by Walker Percy
“I got my own way of growing vanda—that’s what you call Hawaiian orchid. Don’t nobody know about it. I’ve applied for a patent. You’re a lawyer. You want to know what it is?”
“Sure.”
Mr. Eberhart moved closer. “I use chestnut chips and a steady temperature. Most people think they got to have seventy to eighty degrees. But what vanda don’t like and you got to watch is your sudden temperature change. And up here you can give them full sunlight.”
“We got plenty of both, chestnut and steady temperature.”
“That’s where your money is.”
“Where’s that?” Arms folded, they gazed out over the St. Mark’s putting green.
“In orchids.”
“Is that right?”
“You want to know who buys orchids now?”
“Yes.”
“The colored. I sold five hundred corsages to one colored-debutante ball.”
“You want the job? I can get you some help.”
“Sure. When do I start?”
“Next week.”
“Okay.” He went back to watering the pines but called after him. “I’ll tell you where else the money is.”
“Where?”
“Lettuce. If we got the room.”
“We got the room. Do you know what a head of lettuce costs you up here?”
“No.”
“A dollar and a half.”
Mr. Eberhart blinked. “Did you say cave air?”
“Yes.”
“I got to see that.”
10
Before he found Father Weatherbee in the attic, watching trains, he was stopped by a big florid fellow wearing an L & N engineer’s cap. The man had a nose like J. P. Morgan—there were noses on his nose—and wore a double-breasted blue blazer with brass buttons.
“Aren’t you Will Barrett?”
“Yes sir.”
“Boykin Ramsay of Winston-Salem. Reynolds Tobacco.”
“Yes sir.”
“You own this place.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t charge enough.”
“Is that right?”
“I understand you’re going to start a Council on Aging here.”
“I hadn’t heard of it. It sounds like my daughter’s idea—I was thinking of starting something else—farming in cave air.”
“I’m eighty-five years old and I’m here to tell you I don’t need any goddamn Council on Aging.”
“I see.”
Mr. Ramsay grabbed him around the shoulders and pulled him close. “Come here, Will,” he said with a heavy but not unpleasant bourbon breath. “I want to tell you something.”
“Okay. I’m here.”
“I’m going to tell you the secret of getting old.”
“Okay.”
“Money.”
“Money?”
“Making money and keeping it. If you work hard and make money and keep it, I’m here to tell you you don’t need any goddamn Council on Aging or educating the public and all that shit. That’s how come the Chinese were right or used to be. They kept their money and kept the respect of their families. That’s the secret.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I’m married to the sorriest damn woman in North Carolina and I got three sons who the only reason they are working is I won’t support them. They’re all waiting for me to die and I’m just mean enough not to. I came up here to take care of myself. Will, you be a mean old son of a bitch like me and you’ll have a long happy life.”
“Is that right?”
“And I’m also up here to play golf. I hear you’re a real sandbagger.”
“Well—”
“Let me tell you something, Will.”
“All right.”
“I’m eighty-five years old and I play eighteen holes of golf every day. I line up nine mini-bottles of square Black Jack Daniel’s on the tray of the golf cart when I start out and knock back one on every other tee and I break ninety. Council on Aging my ass. How you going to counsel me?”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“Come on down to my room and I’ll counsel you. I got some Wild Turkey.”
He looked at his watch. It was three-thirty. She might still be at the greenhouse. Suppose she went back to the greenhouse and forgot about time and got becalmed by her four o’clock feeling. Suppose they came to get her. What would he do if they took her away?
“I just thought of something. I have to go out for a while.”
Mr. Ramsay pulled him close. “Just remember one thing.”
“Okay.”
“Hang on to your money.”
“Okay.”
He was backing away. He had to find her. His need of her was as simple and urgent as drawing the next breath.
11
Bars of yellow sunlight broke through the clouds and leveled between the spokes of the pines. She was singing and planting avocado pits. They had sprouted, tiny spiky Mesozoic ferns.
He had heard her from a distance, standing still in the cold dripping woods, and did not recognize her. The voice was unlike her speaking voice, bell-like, lower-pitched, and plangent. It was as if she were playing an instrument. Now as he stood close to her in the potting shed, the voice had a throaty foreign sound.
The dog watched him but she did not know he was there until he stood behind her and touched her. Unsurprised, she blushed and fell back against him, crossing her arms to touch his.
“Look!” she cried. “It’s my first crop! They’re already sprouting!”
“I didn’t know you could do that,” he said.
“Transplant?”
“No. Sing.”
“I was a singer.”
“What was that song?”
“It is called Liebesbotschaft. Love’s Message.”
“What does it say?”
“The lover is asking a brook to carry his message of love to a maiden.”
“I never heard you sing before.”
“I didn’t feel like it. I stopped.”
“Why did you stop?”
“Because I thought I had to sing.”
“Do you think you’ll sing in the future?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have to. There is no reason not to. I think I can sing for people if you think it will give them pleasure. Do you?”
“Yes.”
She turned to face him. “Why did you come?”
“What? Oh. I was talking to a man at St. Mark’s and all of a sudden I realized it was almost four o’clock and I wanted to see you.”
“You wanted to see me because you know how I feel at four o’clock in the afternoon?”
“That and more.”
“What is the more?”
“I wanted badly to uh see you.”
“Is that all?”
“Not quite.”
She clapped her hands. “What luck.”
“Luck?”
“That we both want the same, that is, the obverse of the same. The one wanting the other and vice versa. What luck. Imagine.”
“Yes.”
“To rule out a possible misunderstanding, what is it you want?”
“To lie down here by the Grand Crown where it is warm and put my arms around you.”
“What luck. Here we are. Hold me.”
“I am.”
“Oh, I think you have something for me.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Love. I love you,” he said. “I love you now and until the day I die.”
“Oh, hold me. And tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Is what you’re saying part and parcel of what you’re doing?”
“Part and parcel.”
They were lying on the dog’s croker sacks next to the glowing amber lights of the firebox.
“Tell me the single truth, not two or more separate truths, unless separate truths are subtruths of the single
truth. Is there one truth or several separate truths?”
“Both.”
“How both?”
“The single truth is I love you. The several subtruths are: I love your dearest heart. I also love your dear ass, which is the loveliest in all of Carolina. I want your ass, it and no other, and you for the rest of my life, you and no other. I also love to see you by firelight. I will always come to see you at four o’clock every afternoon if only to sit with you if it does not please you to make love—”
“It pleases me. How about now?”
“—because I love to sit by you and watch your eyes, which see everything exactly as it is. And to watch the line of your cheek. These are separate truths but are also subtruths of the single truth, I love you.”
“Yes, they are and it is. I have a separate truth.”
“What?”
“I love your mouth. Give it to me.”
“All right.”
When they sat up, he said worriedly: “I forgot to take my acid today. I wonder what my pH is.”
“I don’t know,” she said, “but please ascertain it and maintain at the present level, high or low, whichever the case may be.”
“Right,” he said absently. “Is the dog ready?”
“Sure. I have packed his food. He can stay in the motel, can’t he?”
“Sure.” They looked at the dog. “Let’s go to the car. I’ll drop you and the dog at the motel. Then I have one errand to run. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Very good.”
The dog knew he was to go with them and followed without being called.
12
Father Weatherbee sat behind Jack Curl’s mahogany desk with its collection of Russian ikons and bleeding Mexican crucifixes. Perched nervously on the edge of his chair, he looked like a timid missionary summoned by his bishop. His eyelid, lip, and collar drooped.
“Yes, Mr. Barrett?”
“Father Weatherbee, I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get right to the point.”
“Fine,” said Father Weatherbee, who in fact seemed anxious to get back to the attic and the Seaboard Air Line.
“I intend to be married.”
“Very good! My congratulations!” Father Weatherbee half rose from his chair, perhaps intending to shake hands, then changed his mind, sat down.
“I want you to perform the ceremony.”
“Very good!” Father Weatherbee rose again, sat down. His lip blew a bubble. “Yes, indeed! Well! Father Curl will be back from his ecumenical council next week and I’m sure he’d be pleased to do the ah honors.”
“I want you.”
“Oh dear,” said the old priest, leaning in his chair as if he were figuring how to get past him and out. The bleb blew up again. (Was he afraid of taking on the job just as I am afraid of taking a deposition or passing an act of sale?) “Well, let’s see. Are you a member of St. John’s congregation?” he asked, looking for a way out.
“No, not of St. John’s nor of the Episcopal Church.”
“Oh,” said Father Weatherbee, brightening for the first time, relieved. Here was his loophole. “And your fiancée?”
“No, she’s not a member of this or any church.”
“Ah,” said Father Weatherbee, smiling for the first time, off the hook for sure. “Perhaps the thing to do is for one or both of you to take instruction first, and Father Curl is your man for that.”
“No. I am not a believer and do not wish to enter the church.”
“I see.” The old priest pressed the bleb back and pushed his finger up into his gum. He screwed up one bloodshot eye as if he might yet make sense of this madman. The trouble was catching on to the madness, the madness of the new church, the madness of America, and telling one from the other. “Excuse me, but I don’t seem quite to—”
“The Jews may or may not be a sign,” said Will Barrett earnestly, leaning halfway across the desk. His pH was rising. When his speedy hydrogen ions departed, so did the Jews. Later, Dr. Ellis would write a scientific article on the subject, entitled: “A Correlation of Plasma pH with Certain Religious Delusions in a Case of Hausmann’s Syndrome.”
“How’s that again?” asked Father Weatherbee, cupping an ear. Did he say Jews?
“It may be true that they have not left North Carolina altogether as I had supposed. Yet their numbers are decreasing. In any event, the historical phenomenon of the Jews cannot be accounted for by historical or sociological theory. Accordingly, they may be said to be in some fashion or other a sign. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“The Jews?” repeated Father Weatherbee, turning his other ear.
“My own hunch,” said Will Barrett, hitching his chair even closer to the desk while Father Weatherbee rolled his chair back, “is that the Apostolic Succession involved a laying on of hands, right? This goes back to Christ himself, a Jew, a unique historical phenomenon, as unique as the Jews. Present-day Jews, whether or not they have departed North Carolina for Israel, similarly trace their origins to the same place and to kinsmen of Jesus, right? Modern historians agree there is no scientific explanation for the strange history of the Jews—”
He paused, frowning, wondering where he had gotten such an idea. Who were these “modern historians”? He couldn’t think of a one. “Excuse me, Father, please bear with me a moment.” (Father? Perhaps he didn’t like to be called Father? Reverend? Mister? Sir?) “What I am suggesting is that though I am an unbeliever, it does not follow that your belief, the belief of the church, is untrue, that in fact it may be true, and if it is, the Jews may be the clue. Doesn’t Scripture tell us that salvation comes from the Jews? At any rate, the Jews are the common denominator between us. That is to say, I am not a believer but I believe I am on the track of something. I may also tell you that I have the gift of discerning people and can tell when they know something I don’t know. Accordingly, I am willing to be told whatever it is you seem to know and I will attend carefully to what you say. It is on these grounds that I ask you to perform the ceremony. In fact, I demand it—ha ha—if that is what it takes. You can’t turn down a penitent, can you? We are also willing to take instructions, as long as you recognize I cannot and will not accept all of your dogmas. Unless of course you have the authority to tell me something I don’t know. Do you?” Will Barrett was leaning halfway across the desk.
Father Weatherbee’s chair had rolled back until it hit the wall. His white eye spun. His good bloodshot eye looked past his nose bridge at Will Barrett as if he were a cobra swaying atop his desk.
“Oh dear,” he sighed. “Surely it would seem that Father Curl is your man—though of course I should be glad to be of any assistance I can.”
“No, you’re my man. I perceive that you seem to know something—and that by the same token Jack Curl does not.”
“Oh dear,” said Father Weatherbee and, sinking in his chair, appeared to be muttering to himself. He looked around vaguely and spoke so softly that Will Barrett had to cup his good ear. “It seems I understand simple foreign folk better than my own people. It seems I understand every country in the world better than my own country.” He craned up his neck like a Philippine bird and looked in every direction except Will Barrett’s. “How can we be the best dearest most generous people on earth, and at the same time so unhappy? How harsh everyone is here! How restless! How impatient! How worried! How sarcastic! How unhappy! How hateful! How pleasure-loving! How lascivious! Above all, how selfish! Why is it that we have more than any other people, are more generous with what we have, and yet are so selfish and unhappy? Why do we think of nothing but our own pleasure? I cannot believe my eyes at what I see on television. It makes me blush with shame. Did you know that pleasure-seeking leads to cruelty? That is why more and more people beat their children. Children interfere with pleasure. Do you hate children? Why can’t we be grateful for our great blessings and thank God?” As he gazed down at the desk, he seemed to have forgotten Will Barrett. His voice sank to a whisper. “Why is it that Americans who are the b
est dearest most generous people on earth are so unhappy?” He shook his head. “I don’t—”
“Yes! Right!” said Will Barrett excitedly and leaned even closer. “That is why I say it is so important to recognize a sign when you—”
But the old priest did not seem to be listening. “There is a tiny village in Mindanao near Naga-Naga on the coast which I was able to visit only once a year. They are as poor as any people on earth, yet how kind and gentle and loving they are to each other! And happy! When I would come to the village little children would run out laughing with joy to see me, take me by the hand and lead me around the village to visit the old and the sick and the blind—and they were even happier to see me than the children! They believed me! They believed the Gospel whole and entire, and the teachings of the church. They said that if I told them, then it must be true or I would not have gone to so much trouble. During my absence betrothed couples remained continent and cheerful of their own volition.” He sat back and looked up timidly. The bleb on his lip inflated.
“Right!” cried Will Barrett. In his excitement he had risen from his chair and started around the desk. “Tell me something, Father. Do you believe that Christ will come again and that in fact there are certain unmistakable signs of his coming in these very times?”
By now Father Weatherbee had also risen and had sidled past, keeping the desk between them, nodding and smiling. If only he could get back to the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe and the lonesome whistle of the Seaboard Air Line, the only things in all of America he recognized.
Will Barrett stopped the old priest at the door and gazed into his face. The bad eye spun and the good eye looked back at him fearfully: What do you want of me? What do I want of him, mused Will Barrett, and suddenly realized he had gripped the old man’s wrists as if he were a child. The bones were like dry sticks. He let go and fell back. For some reason the old man did not move but looked at him with a new odd expression. Will Barrett thought about Allie in her greenhouse, her wide gray eyes, her lean muscled boy’s arms, her strong quick hands. His heart leapt with a secret joy. What is it I want from her and him, he wondered, not only want but must have? Is she a gift and therefore a sign of a giver? Could it be that the Lord is here, masquerading behind this simple silly holy face? Am I crazy to want both, her and Him? No, not want, must have. And will have.
