by Alice Adams
Like a huge fish, Russ slipped through Ed Faulkner’s arms. To the floor, where he hit his head. Hard.
8
ALTHOUGH Russ had been a Baptist by birth and early upbringing—baptized with total immersion in a creek, Baptist Sunday school, all that—his funeral service was in the Pinehill Episcopal church. Actually, no one even related to Russ except his dead wife, SallyJane Caldwell, had been Episcopalian; his present wife, Deirdre, like all the Yateses, had been brought up Baptist too. But no one remarked on this somewhat anomalous fact, at least not publicly. The general unvoiced and very unlikely explanation for this alien ceremony, this foreign (sort of) final rite for Russ, would have been that as the most famous, most distinguished man in town (no doubt about that, despite Jimmy High-tower’s best-seller, and besides Jimmy was from Oklahoma, not even really Southern)—as the most famous, brilliant, rich, and handsome man in town, old Russ deserved the best church, as to which there was no doubt at all.
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
In the small and very old beautiful church—pre-War, pre–Civil War, that is—moted beams of light were filtered through ancient, grimy stained-glass windows, and now fell gently on the black-clothed shoulders of Russ’s family, all lined up there on the front row of the church. Deirdre, veiled, and then Melanctha (whose hat looked borrowed, or maybe handed down? from SallyJane?), the four older boys—Lowell, Walker, Justin, and Avery. And Graham, who was almost as beautiful as Deirdre once was, much too beautiful for a boy, is what everyone said about Graham.
“Out of the deep I called unto thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice. O let thine ears consider well the voice of my complaint.”
“Jesus said, ‘Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.’ ”
The day outside was almost balmy, not quite warm. In the cemetery, conveniently around the corner from the church, brave quince blossoms trembled in the breeze. The mourners were grateful for their black winter coats, some of which showed a slight brown tarnish in the sun.
SALLYJANE MAKEPEACE CALDWELL BYRD, said SallyJane’s big granite headstone, and right next to it the new one that said JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL BYRD.
“Between them they sure had a bunch of middle names,” was whispered among the mourners more than once, along with the inevitable next question: Will they put Deirdre next to Russ? Has she even got a middle name? Come to think of it, it’s hard to recall her maiden name; that is to say, her unmarried name. Yates. You remember Clarence? Emily Yates, her folks? Deirdre Byrd used to be a Yates.
“Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower: he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.
“In the midst of life we are in death.…”
Over in another part of the cemetery, not quite out of sight, in the colored part, some Negroes were having a funeral too, a whole big clump of them standing around their coffin, which, unlike Russ’s plain pine box, was draped with a great big bright American flag. Must’ve been some young man of theirs died in the war, who would have had as much right to a flag as anyone else—of course he would.
Perhaps out of respect, or deference, to the white service going on, the Negroes were very quiet; none of the loud singing or the shouting that people said went on at their own church. Though maybe not at funerals? No one knew. In any case, there they were, the colored, burying their own dead person, probably some young man the white people had always seen around, very likely, ever since he was a child, but they didn’t know him. Lying there with the oversized, over-bright flag spread over his coffin box.
“Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.…”
Some of the headstones were extremely old, in the white cemetery and in the colored too, old and broken, the dates and inscriptions hard to read, sometimes impossible. Although people seemed to enjoy just walking there. Dolly Bigelow had taken Cynthia Baird on a short cemetery tour not long after the Bairds had moved down to Pinehill. They had gone back many times, most recently just a week or so ago. “I declare, sometimes I feel like I know more folks in here than I do downtown,” Dolly sighed as they passed the large cement stone that marked the grave of Clifton Lee, a man whom Dolly had certainly flirted with, and from the much discussed evidence of lipstick stains had kissed, a lot. But that was all that Dolly said that anywhere near referred to Clifton—and then she went on, “Those Hapgoods were always just the tackiest people. Would you look at that pink granite?” And a little later, in the Negro section, “Eliosa Caldwell. Why, he must’ve been a slave of some of SallyJane’s people, you know the Caldwells were about the biggest landowners in the county before the War. Not this war of course, the War. My, don’t our colored folk think up the most outlandish names in all get out? Eliosa! Beats even Odessa, now don’t it?”
The trees too were old, some probably pre-War. A beautiful heavy dark stand of tall cedars perversely graced the Negro cemetery, but in the white part there were some lovely pines, though fairly new, and later in the spring, pretty soon now, the dogwood trees would bloom, all beautiful and white, like lace.
“O Lord Jesus Christ, who by His death didst take away the sting of death.…”
Jimmy Hightower stood somewhat apart from the crowd, near some pines; the boughs of the trees were thick and heavy and even the needles were longer and broader than those on younger pines. And maybe even after all this time in the South, Jimmy was allergic to pine? Some people were, and an allergy could come on a person at almost any age; poor SallyJane, a few friends remember, got allergic to poison oak not long before she died, poor creature, as if she didn’t already have troubles enough. But there was old Jimmy, just sniffling away, like a man near dead of hay fever—but did anyone ever die of such a thing?
Russ must have meant to die, was one of the black and irrational thoughts that crowded against each other in Jimmy Hightower’s mind. Another was: I hope everyone thinks I’ve got a cold, or some allergy, especially that chatterbox silly bitch Dolly Bigelow, who keeps looking over here. Easy to imagine just what she’d say, in her horrible high flat voice. Russ had never liked Dolly, Jimmy was sure of that—fairly sure, hard to know really just who Russ did or did not like. But no matter what anyone saw, or thought, or said, the truth was Jimmy couldn’t stop crying; tears poured down and his nose ran like a child’s. The thought of Russ dead, or almost worse, of Russ really wanting to die—all that was too much for him. The truth was, he had loved Russ Byrd—whatever anyone meant by that word, he had felt it for Russ. And now he did not see how he could go on living, much less writing, without old Russ to talk to. To check in with. Or even if they didn’t see each other or even talk, just to know Russ was there, inhabiting the same time span, the same territory that Jimmy was.
“Russ wanted you to have this,” Oscar, Russ’s agent, had told Jimmy Hightower. Oscar was speaking of the Oppenheimer-physics story, which just prior to his death Russ had refused, certainly not mentioning this Hightower fellow as he did so, but what the hell? Hightower had written that big oil best-seller, and even though Hightower seemed reluctant, he, Oscar, had one of his strongest hunches that Hightower was just the guy to do it. Too bad about Russ, though; Oscar had genuinely liked him, although he had never understood Southerners.
And now Jimmy thought, Well, maybe I should do that physicists’ thing, out in New Mexico. Continuing Russ’s work, even work that he didn’t want to do, though maybe he would have, eventually.
Jimmy thought, Russ, God damn it, why did you have to go and die on me?
Deirdre and Melanctha, as they had in the church, stood somewhat apart from each other. Dei
rdre’s coat was long and a little too tight. Must have been an old one. Melanctha’s was one of those chesterfields, with a black velvet collar—the ones so popular last year. Deirdre had on a hat with a heavy black veil; she could have got it out in Hollywood, like one of those women had worn to the funeral of Valentino, or maybe that Scott Fitzgerald that died awhile ago. But if Deirdre was crying no one could see a thing. Melanctha’s hat was small, sort of perky on top of all that curly hair, Russ’s hair—and if she cried no one saw her either.
Cynthia Baird, who, if anyone knew her history with Russ (and plenty of people did, a whole lot more than she thought)—Cynthia could have been expected to be thinking of Russ, at least, but she was not; she thought of Harry, over there in London with all those Nazi bombs coming down and God knows what horrible wartime dangers (not to mention the temptations of all those English girls with their ravishing clear bright skins). Cynthia superstitiously felt—though she knew it was crazy—that Russ’s death was an omen, a warning that Harry could be next, and she thought: Harry’s death would be the one unbearable thing for me. And she well knew that thought to be dangerous, and she knew too—of course, how could she not know these days?—that many women were bearing losses just as bad for them, husbands and sons and lovers. Parents, in bombing raids. Children, anywhere. Why should God not ask her to give up Harry, to whom she had not even been faithful? There had been Russ, and now Derek, who was not even in love with her, as he too often made clear. She tried to bargain with God: If You don’t kill Harry, I’ll be faithful to him. After the war.
But she noted that she was saying after the war, not now. Thus not ruling out Derek. Oh Jesus, she was hopeless, she knew she was—as she thought too that even if English girls had lovely skin their legs were often terrible, whereas she herself had very good skin, and her legs were exemplary. Gorgeous gams, Harry often said, to tease. And he said, I love your lazy legs.
“O Almighty God, the God of the spirits of all flesh, who by a voice of heaven didst proclaim, Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.…”
After all that, and so ladened with their thoughts and memories of Russ, everyone needed a drink, and there were plenty of good things to eat and drink at Dolly and Willard Bigelow’s house—they had kindly, insistently offered to do that honor, and so Deirdre, along with a reluctant Melanctha, had let them.
The furniture was all pushed back, as though for a dance, and the French doors that separated the living room from the dining were flung open, revealing a large and festive spread, almost covering all the white linen space.
“Well, I just thought to have all the things that Russ was most partial to, even if strictly speaking that does not make good sense. But isn’t that what the Egyptians did, or somebody back then? Funeral meats? I wonder whatever those were, nothing to do with cannibals, I hope. Well, Willard would know—here I am married to what they call a classicist and I don’t know the first thing about ancient days. And no, Cynthia, you can’t help me one little bit, me and Odessa have got it all so organized you wouldn’t believe. If she can just stop her sniffling. I declare, seems like she’s more upset over Russ than there’s the slightest cause for her to be. First we think we understand all about the colored, and then we turn around for a minute and we don’t understand the first thing. And speaking of that, what on earth was Russ doing out on a railroad platform or whatever it was, out there drinking with a colored man, even if it was a sergeant in the Army? I just don’t believe that, not for one blessed minute. Even if there is a war on, there’s just got to have been something funny going on, by which I mean something bad, like that Nigra thought Russ had a lot of money on him.”
Only Cynthia observed the quick look, the instant of pure hatred, that flashed across Odessa’s face as Dolly went on about Russ and the “colored man.” But Cynthia did see it, and she thought, My God, no wonder. Dolly forgets that Odessa is there, or maybe forgets that she’s “colored”? No, Dolly could never forget who was colored, although maybe in a way she does; Odessa is just Odessa, not a strong, complicated, and often troubled woman. A Negro woman.
And just why is Odessa so upset over Russ? Even as she wonders this, Cynthia has a stroke of insight: she thinks, Odessa is probably as superstitious as I am, and she thinks Russ’s death is a bad sign for Horace, it’s Horace she’s crying about. She hasn’t heard from him for a while, he’s out in the Pacific.
When she looks back at Odessa, the hatred of course is gone; Odessa is passing around a tray of beaten biscuits spread with ham, Russ’s favorite. When she dies, Cynthia for one split second wonders, will anyone remember that her favorite food was oyster stew, from the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station? Well, Harry will. But so what, what will it matter?
Odessa had paused for a moment near the sideboard, Dolly’s most valued “antique,” of massive mahogany with walnut trim. “Pre-War.” Still holding her big silver platter, Odessa stood there for a moment looking around, checking out who needed more food. Cynthia went over; she touched Odessa’s arm in a friendly pat. She said, “Don’t worry, Odessa. Things’ll be better this year, I’m sure,” and she smiled with as much conviction as she could pull together. Her warmth at least was real.
And Odessa smiled back, even as she murmured, “Yes’m.”
Cynthia wished that Abigail had come down for the funeral, although she had urged her not to. “Wartime travel, you know,” she had said to her daughter. “Someone might ask you, ‘Is this trip necessary?’ Like all those signs.” But she did wish for Abigail and, more fleetingly, she wondered where in hell Derek was.
Curiously, Deirdre too had a fleeting thought of Derek; she thought, Now that I’m widowed, maybe Derek—? But what an evil thought, and with Russ just barely dead, and so terribly, killed by that colored man, probably. She began to cry again—even if Russ hadn’t really loved her anymore. And then for him to go off and die in Texas, of all places. That was where the train was when he fell, or that man pushed him or whatever happened. And then they couldn’t even get his body home. Or she let herself be talked out of bringing his body home: a lot of conversation with people in charge of transportation, all that, until it got to the point where she was just about told that it’d be unpatriotic for her to insist, Russ not being in the service or anything. So there was the coffin, empty, just weights in it, and Russ still back in Texas. Or the body of Russ was in Texas, decaying there: his immortal soul was up in Heaven, Deirdre had to believe that it was.
More or less accidentally, Melanctha and Graham were standing close to each other—so that everyone could see how much alike they looked. Russ’s eyes, and his hair, right there on the both of them. The brother and sister. Never mind all those years when Deirdre first came back to town and pretended that Graham was her brother; he was Russ’s son, no doubt in anyone’s mind about that anymore. The two of them looked especially alike that afternoon, with their dazed deep eyes, which were Russ’s eyes, dark blue, without tears.
Dolly Bigelow, who had drunk too much—as though to prove her own too often expressed view that women shouldn’t ought to drink—Dolly said, “It’s just like Russ was right here with us, don’t you-all feel it? Drunk as all get out and not really showing he was drunk, not showing anyone the first thing about how he really felt about anything. I’m going to miss Russ a whole lot, I just know that I am, but at the same time I’m not going to know who it is that I’m missing.” And then, as unaccountably as a summer storm, tears overwhelmed Dolly—as though she could not stand the rest of her life without Russ Byrd.
Staring at weeping Dolly, Cynthia tried to keep what she felt from showing too apparently on her face, and then she turned away—but not before her eyes had caught the eyes of Odessa, and a look was exchanged between the two of them, between Cynthia and Odessa—a look that was the equivalent of a long conversation, a talk that very probably they would never have, but that would contain all or almost all of their thoughts about Dolly, and about Russ. About Horace, and Harry, and even Derek. Abby, and Nel
lie. About this beautiful and impossible place in which they both lived.
9
AFTER the death and funeral of Russ, instead of the longed-for arrival of spring, heavy, unrelenting rains set in, crippling and almost drowning the little town of Pinehill. Out in the country, the red clay roads were too slick for cars, and red streams rushed through the gullies of erosion in the fields. Rain and wind flapped the sides of the tarpaper shacks where people out there lived—without floors in their houses, most of them, so that in cold, rainy weather they walked on wet dirt, with cold bare feet. Odessa, who used to live out there, like that, with Horace and all her children, in dreams was still in that tiny house, where the wind whistled in through cracks. Now, waking in the middle of the night with a pressure on her bladder, she would almost reach for the tin pot under the bed—before further waking to remember that this is the Bairds’ garage apartment, where she lives, and the bright clean white bathroom is right there, the door almost next to her bed, no need to reach for any pot. But these days she lives alone, no restless Horace thrashing and snorting beside her in the bed, and all the children off now with husbands and wives of their own—all except Nellie, not married and working now over to Raleigh. The tarpaper shack and the red clay roads were still more real to Odessa, though. Her feet were still cold, in spite of the rabbit-fur slippers that Mrs. Baird got for her. The Bairds and their house could vanish like a breath from her life. You can’t count on whites to stay the same, and mean the same whenever they talk to you, Odessa knew that, although the Bairds and especially Mrs. Baird, Mrs. Cynthia, seemed much more reliable than most, probably on account of the Bairds’ being Yankees and not used to the ways of white folks around these parts. But Mr. Harry could die in the war just as easy as Mr. Russ Byrd could, and did, and then where would they put Mrs. Odessa Jones, especially with Horace not around? Horace: she did not let herself think about what could happen and maybe already had to Horace, out there somewhere in the rain, in some rain or other.
