by Paul Hawkins
"Say Isaiah, why you love that colored boy so much?"
Isaiah’s eyes flashed. "As if there were any secrets to tell, and as if any of them could be trusted to you! Where were you when I first started out? God sent him to me when I was at my nadir, as if he’d found me the one man who could understand the depth of misfortune because of his own."
"What are you talking about, Isaiah?"
"Never mind – it’s enough for you to know that he helped me then and I’ll help him now. Now get out, Noah. I can't take more conversation."
Ernest took this moment to step into the room. Larr’s eyes widened when he saw him but then slid back into their easy lassitude.
"I’m sorry," Noah said. "I didn’t mean to be interrupting a family visit. I had better be off."
"That would be a good idea," Ernest said.
Larr looked at him but Ernest held his gaze and stared back until Larr slid his eyes aside and gave a polite bow to Mrs. White, and then departed. Ernest turned back from watching him leave and saw his father’s hands unclench at his sides.
"What the hell is that about?" Ernest asked.
Isaiah demurred, agitated. "Get the boy out of here, I’m too tired."
Ernest just stood there and so his mother took him gently by the elbow. He had turned to leave when he heard a faint voice come from behind him that seemed to almost choke on what it had to say.
"Thank you, son."
Ernest felt stony and insolent and could muster no reply. He told his mother to call on him again if need be. With that he went back out into the day and finished up the afternoon at his law office. He had been beset with a swarm of business in recent days – Mars was in ascendency. People were suing each other over disputed livestock, misplaced fences, and bad haircuts. Finally when he shooed the last ill-tempered client from his office it was 4:00 o’clock. He rushed to his car to pick up Atalanta. This time, however, he drove all the way to the town where she taught to pick her up. He did not want to risk an encounter between her and Constance at the depot. When he pulled his car up at the schoolhouse where she taught she immediately called out his design.
"You’re going to have to face her."
"But not tonight – tomorrow. It’s been a heck of a day. Come on, I’ll drive you by your home if you like and then we can go out."
Ernest drove her wildly back across the countryside as afternoon slid to evening, and when they got to her house she ducked in and soon came out wearing a smart magenta dress and it seemed as if all the care of the day had been erased from her except perhaps from the very corners of her eyes. She looked fresh and lovely but perhaps a little sad.
White looked inside to see a man collapsed and sleeping in his chair.
"Should we tell your father we're going?"
"No, don’t wake him up."
He helped her on with her jacket and opened the car door then climbed in beside her. When he got behind the wheel and looked across and saw her profile in the moonlight she looked more beautiful than anything he'd ever seen.
"When are you going to tell her about me?" she asked.
He turned the ignition and brought the engine to life with a roar. He stared at the gauges of the dashboard as if he'd never seen them before. "Soon – not just yet, but very soon. Tomorrow. I promise."
"You don't love her, do you?"
"Of course not. She’s very odd and calculating. She has some idea of settling down like some idealized painting of rustic Americana and growing over a decades-long process of accreting respectability and dignification until we have become the very pinnacle of landed gentry and rule every Rotary Club and Junior League up and down the valley with an iron fist. She wants me to live here and she'll organize soirées and I'll draft deeds and wills and file lawsuits about pigs, and I'll be..."
"Happy?"
He paused. "Yes. Whatever word it is they use. You know, these people who get over the awe and wonder of the world and settle down and buy Maxwell House. Whatever it is they claim to be."
Atalanta looked at him. "The word is 'happy'. She wants you to be able to hunker down and work at something and be happy."
"Yes."
"And there’s something wrong with that? I sometimes think you’re misleading me, Ernest. I sometimes think you still just want to be a circus act, and I’m a fool."
"Nonsense – it’s just this summer – all this heat. We’ll all feel giddy til it breaks."
"I don’t want to be anyone’s second choice, Ernest. Or some sideshow."
"You’re not going to be! Good grief, you made me drop my cigarette."
"I may ask you to give up the whole wide world just to show me that all you want is me, that even if we stay here, as long as you’re with me you can be happy."
"Well with you, yes, it’s entirely different."
"Why is it different?"
"Because I..."
"Yes.
He paused and deflected: "You’d really give up the whole wide wonderful world when I can tell you here and now that I can make it into your own personal picture frame, with every tint and facet of it just for you?"
"Yes, Ernest."
He pulled hard at his cigarette. "You’re a damned difficult girl."
"You never said why it was different with me."
"And damned smart. And damned beautiful."
"Just say it, Ernest."
"Well, don’t you already know?"
"No."
"Well – it’d be different because I love you."
She sat back. He saw the ghost of a smile come to her lips, her body stretch and then relax. "Where are we going tonight?" she said. "Is it the Shoals again?"
"Of course. And damn – I forgot to stop off on the way and get you the world’s biggest engagement ring."
"Your word is good – for now."
The Shoals was a place you found only if somebody told you about it. It didn't advertise; there were no signs for it. You found out about it only if you were at a nicer club and closing time came and somebody came up behind you and whispered "there's another place you can go where the music doesn't stop; there's another place where you can dance all night." And for no good reason you believed them and drove out into the countryside until you began to think you'd been sent out on a snipe hunt, then over a hill you’d see it like the overturned wreck of a riverboat, with trees pouring down toward it and cars parked every which out front. And even from that far out you’d hear the music.
He stopped his car and they walked together down the dirt slope toward the great wreck of a hall. He and Atalanta entered the dim cavernous interior and descended into the body-crowded, vast-proportioned darkness. They moved to one of the many mismatched shadowed tables near the pounding music's source.
"Let's dance," she said.
"Okay."
They moved on to the floor. In front of it was a semi-circle stage with bulbs pushing the darkness like fog away from the musicians. White closed his eyes and felt Atalanta warm in his arms and visualized the bold flamboyant notes held overlong and this, always this, was his antidote to worry. He felt he could relax – he felt her arms could not only hold onto him but hold him up, if need be, and he could be one notch more real and less foolish than he’d ever been before.
She looked at him and saw that his eyes were far away. "You think too much," she said. "You're lucky you're so handsome."
He smiled, and kissed her. She kissed him back and he held her for a long time, with the feeling of the music all around and through them.
Soon the music stopped and they still held each other, until the other couples moved around or past them to their tables or to some dark comer or away outside.
"You know what I'd like to do..." he said. But he saw her face look past his, and then he followed her eyes. There, in the doorway, stood Constance.
She was so white and calm and hard and foreign to the place that she made the haze of tobacco smoke preternaturally part. She was like flesh and stone and ice
. Several nearby men looked her over and smiled appreciatively, hoping she would see them see her. But her searching eyes found Ernest, and she moved towards him, and Atalanta pushed him a little to go toward her.
"Hello Ernest," she said. "I’m glad I found you. I want to tell you something. I was wrong to try to make you change. I understand you. You get in trouble when you're left alone too long. You've got two sides, the crazy side and the sensible side, and you've been carrying a heavy burden, practicing law and living close to your dying father. And I've decided that it'd be wrong to make you stay here once you’ve done carrying a burden like that. If you want to see the world, I'll leave with you," she said. "You need to be happy." She smiled up at him.
"I am happy," he said.
She smiled but her eyes looked past him toward Atalanta.
"You’ve had your fun, now. Ernest. But don’t be childish."
"I have decided something too," he said, "While you were gone..."
Constance searched his face.
"You're smitten Ernest. Life is going to get rough, even for you. We've shared things that will grow if we trust them to, even in adversity. There’s never been two more kindred souls than we are. We can take care of each other."
He stood and felt his heart briefly rekindle what it had felt for her back when summer was young and she had been unattainable. They could be a pair of white swans swimming the pond of the world together. All he had to do was pretend that the past few weeks with Atalanta had been nothing but an impetuous fling chalked up to loneliness and summer heat, and he and Constance could step into a role he had long-since minted and had ready in his mind: the darling spotlight couple of the smart set, sophisticated globe-trotting media-esque young lovers whom flashbulbs liked.
But as he saw this in his mind the whole thing turned to one side, like a prop held up by two-by-fours behind it, and the realization redeemed him. In its stead and defying it and laughing at it he felt the patience of life, a wonderful hungry blooming energy like organdy and excitement, the thing that was beautiful because it was strong, the thing he felt could be bigger than himself.
"I’m sorry," he said to Constance. "I’ve made up my mind."
"Don’t be a fool, Ernest."
"It’s too late for that."
Her face turned cruel. "I hope she’s smart enough to realize that even if you really love her, you’ll break her. You haven’t the aptitude to take care of anyone. You’ll fail her when she trusts you most. You can’t even protect yourself."
Constance turned and walked off, and the crowd stood back and watched her storm out the door. A chill fell over the dance hall for a century that last half a second. Ernest stood rock still and Atalanta walked up beside him. She slipped an arm in his, and its warmth began to give him back his pulse. He felt her presence seep inside him, and he dared to raise his eyes again to the world he felt would be their own. She was beautiful and he was glad, and in this noisy crowded place he alone was mirrored in her eyes, and their depth and beauty told him they'd survive, and he felt like the happiest man in the world.
"It'll be marvelous," he said.
"Yes." She looked at him. "Are you happy?"
"God yes I'm happy. I'll be with you. And you'll be with me, and we're both so goddamn young and beautiful..."
She smiled. She looked and saw his boyish eyes were very bright.
They stayed there late into the evening, each lost in the other’s company and happy, not wanting to remember they both had obligations the next day. But finally, somehow, it prevailed upon her and she reminded him. "You’re right," he said. "Let's go."
They climbed into his car and he felt the warmth of her body beside him and he kissed her every mile through the lopsided night as he drove her home. He parked in front of her house on the edge of town, underneath a myriad of stars.
"I thank you for the evening out," she said in overtly courtly manner.
"But..."
She looked at him. "Ernest, I thought you'd never realize how much I loved you."
He stared at her like a happy dope, like his mind was balancing stars on a knife.
"You've had enough for one night anyway," she said. She stood back and looked at him. He was a beautiful wreck. She laughed, and then he did too.
"We'll meet tomorrow. How about that garden by the courthouse, around lunch time?"
He smiled. "Okay," he said.
He looked at her and felt he loved her very much. He thought of the whole wide world and imagined all the gardens they'd invent wherever they were together.
Chapter 9
White dropped Atalanta back at her house then just drove aimlessly along the dirt roads that latticed this valley, and in which the small town he'd been living in the hung like a fly in a web. By the time he finally got home all he could think about was crawling into bed. But as he pulled his car up to the house he saw someone on his porch. He saw moonlight wrapping metal poles.
"Michael?"
Michael stared at him. "I got somethin' to tell you. Sit down."
White threw himself down on the porch and began padding his pockets for cigarettes. He finally found one and lit it. He exhaled a luxurious cloud. But when he looked through the smoke he saw that Michael still hadn't moved an inch and was staring straight at him.
'Oh hell, Michael, all right. What is it? Did the Shadow end on a cliffhanger and leave you all discomfited?"
'It's Ash," Michael said.
But the man in the linen suit blew smoke at the starlight. "What’s the matter that it can’t wait til morning? Go to bed, Michael. I'll drive you home."
Ernest yawned and stood up, then jingled his keys and began to walk to his car. Michael moved in front of him.
"Some girl lied and said he raped her."
"When?"
"Tonight."
White stared at him. "That's bullshit. You're always trying to get a rise out of me lately."
"It’s true."
But White stared at him. "Then your mistake was thinking that I'd care. Tell the sheriff. Tell a priest. Tell your mother. I am this close to being the happiest man on earth, with the woman I love, with a life that isn’t one freak show after another."
White sat on the porch and stared at Michael til he turned away. He lit a cigarette. He was so close – he deserved some quiet now. All he had to do was sit still or go to bed and the time would pass from one warm moment to the next, and then...
"Damn it Michael!" White said. He took the boy by the shoulder and spun him around.
"Listen, you absolutely promise that you're not going to lie to me. Understand?"
"I promise - I swear," Michael said.
"Okay, I need you to tell me two things: who is the woman who said Ash attacked her, and how do you know he didn't?"
Michael look at him. "The woman is Larr’s niece. His sister’s family hired Ash to do some work for them yesterday."
"What’s her story?"
"That he got to drinking, and that when she came around to check on him back near the barn he tried to sweet talk her, and when she tried to walk away he grabbed her, and when she pushed away he hit her. She has a big bruise on her face – the whole town’s seen it."
"And how do you know he didn’t do it."
"It’s not like Ash."
"You may not know him anymore."
"I know him well enough, and your father does. He may be down, but he wouldn’t do something like this. He was set up. Word is her own boyfriend done it, but Larr saw something he could seize at."
"Why?"
"God knows why. But the thing is this, the sight of this girl with this huge bruise on her face, and the accusation that he hit her, and what he was trying to do, it has more than half the town fired up. There are crowds outside the jailhouse now and the only thing between them and Ash are a few deputies and a key."
"This late at night?"
"They don't want to leave til something gets done."
"You're sure it was
this Larr girl? Absolutely positive?"
"Yes."
White sat back. "You swear this is true – you swear to God?"
"I swear." Michael’s face, which had been so grey and scoffing and insular of late took on a suddenly too-tender and fretful look and his voice got awkward. "This whole town thinks I’m grotesque – he’s been my friend..."
The young man’s sudden vulnerability repulsed him and White stubbed his cigarette out hard into the dirt. "I'm going to drop you off in town, and here's what I want you to do: go to the sheriff's office and tell him I'm coming, see? Tell him I'm acting as Ash’s lawyer. That ought to hold him til I get back."
"Where are you going?"
"To talk to that girl."
"Well you better know, they got her up at the Judge’s house."
"The Judge’s house?"
"Said she had a nervous fit, so she’s up with her girlfriend there. She says she’s too wrought up to take it right now."
"I see." His head began to swim. "Well, I need to talk to her."
After he dropped Michael off in town, Ernest drove recklessly down the dark clay roads. The oddest thing was that the big band music of earlier in the evening began pounding in his head as he did so. Dip, swirl, twist, dive, dip, all as he drove dreamily up and down clay lanes between fields of tall grass in the dark countryside.
Stars poured down towards him. Ash had worked on their farm when White was a boy. Once when Ernest was out crying after getting in trouble, Ash tried to calm him down by teaching him all the constellations shapes and names. "There's Orion, there's the Dipper..."
He swerved to stay on the road – a tree was right in front of him. He felt all dreamy and snapped his mind back to the present. He slapped his own face to stay awake.
Soon the night parted in front of his car and he saw a tall residence off in a field, the road heading in that direction. It was a tall white house with a pillared front. A light was on in one upstairs window and in the windows downstairs. He stopped his car and walked to the front of the house. The front door opened and a tall man with a gray moustache stood there in a red robe. He did not look like he had slept.
"Hello Judge," Ernest said.
"Come in. You're the White boy, aren't you? I suppose I know what you're here about. Well, step inside."
The room they stepped into was voluminous. The walls were a rich camel, like leather, and the furniture had deep red upholstery. Rows upon rows of books crawled up the walls, and the air smelled sweetly of tobacco.
