Old Dogs and Children

by Robert Inman

  “Perhaps,” she said, rising from the sand beside Buster. All I wanted to do three days ago was be quiet. Now I am at the center of an incredible commotion only partly of my own making. What in the devil is going on here? She realized then that she was still clad only in her slip. She felt a flush of embarrassment. “Gilhoolies,” she said lamely.

  “Don’t believe I know ’em,” Buster said. “They from around here?”

  >

  Rupert was sitting in one of the wicker chairs on the front porch when she turned into the driveway, and he came out of it like a shot when he spotted the car. It was the fastest Bright had ever seen Rupert move. By the time she rolled to a stop behind the big tan Winnebago, he was at the bottom of the steps, the color high in his face, smoke billowing from his pipe like a tobacco factory gone haywire. “Where in the hell have you been?” he cried. He was wearing a pair of madras Bermuda shorts and a knit shirt, long black socks and the jogging shoes with the big red stars on the sides. He looked exhausted, as if he had been up all night. He probably had, Bright thought. Roseann could keep a man up all night. But then, Roseann wasn’t the only problem here, was she?

  “Hi, Rupert,” Jimbo called out. “We’ve got fifty thousand dollars in a briefcase.”

  Bright left the engine running while she and Jimbo got out of the car.

  “Are you all right?” Rupert asked him, his eyes searching for signs of damage.

  “Of course I’m all right,” Jimbo said. “I’ve been with Mama Bright.”

  “You have scared the bejesus out of us,” Rupert said. “Both of you.” He was exhausted, almost at the point of tears. She could see that. How marvelous for both of them, she thought, to have a man who truly cares.

  “I’m sorry for all the confusion,” Bright said, trying to sound at least a little contrite. That was the least she could do, she thought. “Roseann …”

  Rupert took a deep breath. “She’s in the hospital.”

  “Yes. Buster told me.”

  “Mama’s in the hospital?” Jimbo cried, alarmed, staring up at Rupert.

  Rupert put his hand on Jimbo’s shoulder, reassuring. “She’s all right. Just had an asthma seizure. The doctor gave her a shot, and she’s sleeping now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bright said again.

  Rupert ran his fingers wearily through his thinning hair. “You had no right to do that, Bright. Taking Jimbo off and keeping him all night. We’ve been worried to death.”

  “We were okay, Rupert,” Jimbo said, trying to console. “We took our check to the bank and spent the night at the camp house and I went skinny-dipping this morning.”

  Rupert opened his mouth, shut it again, looked the both of them over head to toe. “Bright,” he said finally, “what’s gotten into you?”

  “I’m not sure I know,” she said truthfully. “I haven’t had time to stop and figure it out. Maybe tomorrow.” She opened the door of the car, got back in, looked out the window at Jimbo and Rupert. “I’m going to the hospital to see Roseann,” she said. “But I’ve got a couple of other stops to make on the way. I just wanted to get Jimbo home first, let you know he was all right.”

  “Can I come, Mama Bright?” Jimbo asked.

  “No!” Rupert barked.

  “I think you probably need a break from your dotty old grandmother,” Bright said gently. “Rupert, get him something to eat and a book to read.”

  “I had a good time, Mama Bright,” Jimbo said. “It was fun.”

  “We’ll do it again sometime. Next time we win fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Okay,” he said solemnly. Then he cocked his head to one side and gave her a funny look. “I love you, Mama Bright.”

  “I love you too, Jimbo. You’re my kind of man.” She looked up at Rupert and gave him a wink and she could see him soften. How could you be mad at an old lady and a kid? Such a pair. She realized that she would miss Jimbo a great deal when Roseann and Rupert took him away. And they would, very soon.

  Bright put the old Plymouth into gear and backed out of the driveway, then stopped at the curb and leaned out the window. “Feed Gladys!” she called to Jimbo. “She’s probably starving. I hope she hasn’t eaten Josephus!” Jimbo grinned back at her, a grin as big as the new sun popping over the treetops. She lurched into Birdsong Boulevard and pulled away with a roar and a cloud of exhaust.

  >

  She had quite forgotten about the parade until she saw the huge banner strung above the main street downtown just in front of City Hall: WELCOME HOME, LITTLE FITZ. Big red letters across a white background, neatly printed. A professional job, just like you would have for a returning hero, Bright thought. WELCOME HOME, AUDIE MURPHY. Crepe paper streamers hung limply in the heat from the utility poles. There hadn’t been any streamers or banners when Congressman Fitzhugh Birdsong came home from Washington. Only punch and cookies at City Hall, the way Fitzhugh had asked them to do it. No fuss, just a simple affair so he could thank the folks. But Little Fitz loved a good show—a parade, a band, dancing girls, lots of applause. His picture on the front page of the paper.

  The Live Eye 5 van was parked in front of the police station, and Bright pulled up to the curb next to it. Through the big plate glass window, she could see a sizable contingent of law enforcement folk inside—Homer Sipsey, the police chief; the county sheriff; a major from the highway patrol; and several minor officers of various stripe. Over in a corner, talking on the telephone, was Holly Hardee, the TV reporter, and, lounging in a chair with his camera cradled in his lap, the cameraman who had been with her yesterday at the Dixie Vittles Supermarket. And there was Big Deal O’Neill, his forehead glistening with sweat and his gold neck chain hanging out of his open-front shirt. Big Deal and the law enforcement people were huddled in conference around a table in the middle of the room, scrutinizing a map laid out before them, drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups and eating doughnuts from a big platter.

  They didn’t see Bright until she pushed open the door and stepped inside. “Good morning,” she said politely.

  The group around the conference table fairly exploded. “Good Lord, Miz Bright!” Homer cried. “Are you all right?”

  “She’s here!” Holly Hardee barked in the phone. “Get right back to you!” She slammed the receiver down and the cameraman leapt to his feet and hefted the camera onto his shoulder.

  Big Deal O’Neill almost upset the table getting to her. “We’ve been worried sick about you.”

  Holly Hardee bore down on her with the cameraman in tow, microphone thrust in front like a jousting pole. She shouldered her way past the others. “Mrs. Birdsong, can you tell us what happened to you?”

  “Nothing happened to me,” Bright said.

  “Were you abducted?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Where have you been all night?”

  Bright started to say “Drinking and carousing,” but then she thought, No, this is no time to be flippant. So instead she said, “Camping out.”

  “Does this have anything to do with your son’s political troubles here at the end of the campaign?”

  All right, enough now. Bright turned to Homer Sipsey. “Homer, can you escort this young lady out of here? I believe she’s interfering with a police investigation, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Homer said with an emphatic nod. “She’s doing just that.” And he grabbed Holly Hardee by the arm and started hustling her toward the door.

  “Get your hands offa me!” Holly Hardee cried. But Homer muscled her out the door, the cameraman backing along behind them, still trying to take pictures. Homer turned the dead bolt on the front door and Holly Hardee glared through the plate glass at them. “Just lemme use the phone!” she cried, tapping loudly on the glass. “Dammit, I’m just tryin’ to do my job!”

  Homer turned back to Bright. “Miz Bright, are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m all right.”

  “Well, where in the thunder have you been all night?” the sheriff asked.

 
“Minding my business,” she said. “I went to the bank and then took my sweet time getting home. That’s the be-all and end-all of it. I can’t imagine what all the fuss is about.”

  “We’ve had an all-points bulletin out for you, Miz Birdsong,” the highway patrol major rumbled. He had thick black wavy hair and one temple of his dark glasses was stuck through the top buttonhole of his shirt. Bright thought he looked like a man who probably liked to drive fast with his siren on.

  “Well, you can tell all points that I’m safe and sound,” Bright said.

  The major scratched his head for a moment, then picked up his cap from the table and jammed it on his head. “Yeah, I reckon I better.” He headed for the door. “I’ll check in with the command post and let the guv’nah know you’re okay.”

  “Miz Bright, you gave us quite a scare,” Homer said. “When you didn’t show up yesterday afternoon, we started checking around and found that you’d been up to the capital and cashed your check. And then disappeared.”

  “Homer, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any fuss.”

  “Well, coming with all the other …”

  “What other?”

  “Trouble up at the Quarter. The old schoolhouse burned last night, and things have been pretty tense. The major’s folks have got everything under control, though.”

  “Under control,” she repeated.

  “Yes ma’am. Little Fitz ain’t had to declare martial law yet, but that’s an option if there’s any more trouble.”

  Bright turned to Big Deal O’Neill. “Francis, where’s my son?”

  “He’ll be here any time now,” Big Deal said. He looked wretched. Probably up all night, chain-smoking and drinking coffee. Men his age collapsed from heart attacks. “I tell you,” he went on, “if you hadn’t showed up just now, we’da just called off Fitz Birdsong Day and the parade and luncheon and all.”

  “Perhaps you should anyway. With all the trouble at the Quarter.”

  “No ma’am!” Big Deal said emphatically. “We ain’t gonna let Flavo and his folks interfere with Fitz’s big day. No ma’am!”

  Flavo and his folks. Bright turned to the door. “Well, I’ll be going now. Just wanted to let you know I’m all right. Thank you all for your concern.” She left them all there gawking, all except for Homer, who followed her out to the sidewalk. Holly Hardee and the Live Eye 5 van were gone.

  “Miz Bright, I hope you’ve about finished now.”

  “What do you mean, Homer?”

  “Causing an uproar.”

  She gave him what she hoped was a blank look. It didn’t work. Homer sighed. “Miz Bright, you been awful quiet down there in your house for a good while now. And all of a sudden you’ve got the whole town upset. The swimming pool …”

  “The swimming pool business is an abomination,” Bright snapped.

  He held up his hands, a peace sign. “I don’t make the rules, Miz Bright. I just pick up folks’ mess.” He looked awfully tired this morning, she thought. Even more so than he had at the bridge when Flavo’s grandson drowned. That seemed like an eternity ago. “Anyhow,” Homer went on. “The swimming pool, and the money, and the trouble up in the Quarter, and then going off and disappearing like that.”

  “I didn’t burn down Booker T. Washington,” she said evenly.

  “No’m. I don’t reckon you did.” But the unsaid hung there between them. Troublemaker. Agitator.

  She stared at him for a moment, hands on hips. “Well, what do you want me to do?”

  “Go home and be quiet. Like you been being.” He opened the door of her car and held it for her. She hesitated for a moment, then slid behind the steering wheel. No sense upsetting Homer Sipsey any more than she had already. Homer had a long day ahead of him. Fitz Birdsong Day. He would be powerfully glad to be done with the Birdsongs. Homer should go home at nightfall and fix himself a good drink.

  “I’m sorry for all the trouble, Homer,” she said as he closed the door behind her. She tried again to sound contrite, but she was not at all sure it was convincing.

  Homer shook his head, dismissing his great burdens. Then he said, “Miz Bright, you still got all that money with you?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Don’t you want me to follow you around to the bank so you can put it where it’s safe?”

  “No, thank you. Not the bank. Definitely not the bank.”

  “Well, you don’t want to just tote it around with you.”

  “Yes,” she said, “that’s exactly what I want to do.”

  Homer shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s your money. Just be careful.”

  “I will, Homer.” She cranked the car and he stepped up onto the sidewalk and watched her pull away. She could imagine what he must be thinking. An old woman made crazy by fifty thousand dollars. Well, that wasn’t the half of it. In fact, that wasn’t it at all. Fifty thousand dollars, and it didn’t make a hill of beans. It had caused an upheaval of sorts. But it was all this other. And you couldn’t blame that on fifty thousand dollars.

  “Good Lord,” she said softly to herself, and realized that it was the second time she had invoked the Lord this morning. The Lord must be weary with all this invoking. Go away, He must be thinking. Pull your own wagon. I’m busy. Listening to trombone music.

  24

  There were two highway patrol cars parked across the road leading into the Quarter, nose to nose like big gray animals sniffing each other. She could see them a block away, from the point where the first patrolman stopped her with an outstretched hand.

  “Can’t go in there, ma’am,” he said.

  She looked up at him. He looked barely out of high school. He was wearing a broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses and his uniform was neatly pressed with razor-sharp creases down his trouser legs. But there were big wet blotches under his armpits, and a trickle of perspiration coursed down the side of his face. It was nine o’clock in the morning and already scorching, the heat blasting up from the asphalt. In another hour, it would bake through the soles of your shoes.

  “Of course I can go in there,” Bright said. “I have friends there and I am going to visit them.”

  “No ma’am,” he said firmly. “The area’s sealed off. We’ve had trouble in there.”

  Sealed off. As if you could seal off the Quarter or bottle it up or define its boundaries. There were no doubt a thousand worn paths leading in and out of the Quarter through the woods and along the river. If Flavo Richardson had a mind, he could evacuate the entire place in thirty minutes and the state highway patrol would be none the wiser. But beyond that, the Quarter wasn’t really a place. It was a state of mind—unfathomable to white folks, even those who had been coming here for years. And especially now that there had been trouble. That was probably what worried Homer Sipsey and Harley Gibbons and the state highway patrol more than anything. Not knowing what was next. Black folks were one thing. Unpredictable black folks were something else altogether. One thing Flavo and his people had not been until now was unpredictable. But now they must be bothering the hell out of Homer and Harley and the rest with their unpredictability.

  Bright didn’t want to get the young highway patrolman in trouble. He looked nice enough. Probably a Beta Club member in high school, maybe a baseball player. So she said, “Turn around.”

  “What?”

  “Turn around,” she repeated. And when he did, she simply drove off.

  “Hey!” he yelled. In her rearview mirror, she could see him reach to his belt. My God, he’s going to shoot me! She tensed, bent forward toward the steering wheel. But then she saw him talking on a small hand-held radio, and up ahead there was a flurry of activity among the half dozen or so patrolmen clustered about the roadblock. Those men had shotguns and they were waving their arms and shouting. Along either side of the roadway, she could see a scattering of people, standing in their yards or on their porches. The white folks who lived at the edge of the Quarter, milling about and waiting for something to happen. Now it had, and th
ey were pointing at her car, edging up toward the roadside as she passed them and bore down on the roadblock. The patrolmen were running toward her now, guns held across their chests at the ready. And one of them crouched in the road and brought the barrel of his gun up, aiming it squarely at the front of the car. It looked enormous. She stared at it, transfixed suddenly by the memory of another shotgun barrel, the flash of flame, blood everywhere …

  “Hold your fire!” someone yelled. Bright jammed on the brakes, bringing the old Plymouth to a shuddering stop perhaps twenty yards from the crouching patrolman.

  Bright sat there for a moment, feeling a wave of nausea sweep over her, fighting the urge to open the door and retch onto the pavement. This is too much. I am not capable of this. She wished suddenly for a strong presence to prop her up, perhaps take her home, where it was quiet. She thought fleetingly of Buster Putnam. But no, that would not do. This was none of Buster’s business.

  It was the major, the one she had met at the police station. He was standing at the open window of Bright’s car now, peering in at her. He peered for a good while and when she looked up at him she saw that his jaw was working slowly, like a cow chewing a cud. Bright had always thought that cows were thoughtful animals. Finally the major said, “Mrs. Birdsong, I want you to go home. The authorities are in charge here, and we have everything under control.” He was trying to keep his voice low, but she could tell that he was a man who did not put up with much tommyrot.

  She really should do that, she thought. She should let the major take care of things. But then she thought that the major didn’t live here, that he would do whatever it was that he had come to do and then get in his highway patrol car and drive back to the capital. Probably very fast with the siren on. And that would leave the home folks here to deal with things. And that made Bright angry. She let it build in her for a moment, shoving her fear and nausea aside.

  “Move your roadblock,” she said.

  “No ma’am. I can’t do that.”