In Tall Cotton

by Charles G. Hulse

  Dad and I had blue-grey eyes—Mom and Junior, huge dark brown pools for eyes. The high cheekbones and broad straight-toothed smile Dad and I share happily with Aunt Dell and Sister. That is certainly a plus, but I’d like to resemble Dad in height. I have to practically do a back-bend to look up at him.

  We also move alike, especially when we dance, but I make an effort to imitate Dad in that department—he’s the best dancer I’ve ever seen—in the regular dancing sense, not the movie star tap dancers, although he knows some interesting jig steps he learned from his father that are being passed on down to me when he’s in the right mood.

  By the time Dad came back to Galena that summer, there wasn’t much summer left. Mom went on working at the hotel and we went on eating her wages at noon. Dad apparently wasn’t on Mom’s payroll because he didn’t join us at the hotel table. He was usually on the other side of the square at the Domino Cafe sipping three-point-two beer. That’s what they called it then. I didn’t understand about prohibition or what President Roosevelt was doing with the drinking laws, but it was some time before I knew that beer had names like Pabst, Millers or Budweiser. I thought all beer was called three-point-two.

  When Dad wasn’t at the Domino, he’d be hanging around laughing and talking with the men who gathered around the Court House. Idlers, Mom called them. Junior told me what that meant and said they were also known as “hold-up artists.” If they ever stopped leaning against the building, it’d fall down. I guess that Dad was one of them too, because he didn’t seem to have much of anything to do.

  Dad would sort of pretend that he had business at the Court House because he was a good friend of the sheriffs—Clem Walters—and spend a great deal of time in his office next to the jail on the second floor. He knew all the gossip and would pass it on to his cronies leaning up against the big square brick building. They’d wave and call Dad over to their groups where they’d all have looks of anticipation on their faces. Ole Woody always had a good story to tell. They’d hitch up their striped overalls at the crotch, lift a foot up behind them onto the little masonry edge and lean back with expectant faces. Dad never let them down. He’d talk, shake his head and lead the laughter.

  Junior and Dad had a particular bond. Baseball. They talked about it without stopping. They even talked when the radio was blasting out the games. It was then, when I was just six, with a spurt of independence that I decided I hated the game. It came to me in a flash and I knew I’d have to keep it a deep dark secret. Hating baseball was traitorous. It just wasn’t done. It was a delicious secret, one I’ve kept to this minute and the tingling duplicity I feel as I feign interest is as delicious as having Bonnie Lou’s hand on my toy. Both are pleasurable secrets. I still play the loathesome game when necessary and my revenge on it is that I’m pretty good at it.

  Dad’s daily pattern didn’t vary much. Mornings, Court House. Me with him running all over the building from the men’s room on the ground floor with the writing all over the walls that I tried to understand, up to the fourth floor and the court room where the trials were held and back down again by sliding on the slick bannisters. At lunch time we’d separate. Me for the hotel, he for the Domino Cafe.

  Many of the idlers hadn’t become that by choice. Dad wasn’t the only man out of work. The depression. THE depression. The Depression. THE DEPRESSION. THE GREAT DEPRESSION. It was the cause of everything and everything was blamed on it. “That’s why your father is away so much,” Mom explained. “He’s trying to find work.”

  I don’t know what Dad did in the afternoons except just sit there in the Domino. At any rate that’s where he usually was when Mom had our supper at home about ready and he still wasn’t home. “It’s getting on toward six,” Mom would say. “Why don’t you boys run up to the square and see if your father’s ready for supper.” She never said in so many words to go to the Domino, but we all knew where to find him.

  That first time, Junior had been reticent about going into the cafe and I took my cue from him, holding back when I wanted desperately to see what was going on behind the big window where I could hear laughter and music. It was one of the few places on the square that I hadn’t thoroughly investigated. The window glass had been painted white on the inside up higher than a man’s head and above the white line, painted on the clear glass was DOMINO CAFE in flowing letters like the Coca-Cola signs. There was a Doctor Pepper clock—Doctor Pepper at 10:00, 2:00 and 4:00. We stood uneasily at the door, glancing at each other until Junior finally eased the door open very slowly and peeked in. I squeezed in under his arm and had my first look.

  The lights weren’t very bright and there was a lot of smoke and a smell that I heard Mom refer to as “beer, booze and bodies.” A long bar ran along one side and a row of empty booths faced it. On the other side of the room. On the wall, facing us was the focal point of the otherwise spartan room, a wondrous jukebox aglow with wormy contorted colored lights and producing scratchy dance music for the two couples who were lazily gliding and turning in the middle of the floor. They were wrapped so tightly around each other they looked more like they were holding each other up rather than dancing. People, mostly men, were spread around the four tables that were lined along the inside of the painted window or dotted along the bar on high stools.

  Edging into the room, my back against the wall and tugging Junior in with me, I searched for Dad. He wasn’t here. I looked at Junior to find out our next move. He wrinkled his nose and muttered, “Stinky,” just as a voice from the table nearest called out, “Hey, Woody, I think you got some company. Ain’t these two tow-heads your’n?”

  “Shit,” another man’s voice answered from another table. “Woody ain’t home enough to know his own kids. If they are his own…”

  Laughter hadn’t time to get really started nor the man finish his sentence before he was lifted out of his seat by Dad who’d grabbed him by both shoulders in one bound from the dance floor, leaving Marge Davis stranded with a look of such surprise on her face you’d have thought her partner had gone up magically in smoke.

  In a flash, Dad was bumping the man against the white painted window making the glass wobble dangerously as he accented each word he uttered with a bump of the man’s head against the glass. “I—don’t—think—I—heard—that,did—I, Coot? You silly son of a bitch.” On the last words I was sure the glass would come crashing down on our heads as Dad beat a furious tattoo with the man’s head against it. Junior jerked me after him toward the bar, away from the window.

  Chairs were knocked over. Men jumped from stools and started moving in toward the ruckus, all talking and yelling at once, shoving each other out of the way or tugging and holding others back. The bartender came scooting out on all fours from under the bar through a hatch. Dad’s grip tightened as his quarry suddenly went limp as though his bones had been removed and he fell forward against Dad’s chest.

  “Stand up!” Dad screamed, shaking the man like a rug. “Stand up, goddamn it! I ain’t finished with you. I want your stupid ass outside where I intend to kick it till you won’t be able to use it for a week.”

  “Oh, Woody,” Marge called, trying to elbow her way between Dad and the man. “He’s drunk, Woody. Leave him alone. You know Coot. He don’t know what he’s sayin’ half the time.”

  “I know what he said.” Dad continued to shake him. “He said too damn much. Now stand up, goddamn it!”

  Everybody was crushing in on them. The bartender eased Dad’s fingers one by one from where they seemed imbedded in the man’s flesh and supported the sagging creature toward a back door marked “Toilets”.

  Dad was surrounded by men who’d pushed Marge out of the way and were congratulating him, patting him on the back, offering him drinks. “Woody had that pore sucker scared shitless, didn’t he?”

  “I’m still goin’ to whip his ass,” Dad said, beaming at all the attention he was getting. “That is if he ever sobers up enough to stand up so’s I can aim at him.”

  “Come on,”
another man yelled as the bartender returned to his position at the bar. “Let’s put Casey to work. He ain’t had to open a beer in fifteen minutes.”

  As they all moved to the bar, laughing and jostling each other, none seemed to remember that we were still standing there. Least of all, Dad. As Junior said later, “After all, it was us who started it all.”

  Marge wasn’t the only woman there. There were two others I didn’t know. Marge was a friend of Mom’s from their school days and I liked her. She usually made a big fuss over me. I moved away from Junior’s side and waved at her. She was moving toward the jukebox looking just as she had when Dad had left her in the middle of the dance floor. Stranded. Deserted. Left out. They all looked left out. The other two women and us too. We were all left out. Fighting and drinking were men’s sport. Not for women and children. Marge didn’t look at me. Junior was biting his lower lip and his eyes had that funny misty look. I knew he was going to take my hand in a second and drag me out of there but I wasn’t about to leave. There was still laughter here. Marge put some money in the slot and the jukebox lit up like a Christmas tree and I recognized one of my favorite songs, “Turnip Greens,” a lively tune that just made you want to dance. Especially Bob Wills’ bouncy rendition.

  This time I caught Marge’s eye and she threw her hands up in the air and screamed, “It’s Totsy!” as if I had just landed from the moon and was really somebody special.

  Dad turned toward us grinning. “Are you two fightin’, drinkin’ and dancin’ fellers still here? I’d’a thought you’d be so drunk by now that they’d had to carry you outta here like they done ole Coot Jenkins.”

  The laughter covered Junior’s step forward and whispered, “Mom says that…”

  “I know. I know what Mom says,” Dad said loudly, waving his hand expansively. “Mom says supper’s ready. Right?” He leaned down toward Junior from the tall barstool and almost lost his balance. “But are we ready?”

  “Fightin’s over,” Marge called as she bore down on me with open arms and hugged me. “Totsy don’t drink, do you, honey?” She squatted down in front of me. “Why don’t you show these folks what you really do?” She looked up at the men. “You see this chile? Well, you just see him dance. He can out-dance his old man.” She stood up, weaving slightly and clutched my hand. “Although Woody would be the last in the world to admit that anybody could out-dance, out-fight or even out-fu—”

  “Whoa!” somebody yelled from the bar. “Hold ’er, Newt. You mean out-drink him, don’t you, Marge?”

  “He heard what I said,” she tossed her head and rolled her eyes at Dad who roared with laughter. “Come on, Totsy, show ’em what I mean.” She led me to the center of the floor and let go my hand and was backing away, bent forward toward me clapping in time to the music, encouraging me with her smile and her body moving in a way to induce me to move with her.

  I couldn’t help myself. I mimicked her movements for a moment, moving toward her, my body starting to take over on its own. I glanced at Junior. Should I be doing this? He was grinning as broadly as Dad. OK, then. Nobody said no. As Marge screamed, “Let ’er rip!”, I did just that. I’d done this at home and at Bonnie Lou’s but here I was on a big empty floor with a lot of people watching me and I was grinning the same satisfied grin Dad had when he was getting all the attention. Having all the attention is heady stuff. It can spur you on. I don’t know exactly what I did, but I jigged, twirled, tapped, strutted, threw in some Charleston steps I’d picked up and as the music got faster I only know that my body was moving with it. I could feel it. All through my body. I never felt so good in my life. I don’t think I was even touching the floor. When the music stopped abruptly, it was like being slapped in the face.

  I came out of my trance feeling sharp stings on my bare legs. It was money! The men were all throwing nickles, dimes and pennies toward me. The coins danced around me, tinkling their own music, and I danced crazily as I scooped them up, making another dance routine out of clearing the floor of the coins that seemed to keep on pouring in while the men whistled and stomped and clapped. I’d had my first taste of performing. And I was hooked. Firmly and forever. I even got paid for it. Even Junior was beaming and looking proud.

  On the way home, with one of us on either side of Dad, not balancing him exactly, but holding a hand each, our high spirits ran through our hands and bodies like an electric current between each other. We skipped and hummed “Turnip Greens” with Dad lifting us both high in the air above the curbs when we came to them. We’d become a trio. Just us men. We’d shared an experience that didn’t involve Mom.

  I continued dancing right into the house, leading the way, rattling the coins in my cupped hands and singing, “Guess what I got. Guess how much I got.” We all three were elated and talking at once as Mom leaned a hip against the kitchen table which was set for three. She crossed her arms over her comfortable bosom, nodding and smiling with eyebrows raised into question marks waiting for our explanations.

  We gabbled on as we washed our hands at the enamel basin and scrambled into our chairs. Mom served us some cold fried chicken and salad. We all seemed to have a different approach to the events of the evening if not exactly different stories to tell. Junior was saying we’d have been home sooner if Totsy, the showoff, hadn’t started acting cute and dancing all over the place. I put in that it was Marge who’d encouraged me but realized that her role in the evening’s happenings should be minimized when I caught a particular look flash between Mom and Dad. OK. Registered. No Marge. Above all, no Marge and Dad dancing. That much I knew from somewhere deep down inside. Dad launched into a long account of how he got to discussing the possibility of working for something called the WPA with Ralph Humbard and just lost all track of time. That was Depression talk.

  I turned to Junior to try and recapture some of the excitement and fun at the Domino. Our high spirits were sagging. “Hey, and how about when Dad picked that man right out of his chair and his head was banging They were all three staring at me. All stony and silent. Junior looked up at the ceiling—a signal for me to shut up. Dad pushed his chair back and stood up with a disgusted glance at me. OK. OK. No fights. I didn’t realize. My mistake. Give me time, I’d learn the rules. Sorry. I didn’t know yet how to doctor a story to fit circumstances and audience.

  “And what was the fuss about,” Mom asked quietly. “Who started it?”

  “Wasn’t anything, Milly,” Dad said dismissively. He was washing chicken grease off his hands with his back turned to us. “Just Coot Jenkins drunk again and smart-assin’ around. Shootin’ his mouth off.”

  “What about?” Mom went on in the same even voice.

  I sneaked a look at Junior whose eyes shot to the ceiling again. I scrunched down in my chair. How was Dad going to handle this? What was permissible? What was allowed in our newly formed male solidarity?

  “I didn’t even hear what he said.” Dad’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way off. “I just moved in to help Casey ease him out before he caused some real trouble. You know how he is.” He turned back to Mom, smiling easily and drying his hands. So that’s how we men handled it. We lied. If I was going to have to lie, I was at least learning how from a master.

  Junior pushed his chair away from the table. “’Scuse me…”

  “I’m done, too,” I said, following Junior into the other room. “I want to count my money again.” Not to mention wanting Junior to explain some things to me.

  “… and Coot drunk as a coot,” Dad was saying and I heard Mom’s laughter join his as I sat on the floor of the living room and spilled out the coins.

  “He’s not batting a thousand,” Junior mumbled. That was the first time he’d used that expression which was to become part of our private language.

  “What? What does that mean?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get older.”

  Shit, I thought, even though I didn’t dare say it. I wondered just what he thought of Dad’s behavior but could tell he was
upset so didn’t push it.

  That had been the first time for me at the Domino. Plenty others were to follow and I relished them all. Junior didn’t. He started waiting outside while I told Dad supper was ready. He loathed everything about the cafe. The drunkenness, the sloppy good-ole-buddiness, the melting away of reticences and self-control. He was apparently born knowing how to behave properly and the Domino and its patrons offended him. I looked to him for guidance because I’ve always had a tendency to go all out on everything. No restraints bothered him. He had control. I tried—am trying—to learn from him because it is something I lack.

  Those days of glory were too intoxicating. I was drunk on my new fame as that “dancin’ wonder.” There were certainly no restraints once I was turned loose on that dance floor. I’d go mad. But the decision to call a halt was not mine. It was Dad’s. Depending on how he was feeling, he’d either finish his beer and wave to his buddies or more often yell, “Let’s have another one, son!”

  That of course was further music to my ears. Dad would sometimes join me. He has some jig steps he’s passed on to me and when we both broke into the famous Woods back-shuffle together, we’d bring the house down. There he was, tall and lean facing a miniature replica of himself while I, his shrunken image, mirrored his movements and steps to a “T.” We didn’t take our eyes off each other—we spoke into each other’s smiling eyes and it was only when we danced that I ever saw that particular shining light directed at me. Those Domino nights were soon over and that shining light in his eyes has since been focused solely on Junior.