by Paul Hawkins
Her face reddened and she turned to leave.
He called after her. "You insist on wearing those earrings even though they don't match anything else, because they show you were somebody once. They show that to yourself, anyway – that you were better than all of this."
She turned back toward him with her face in an odd twist. "So that's how you convinced people you were a golden child? Because you have this trick for noticing little things? Because you can tell them about themselves?"
His lips stretched in a thin smile. "It's only a trick if you misuse it. Otherwise it's a gift."
She walked briskly away.
He sat back down, finished his cigarette, and put it out on his plate.
Chapter 12
Otto disappeared all afternoon the next day. It annoyed Mr. White, but he busied himself organizing notes and dioramas of the museum until he got sick of those, and then he noticed that the mail had brought with it an odd, small package from an infrequent correspondent in the Middle East. He tore off the paper and found the contents to be mostly padding with just one small seed packet in the middle. It was gaudy and looked like the kind of thing a timid tourist might buy one foot off the gangplank at some port of call, just to say they had been some place. The packet read:
Century Plant:
These iron-hard seeds sprout at their own schedule, waiting centuries if need be for the right conditions, suddenly thriving and producing vivid orange blossoms like the fire that consumes the phoenix, and disappearing just as quickly. Treasured by Bedouins, their blossoming is seem as a prayer of thanks for the infrequent rains, and is a cause of celebration and the expectation of good fortune.
Part of him told him it was tacky, but he liked the package, so he went upstairs and put on what passed for old work clothes then set out to the 20 x 20 patch of tilled soil a few yards from his back porch.
This small patch of dirt that Otto had turned over for him represented his attempt at gardening. He tended it when he could. His keen eyes appraised the broken, clodded surface for signs of green shoots, but there were none. A scarecrow of hideous original design (with catalog-purchased authentic rustic clothes) was elevated on a pole in the middle and towered over both him and the broken soil. On intermittent stakes he had tacked the seed packets of the vegetables and flowers he had planted. He stomped amidst the rows bearing representations of turnips and radishes, found a loose stake, and drove it through this exotic packet as well. Then he dug a small hole for the seed and dropped it in the ground. As he shoved some dirt back over it with the toe of shoe he scoffed but noticed that his mind’s eye was already conjuring a scene of expert horticulturalists from miles around gathered at his place, congratulating White and witnessing this rarest and most beautiful of desert blossoms that none of them had ever been able to nurture before. That was motivation enough – he would come back out and over-water it later.
He was dragging his hands across the legs of his pants to get the dirt off them when a piercing report rent the air and an arm from his scarecrow fell to the ground beside him.
He heard a high-pitched voice in the distance whoop with joy. "I got him! I got him!"
"You near-sighted idiot!" a gruff voice chastised, "You shot his scarecrow!"
"Fer the Bolsheviks!" the high-pitched voice cried, and a lanky figure appeared in the distance charging toward the house. A second man, shorter and heavier, puffed along behind him.
White threw himself the ground and crawled quickly to his back porch. Another shot rent the air. Ernest made a break for it, rose to his feet, and scrambled up the back steps and through the screen door. Once inside he stood flat against the wall, his chest heaving. Then he craned his neck and peered between the curtains of the kitchen window. When he saw the shadows of the men coming closer he grabbed a bust of Minerva from a table in the den and then ran down the hall and hid in the bathtub with the curtain drawn behind him.
A few seconds later he heard the backdoor open and shut, and then open and shut a second time, more quietly. Then he heard footsteps inside his house.
"Where's he hide his gold?" the gruff voice asked.
"You mean the peoples' gold."
"Yeah – that's what I mean. Where you reckon he hides the peoples’ gold?"
"In a safe, behind a picture of an ancestor. That's the way it always is."
"Then start looking for one of those."
He heard the footfalls of the men pacing through his house. He had never felt so alone in his life – the sound of his own blood pumping almost overwhelmed him. She stood stock-still in mortal fear. He thought any little breath or movement on his part would give him away.
Then he heard something else, a siren on the distance, approaching. The intruders seemed to hear it too. Their rummaging noises ceased.
"Who'd you tell we was coming here?" the gruff voice hissed suddenly.
"I didn't tell no one."
"You're lying! You just can’t keep that tongue of yours still! I ought to wring your neck..!"
"You get drunk so much I suspect you tole everybody!" the thin earnest voice piped.
"Why you son of a bitch..!"
White heard the sound of the two men scuffling, then a high-pitched yelp, followed by sudden footsteps that came his way, and Mr. White hoisted the statue. The next moment the shower curtain parted, and a thin-faced, pale young man was looking straight at him with eyes that turned as big as saucers.
"Oh dear god..." the thin fellow said and fainted straight away. He collapsed backward like the world’s cheesiest thespian, one forearm over his brow. His head crashed against the toilet.
The gruff man came in two steps after him and was in such a rage that did not notice White. Instead he hunched over the collapsed body of his associate. "If you think playing' possum's gonna get you out of this..!" he began, but White brought Minerva down square on his skull. The man collapsed on top of his skinny accomplice.
White stared at them for a full second and then stepped gingerly from the bathtub and over the two bodies. Just then he heard a knocking at his front door.
"Mr. White, Mr. White – you home? Mr. White, it's the sheriff – is everything okay in there?"
Ernest walked to the front door and met the tired old bulldog of a sheriff. "No, everything's not okay. I was just shot at by two men invading my home. I apprehended them – I have them back here."
"You apprehended them?"
"Just come on."
The sheriff followed White back to the bathroom, looked down at the two men, and clucked his teeth. One of the men, the gruff one, was already waking up. The sheriff hauled his body upright and put cuffs on his hands behind his back. The other still slept as blissfully as a baby.
"Fortunately for you people in town talk a lot," the sheriff said. "Somebody shot off their mouth that someone might be trying to rob your place."
White nodded.
"What you have here are two very different men," the sheriff continued. "This one, this fat sorry sack of shit, he's a common thief of the lowest order. But this lanky boy here, he's something else."
The heavier man with the unshaven face looked at them both with smouldering eyes but then looked away.
"Goading someone else into carrying the gun again, huh Billy?" the sheriff asked. "Always one to avoid the dirty work yourself."
The man said nothing. Mr. White looked down at the second man, the pallid lanky man fast asleep.
"Who's he?" Mr. White asked.
"One of the new ones in town, one of the greener ones. Got all stirred up at a meeting of workmen the other night – someone read a write-up about you in the paper, coming home with all your fortune. Well, green horn here up and sings the Internationale and they pretend to like it and let him get all stirred up about injustice built into the system and the working man downtrodden for too long and whatever else they can get him all worked up about, all the while laughing to themselves at his expense. Well, I guess he gets too full of himself and makes it personal,
like it's a chance to prove himself to these ne'er-do-wells who don't really give a damn about him anyway."
"Odd."
"Foreman was good enough to warn me about him. He's out of place here and kind of emotional. Look at him – doesn't look like he could hurt a flea. Gawd, look at that ancient squirrel rifle he was using. Lucky it didn't blow up in his face."
"Sheriff..."
"There's something broken in the world to drive a boy like that to do something he's so unfit for."
"Sheriff, I could abide you philosophizing a little better if he hadn't tried to kill me."
The sheriff looked back at Ernest. "Of course, of course, Mr. White. I wasn't excusing him." He nudged the sleeping body with the toe of his boot. "Deputy will be here soon to help cart these two away. That valet of yours isn't around, is he?"
"No, he's never around anymore. The charms of this fair community have lured him away."
"They'll do that. Met my fiancé out here when I thought for sure I'd settle in St. Louis."
Ernest nodded. "I understand. Just give me a ring when you need me to file charges."
The sheriff nodded. Soon thereafter the deputy arrived, and the two lawmen escorted their suspects out the door.
Ernest felt jittery the rest of the afternoon. He downed three stiff drinks in rapid succession to steady his nerves but then pushed the bottle away to seek a tamer diversion. He tried to lose himself in a book but found himself repeatedly fingering his temples to make sure no bullet had secretly grazed him and feeling slightly disappointed that none had. Finally he was able to go to sleep.
He woke up about four in the afternoon, remembering his recent brush with mortality. A sudden disquiet like a ragged spirit moved in him. He got dressed, climbed into his cream and burgundy car, and drove into town. He came to a big house at the end of a quiet street. He strode up to the door and knocked. A lean, strong-looking young man answered the door. His sculpted face lit into rage when he saw who it was.
"You have no business coming here!" the young man growled, but a voice behind his asked an inaudible question in muffled tones. The young man announced Mr. White's name in reply, and the voice in the background said, "Shut up Azimuth. Let him in."
Mr. White stepped into the house. The interior was dark but rich, if somewhat showy. There was a man’s presence in it but a woman’s touch mixed in – flowers on the table but deer heads on the wall. And in a chair at the far end of the living room sat Ben Sweet. His face was still bruised from the fight he and E.L. had had earlier.
"Leave us alone, please, Az," he said to the young man. "Go keep an eye on the folks at the store."
The young man scowled, and his hands clenched in fists at his sides, but after a moment he stalked out of the room. Mr. White stood and produced from behind his back a peace-offering bottle of pricey whiskey, or at any rate okay whiskey in a fancy bottle. Ben looked at him and gestured to the couch. Ernest took off his hat, set the bottle on a table, and then sat down.
"I came to apologize to you," Ernest said.
After a while, Ben slowly nodded. "I understand, Ernest. None of us has a monopoly on causing trouble."
Ernest agreed.
Ben sat quiet, but then he looked up. "Why did you have to come back? You’ve brought the whole damn past back with you. We've all done evil. Hell, you've done evil, Ernest."
Ernest said nothing and stared for a while. Finally he said, "I just came back here because I’m from here. I wish there was more to it than that, Ben, but that’s all there is. I’m here because I belong here."
Ben nodded. "A decade ago I wouldn’t have believed you, Ernest. But now I’m old enough to understand some stupid sentiment like that. For what it's worth, let me say this: that night, when the crowd overran me, Larr told me it was best to step aside. Not to bar the door, not to fire a shot. Larr told me that, should the mob exert itself, it was best to let the will of the people be done that night, or the whole town would go up in flames."
"Is that true?"
"That he said it? That he put the mortal fear in me that the whole town was going to explode? Yeah, it's true."
"Then more's the pity for him," Ernest said.
Ben looked at him. "We get old E.L. and we get tired of carrying what we did, but we can't deny it."
"Well then, we can't get tired."
Ben sat forward and a flush of color rose to his face and he looked at him. "That's the thing, isn't it? We can't get tired. We can't get any rest."
"I suppose that's it," Ernest said.
Ben stared, and some anger rose to his countenance, but it faded again, and he said nothing.
White stood and fingered the brim of his hat. "I have to be going," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, Ben, we have settled everything between us. Do you agree?"
"Yes, I agree. And one more thing, Ernest. You need to watch out for yourself. You let something slip around Larr the other day. He doesn't know if he can trust you."
"Well of course he can't trust me."
"Just watch your back," Ben said. "Look – my family, your family, and Larr – we know too much about each other."
"Yes. It’s damned inconvenient."
White put on his hat and walked to the door. When he stood in the open doorway he turned back to Ben. "I'm glad you're raising your boy to have some gumption," he said. "It makes you proud, doesn't it?"
"Hell yes," Ben answered.
"I envy you," Ernest said. He had his hand on the doorknob when a thought occurred to him. "Oh, and Ben, I might ask a favor of you."
"A favor?" Ben scowled, but once Ernest had explained it Ben agreed, and after that Ernest excused himself.
*
Otto returned to the house late in the evening, coming in through the back door.
Mr. White pivoted his head. "Where the hell were you all day?"
Otto took off his hat, set it on a peg in the mudroom, and immediately moved to the stove. He began marshaling cans and pans. Mr. White sat down at the table.
"I was visiting Constance," Otto said. "She's asked me to be on the town planning committee."
Mr. White unfurled the newspaper. "You two have been awfully friendly these days."
"I hope you don't mind. It was all business. It always is."
"Of course. It's fine."
"The people in this town have a lot of ambitious plans. Normally I'm leery of do-gooders, but these people actually care about the community. It's different when it's a real place and real people – not like that crowd in Europe that spun utopias for everybody else but kept themselves above it all."
"Yes."
"Constance wishes you could just settle down here, and devote yourself to something practical and constructive. And I do too."
White looked over the top of his paper. "When I need a Mommy and a Daddy again, I'll let you know."
"You should consider the fact that you do have a solid foothold here. Everyone appreciates your donation to put on a fair. The 'Bright Future' subcommittee says it's just the thing the people need to build enthusiasm."
"A town this small has subcommittees?"
"Yes."
"Good God."
They were staring at each other when there came a knock at the back door. Otto turned down the fire at the stove and then went and opened it. A tall man in business-like khakis looked in past Otto toward Mr. White.
"Sir, we're taken a look at the land," he said. "We think it will do fine."
"Thank you," White said.
"It's no problem sir – we appreciate the donation. Please leave the flags in the ground and we'll have some men finish the survey in a few days."
"Excellent," Mr. White said. He rose and shook the man's hand, and then the man departed.
"What was that about?" Otto asked.
"The WPA is relocating cemeteries from towns that will be flooded by the lake. Several will need to be moved. I am donating land for some of them."
Otto just looked at him. "Just what is it with you?" he
said at last.
His employer raised his bright blues eyes over the rim of his cup. "I beg your pardon?"
"My God, there's a bright future here and you're thinking about death."
"My own mortality has been called to my attention recently. And besides, there'll be plenty of time to focus on the future. There always is. But that doesn't mean we should dishonor the dead."
"It's necessary, I suppose," Otto conceded, "but it's unhealthy for a temperament like yours."
"Like mine?"
"Yes, like yours. All this damned theosophy, that office of yours out back that looks like a coffin, your plans for a museum that chronicles the West’s death spiral."
White shrugged his shoulders and answered his valet in a tone that was deliberately, overly bland. "We all have our hobbies."
Otto set his jaw a little. "But yours are unhealthy ones."
"Maybe so, but I’ll just have to bear that cross. By the way, whatever you have on the stove is burning."
Otto's face changed suddenly. He raced to the stove and attacked a flaming pan with a spatula.
White rose from his seat. "I think I’ll get some fresh air while you finish up in here. And listen, Otto – I’m glad you have found something worthwhile to do besides look after me. I honestly am."
"Well thank you."
"And next time you see Constance, give her my hello."
Otto reddened a little. "I will."
Mr. White walked up beside him and clasped his shoulder. "You never did learn how to hide anything from anyone, did you? I guess that's why I decided to trust you." Then he turned and took a hat down off its peg by the back door.
"Oh, and please save me a portion of whatever dinner you manage to salvage."
*
White launched himself from their spring-loaded bear-trap of a screen door into what proved to be a hot evening. He had two appointments to keep, but that did not mean he looked forward to them. He decided to walk to sort his thoughts. He walked through the night along narrow roads like he was walking through clouds of spiderwebs. Sucking on a cigarette did not calm him.
He walked slowly and noticed an "Entering Blaze" sign that stood amongst tall weeds on a neglected road. He passed this and the road curved sharply to the left and began climbing. Here and there in the distance lights of houses came into view, and on the air came a faint smell of cooking dinners, carried on steam.
White emerged into town and heard occasional distance bursts of braying laughter and other hoots of rowdiness. He redirected himself away from these. He walked between warehouses and came out to the blocks of businesses in dark brick buildings. From here he walked through the town square and paused in front of a sign showing an artist's conception of the dam and the beautiful blue lake with marinas and hotels around it. Here a fisherman caught a large mouth bass. There a sunburnt family with white teeth water-skied in unison.
