Captain Saturday

by Robert Inman

  “After that, then.”

  “You think I should go?”

  “I promised Min I wouldn’t have an opinion,” Wingfoot said, poker-faced.

  “You think I shouldn’t go.”

  “As I said…”

  Will thought about the deteriorating old house with its expanse of heart pine floor and its hulking dark furniture and its high windows looking out toward the Cape Fear River. Then he thought about the boxes and stacks of family detritis Min had lugged down from the attic on his most recent visit, about Wingfoot and Billy coming to get him. A rescue, they called it. He might have gotten out just in the nick of time.

  Wingfoot might have been thinking the same thing. He said, “Remember sitting out front of my trailer the day after your guest appearance with the band?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You said you were going to Raleigh and get your life back.”

  “So?”

  “Get it back.”

  “It’s gone, Wingfoot.”

  Wingfoot gave an impatient toss of his head. “I said life, Wilbur. I didn’t say baggage. Think outside the box. Act on impulse.”

  “I don’t have any impulses,” Will said. “I barely have a pulse. I’m sort of numb.” He thought about it. “Act on impulse.”

  “It may be your last chance.”

  They sat for awhile longer in silence. The rain started up again outside. A truck passing on the street made a rooster-tail of water as it passed through a puddle, splashing the statue of Ronald McDonald near the curb.

  “How’s Peachy?” Will asked.

  Wingfoot’s face clouded. “Fine, I guess.”

  “What…”

  “She’s in Nashville.”

  “Really?”

  “A record producer showed up at Baggett’s Place about a month ago, listened to the band, and told Peachy she needed to be in Nashville. Wanted her to cut a demo, and then he was gonna take it around to the record companies. Capitol, RCA Victor, those folks.”

  “And?”

  “She left a couple of days later.”

  “Well damn, that’s great, Wingfoot.” Will pictured Peachy unfolding from her Spitfire in front of one of the big record company offices. Executives gawking, rushing out to meet her.

  Is this the right place?

  Yes ma’am. It sure is.

  “ Well, how’s she doing?”

  “Haven’t talked to her since she got there.”

  “Why?”

  “I told her when she left, don’t think about me. Don’t write, don’t call. Just sing and kick ass. All she needs is a little break, Wilbur. She could hit it pretty big.”

  “And you’re just gonna let her? A magnificent woman like that and you sent her off to the bright lights and the big city with the risk you might lose her?”

  “It’s her life.”

  “Shit!” Will said, a little louder than he intended. A woman in the next booth gave him a frown. He raised his hand in apology, then leaned across the table toward Wingfoot. “It’s your life too. That woman’s in love with you. You’re in love with her. Here you are telling me to act on impulse. Well, cousin, you need to get on your horsey and ride like hell to Nashville, Tennessee and wrap your arms around her so tight she’ll never get away.”

  Wingfoot stared at the table for awhile, then finally looked up at Will. “I did that one time with something I wanted so bad I would have killed for it. It near about killed me when I lost it. And I ain’t gonna make that mistake again. You ought not to want something so bad that it near about kills you to lose it. You of all people oughta know that, Wilbur.”

  “You’re a goddamn fool,” Will said softly. Then, “Maybe I am too.”

  There was just the slightest twitch at the corner of Wingfoot’s mouth. But he didn’t say anything.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” Will said after a moment.

  When he returned, Wingfoot had disappeared. There was a slip of paper on the table with a handwritten address on it.

  *****

  It was a two-story gray frame house with a wide front porch, nestled behind two large silver-leaf maples that shaded a patch of anemic fescue grass somewhat in need of trimming. The house was in Boylan Heights, a once-grand but somewhat faded older neighborhood only a mile or so from Will’s own. Former neighborhood, he kept telling himself. He didn’t live there any more.

  He knocked, peering through the screen door into the gloom of the front hall. He listened for sounds from inside, heard none. He looked about the porch. To his left was a collection of white wicker furniture with colorful floral-pattern cushions -- love seat, straight chair, rocker, occasional tables. The space to his right was filled with potted plants, arrayed on two long benches, and ferns hanging from the ceiling above the bannister.

  “You’re Wingfoot’s cousin,” said the voice at the door.

  She was short, stocky, broad-faced, white-haired, ample-busomed. She pushed open the screen and stepped onto the porch.

  “Will Baggett,” he said.

  She offered a hand. “Dahlia Spence.”

  “Dahlia. Like the flower?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know Wingfoot?”

  “I order plants from him. Over the Internet.”

  Not long ago, Will might have been surprised to find that Wingfoot’s nursery was selling on-line. Or that Wingfoot even had a nursery. But nothing about Wingfoot surprised him much now. No telling what there was yet to find.

  “You’ve come about the apartment,” she said.

  Will showed her the slip of paper Wingfoot had left in the booth. “He gave me your address.” He was, in fact, just following what he took to be Wingfoot’s instructions -- an address, nothing more. Wingfoot hadn’t said anything about an apartment. Will had gotten quite used to following instructions in jail. It was easy, not having to make up your own mind about anything. Just do what the people tell you, follow the rules, hunker down. Watch whatever the other guys are watching on TV. He had seen a nasty fight between two inmates over “Jeopardy” versus “Entertainment Tonight.” Deputies had clobbered both of them.

  “Well, let’s not rush things,” Dahlia Spence said.

  Will smiled. “I’ve got plenty of time.”

  “So I understand.”

  He waited in the wicker rocking chair while she disappeared inside, returning after several minutes with a large tray laden with tea pitcher, ice-filled glasses, cloth napkins, plate of oatmeal raisin cookies, and crystal dish of lemon slices. He rose quickly, swung open the screen door, and reached for the tray. “I’ve got it,” she said. “Just hold the door.” It was quite a load, but she handled it deftly. She poured tea with a steady hand from the cut-glass pitcher into the tall, thick glasses and handed one to him. He squeezed a slice of lemon into the glass.

  “Sugar?” he inquired.

  “I don’t keep it in the house.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m eighty-four and take no medication.”

  “I’m forty-eight and take Zocor,” Will said. “For my cholesterol.”

  “Well, there you have it. With a cholesterol problem, you don’t need sugar.”

  “I don’t really have a cholesterol problem. The Zocor…”

  “You should solve the problem with diet and exercise.”

  “It could be hereditary. But I’m not sure about that.” Did Uncle French have a cholesterol problem? Did Tyler? No way of knowing. If Will’s problem was inherited, he thought, it was just about the only thing they had left him.

  She took a large sip of her tea, gazing at him over the top of the glass as she drank. Then she set her glass down on the tray. She had quick, lively eyes that took all of him in and made him feel as if he were being sized up for tailoring. But it wasn’t an unkindly scrutiny. “Ernest had high blood pressure.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “My late husband.”

  “Oh.”

  She turned and called out toward the screen door, “Ethel…”
/>
  He expected a housekeeper, but instead a dog, a dalmatian, peered out from behind the screen. Mrs. Spence rose and opened the door. “Come and meet Mister Baggett,” she said. The dalmatian stopped at Will’s knee, cocked its head and waited to be petted. “This is Ethel.” Will administered a behind-the-ears scratching. Then Ethel backed away and sat on her haunches next to Mrs. Spence’s chair.

  “Do you like dogs?” she asked.

  “I honestly can’t say if I do or don’t. I’ve never had one. My aunt had a dog, but an alligator ate it, and that may have deterred me from wanting one myself.”

  “You’ve grown a beard,” Mrs. Spence said.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t think it fools anybody, do you?”

  “Actually, it does. It worked pretty well at McDonald’s,” he said with a smile.

  “And that’s another reason you’ve got high cholesterol,” she said. “Ernest liked fast food, too. He would sneak around and eat hamburgers and french fries and Little Debbie snacks. He thought I didn’t know, but I can smell a french fry a mile away, and I used to find Little Debbie wrappers crammed in the back of his nightstand drawer. It certainly wasn’t good for his blood pressure.”

  “Mr. Spence…a heart attack?”

  “Goodness, no. He fell off a fire truck. He was a member of the Raleigh Fire Department. Two days before retirement, he was on the way to a fire, hanging onto the back of the truck. At his age, he could have gone to the fire in the chief’s car, but he always insisted on riding the truck. Anyway, as it rounded a corner, a gust of wind caught his helmet and when he grabbed for it, he fell off the truck.”

  “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “And was hit by a car.”

  “It was…”

  “Thirty years ago. The fire department gave me his dalmatian as a memento of his service.”

  Will gave Ethel a close look. “She doesn’t look that old.”

  “Oh, she’s not,” Mrs. Spence said. “She’s descended from the original.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “Wingfoot tells me I’m something of an original myself,” Mrs. Spence said with a bright laugh.

  “I’ll bet he’s right.”

  She took another sip of tea and held the glass in her lap. “My family didn’t want me to marry Ernest. They go back a good ways in Raleigh. At one time, had some money. Still have the name.”

  “Old Raleigh.”

  “Yes. So they didn’t like my marrying a fireman. Said he wasn’t good enough. But I did anyway. Ernest was a good fireman and a good husband.”

  “No regrets.”

  “No,” she said firmly, “except that I wish he had ridden in the chief’s car.”

  Mrs. Spence held out the cookie plate. “Homemade,” she said, “with artificial sweetener.” They had a nice taste, but they tended to crumble when you took a bite. Lack of sugar, he imagined. A small chunk fell from Will’s cookie to the floor. Ethel eyed it, then looked up at Mrs. Spence. She nodded, and Ethel scooped it up with a sweep of her tongue and went back to her haunches.

  “An obedient dog,” Will said.

  “Better than most people.”

  They sipped their tea and munched on cookies and talked on at some length about nothing in particular. Dahlia Spence seemed to be in no hurry, and Will had nothing pressing on his agenda either. Eventually, though, he came to what he felt was a necessary point: “Mrs. Spence, I must tell you that I’ve lost my job and I’ve just been released from jail,” he said. “My wife and I are separated.”

  “Oh, I know all about that.”

  “The newspaper…”

  “Most of it. Wingfoot told me about your wife. I don’t believe that part has been in the paper.”

  “…and television.”

  “I don’t have a set. Never watch. This is only the second time I’ve ever laid eyes on you.”

  “The other?”

  “You spoke to the Raleigh Coalition of Garden Clubs last year. I was sitting next to Pinky Perlin, and while you were speaking, I leaned over to Pinky and said, ‘Pinky, who is that man?’ And Pinky said, ‘He’s the weatherman on Channel Seven.’ You were quite witty. You told some jokes about the weather.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “And when you were through, I leaned over to Pinky and I said, ‘Pinky, that was a waste of time. I thought we were going to hear something useful.’”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Will said. “Are you a gardener?”

  “I putter.”

  It was a good deal more than puttering. When she led him through the rear of the house and out into the back yard, after they had finished their tea and cookies, he was quite taken aback. It was all lush green and vivid color -- banks of shrubs and beds of annuals and perennials, interspersed with flagstone walkways, all leading to a central patch of bermuda grass on which sat a couple of weathered cedar loveseats and a birdbath -- all of it surrounded by a chest-high brick wall and sheltered by low-growing trees. Bird feeders and bird houses hung from branches and perched atop posts and poles. Birds swooped and darted, filling the space with their chatter and twittering. Will stopped in his tracks. It was a riot of color and noise and heady smells, a sensual overload, and it almost took his breath.

  Dahlia Spence marched on ahead of him and he caught up as she started up the narrow stairs that climbed the outside of the garage. She trudged smartly upward, leaning her busom into the effort. Will was breathing hard by the time they reached the top. He might have lost weight in jail, but he was still badly out of shape. He would start walking, he thought. This was a nice neighborhood with sidewalks.

  The apartment -- two rooms, actually -- was spare but neat, equipped with odds and ends of sturdy old furniture. A small bedroom with a double bed, night table and chest of drawers. Off the bedroom, a tiny bath with a shower. A larger room with a modest kitchenette at one end and a seating area at the other. The kitchenette had an ancient electric stove, a small refrigerator, Forties-era metal cabinets, similar to the ones they had found in the LeGrand kitchen when he and Clarice bought the house, and a formica-topped table with two chrome-and-vinyl chairs. The cabinets were equipped with an assortment of odds-and-ends dishes, pots and pans, silverware. The seating area consisted of a sofa covered in some sort of shiny green textured fabric, an overstuffed chair with a reading lamp beside it, and a large, faded fake-oriental rug. The window next to the chair, bordered by tied-back curtains made of the same fabric as the sofa covering, looked out over the back yard. Pine floors, except for a stretch of linoleum in the kitchenette. There were a few nondescript framed prints on the walls -- still lifes, pastoral scenes. And hanging next to the door, a calendar. 1952. The top sheet was February.

  “Take your time,” she said. “Would you feel more comfortable if I left you alone for awhile?”

  “Oh,” he said, “no need.” She sat at the kitchen table while he wandered about, poking into corners, opening drawers. There was something almost familiar about the place. It took a moment, but on his second circuit through the rooms, he realized what it was. It reminded him in an odd way of Baggett House. The furniture wasn’t as grand or massive, but it was all solid wood, and just old enough to be a poor cousin. And like Baggett House, this place seemed plucked out of time. He stood at the window, gazing over the back yard, watching a bluejay bullying at a sunflower feeder.

  He thought about Min. Come home, she had messaged him via Wingfoot. That was an option, of course, at least when he was done with his probation and could go about when and where he wished. But Baggett House wasn’t home, hadn’t been for a long time. Maybe never was, not really.

  But no sense chewing over all that now. Now was June and the time and space and possibility that stretched between now and Fall was meantime. The question was, what would he do in the meantime? And how would it affect everything?

  He turned to Dahlia Spence. “I suppose I’m something of a refugee.”

  “You should aspire to be a pilgrim,”
she said.

  “Oh?”

  “A refugee is fleeing something. A pilgrim is going toward something.”

  “I see. Yes. A pilgrim. I’ll work on that.” He looked about the room again. “I like the apartment, Mrs. Spence.” He looked again out the window. “And it has a nice view of the back yard. I can imagine quiet evenings here. Contemplating my pilgrimage.”

  “You can change anything you like except the calendar,” Dahlia Spence said.

  He turned to her, eyebrows questioning.

  “This was my son’s place when he was growing up. He was killed in Korea.”

  “February of 1952.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She ran her hand idly over the table top. “I’ve never rented it out before. Until last week, it had been locked for forty-eight years.”

  “Why now?” he asked.

  “I decided to deal with it. I’m eighty-four. I didn’t want to arrive at ninety-four having never come to grips. It came to me in the middle of the night. I woke up thinking that I’ve kept too many things closed up in here all these years. And that wasn’t really fair to Roscoe. Or me. So I got up from the bed and came out here and opened up the place and started cleaning.” She slapped her hand smartly on the table for emphasis.

  “Are you sure…”

  “Yes. It needs living in. I need a real live person out here.” She waved her hand. “Oh, I won’t bother you, Mister Baggett. I won’t expect you to be Roscoe. I’ve taken all his things to the house. If there’s a ghost, he’s in there with me now. You may come and go as you please. All I ask is that you keep the place tidy and behave yourself.”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred a month.”

  “That’s awfully cheap. You could probably get double that.”

  “It’s not air conditioned.”

  “Still…”

  “It’s not the money,” she said firmly. “You can move in whenever you like.”

  “I’ve got some odds and ends out in the car,” he said, “clothes and stuff. But I’ll have to pick up some sheets and towels.”

  She headed for the door. “You can borrow from me. Sleep here tonight.”