Old Dogs and Children

by Robert Inman

  The car stopped at the edge of the platform and Doyle Butterworth stepped from the crowd to open the door on the passenger side, reaching up with a broad smile for Bright’s hand. A flash of light blinded her momentarily, and then she saw Ortho Noblett from the newspaper holding up his Speed Graphic camera, getting a photo of them perched there on the back of the car. Behind them, the street sweeper ground to a halt and the driver cut the engine back to a dull, throaty roar. She entertained the brief hope that it would proceed on without them, but there really wasn’t room for it to get through. The crowd from across the way was edging out into the street now, moving in a mass toward the platform, cheering and applauding as they came. The high school band was playing “I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover,” and the strong beat of the music pulsed through the crowd. It was, if anything, even noisier here than on the parade route, and Bright felt smothered by the waves of sound, the people pressing in close to the car. Good Lord, don’t let me faint and embarrass us all. She reached down and fetched her purse from the seat and then Fitz and Doyle Butterworth helped her out of the convertible and through the crowd up to the little stage. Fitz followed, the Live Eye 5 camera almost in his face, with Holly Hardee yammering questions that Bright couldn’t hear for the noise. He was ignoring her, smiling, reaching out to shake hands as he went, clapping people on the back.

  Bright sat in a folding chair between Harley Gibbons and the chairman of the soil and water conservation board, her purse in her lap, and felt the perspiration gushing in a river down her back. She was sorely tempted to ask if she couldn’t just duck inside City Hall and cool off for a moment. But that wouldn’t do. Then she looked to her right, past the line of dignitaries, and saw the big blue and white boxy Rescue Squad truck parked next to the reviewing stand. If she fell out here in the heat, they would just have to rescue her, the way they had done Buster’s roofer.

  She leaned over to Harley. “It’s quite a crowd,” she said. “Fitz is very proud.”

  Harley gave her a long look. Some patching up to do there, she thought. Harley had been too good a friend for too long to let it rest the way it was. But on the other hand, there was still this matter of business to be taken care of. They would see about that.

  Harley shook his head, a grudging admiration. “The boy’s got the touch,” he said. “He may just pull this thing out.”

  They didn’t even try to introduce Fitz. He simply stepped to the microphone and flashed his great beaming smile and the crowd went wild. To hell with the rest of the state and the big-city newspapers and the other fellow running for governor. This was the hometown boy. Little Fitz.

  He tried several times to begin his speech, and they kept cheering and he kept smiling, standing there with both hands gripping the tall microphone stand. Finally the noise subsided a bit and he said, the words booming out of the loudspeakers mounted on the utility poles to his left and right, “It’s good to be home!” And the cheering broke loose again, flooding over him in waves.

  Bright felt a great rush of pride, the awesome noise of the crowd lifting her up. Home! Their town! The Birdsongs and the Bascombes before them. The place where they had sunk their roots and to which they had given their hearts, through thick and thin, right and wrong. She wished Dorsey Bascombe could be here now to see it. And Fitzhugh, who had finally wanted nothing better than to come back here—to her and to the honorable practice of law in the small white frame building down on Claxton Street. Fitzhugh would have put a great deal of himself into this town, into its everydayness. He would have been devoted to it, as he was devoted to anything he considered honorable. And that meant something too.

  The crowd calmed finally, and Fitz stood there for a moment, looking out over the sea of faces. When he spoke, his voice was measured, the rich baritone rolling out over the packed street. “It’s too hot for long speeches, but I don’t want to let this wonderful day go by without saying some things that need to be said.” His voice quieted them and they stood, expectant, in the glaring sun. “First, I want to thank two people who made this possible. The best friend I’ve got in the world, my boyhood buddy Francis O’Neill. Big Deal!” He turned, held out his hand, beckoning Big Deal forward, and he stepped out of the crowd of people at the rear of the platform, a huge smile splitting his blushing face. He stood next to Fitz, their arms around each other’s shoulders, while the crowd gave Big Deal an appreciative cheer. Then he waved and stepped back again. Bright opened her purse, looking for a handkerchief to dab at the perspiration on her brow. “And,” Fitz said when they had quieted, “the greatest single influence on my life, then and now. My mama.” It startled her and she jerked her head up, her mouth open, as he crossed the platform with two quick steps, bent down and kissed her on the cheek, his lips lingering there softly for a long moment. “I love you, Mama,” he said in her ear.

  “Fitz …”

  She reached up to him, but he was already turning back to the microphone now while the crowd applauded Bright Birdsong. She sat there with what she imagined was an incredibly stupid smile on her face and dabbed at her eyes instead of her brow.

  Fitz took off his suit jacket and handed it down to Doyle Butterworth at the edge of the platform. Bright could see only his broad back now, the wide streak of dark blue following his spine under the light blue of his shirt. But there must be something in his face that quieted the crowd again. The man who was running the street sweeper cut the ignition and the engine died with a cough, and it was almost quiet there in the open space between City Hall and the storefronts along the way. The big banner over the street flapped softly in a midday breeze and the crowd moved restlessly, waiting for him. Finally, he spoke again:

  “I want to thank all of you, the people of my hometown and my home county, simply for being my people. It is a good place to be a boy and become a man.” He spoke slowly, playing out the words, one hand on the microphone stand, the other jammed in a pants pocket. “I got a good education here. I went to a good church, read books from a good library, had good friends and a good river to go skinny-dipping in.” He drew an appreciative laugh from the crowd, and Bright remembered him as a boy at the back door on late summer afternoons, clothes dry but hair still damp, the flush of rambunctious, unfettered fun still in his face and eyes.

  “But most of all,” he went on, “I had a lot of people who simply cared about me, cared about all the young’uns who grew up here. And still do, I imagine. The kind of folks, whether they were kin to you or not, who picked you up and dusted you off when you made a mistake, and who bragged on you when you did something right. You, all of you, let me know you expected me to do the right thing.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd. “And you let me know you loved me even when I didn’t.” Fitz ducked his head for a moment, then looked them in the eye again. “Thank you for saying that again today, simply by being here. I love you all. I’m proud to be one of you. And I’m mighty glad to be back.”

  Bright realized that he was finished. They simply stood there looking at each other for a long moment, Little Fitz Birdsong and the sweltering mass of people at his feet. Bright sat, stunned by what he had said and what he had not and felt a great ache for him swelling inside her; that, and pride. They seemed not to know what to do, and then a smattering of applause started and built and rolled through the crowd—not a raucous political cheer, but a great warm reaching out that enfolded him and seemed to lift him up.

  Then they heard the whistle. Whoooooooo-whoooot-whoooo. High noon, the joyous wail of steam from the lumberyard across town by the riverbank, summoning folk from labor to an hour of cool rest and sustenance. God bless Monkey Deloach, she thought. When he had bought Dorsey’s timber business, he had decreed that the whistle would continue to blow every workday—noon and evening—in honor of the man who built it and taught Monkey all he knew about tall trees and honest work. Whoooooooo-whoooot-whooooooo.

  “Time for dinner!” Fitz Birdsong cried. “Come on, Mama, let’s finish this parade and get to the fried c
hicken.” The crowd roared, and on the sidewalk across the street, the band swung quickly into “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” Bright rose from her chair as Fitz reached out for her, and they climbed down and started toward the convertible waiting at the edge of the platform. Big Deal was there with the passenger-side door open and Doyle Butterworth was holding Fitz’s coat. But the crowd came to them in a rush, reaching out to touch, their hands eager but gentle, calling out, “Little Fitz! Little Fitz!” and some of them even calling Bright’s name, people she didn’t recognize, a few whose faces seemed vaguely familiar. They couldn’t move an inch, so they stood there side by side, sweating like field hands, Fitz reaching to shake every hand he could grab. Bright clutched her purse tightly and Fitz held one arm firmly around her for protection. The noise and the heat were awesome, and Bright felt light-headed.

  But then Homer Sipsey and some of his boys reached them and began to clear a path so they could get to the car. Big Deal and Doyle Butterworth helped her up and Fitz spread his suit jacket on the top of the scorching leather of the back seat. She could feel the heat even through the fabric when she sat, still holding her purse. Behind them, the street sweeper roared to life again, its thunder crashing over them, drowning out even the hooting, hollering crowd. Fitz leaned over the back of the car, grinning broadly, still shaking hands. Big Deal climbed in, sliding across the passenger seat behind the wheel, and Homer began waving his arms in front of the car, moving the crowd back so they could resume the parade. The other units, including the Vacation Bible School flatbed, had mercifully gone on ahead when Fitz’s car had stopped. But the tail end of the procession still had two blocks to go before it would make a left turn off Bascombe and head for the high school. The high school band was making a valiant effort to regroup in the middle of the street. Finally the band director, a young fellow dressed all in white, from his shirt to his buck shoes, and sweating profusely, yelled “Charge!” and the high schoolers galloped off the sidewalk and into the fray, their gleaming instruments bobbing in the crowd. They more or less formed up, with people darting between their ranks, and began to play a ragged version of “Camptown Races.” Just ahead of them, Harley Gibbons climbed into the passenger side of Homer Sipsey’s police car and Homer jumped behind the wheel and turned on the siren and all the lights, and the entire business began to inch forward. Big Deal gave the convertible a shot of gas and it lurched into motion, and Bright grabbed Fitz’s arm and held on to her hat.

  “Whoooo, dogies!” Fitz cried. “You all right, Mama?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  They were under way now, the crowd parting on the street in front of them, moving up onto the sidewalks to give them room, still yelling and applauding. The noise swelled—Homer’s siren, the band, the street sweeper behind them.

  And then suddenly they popped free of the crowd and picked up speed, moving toward the corner two blocks away where they would turn to head for the high school.

  “Good Lord!” Bright said. “I thought we were goners.”

  “That was quite a reception,” Fitz said.

  “That was quite a speech,” she countered.

  He looked straight ahead, finding something terribly interesting up there at the back of the band. Then he turned and said, “It’s over.”

  “What is?”

  “The election.” He drew his hand across his neck. “I’m a dead duck.”

  She stared at him; then she reached over with the handkerchief still clutched in her hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “I don’t want the money,” he said. “It would be throwing good after bad.”

  She opened her mouth, snapped it shut again.

  “Lavonia’s left me,” he said. “I didn’t intend to tell you that, but she has. Another mess there.”

  Well, what to say about that? Bright had never been the kind of mother who thought no girl was good enough for her boy. Lavonia had her shortcomings, but she was pleasant enough and she had taken good care of Fitz. And, no doubt, put up with a lot. “I’m sorry,” Bright said.

  “I’m coming home.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to practice law and try to get my self-respect back.”

  She started to say something, but then out of the corner of her eye she saw a commotion up ahead and she turned her head to see Homer’s police car pulling over to curbside, Homer jumping out and waving the band around him. They kept marching, playing “Camptown Races.”

  Fitz leaned over to Big Deal. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know,” Big Deal called back. “I’ll pull in here behind Homer and find out.”

  Harley Gibbons was out of the police car now, and Bright thought he looked awfully perturbed. Homer was leaning in the window on the driver’s side, talking on his radio. Big Deal eased the convertible in behind them and Harley started striding back toward the car, arms flapping. “Damn Flavo!” he cried out.

  Flavo. She had quite forgotten him, what with Roseann and Fitz and the parade and the speech. Too much for a sixty-eight-year-old woman to keep track of at once. But Flavo Richardson would not go away. Never had, never would. Harley was right. Damn Flavo!

  “Harley, what on earth?” she called out to him.

  Harley reached them, puffing, eyes wide, face flushed. “They’re marching, Bright! Flavo and all his folks. The whole damn bunch of ’em. Heading this way out of the Quarter.” He glared at Fitz. “I told you we ought not to take down the roadblocks!”

  They both looked at Bright. All right, this is all my doing, is it? Well, I suppose it is. I have put my foot right in the middle of it. Now what? She thought first to be angry with Flavo. He had double-crossed her. Or had he? No, what he had said was that they would not disrupt the parade. But the parade was over, or would be by the time …

  “The swimming pool,” she said.

  “Oh, my God,” Harley said, as if she had said “The nuclear power plant.”

  Bright leaned down to Big Deal. “Francis, go to the swimming pool. Now!”

  “Mama …,” Fitz started to say, and Big Deal turned in the seat to look back at him, eyebrows at full mast.

  “Fitz, go to the luncheon. This is my business,” she said firmly.

  But Fitz just shrugged. “What the hell. Let’s go to the swimming pool.”

  Big Deal threw the convertible into gear and Fitz grabbed her and they slid down into the back seat as Big Deal swung out into the street, leaving Harley standing there. “Bright!” he called after her. “Dammit, Bright!” She dared not look back.

  >

  “All right, Mama. What’s up?” Fitz asked as they sped toward the swimming pool. Behind them, she could hear the siren on Homer’s patrol car whine to life as it took off after them.

  She turned and stared at Fitz. The wind was loud in her ears and she had to raise her voice to hear herself. “I think Flavo’s decided to take the bull by the horns.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But I’d guess he’s willing to kick up a goodsized commotion and get a good number of folks arrested.”

  Fitz sat back in the seat and pondered that. Things at war there. The politician’s nose for trouble. And a slightly bemused expression too. “And what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” And that was the gospel truth, she thought. She would have to make it up as she went along. Something would turn up. You hear that, Papa? Her hat blew off then, went sailing up above the convertible and drifted behind them, hit the road and tumbled into the gutter. She looked back, waved her hand at it in disgust. The wind felt good on her sweat-matted hair. “It may be messy,” she said, more to herself than Fitz.

  Homer’s patrol car had almost caught up with them when they pulled up to the swimming pool, and it was creating a great racket, siren howling and tires screeching, as Homer made the turn and rocketed down the slope into the parking lot. Bright looked back and saw two more vehicles
in hot pursuit—the Live Eye 5 van and an old Ford sedan she recognized as Ortho Noblett’s. She had never seen Ortho in this much of a hurry. Perhaps Ortho had never been to this much of a news story.

  There was a good-sized crowd at the pool, more than Bright would have expected with such big doings in town. A line of children was gathering inside the chain-link fence, dripping water on the grass and staring at the police car. Beyond them, the ice-blue water shimmered in the midday and bright orange and white umbrellas sprouted protectively over the line of chaise longues on the concrete apron around the pool. The chaise longues were full of teenagers and mothers.