The Year's Best SF 11 # 1993

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  And then the bleeding stopped. Just like that. Cush stopped crying and the color in the tub went from red to pink to clear, and Alma lifted up the child, and someone handed her a towel.

  “There now,” Alma said, “you’re going to be all right, you’re going to be just fine.”

  She knew this was a lie. You couldn’t look at this poor little thing with its one eye open, and one forever shut, and say everything’ll be just fine. There wasn’t anything fine about Cush. There wasn’t now and there wouldn’t ever be.

  * * *

  At the very same moment the child stopped bleeding upstairs, Uncle John Ezekiel Fry, dead at a hundred and three, farted in his coffin, shook, and gave a satisfying sigh. In the time it takes a fly to bat its wings, Fry remembered every single instant of his life, every word and past event, every second since May 24 in 1888, things that had touched him, and things that he didn’t understand, things that he had paid no attention to at all. He remembered the Oklahoma Run and the Panic of ’93. He remembered getting knifed when he was barely twenty-two. He remembered Max Planck. The Sherman Silver Purchase Act. Twenty-one-thousand, four-hundred-sixty-two catfish he’d eaten in his life. A truckload of Delaware Punch. Sixteen tank cars of whiskey and gin. Seven tons of pork. John Maynard Keynes. Teddy up San Juan Hill. Iwo Jima and Ypres. Tiger tanks and Spads. A golden-skinned whore named Caroline. Wilson got four hundred and thirty-five electoral votes, and Taft got only eight. The St. Louis Fair in 1904. Cornbread and beans. A girl in a red silk dress in Tupelo. Shooting a man in Mobile and stealing his silver watch. A lady in Atlanta under a lemon moon, wet from the river, diamond droplets on her skin, and coal-black moss between her thighs.

  All this came to Uncle John Ezekiel Fry as he gripped the wooden sides of his box and sat up and blinked his eyes, sat and blinked his eyes and said, “Whiskey-tit-February-cunt … Lindy sweet as blackberry pie …”

  There was no one in the room except Leonard T. Pyne. Walking hurt a lot, so he hadn’t chased the crowd upstairs. He stared at John Fry, saw his hands on the box, saw a suit that looked empty inside, saw a face like an apple that’s been rotting in the bin for some time. Saw tarball eyes that looked in instead of out, looked at things Leonard hoped to God he’d never see.

  Leonard didn’t faint and didn’t scream. His hair didn’t stand on end. He didn’t do anything you’d think he ought to do, because he didn’t for a minute believe a thing he saw. Dead men don’t sit up and talk, he knew that. And if they don’t, you wouldn’t see them do it, so why make a fuss about that?

  Leonard T. Pyne got up and walked out. He forgot he had knees near the size of basketballs. He forgot he couldn’t walk without a crutch. He walked out and got into his car and drove away. He forgot he’d brought his wife Lucille. He drove back up the dirt road, across the bridge, and headed straight for New Orleans. He’d lived all his life south of Knoxville, Tennessee. He’d never gone to New Orleans, and couldn’t think of any reason why he should.

  * * *

  When the folks came down from upstairs, Uncle John Ezekiel Fry was in the kitchen, pulling open cabinets and drawers, looking for a drink. Some people fell down and prayed. Some passed out, but that could have been the heat. People who’d come from out of state said it’s just like Fry to pull a stunt like this, he never gave a shit about anyone else. The next time he died, they weren’t about to make the trip.

  Crazy Pru, when she gathered up her wits, when the baby looked fine, or as fine as a child like that could ever be, said God worked in wondrous ways, anyone could plainly see. What if she hadn’t been broke, and they’d gone and had Uncle Fry embalmed instead of laid out in a box? He’d have been dead sure, and wouldn’t have a chance of waking up and coming back.

  The town undertaker, Marvin Doone, could feel Preacher Will’s accusing eyes, and he couldn’t think of anything to say. Will had felt sorry for the family, and slipped Doone the cash to do the body up right. Which Marvin Doone had done, sucking out all of Uncle Fry’s insides, pumping fluids in and sewing everything up, dressing the remains in a black Sears suit, also courtesy of Will. There wasn’t any question in Marvin Doone’s mind that Fry had absolutely no vital parts, and how could he explain that to Will?

  Preacher Will never spoke to Doone again.

  Doone went home and drank half a quart of gin.

  Uncle John Ezekiel Fry said, “Nipple-pussy-Mississippi-rye,” or words to that effect, walked eight miles back to his own farm, where he ate a whole onion and fried himself some fish.

  * * *

  “Pru, you ought to sell this place and get you and the child into town,” Alma said. “There isn’t anything left here for you, there’s not a reason in the world for you to stay.”

  “Place is all paid for,” said Pru. “Place belongs to me.”

  They were sitting on the porch, watching the evening slide away, watching the dark crowd in along the creek, watching an owl dart low among the trees. Pru rocked the baby in her arms, and the baby looked content. It played with its little possum hands, it watched Aunt Alma with its black and sleepy eye.

  “Paid for’s one thing,” Alma said. “Keeping up is something else. There’s taxes on land, and somebody’s got to pay for that. The place won’t grow anything, the soil’s dead. Near as I can tell, stinging nettle’s not a cash crop.”

  Pru smiled and tickled the baby’s chin, though Alma couldn’t see that it had a chin at all.

  “Me and Cush, we be just fine,” Pru said. “We goin’ to make it just fine.”

  Alma looked straight out in the dark. “Prudence, it’s not my place to say it, but I will. Your mother was my sister and I guess I got the right. That is not a proper name for a child. I’m sorry, but it simply is not.”

  “Cush, that’s my baby’s name,” Pru said.

  “It’s not right,” Alma said.

  Pru rocked back and forth, bare feet brushing light against the porch. “Noah woke,” Pru said, “and he know his son Ham seen him naked in his tent. An’ Noah say, ‘I’m cursin’ all your children, Ham, that’s what I’m goin’ to do. And lo, that’s what he did. An’ one of Ham’s sons was called Cush.’”

  “I don’t care if he was or not,” Alma said. “You want a Bible name, there’s lots of names to choose, it doesn’t have to be Cush.”

  Pru gave Alma a disconcerting look. The look said maybe-I’m-present-but-I-might-have-stepped-out.

  “Lots of names, all right,” Pru said, “but not too many got a curse. I figure Cush here, he oughta have a name with a curse.”

  Alma wasn’t certain how she ought to answer that.

  * * *

  Alma found retirement a bore, just like she’d figured that she would. Her name was on the list for substitutes, but the calls that came were few and far between. She worked part-time for the Montgomery NAACP, taking calls and typing and doing what she could. She grubbed in the garden sometimes, and painted the outside of the house. She had thought for some time about a lavender house. The neighbors didn’t take to this at all, but Alma didn’t care. I might be into hot pink next year, she told Mrs. Sissy Hayes across the street. What do you think about that?

  She hadn’t been feeling too well since fall the year before. Getting tired too soon, and even taking afternoon naps. Something that she’d never done before. Painting the house wore her out, more than she cared to admit. I’m hardly even past sixty-five, she told herself. I’m a little worse for wear, but I’m not about to stop.

  What she thought she ought to do was drop by Dr. Frank’s and have a talk. Not a real appointment, just a talk. Stop by and talk about iron, maybe get a shot of B.

  Dr. Frank gave her seventeen tests and said you’d better straighten out, Alma Cree. You’re diabetic and you’ve got a bad heart. You’re maybe into gout. I’m not sure your kidneys are the way they ought to be.

  Alma drove home and made herself some tea. Then she sat down at the table and cried. She hadn’t cried since Lucy passed away, and couldn’t say when before that.r />
  “Oh Jesus,” Alma said aloud, the kitchen sun blurring through her tears. “I don’t want to get old, and I sure don’t want to die. But old’s my first choice, I think you ought to know that.”

  Her body seemed to sense Alma knew she’d been betrayed. There were no more occasional aches and pains, no more little hints. The hurt came out in force with clear purpose and intent.

  The pills and shots seemed to help, but not enough. Alma didn’t like her new self. She’d never been sick and she didn’t like being sick now. She had to quit the part-time job. Working in the garden hurt her knees. Standing up hurt her legs and sitting down hurt everything else. What I ought to do, Alma said, is take to drink. It seems to work for everyone else.

  All this occurred after Uncle Fry’s abortive skirt with death, and her trip down to the farm. In spite of her own new problems, Alma tried to keep in touch with Pru. She wrote now and then, but Pru never wrote back. Alma sent a little money when she could. Pru never said thanks, which didn’t surprise Alma a bit. Pru’s mother Lucy, rest her soul, had always been tight with a dollar, even when she wasn’t dirt poor. Maybe cheap runs in Pru’s blood, Alma thought. God knows everything else peculiar does. Lucy flat cheap, and her husband a mean-eyed drunk. No one knew who had fathered Pru’s child, least of all Pru. Whoever he was, he couldn’t account for Cush. Only God could take the blame for a child like Cush. Heredity was one thing, but that poor thing was something else. There weren’t enough bad genes in Alabama to gang up and come out with a Cush.

  * * *

  Alma felt she had to see Pru. She was feeling some better, and Dr. Frank said the trip would do her good. She had meant to come before, but didn’t feel up to the drive. In her letters to Pru, she had mentioned that she wasn’t feeling well, and let it go at that. Not that Pru likely cared—Alma wouldn’t know her niece was still alive if it wasn’t for Preacher Will. Will wrote every six months, the same two lines that said Pru and the child were just fine. Alma doubted that. How could they be just fine? How were they eating, how were they getting by? It had been nearly—what? Lord, close to three years. That would make Cush about four. Who would have guessed the child would live as long as that?

  As ever, Alma felt a tug from the past as she drove off the highway and onto the red dirt road. She was pleased and surprised to see the land looking fine, much better than it had the time before. The water at the creek was much higher, and running nearly clear. Wildflowers pushed up through the weeds and vines. As she watched the dark water, as she tried to peer down into the deep, a thin shaft of light made its way through the thick green branches up above, dropping silver coins in the shallows by the bank. Alma saw a sudden dart of color, quick crimson sparks against the citron-yellow light.

  “Will you just look at that!” she said, and nearly laughed aloud. “Redfin minnows coming back. I’ll bet you all still fool enough to eat spit!”

  If her back wasn’t giving her a fit, if she hadn’t stiffened up from the drive, Alma would have hopped out and given spit a try. Instead, she drove through the trees and back out into the sun, up the last hill through the field and to the house.

  For a moment, Alma thought that she’d gotten mixed up somehow and turned off on the wrong road. The catbrier and nettles were gone. The field was full of tall green corn. Closer to the house, the corn gave way to neat rows of cabbages, okra and tomatoes, squash and lima beans. The house was freshly painted white. All the windows had glossy black trim and new screens. A brick walk led up to the porch, and perched on the new gravel drive was a blue Ford pickup with oversize tires.

  Alma felt a sudden sense of hopelessness and fear. Pru’s gone, she thought. She’s gone, and someone else is living here. She’s gone, and there isn’t any telling where that crazy girl went.

  Alma parked behind the pickup truck. There wasn’t any use in going in. Maybe someone would come out. She rolled the window down. A hot summer breeze dissolved the colder air at once. Alma thought about honking. Not a big honk, not something impolite, just a quick little tap. She waited just a moment, just a small moment more. Then something in the field caught her eye, and she turned and heard the rattle of the corn, looked and saw the green stalks part and saw the scarecrow jerk-step-jiggle down the rows, saw the denim overalls faded white hanging limp on the snap-dry arms, saw the brittle-stick legs, saw the mouse-nibble gray felt hat, stratified with prehistoric sweat, saw the face like a brown paper sack creased and folded thin as dust, saw the grease-spot eyes and the paper-rip mouth, saw this dizzy apparition held together now and then with bits of rag and cotton string.

  “Why, Uncle John Ezekiel Fry,” Alma said, “it’s nice to find you looking so spry. Think the corn’ll do good this year?”

  “Crowbar-Chattahoochee-suck,” said Uncle Fry. “Cling peach-sourdough-crotch…”

  “Lord God,” Alma said. She watched Uncle Fry walk back into the corn. Either Uncle John Fry or a gnat got in her eye, either John Ezekiel Fry or a phantom cloud of lint. If he’s still here, Alma thought, then Pru’s around, too, though something’s going on that isn’t right.

  At that very moment, Alma heard the screendoor slam and saw Pru running barefoot down the steps—Pru, or someone who looked a whole lot like Pru, if Pru filled out and wasn’t skinny as a rail, if she looked like Whitney what’s-her-name. If she did her hair nice and bought a pretty pink dress and didn’t look real goofy in the eyes. If all that occurred, and it seemed as if it had, then this was maybe Lucy’s only daughter Prudence Jean.

  “Aunt Alma, sakes alive,” Pru said, “my, if this ain’t a nice surprise!”

  Before Aunt Alma could drag her aches and pains upright, Pru was at the car, laughing and grinning and hugging her to death.

  “Say, you look fine,” said Pru. “You look just as fine as you can be.”

  “I’m not fine at all, I’ve been sick,” Alma said.

  “Well, you sure look good to me,” Pru said.

  “It wouldn’t hurt you much to write.”

  “Me and the alphabet never got along too good,” said Pru. “But I sure think about you all the time.”

  Alma had her doubts about that. Pru led her up the brick walk across the porch and in the house. Once more, Alma felt alarmed, felt slightly out of synch, felt as if she’d found the wrong place, felt as if she might be out of state. A big unit hummed in the window and the air was icy cold. The wood floor was covered with a blue-flowered rug. There were pictures on the walls. A new lamp, a new couch, and new chairs.

  “Pru,” Alma said, “you want to tell me what’s going on around here? I mean, everything sure looks nice, it looks fine.…”

  “I bet you’re hot,” Pru said. “You just sit and I’ll get some lemonade.”

  I’m not hot now, Alma thought. Isn’t anybody hot, you got the air turned down to thirty-two. She could hear Pru humming down the hall. Probably got a brand new designer kitchen, too. A fridge and a stove colored everything but white.

  Lord Jesus, the place painted up, a new truck and new screens and a house full of Sears! No wonder Preacher Will never said a whole lot.

  Alma didn’t want to think where the money came from, Pru looking slick as a fashion magazine, all her best parts pooching in or swelling out. What’s a person going to think? A girl doesn’t know her alphabet past D, she isn’t working down at Merrill Lynch. What she’s working is a Mobile dandy with a mouth full of coke-white teeth and a Cadillac to match.

  It’s not right, Alma thought. Looks like it pays pretty good, but it’s not the thing a girl ought to do. That’s what I’ll say, I’ll say, Pru, I know you’ve had a real bad time with Cush and all, but it’s not the thing to do.

  Pru brought the lemonade back, sat down and smiled like the ladies do in Vogue when they’re selling good perfume.

  “Aunt Alma,” she said, “I bet you want to hear ’bout all this stuff I got around. I got an idea you maybe would.”

  Alma cleared her throat. “Well, if you feel like you want to tell me, Pru, that�
��s fine.”

  “I sorta had good fortune come my way,” Pru said. “I was workin’ in the corn one day when my hoe hit somethin’ hard. I dug it up and found a rusty tin can. Inside the can was a little leather sack. And inside that, praise God, was nine twenty-dollar gold coins lookin’ fresh as they could be. I took ’em to the bank and Mr. Deek say, nine times twenty, Miz Pru, that’s a hundred and eighty dollahs, but I’ll give you two hundred on the spot. An’ I say I don’t guess you will, Mr. Deek, I said I ain’t near as touched as I maybe used to be. I said I seen a program ’bout coins on the public TV.

  “So what I did, I took a bus down to Mobile an’ found an ol’ man cookin’ fish. I say, can you read and write? He says he can, pretty good, and I say, buy me a book about coins and read me what it says. He does, and he reads up a spell and says, Lord Jesus, girl, these here coins is worth a lot. I say, tell me how much? He says, bein’ mint condition like they is, ’round forty-two-thousand-ninety-three, seems to me. Well it took some doing, but I ended up gettin’ forty-six. I give the man helped me a twenty dollar bill, and that left me forty-five, nine-hundred-eighty to the good. Now isn’t that something? God sure been fine to me.”

  “Yes, He—well, He certainly has, Pru. I guess you’ve got to say that.…”

  The truth is, Alma didn’t know what to say. She was stunned by the news. All that money from an old tin can? Money lying out in that field for more than a hundred years? Papa and Mama living rag-dirt poor, and nobody ever found a nickel till Pru. Of course, Pru could use the money, that’s a fact. But it wouldn’t have hurt a thing if one or two of those coins had showed up about 1942.

  * * *

  Pru served Alma a real nice supper, and insisted she stay the night. Alma didn’t argue a lot. The trip down had flat worn her out. Pru said she’d fixed up her grandma’s room, and Alma didn’t have to use the air.

  All through the long hot brassy afternoon, while the sun tried to dig through the new weatherstripping and the freshly painted walls, Pru rattled on about the farm and Uncle Fry and how well the garden grew and this and that, talked about everything there was to talk about except Cush. Alma said maybe once or twice, how’s Cush doing, and Pru said real quick Cush is doing fine. After that, Alma didn’t ask. She tried to pay attention, and marvel at the Kenmore fridge and the noisy Cuisinart, but her mind was never far from the child. Pru seemed to know, seemed to feel the question there between them, felt it hanging in the air. And when she did, she hurried on to some brand new appliance colored fire-engine red or plastic green. And that was as far as Alma got about Cush.