by John Farris
Marjory drew a couple of heavy breaths and glanced at the gates of Cumberland State—no Enid yet—and chewed her gum and examined a wart at the base of her right thumb, trying to decide how big it was going to get and if she should try castor oil or just have it burned off like the others. Marjory had a lovely complexion that other girls her age envied, but as if to make up for a pimpleless puberty Mother Nature had decreed that she must be a wart-grower.
Then, with nothing much doing, Marjory turned her attention to composing a letter in her mind to her reigning idol and the love of her life, although she had prudently refrained from hinting at her passion for him in the three letters she had actually mailed to date.
Dear Tim:
Although I'm sure I'll remain a "true-blue" Redbirds fan until the day I die, I still haven't forgiven them for trading you and Curt Flood to Philadelphia this season. I don't think Simmon's arm is that much better than yours! It wasn't just luck that the Cards won three pennants in five years with Tim McCarver behind the plate. That's some loyalty!
Anyway, I hope your broken hand is healing okay and you'll be ready for the stretch drive. By the way, it seems to me that before you went on the DL you were getting the best results with the thirty-two-ounce bat you were swinging when you hit that three-run homer in Cincinnati, a game I was lucky enough to catch on TV. That's just a suggestion from one of your biggest supporters who adores-would die wishes you the best in your new "baseball home." I know that in spite of their miserable slow start the Phils will be near the top of the NL East by the end of
2
"Marjory?"
Enid was walking across the parking lot toward her, carrying a folded easel, her pencil box, and some large sketchpads. Marjory got up, a half-smile on her face, still in the afterglow of her devotional. Of course she was well aware that Tim McCarver was married and had two darling little girls. His wife's name was Anne. But Marjory wasn't envious, she didn't feel the least ill will toward Tim's wife. As far as Marjory was concerned, she and Anne were sharing Tim.
"There you are; I thought I was going to have to break in and rescue you."
"It's not a bad place, Marj. You have to get over thinking it's a bad place."
"It's a bad place, Enid. They're all crazy in there."
"You have to get over thinking that too, because it isn't true. There's a big difference between needing help to cope with your life and being, well, you know—totally defective."
Uh-oh, Marjory thought. Enid was leading up to something; this wasn't the usual Christian charity and goodwill toward fellow human beings you expected from her.
Enid didn't pursue her theories of mental illness; she was looking at the car, which was no longer smoking. But the hood remained up.
"Is anything wrong, Marjory?"
"No, it' just overheating. The thermostat may be stuck, or—"
"What's that?"
"Some gizmo we don't have the money to replace. But when it sticks, the radiator heats up and starts leaking. I've got half a gallon of coolant in the trunk, that'll get us home okay. When will the Corvair be ready? Did you remember to call today?"
"Yes. They still aren't sure what the problem is. They think it's electrical."
"They think? They've had the car for five days, they damn well ought to know by now."
"Marjory—"
"You don't have a clue how to talk to mechanics, Enid. Why don't you let me handle Cutter Brothers?"
"I'm sure they're doing everything humanly possible. And you can be so obnoxious when you get worked up."
"Enid, would you like to know what my philosophy of life is, in a nutshell?"
Enid smiled tolerantly. "The squeaky wheel gets the grease."
"Right!"
"Marjory, could we go now? I've had a full day of classes, and I'm tired, and I have to go to work tonight."
"Yeah, okay, just let me pop the top on the radiator and pour the coolant in."
Marjory took a piece of bath towel, a funnel, and the jug of coolant from the trunk while Enid loaded her art supplies into the backseat. She kept one of the big newsprint pads and looked through it while Marjory filled the radiator, then tied the hood down.
"At least it's under warranty."
"What, Marjory?"
"The Corvair. They ought to give us a new one, all the trouble we've had."
Enid didn't say anything. She was studying a charcoal drawing in the pad. Marjory looked over her shoulder.
"Good God, what's that supposed to be?"
"It's a portrait, Marjory."
"No hair?"
"I think it's wonderful."
"Which one of your artistically inclined loonies did that one?"
"Arne Horsfall."
"Come on, let's go. I made potato salad for supper. Snapbean casserole. Green tomato pie with walnuts."
"I'd starve to death if it wasn't for you, Marjory."
"No you wouldn't. You'd eat three gallons of maplenut and fudge ripple ice cream a week, but you wouldn't gain a pound. No zits, either."
"I get them on my derrière, Marj."
"Those are more like boils, that's different. At least you don't get warts. I am so sick of warts on my thumbs and under my arms, like little titties."
"They're probably caused by a virus."
"No, I'd say it's a curse."
Enid laughed. "Who would put a curse on you, child?"
Marjory said darkly, "I could name a lot of people."
Enid looked down at the pad in her lap as Marjory pulled out of the parking lot. Marjory glanced at the portrait again, with a crimping of her thin-lipped mouth.
"Is that supposed to be a man or a woman or a ghost or what?"
"I don't know."
"Didn't he tell you?"
"Mr. Horsfall's mute."
"Oh. What are you going to do with that thing?"
"Frame it. Hang it in my room. It's a gift from Mr. Horsfall."
"I don't think we should have that in the house, Enid."
"Why not?"
"It's spooky-looking. It was drawn by a mental patient. It'll be bad luck. I'm telling you, I can feel it in my bones. We don't need any more curses or bad luck."
Enid sighed, and closed the cover of the pad. "I want to stop at that new Zayre's store before we get on the Interstate."
"We're going to bump into the rush-hour traffic before long, and I've got a game at six-thirty."
"I won't be but a minute, hon. I just need to pick up a few things."
"Is Zayre's having a sale? I could use a bigger bra."
"Already?"
"Enid, I don't take that too kindly."
"Marjory, I didn't mean anything!"
"I know," Marjory said, forgiving her immediately. There wasn't a mean bone in Enid's body. Couldn't be. Rita Sue Marcum had them all. She was the franchise holder for middle Tennessee. You took one look at Rita Sue and you thought, mean bones.
"Rita Sue's pitching for the Presbyterians tonight."
"Is she good?"
"She'll try to smoke a couple across, even if it is slow-pitch, everybody does that to me. But I'll fool her. I'm going to drag a bunt down the first base line, then when Rita Sue comes over to make the play, I'll tromp all over her behind."
"Are you two feuding again?"
"It's just our ongoing adversarial relationship."
"I don't know what it is about you girls. I could never babysit the two of you together, you'd all the time be putting peanut butter or dead beetles in each other's hair."
"Now she curses me, and I get warts."
"Marjory, I can't fathom how your mind works sometimes—don't forget about Zayre's."
Marjory made a hasty turn into the shopping center and glanced at the temperature gauge of the Plymouth. So far so good.
"Coming in with me?" Enid asked, while Marjory cruised for a parking space.
"Might as well, it's a regular bake oven in here. Am I all sweaty to you?"
"Not bad. I'll buy you a cherry C
oke to cool you off."
"Thanks, Enid."
"After I pick up a pair of pants and a short-sleeved shirt for Mr. Horsfall."
Marjory braked a little late and bumped the car in the slot opposite them.
"Say . . . what?"
"Also I was wondering, could you fix something special for Sunday dinner, like paprika chicken and eggplant Italiano?"
"In this heat?"
"Well, maybe a nice cucumber salad to go with it, and lemonade."
"Why?"
"Mr. Horsfall's coming to dinner."
"A mental patient?"
"I don't want you to get the wrong impression of Mr. Horsfall, just because he's been—"
"Coming to our house?"
"Yes," Enid said, with a certain smoky stubbornness in her usually placid brandy-brown eyes. "I invited him to dinner at our house. It's part of—"
"Enid, you didn't ask me and it's my house too and I—"
"Will you please let me finish? They're starting a new program at Cumberland State that allows some of the patients to visit sponsoring families' homes for up to a week—"
"A week!"
"Mr. Horsfall is coming for dinner around noon, and if he's comfortable -we are going to try to make him feel very comfortable, Marjory—he might spend the night. I hate that look. Remember what daddy used to say? 'Are you catching flies, Marjory?' He used to say that when you'd sit on the porch with your mouth open. I know it's going to take a little time to get used to the idea, so that's why I brought it up now. To give you—"
"Time to get used to the idea. I'm not going to get used to the idea, Enid."
"Sure you will," Enid said cheerfully. "Once you understand that Mr. Horsfall is really a very sweet and docile human being. So grateful for any attention he's given."
"What's he in for? He probably took an ax to his wife."
"Why don't we talk about Mr. Horsfall inside where it's cool, and I can be picking out a shirt for him."
"Doesn't he own a shirt?"
"Just a charity rag. All of his clothes are donations. Come on."
3
Marjory was of a mind to sit in the car and sulk, but a big drop of sweat ran down the side of her nose, so she got out, unnecessarily slammed the car door, and followed Enid into the department store.
"Okay," she said to her sister as they walked down an aisle stocked with men's wear. "He's a sweet and docile human being. That's because they've got him on a bunch of stuff, right? What happens when he doesn't get his stuff? Come on, Enid, tell me the honest truth. Did he kill somebody? Is he a rapist?"
"This is nice-looking," Enid mused, holding up a blue Arrow shirt with a wide stripe.
"How do you know his size?"
"Oh, he has to be a large."
"Big guy, huh?"
"I'll take this one, and, let's see—"
"We're really going through with this?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you invite Ted, while you're at it?"
"I already did." Enid turned and gave her sister a smile. "Feel better?"
"Nuh," Marjory said noncommittally, and rummaged through another bin. "What about underwear? Should you buy him some underwear? He probably doesn't have any. I don't like the thought of sitting down to the table Sunday knowing Mr. Horsfall doesn't have underwear on. That totally kills my appetite. What's large for a man?"
"Thirty-six or thirty-eight."
"Is that what Ted wears?"
"No, he—" Enid paused, then smiled again, a shade thinly. Marjory shut up. Enid did have a bad side, and the penalty for getting on Enid's bad side was about a week in Coventry. It was very difficult for Marjory to live a week in the house without having Enid to talk to. So they were having a guest for Sunday dinner, and she'd lay out a delicious spread and try not to spoil Enid's good-works project.
Enid selected a pair of dark blue Dacron trousers, and held them up. "I can hem these."
"We'd better get going."
"He'll need a belt."
Marjory followed her to the belt rack. "Does he have a family?"
"Not that anyone knows of."
"How long has he been at Cumberland State?"
"Maybe sixty years. There aren't any records."
Marjory was stunned. "Sixty years? How old is he?"
"He might be seventy. But—"
"There aren't any records." Marjory shook her head. "That's unbelievable! If he's not any trouble, then why have they kept him so long?"
"Well, it's just one of those things. They kind of lost track of Mr. Horsfall." Enid chose a fabric belt. "This goes good with the blue. Okay, that's all. Unless you want to shop for a bra?"
"I'll do it Saturday. What if he tries to hang himself with that belt?"
"Will you stop? You are so morbid. Mr. Horsfall is not suicidal. Probably he shouldn't be in Cumberland State at all. But after so much time, they just don't know what to do with him. And they can't release him. He's not capable of supporting himself. What we need badly in Nashville is a halfway house for people like Mr. Horsfall. But try to get the politicians to realize that."
They each had a cherry Coke from the pizza place next to Zayre's, and Marjory took the Interstate around downtown Nashville.
"Did they find out what caused the fire at the KA house?" she asked her sister.
"Probably it was somebody careless with a cigarette. There was a lot more smoke than fire, actually."
"It was on the news last night. All those Greeks lying around on the lawn in their formals and tuxes, it looked as if they died from overdressing."
"They just moved the party outdoors, that's all."
"I heard Pete Dunleavy jumped out of a third-story window."
"He does that when it's not on fire."
"Hey, Enid, does he still call you?"
"Oh, sure."
"His daddy's the third-largest poultry processor in the Southeast."
"That's a lot of feathers."
"That's a lot of chickenshit, but who cares? They're rolling in it."
"Chicken do-do?"
"No, money."
"Marjory, I don't know where your avid interest in money comes from, I swear I don't."
"It comes from never having any."
"Tell the truth, now, wouldn't you be just a little disappointed in me if I went out with somebody like Pete Dunleavy?"
"No."
"Well, I don't think I could be comfortable socializing with a boy who had his whatzit tatooed."
"You mean his ding-dong? His tallywhacker? Merciful heavens! Just call it a dick."
"I don't enjoy being vulgar."
"Do you suppose he really did? Have it tatooed?"
"I'm sure I can't verify the truth of that. But I know somebody who probably can."
"The Swedish girl who always has a gorgeous tan, even in the middle of winter?"
"I forgot about her," Enid said thoughtfully.
"Lord, can she wear clothes! Or not wear them, as the case may be."
"You are being catty. How did this get started, anyway?"
"We were sort of on the subject of being impoverished, and what a few plucked chickens can do for the checkbook."
Enid shook her head slightly as if she needed to clear it and leaned forward to fiddle with the buttons on the radio, which buzzed a lot while occasionally providing soothing moments of music.
Marjory glanced at Enid, but held her tongue about favorite subjects —the frustrated lawsuits, the poor advice they'd received from lawyers following the death of their parents. They hadn't been paid a red cent in compensation by the railroad or the county for this tragedy; only a meager Social Security check each month had sustained them, along with what Enid earned as a part-time supermarket checker and the cash from Marjory's two jobs. She worked three days a week as a mother's helper, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays she fixed lunch for a group of shut-ins at the Sublimity Trailer Park, then read to them for an hour. Relatives had always been generous with the bounty from their summer gar
dens, hen houses, and fishing trips, so it wasn't as if they'd ever starve to death; but an injustice had been done to them.
As far as Marjory was concerned, there was only Right or Wrong: she did not recognize gray areas, such as the vast earthly limbo created by bureaucrats. She hadn't made up her mind yet whether she would become a lawyer for the downtrodden, someone with real guts like William Kuntsler, or a crusading journalist, but the day would dawn when no one would dare to give Marjory Waller the runaround.
They were across the river and in Caskey County, a few minutes from home, when Marjory looked up and saw a flashing red light in the rearview mirror.
"Hey, Enid, it's Deputy Dawg."
The sheriffs car pulled even with them and Ted Lufford honked.
"Make it short, Enid, okay?" Marjory said, and she pulled off the road.
Ted Lufford got out of his patrol car and walked back to Enid's side of the Plymouth. He was tall and almost hipless and sauntered beautifully, not cocky but cool, like John Wayne before he got older and put on a paunch. Ted was going to get one, eventually: he liked his beer too much. He was a 180 bowler and went bird shooting a lot. Other than that there wasn't much to say about Ted Lufford, except that he owned the distinction of being the only deputy sheriff in Caskey County who didn't have a relative doing time somewhere.
He leaned on the Plymouth and looked in at them. "What d'you say, Marjory? Hi, Nuggins."
Marjory didn't know where the pet name had come from and was reluctant to ask Enid. Bad enough they were at the pet-name stage, but I lien by Marjory's reckoning they'd been sleeping together for at least a month. Not Enid's first affair, Marjory was sure, but probably no more than her third since mama and Daddy Lee had died. Before that Enid wouldn't even kiss a boy at a High Creek Baptist Church weekend retreat. In the midst of her chaste life a minor demon had popped up, like a pimple on the chin of the Madonna.
