was with me for a while when he was married but deciding he didn’t want to be; then Jane Jean took aim at him, and he dumped me and Callie both. Which I knew going in was what would happen—Seth’s been sweet on her for years.” Scar shrugged a shoulder to show disinterest. “Met her yet?”

  I nodded. “Lunch.”

  “And?”

  “I have to admit, Sophia Loren came to mind at one point.”

  “Probably when she dropped her spoon to give you a look at her cleavage.”

  “Now, now.”

  “So I’m jealous. So shoot me.”

  Scar pouted for another moment while she returned from wherever the talk of Seth had put her, then looked me up and down. “If you can figure out how to button your fly, you’ll be fit to take me out and feed me.”

  I blushed and made myself suitable. “Where to?” I asked as I locked the door behind us.

  “Carolina’s,” she said, and we set off down the street.

  Carolina’s turned out to be a gleaming swirl of food and frolic filled with customers coincidentally in pursuit of the selfsame ingredients. The fixtures were art deco; the walls were bright with glass and mirrors; the tablecloths were checkerboards of black and white, though the color scheme of the clientele was far less balanced. For the most part, the crowd was young and happy, well dressed and well behaved, its collective antennae up, and its well-tuned senses on red alert for signs that before it ended, the evening would engender something memorable.

  Scar and I were seated against a mirrored wall, cheek by jowl with a couple so smitten with each other there might have been a fence between us. We ordered drinks and an appetizer of she-crab soup. Scar suggested I try the crayfish pasta, so I did, though not without debate. For dessert I ordered a slice of chocolate pound cake that came afloat in a raspberry sauce as thick as STP.

  When I had scraped the last of the pound cake off the plate and overtipped the waiter, we left the restaurant and strolled to the waterfront and meandered through the park, watching the waves eddy through the marsh grass and listening as they licked the muddy shore. The air was warm enough for kids to frolic in the fountains; the humidity had dropped to a percentage that let my shirt stay separate from my skin. Scar took my arm and snuggled to my side. She was comfortable and cute; I felt as though I could walk to Atlanta. A host of locals seemed to have the same idea—the ambience was relaxed and friendly, the racial mix more equitable than in the trendy restaurant, probably because this alfresco fare came free.

  We left the park and stopped for a drink at the Moultrie Tavern, which was trying to be of historic note but wasn’t quite getting the job done. As we lingered over a B&B, we began to talk more seriously, about our lives and loves, our wins and losses. Scar was interested in why I’d stopped being a lawyer and why I’d never married. I told her as much as I knew about each phenomenon, but my answers were subdued because they weren’t definitive—among the fallout from the reunion was my sense that the responses I’d assumed for so long to be adequate were more evasions than explanations.

  I expressed interest in her work, then wondered why she seemed to disparage it. I finally got her to agree to show me her studio, but only after I promised to tell her about my more notorious adventures while plying my trade. For the most part, we dodged the painful stuff, though on occasion we gave off hints of where the potholes were. By the time we decided to walk some more, we each had a pretty good idea of where the other’s life had foundered and where it had soared free.

  We left the tavern about nine and headed for the Battery. The warm breeze that washed across the elevated flagstone walkway billowed Scar’s skirt and scrambled my hair. Out in the harbor, the lights of Fort Sumter glowed dimly in the distance, beyond the nearer lights of shrimpers. Scar suggested I take a tour to the fort in the morning. I told her I thought I’d pass. It didn’t seem to make a difference.

  West of the walkway a bevy of handsome mansions sat on sites where the rice planters and slave merchants had lived until the Union put the city under siege and began the bombardment that lasted through the war and forced the planters to move up the peninsula. I tried again to imagine why those days remained so current in Charleston’s hearts and minds, to understand how such a viral nostalgia could be a wholesome thing. All I knew for sure was that this was a different world from the one I inhabited, a society that nourished itself on myth and romance, artifice and charm; a world that seemed to thrive on such a diet.

  I also knew that despite the blot of ASP and its attendant musk of evil, I was beginning to like Charleston a lot—I wondered if it could use a good detective. Since romance is often a cloak of its opposite, and myth a mask on immorality, I decided it probably could.

  TWENTY

  We got back to the Confederate Home about ten. Scar lingered at the door, humming a Cole Porter tune that had to do with moonlight, then looked at her watch in the enfeebled glow of the street lamp. The mood between us was scattered and fragile, in need of a catalyst. “I suppose I should go home,” she said softly.

  “Don’t.”

  For a moment, I wasn’t sure she’d heard me. A car drove past and she watched until it disappeared. Across the street, a man curbed his dog and she waited until they finished.

  “Why not?” she said softly, the words indistinct and directionless, moths circling in the brittle night.

  “You promised to show me your studio.”

  “We can do that tomorrow.”

  “It would be nicer now.”

  She held my eyes on hers. When I didn’t seek a different perch, she looked to the church spire at the end of the block, symbolic across a spectrum of both spiritual and sexual longing. “I’m warning you—it’s not the Louvre up there.”

  “That’s all right—I’ve seen the Louvre.” It was a lie, but a good one.

  We climbed toward the third floor in silence and indecision. In front and above me, Scar’s body moved in easy exercise, hips oscillating in unintended provocation, sandals slapping at her heels. I started to pinch her but stopped myself. Whatever we were up to, it wasn’t high jinks.

  When we reached the room above mine, Scar unlocked the door, flipped on a bright light, and led me inside. “Don’t drown,” she said, and stepped aside to let me look.

  Even for an artist, the place was a mess. A forest of easels; a cascade of canvas; a collection of set pieces prepared as inspiration. Paint jars had clustered here and there like oddly mutated floribunda; the brushes stuffed into coffee cans created tufts of some strange shrub. Bottles and vases and fruits and flowers lounged around like extras, waiting for cues to go on.

  To get a better look, I walked through the studio the way I walk through a prison, hyperaware of geography, leery of making a misstep, careful not to disturb anything.
My objective was a store of completed work, matted and framed, propped in a far corner ready for insertion into a carefully crafted set of slotted racks that stood empty on the floor beside them.

  When I reached the batch of paintings, I flipped through them quickly. Primarily they constituted a series of swift and pastel renderings of various scenes around town, several of which, like the college and Omni and the market, I’d observed that very morning. The style was more impressionistic than architectural, the hues sunny and suggestive of gaiety, with no trace of the blacker moods of the artist who’d contrived them.

  “See?” Scar said roughly at my back. “I told you it was dreck.”

  “It’s not and you know it. It’s perfectly fine for what it is.”

  “For what it is. Right. What it is, is dreck.”

  “And this is fine in any category,” I said.

  What I was looking at was an oil rather than a watercolor, the only one in the studio as far as I could tell. The canvas was larger than the rest, leaning against a wall in arrogant isolation, its image only partially completed but identifiable nonetheless as a portrait, almost life-size, of a naked woman, seated with one knee up and the other bent under her, her arm resting atop the upraised joint, left draped casually in her lap.

  The model looked straight ahead, unsmiling and unashamed, confronting the viewer with what seemed like belligerence, as though daring me to find pleasure in her nakedness, as though willing me to look away. I returned her stare as candidly as I could, letting both pleasure and admiration rage, till I proved my point and won the war.

  Next to the painting was a mirror of the same dimension as the canvas, but I didn’t need a clue to know I was looking at a self-portrait of the artist. Stark, severe, determinedly unglamorized, Scar Raveneau was more naked on that canvas than she could ever be in bed.

  “Shit,” she said behind me. “I forgot that thing was out. It probably violates some kind of ordinance.” She plucked a drop cloth off the floor and draped it over the painting. “There. Eyesore eliminated.”