Bob’s atonal voice dredged the depths of known music, and Doc looked at him and laughed: he couldn’t remember hearing anyone sing worse! Bob smiled back and then caught Nancy’s eye and smiled at her. She was looking around the room rather than singing; looking, in all probability, for people who were long dead.
If only things could have been different and the world’s axis brought back to kilter, the planets realigned and missing constellations restored. If only things could have been different!
‘It is a wonderful world, isn’t it, Gene?’ Nancy asked when the singing ended.
Doc had never before seen such a sad and questioning face. ‘Right now, Nancy, it’s the most wonderful world there’s ever been,’ he told her, and kissed her on the forehead. For an instant, he almost believed it.
‘Weren’t so bad as you thought, was it, Gene?’ Bob said. ‘I coulda sworn I even see’d a tear in one o’ yo’ eyes.’
‘That’s sweat, Bob. I’m a doctor: I should know the difference.’
‘You should know a lotta things you don’t know. The worl’ is a won’erful place – ’specially with me in it. Ain’t that right, Nance?’
‘Grandpa George,’ B’shara shouted. ‘Play B’shara Byrd! Play B’shara Byrd!’
‘I cain’t play B’shara Byrd, honey. I ain’t got no guitar with me.’
‘That man over there has a guitar. Tell him to give it to you!’
‘Hush yo’ mouth, B’shara Byrd. Yo’ grandpa plays that song fo’ you ever’ day. You heard it enough times already,’ Wanda said firmly.
‘I wanna hear it, I wanna hear it!’ B’shara Byrd said, stamping her foot on the floor. ‘Eric wants to hear it, too!’
‘Take the guitar, George,’ Jack said, handing it to him. ‘I’d like to hear it as well.’ George took the guitar and thanked him.
George placed the capo on the fourth fret and retuned a couple of strings.
‘Play it, Grandpa, play it!’ B’shara Byrd shouted.
‘Honey, jus’ give me a minute, will you. Okay, now I ready.’
B’shara Byrd she jus’ gone three
an’ I don’t thinks that she likes me
she pulls a face and shows her tongue
then she moons me with her bum
B’shara Byrd has pulled a mood
an’ I don’t like her attitude
she screams shit an’ calls me fart
her hobnail boots dance on my heart
Oh B’shara Byrd
sweet B’shara Byrd
When flowers came an’ leaves turned green
we threw pebbles into a stream
we fed the ducks an’ rowed a boat
she held my han’ when we crossed the road
B’shara Byrd you’ll never know
how much I tries to love you so
but it’s so hard when you so soft
you catch col’ ever’time I cough
Oh B’shara Byrd
sweet B’shara Byrd
Cute as a button with big brown eyes
B’shara Byrd can mesmerise
blackest hair an’ platinum smile
B’shara Byrd turns on the style
I hopes you grows up big an’ strong
knows what’s right an’ knows what’s wrong
but try not to break too many hearts
when choosin’ horses to pull yo’ cart
B’shara Byrd danced throughout the song, and once George had finished playing jumped up and down and clapped her hands excitedly. ‘Play it again, Grandpa! Play it again!’
‘That the bes’ damn song I ever heard,’ Bob said. ‘You write it?’
‘It no mo’ ‘n three chords, Bob. Song wrote itself.’
‘Play it again, will you,’ Jack asked. ‘And Eric, try playing along on the piano. It’s just three chords.’
George played the song twice more until Eric figured out the song’s structure, and then by popular demand played it again. Doc excused himself and walked out on to the porch. He lit a cigarette and watched through the window: George and Eric playing, Jack harmonising, Bob dancing with B’shara, Wanda laughing, and Nancy happily banging a spoon against a pie plate to whatever rhythm played in her head.
Doc’s world was in that room: his oldest friend, as full of the joys of life as he’d ever been; his first love, now damaged beyond repair; his godson, the one person he truly considered family; and the conundrum that was Eric – a small boy who’d become a friend to all. He loved these people, loved them with all his heart, and he allowed himself the rare luxury of believing that they too, loved him. His creased face broke into a broad smile and then collapsed into sadness.
It had been forty years since the old man had cried, and he felt the tears on his cheeks long before he understood the nature of what was happening. In that brief moment, he experienced happiness.
Crossing the Rubicon
Overnight the temperature dropped, and the morning air was as crisp as an expensive lettuce. When Doc walked into the kitchen, Bob was clearing debris from the previous evening, scraping uneaten food from plates and stacking the dishwasher.
‘One o’ the bes’ parties I never been aksed to leave,’ Bob said. ‘Had me a good time. How ’bout you, Gene?’
‘I must have drunk too much,’ Doc replied. ‘My head feels like someone’s just dumped a truckload of broken glass and concrete into it. Hand me a glass of water, will you?’
‘I ain’t surprised you hung-over, man. Firs’ time I see’d you laughin’ long as I remem’er. Remin’ed me o’ the times we had at Duke. Them was good days, weren’t they?’
‘They were,’ Doc agreed. ‘Pity they didn’t last.’
‘Don’t go gettin’ all depressin’ on me, Gene. I gotta long drive ’head o’ me today, an’ I don’ wan’ the mem’ry o’ yo’ miserable face stuck in my head.’
‘I’ll be fine once I’ve had some coffee. Pour me a cup will you?’
‘What am I – yo’ damn slave? “Han’ me a glass o’ water, Bob; pour me a cup o’ coffee, Bob.” Man, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you was one o’ them white supremacists. Four days in Miss’ippi an’ you a changed man, Gene. Ha!’
Jack walked into the room. ‘What’s for breakfast, Bob?’
‘Hell, you bad as Gene. Ain’t even my house an’ people puttin’ on me.’
Despite his faux outrage, Bob poured coffee and they moved into the lounge to wait for Nancy and Eric. ‘Do you want us to move the piano back to the bedroom?’ Jack asked.
‘Nah, it’s fine where it is. It’s doing no harm there.’
Nancy was the first to make an appearance, her hair uncombed and wearing the same clothes she’d worn the day before. Her mood, however, was chipper. ‘Was it my imagination or was there a pink rabbit here last night?’ she asked.
‘It was B’shara Byrd dressed as a pink rabbit,’ Doc explained. ‘Wanda and George’s granddaughter,’ he added.
‘Oh, of course it was. I remember now. She was Eric’s girlfriend, wasn’t she?’
‘She’s not my girlfriend, Mrs Skidmore,’ Eric said, walking into the room. ‘I’m seven years older than she is.’ Eric’s hair was also uncombed and he too was wearing the same clothes he’d worn yesterday. ‘Last night was the latest I’ve ever stayed up. I did well, didn’t I?’
‘You sure did,’ Doc replied.
‘Do you want to play that song again, Jack? We could play B’shara Byrd as well.’
‘Not right now, Eric. Doc’s got a headache and we need to eat breakfast.’ He stood up from his chair. ‘Toast and cereal okay with everyone?’ It was.
Apart from Nancy, they were all silently aware that this breakfast would be their last meal together, and that once it was over three of them would be leaving. It proved a sombre affair and conversation was stilted. Eric broke into tears and Jack put his arm around his shoulders. ‘He hasn’t done that thing with his pecker again, has he?’ Nancy whispered to Doc. Doc smiled and told her he hadn’t, that he was
just sad to be leaving. ‘He can always come and visit us,’ Nancy said. ‘We have plenty of rooms.’
While Doc cleared the breakfast table, Bob, Jack and Eric packed their belongings and took them outside. Nancy sat by herself, tap-tapping her fingers to a song no one but she could hear. Once Jack had finished taking his bags to the car, Doc pulled him to one side and gave him a pouch with ten thousand dollars tucked inside it.
‘This is part of your dad’s estate, Jack; together with details of the account I placed the rest of the money in. You can draw on it at any time, but before you do, check with that lawyer of yours to make sure it won’t be included in the divorce settlement. Your dad would turn in his grave if it was. I also need the name and address of your lawyer.’
‘How do I get in touch with you?’ Jack asked. ‘How long are you going to be here?’
‘I don’t know. It all depends on Nancy. Bob threw my mobile into the river and I don’t know the number here. I’ll keep in touch with my lawyer and suggest you contact me through him. His details are in the money pouch, too.
‘I don’t want to get into any big goodbyes while Eric’s around, so I’ll say it now: I owe you, Jack! We couldn’t have made this trip without you, and I’ll always be indebted to you. I never had a son, but if I had, I’d be more than happy if he’d turned out like you. Laura never deserved you, but maybe this Susan girl does. I hope it works out.’
‘What’s the punch line, Doc?’
‘There isn’t a punch line. That’s it.’
Jack put his arms around him. ‘There’s no need to thank me, Doc. You’ve always been there for me and you were always there for my father. Besides, this trip’s worked out well for me. Do me a favour though – next time I see you, don’t pull any more of this soft-heartedness shit. In my book, you and sentiment just don’t go together, and that’s the way I like it.’
Doc agreed to his godson’s request and then pulled away. ‘Say goodbye to Nancy, Jack. I’m glad the two of you got to like each other in the end. I wish you’d have known her in her day.’
Eric was in tears, incoherent, unable to say more than a few words before breaking into sobs. He hugged Nancy and kissed her on the cheeks; hugged and kissed Doc and Bob – the man he still referred to as Otis. He thanked them over and again: for looking after him, for helping him find Susan, for being his friends. He told them they’d always be on his prayer list – a list recently swollen by the names of Merritt Crow, Wanda, George and B’shara Byrd – and that he’d write regularly and always remember them.
Jack took hold of Eric’s hand and led him to the car before his tears started to flood the house. Just before the boy climbed into the passenger seat, he turned to the three old people waving to him: ‘I love you,’ he stammered, and then broke into sobs again.
Jack closed the passenger door after him and walked back to the house. He hugged Doc again, put his arms around Nancy and kissed her on both cheeks, and then hugged Bob. ‘How do I get in touch with you, Bob?’
Bob wrote down a mobile telephone number. ‘Don’t never give this to another person, Jack, an’ I’d 'preciate it if you kept my name an’ the bus outta the story you tell Eric’s people. Make sure you keep in touch, man.’
‘You have my word on it, Bob, and once I get settled, I’ll call you.’ He then walked to the car and started the engine. Just as he was about to drive away, Bob came running towards them.
‘Hey, win’ down yo’ window, kid,’ he called out to Eric. Eric did, and stuck out his head. ‘Don’t go readin’ the Book o’ Revelations, neither,’ Bob gasped. ‘Man what wrote it was on mushrooms, an’ if he weren’t, then he copied it straight from the Book o’ Daniel!’
Bob walked back to the house chortling to himself. ‘That boy,’ he said to Doc and Nancy, shaking his head from side to side. ‘Stranges’ damn kid I ever met.’
He then turned serious. ‘I gotta go, Gene. Watch me while I reverse, will you? An’ Nance, give me a hug b’fore I go, girl, an’ promise me you’ll put a comb through that damned hair o’ yo’s once I gone. Looks like you been dragged through a hedge or somethin’.’
Nancy laughed and gave him a big hug. ‘You’re the stupidest man I ever met, Bob Crenshaw. I don’t know why Gene wastes his time on you.’
‘He ain’t got no other person to waste his time on, Nance – that’s why. I’m the only one prepared to take pity on the po’ soul.’
Nancy went back into the house, while Doc watched Bob reverse down the pitted drive. Bob halted the bus on the road and stepped out.
‘Give me a cigarette, will you, Gene? I think I got time fo’ one las’ smoke.’
Doc shook two cigarettes from his pack, and Bob cupped his hands around the flame of the lighter. They inhaled and exhaled in synchrony.
‘This state ain’t good fo’ us, Gene,’ Bob declaimed. ‘Miss’ippi al’ays finds a way o’ separatin’ us. You remem’er what happened las’ time we was here? Cain’t b’lieve we allowed ourselfs to get drawed back, man.’
‘And I can’t believe your grammar’s no better now than it was then,’ Doc smiled. ‘Remember me to Marsha, will you?’
‘Sure I will. Don’t aks me why, but she got a sof’ spot fo’ you. Hell, if you was black, she’d prob’ly divorce me an’ marry you. Thank God you ain’t though, an’ she partic’lar.’
It was hard keeping the banter up, talking of one thing and thinking of another, and while neither man wanted his cigarette to ever burn away, both were relieved when, at last, Bob dropped his to the road and extinguished the dying embers with the sole of his boot.
He then rested his hands on either side of Doc’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes. He saw tears welling there, felt movement in his own eyes. ‘All I gonna say, man, is that it’s been an honour – a real honour. I glad I knowed you, Gene. Glad you was my friend.’ He then pulled Doc towards him and held him.
‘For me too, Bob,’ Doc choked. ‘For me too.’
They remained there unmoving, locked in embrace, reluctant to let go. Eventually, Bob relaxed his hold and kissed Doc tenderly on the cheek. ‘Who I gonna drive a bus fo’ now, old man?’ he whispered.
The bus pulled away and moved down the road. As it neared the bend it slowed, and Bob’s arm waved through the open window. Doc waved back, and then watched as the bus and his oldest friend disappeared from sight, disappeared from his life forever.
A malaise as thick but nowhere near tasty as porridge settled over the lodge. The house felt empty and so too did life. Nancy’s condition, temporarily alleviated by the activities of the trip and the diversions of others, quickly regained its downward momentum. She wandered the house distractedly, endlessly searching rooms for people already dead, and looking through windows for people who would never arrive. She stopped smiling and started sentences that never finished, asked questions that had no happy answers and veered wildly from one mood to another like a grenade without its pin.
It was now Saturday and still Doc prevaricated. He never doubted that Nancy’s fluorescent years were dead, or that her life was now shrouded in shadows of frightening proportion, but the will to take the final step eluded him. He needed a sign; something that would prompt him to take action.
‘The sun’s shining too hard, Gene. I can hear it – can you?’
‘It’s making a bit more noise than usual, Nancy, but I prefer the noise of the sun to the sound of the rain.’
‘Why isn’t Ruby here yet? She was supposed to be having lunch with us, and she’s usually so reliable.’
‘Maybe she got held up in traffic,’ Doc replied. ‘Let’s take a short walk while we’re waiting – head down to the woods?’
Nancy agreed and took his arm. They walked slowly down the paddock and stopped at the edge of the trees. When they turned to look at the lodge Doc saw two white cumulus clouds floating high in the sky, and was reminded of the day Nancy had first poured out her fears and asked for his help. The real Nancy.
‘We should go back now, Gene
,’ Nancy fretted. ‘Grandmamma says these woods are full of monsters.’
Doc took hold of Nancy’s hand and squeezed it gently.
It would happen on Monday.
That night, Doc built a fire in the grate and the two of them spent the evening sitting in front of the television. He’d increased the dosage of Nancy’s medication and for much of the time she dozed. To any outsider peeping through the window, Doc and Nancy would have given the appearance of an old married couple who’d run out of things to say. There would have been no clue that the woman sitting there had less than two days to live.
Doc spent the time carefully sorting through documents and writing letters. His eyesight made progress slow, but it was important that everything he wrote was legible and intelligible. Finally, he put the letters and accompanying documents into envelopes, painstakingly addressed them and affixed sufficient postage stamps for their safe delivery. He then went to the kitchen and took a bottle of Maker’s Mark from the cabinet. He poured a generous amount of the bourbon into a glass tumbler, added three cubes of ice, and took it outside to the porch and lit a cigarette. He felt he deserved both.
The next morning, after Nancy had dressed and breakfast been eaten, Doc phoned Wanda and asked for a favour. Wanda readily agreed and arrived that afternoon with George; it was just the two of them, B’shara Byrd having returned to Chicago. While Wanda sat and kept Nancy company, George drove Doc to the post office in Coffeeville.
‘That where I works,’ George said, pointing to the cotton gin at the intersection of the dirt and hardtop roads. ‘When I retires, I ain’t gonna look at another cotton seed fo’ long as I lives.’
‘You don’t enjoy your work then, George?’
‘Nah. You enjoy yo’s when you was workin’?’
Doc only had to think for a moment before replying. ‘No. I think I’d have been happier working in a cotton gin.’
Last Bus to Coffeeville Page 47
