The Rough English Equivalent

THE ROUGH ENGLISH EQUIVALENT

THE ROUGH ENGLISH EQUIVALENT s

Stan Hayes

Writer’s Showcase San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai The Rough English Equivalent

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Writer’s Showcase an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

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Any resemblance to actual people and events is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

ISBN: 0-595-24579-X

Printed in the United States of America For both Guys, Jackie, Dee, Dougald & Toby

“From whence come wars and ﬁghtings among you? Come they not hence, Even of your lusts that war in your members?” —James 4: 1-3

Contents s

Bisquespeak ...... xi Chapter 1 Spring Break...... 1 Chapter 2 Steamed Pissaint ...... 7 Chapter 3 Hotel BIS-kew ...... 11 Chapter 4 A Ruptured Duck ...... 13 Chapter 5 The Town...... 21 Chapter 6 The Ritz ...... 29 Chapter 7 Radio Waves ...... 35 Chapter 8 Crawl in the Saddle ...... 47 Chapter 9 Inside Moves ...... 63 Chapter 10 Blackwater Blues ...... 101 Chapter 11 Take a Tater & Wait ...... 117 Chapter 12 A License to Steal...... 145 Chapter 13 It’s Made to Sell ...... 177 Chapter 14 Precious Lord...... 227 Chapter 15 Jus’ Rub On It ...... 251 Chapter 16 The Rough English Equivalent...... 283 Chapter 17 Little Old New York ...... 327 Chapter 18 Hoochie Coochie Man ...... 391 Chapter 19 Roll Out the Barrel ...... 429 Chapter 20 Standing as We Sing ...... 457 Chapter 21 Kamerad...... 477

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Chapter 22 Hip–Deep in Sheep-Dip ...... 485 Chapter 23 Go Down, Moses...... 507 Chapter 24 Cuba Libre ...... 525 Chapter 25 Tradecraft...... 541 Chapter 26 Next Stop Baltimore ...... 555 Chapter 27 Money, Honey...... 579 Chapter 28 Friggin’ in the Riggin’ ...... 589 Chapter 29 Go Fish ...... 593 Chapter 30 Case Discount ...... 611 Bisquespeak s

There’s no getting around it–if you’re not from the deep South, you’ll think these people talk funny. Bisque’s idiom varies in frequency and application by the speaker’s socioeconomic position and/or degree of inebriation. In the interest of understanding Bisquenglish, a brief glossary preceding the reader’s plunge into its richness is in order:

Word/ Translation phrase aiess ass–used when referring to the ever-popular human posterior

Babdist Baptist–a Protestant religious denomination that, with the Method- ist church, dominates Bisque church attendance, particularly among the bourgeoisie bwy boy–from Negro dialect, increasingly adopted by young whites as a term of approbation among themselves hay-ul hell–depending on the application, a metaphysical place or condition, the avoidance of which provides the clergy with an expedi- tious hammer in keeping their congregations in line hep help–refers to giving or receiving aid, except in the expletive (“hay- ulp!”) liike like–the doubling of the i, indicating a pronounced ﬂatness in its pronunciation also appears in several other words (II, sliice), and supplants the gh in words like might and tight (miit and tiit), and the ow in those like powder and crowder (piider and criider).

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Word/ Translation phrase muffucker motherfucker (n.)–an appellation usually directed at males or inan- imate objects that, in context, may be congratulatory or insulting (the inﬂammatory form is a hyphenation of the full spelling, e.g. moth-er-FUCK-er), rhetorical or actual in its reference to (a) the subject’s incestual behavior or (b) the subject’s inclination to copu- late with women who have borne children. (alt.) muffuck (adj.)– muffuckin’ sitchayshun situation–“How th’ hay-ul did I get inta this here sitchayshun?” sitcher “sit your”–viz. “Sitcher aiess down, muffuck.” whachu “what you”, e.g. “Whachu talkin’ ’bout?” with varied accenting, i.e. “II’m talkin’ ’bout whachu talkin’ ’bout, muffuck!”

Yeh-baw-ey “Yeah, boy”–agreement with a statement made, or conﬁrmation of a question asked. In most cases, the speaker’s mood is one of satisfaction or smugness, e.g. “Goin’ to th’ ball game?. “Yeh-baw-ey.” chapter 1 s Spring Break

1529 Friday 23 March 1956: “‘Motor cooled down, heat went down, thass when I heard dat highway sound.’ Chuck Berry, with the highway sound of Maybelline, y’all; makes you hardtails wanta get out there and chase that little ﬁlly in the Coupe deVille, don’t it? Well dream on, boys; Chuck didn’t catch ’er, but maybe you will. Unless what happened to that V8 Ford catches up with your personal honey hauler. Don’t wait for a steamin’ reminder that you neglected the heart of your hot rod; run it on by Smokey’s Radiator Shop and make sure you stay cool. Now le’s take a break and check the news in and around little ole Bisque. R&B Lee’ll be back takin’ more of your requests, so hang around–and Robbie, I’ll see you ’bout 7, sweet thang…” R&B Lee, the world’s oldest teen-ager, thought Jack, squelching the radio and easing off the gas in token observation of the City of Bisque’s speed limit. Looking up, he was broadsided by an incisor- rich smile, shot from the billboard behind Ray Thomas’ Quality Used Cars by a white-haired, too-tan guy in a bright-blue suit.

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REVIVAL. WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY??? Good Friday begins ten life-changing days in Bisque.

“Here we go again, with a shit-eatin’ grin,” he grated. “What?” He answered in a simpering mock: “‘Ten life-changing days in Bisque.’ Crankin’ up falterin’ faith like it was a friggin’ model plane’s rubber band. Lost/saved/lost/saved souls, year after year, dead- stickin’ into th’ tabernacle for a guilt dump. When the hell is Good Friday, anyway?” “It’s the Friday before Easter, idn’t it? Next Friday,” said Terry, running both hands through long, dark-blonde hair and extending them behind her, arching her back. A dainty sperm-ﬂavored belch escaped soundlessly between her teeth. Eeeww, she thought, I need a Coke. Mindful of the broken tailpipe strap that he’d spliced with coathanger wire on the way out of Athens, Jack resisted the temptation to gun the big V8 and hit town showing air under the front wheels as they crossed Main Street’s humpbacked railroad bridge. A little class, please, he said to himself. Bisque, Georgia has high expectations of its college men. I’ll wait to get frisky ’til Terrell and I’ve killed a six-pack or two. And Terry can have a nigger baby about it if she wants to, after taking the steam out of a perfectly good blow job with that “pledge-a-frat” ultimatum. “I need to swing by Mose’s on the way in; beer tastes a whole lot better when it’s free.” “Well, don’t stay in there forever. I need to get on home.” Turning right on Seventh street, he tapped the horn as he pulled into Bo Singleton Sinclair, stopping clear of the gas pumps near the door. Bo, standing inside by the cash register, raised a long, bony arm at the ’50 Olds 88 coupe, then pantomimed applause. He eased out onto the driveway as Jack got out. “Get me a Coke, Jackie,” the girl shouted. Spring Break 3

“Jack B. Nimble,” Singleton said through a gap-toothed grin. “Welcome home.” “Bad Mister Bo. How you been?” “Notsa bad. How’s ’at ole 88 doin’?” “OK, but I need a left-side tailpipe hanger. Sonofabitch gave up th’ ghost on me this mornin’.” “OK, bud. What else?” “Coupla Cokes. Want me to drop it off tomorrow?’ “Yeah, but gimme ’til about noon. An’ bring them bottles back!” “OK, hoss,” Jack said, as he slid back into the car. “Thanks. See y’all tomorrow.” Singleton grinned, quickglancing the girl. “Stay outa trouble, bud!” Jack glanced approvingly at the car’s glistening black reflection in the station’s windows as he pulled back onto the street, twin Glaspaks’ lazy burble pushing against the panes. “Bo’s tickled shitless that I’m drivin’ this,” he said. “One less hot rod headache for him to handle. Naah, the kid I sold the ’33 to’s probably still takin’ it in there. Wonder how many distributor caps that goddam flathead’s gone through by now. I’d like to buy it back some day and put one of those new little Chevy V8’s in it…a full-fendered three-window Ford’s just way too pretty to be even a little bit down on power.” “All that damn car did was keep you broke,” Terry observed. A gust of Dogwood-scented air scudded Jack’s crispy crumpled handkerchief off the seat between them onto the floor and under the girl’s feet. She picked it up, throwing it matter-of-factly onto the back seat. No wonder my tail’s so bushy, Jack thought; it’s spring for sure. Savoring Dogwood, slack scrotum and muted rumble of exhaust bouncing off the brick-paved street, he drove the three blocks to the Hamm County Beverage Company in silent satisfaction. Opening the building’s front door, he shouted, “Mose!” 4 The Rough English Equivalent

The familiar high-pitched, raspy, New York voice bounced back to him from inside the office. “Jack? Zatchoo?” “Yeah, you ol’ suds peddler,” Jack replied, rounding the corner from the hallway into the office. “What’s-” He didn’t finish the question, bumping into Moses as he came out to meet him. “Hey, shitbird.” Hugging and backslapping complete, they stepped back, grinning; Moses had become, Jack realized, half a head shorter than him. Green LaCoste shirt and chinos did what they could to confine the physique that Jack had coveted for most of his life; still one hell of a man, he thought, looking into the sly, crinkled face. Aldo Ray with a tad more mileage; still looks like he could bench-press the building. “You gotta be six-two by now. I was lookin’ forward to workin’ out with you, but you probably got th’ reach on me by a good two inches. How the hell you been?” “Jus’ right,” Jack said. “How ’bout you?” “Not bad, for a gent of my age and experience. Yer mom called lookin’ for ya. You’re late for lunch, bud.” “Yeah. I was early ’til my goddam tailpipe decided to fall in the road. She told you I’d be here today, huh?” “Yeah. You better get on over there.” “Right. Just stopped off to check in with you. How ’bout this fuckin’ revival? How we gonna duck th’ fallout?” “Whaddya guess Epicurus’d do?” asked Moses with a sly smile. Holding his nose, Jack mimicked a loudspeaker: “Ataraxia Express, loadin’ on track nine.” Moses bark of levity echoed down the hall. “Don’t need any beer, do ya?” “Oh, hell no.” “Run on back and grab a case; I’ll swing by th’ hotel an’ visit with y’all for a little bit.” “Soon’s I take a quick pee. Thanks, bud; see ya later.” Shit, he thought, smiling tolerantly at Terry’s frosty face as he packed the case of Carling Black Label to the trunk, that old mother- Spring Break 5 fucker–not many people get to call somebody that, and mean it– pushin’ fifty, but he looks just about like he did the first time I saw ’im, bailin’ out of that big old white Buick…

chapter 2 s Steamed Pissaint

1630 Thursday 15 August 1946: We were hangin’ around Smokey’s, watchin’ ’em work and gettin’ pointers on profanity, when the door slammed BOOM, shaking the shop’s big glass windows. He was a big guy, not that tall but stocky, short dark hair stuck to his round head. Big Popeye forearms hanging out of his shirt sleeves. Smokey was pokin’ in a parts bin behind the counter, and jumped straight up at the noise. “Well, come right the fuck on in then!,” he squawked. “Dey told me at the gas station dat you could ﬁx dat radiata.” He had a high voice for a big man, sorta scratchy, like shakin’ a coffee can with a bunch of BB shot inside. He jerked a thumb toward the long white car, blowing steam like a sonofabitch out from under the hood. Smokey’s eyes quit bugging out and squinted past the stranger out the window. He took a deep breath. “Lessee. Buick. What izzat, a limoozine?” “Right; ’41 model. Series 90.” “How long’s it been doin’ ’at?” “Off and on for a couple hours. Can’t keep water in it.” “Hit’s hard to do if they’s a hole in the raddiator.”

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“Can you ﬁx it?” Smokey looked at him over the top of his glasses. “Hab’mnt give up on one yet.” “Good. Can you stawt on it right away? And gimme me an idea of how much it’ll be?” “I kin give you a rough idea in just a little bit, but a actual estimate’ll take a little while. If you need a raddiator core, hit’ll probly have to come from Atlanta, on the bus. If they got one. You inna hurry?” “Yeah, but I’m hungry, and it looks like I’ll be spendin’ the night here anyway. Is there a hotel anywhere close by?” “A little ways back up the road.” “Walkin’ distance?” “Oh yeah. Back the way you come, to th’ third trafﬁc light. T’other side of the street. You’ll see th’ sign; Bisque Ho-tel. These boys probly wouldn’t mind showin’ you. That ’un there’s m’granboy.” “Oh, that’s how ya say it. BIS-kew. Do you wanta deposit?” “Naw. Just pay me when it’s done. I’ll call you up at the ho-tel. Or you’gn call me, if y’awnt to. What’s th’ name?” “Kubielski. Moses Kubielski.” Smokey started to write, stopped, and slid the work order over to the man. “How about wriitin’ it on th’ top of this here work sheet.” Quickly scribbling his name down, he said, “OK. See ya later,” and walked out, with us right behind him. “This way, gents?” I nodded yes and he went to the car and took out a leather suitcase, a smaller bag made out of the same kind of leather, and a newspaper. It was the biggest car I’d ever seen. Real dirty, with a Maryland tag, and big round metal cases set down into each front fender, with the spare tires inside. A sheet metal shade, the same color as the rest of the car, stuck out over the windshield. Otha, who helped Smokey back then, had put the hood up; steam still trickled out of the front of the car. Steamed Pissaint 9

“Mmm, mm,” said Otha. “Straight eight. Lookit dem two big-ass cob’rators. Damn, dey don’ match up. De front one a Carter, an’ de back one a Stromberg. I speck dis muhfuck natchully ﬂy.” As we ran to catch up with the man Smokey was tellin’ Otha, “Hose ’at sonuvabitch down where I kin get close to it.” He’d struck out walking, the newspaper stuck under his arm, a bag in each hand. He looked down, grinning at us. “So, men, where do ya recommend that I go for dinner in the great city of Bisque?” He asked with that can-of-BBs voice, his eyes crinklin’ up at the corners. “Best place in town is in the hotel,” I told him. “The Bisque Café.” “What’s the food like? I’ve had allada greasy froid chicken I can stand.” “Everything’s good,” I said. “Including the fried chicken.” He smiled again. “Sounds like dey got a magician in the kitchen. An a pitchman onna street.” He looked at Ricky. “Yer granddad? He will remember ta call me, won’t he?” “He will,” Ricky said. We belong to th’ Upper Creek Nation, and Creeks got great memories. His great granddaddy ’us a Confederate army scout. He ’us at Vicksburg with General Pemberton. Grand- daddy says that it ’us like you was there yourself when he’d talk about it. I got a good memory too, but he says that it ain’t always that good a thing to have. He says you just remember stuff you’d be better off fergettin’. He says there’s way too many pissaints in the world, and they talk too damn much, and aint none of it worth rememberin’, but pissaints an’ lintheads keep ’im in business.” “PISS-aints? Whass dat?” “Pissaints. Just keep drivin’ their cars till they quit. Don’t keep’m up.” “Hm,” he said, smiling. Guess I’m a pissaint then.” “Naw. “You’re a yankee.” “OK. Then what’s a–what’d you say? ‘Linthead?’” “Aw, that’s jus’ somebidy works in th’ cotton mill.” 10 The Rough English Equivalent

We walked on up Main Street, getting hot, not talking any more ’til we were across the street from the hotel. He walked kinda like sailors do in pirate movies, swinging down a little farther on the right side than he did on the left. He kept on past the corner, stopping in the middle of the block. He put the bags down and stretched his arms out in front of him, his ﬁngers stuck one between the other. His knuckles popped at the end of the stretch. “Hotel Bisque,” he said, looking from the lettering on the canopy all the way up, six stories, to the roof. “Looks OK. Is it? “You bet it is,” I said. “I live there.” chapter 3 s Hotel BIS-kew

1720 Thursday 15 August 1946: Mom was sitting at her desk in the living room. She turned and looked up, smiling at me. “Howdy, Bub. Where’ve you been?” “Down at Smokey’s. I brought a guest back.” “Really? Who?” “A yankee; Mr. Cuba or sump’m. He’s in the café now.” “Is he staying long? and cut out that yankee crap. You know that’s not good business.” “Sorry. I don’t think so. Just ’til Smokey ﬁxes his radiator.” “What’s he like?” “Oh, he’s some kinda businessman. Drivin’ a big Buick.” “Hm. Well, as soon as I ﬁnish here, let’s go down and welcome him.” “Aw, Mom. I already did that. “And it’s time for Tom Mix.” “You can come right back. After you take me to him.” “OK. Whacha doin’?” “Just signing some papers for Buster. He’s taking over Simmons’ Hudson dealership.” “Oh, no! Hudsons? They’re uglier’n homemade sin.”

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She laughed. “Well, we can at least suggest getting rid of that one with a pickup bed stuck into the back that they like to call a parts truck. Talk about homemade sin. Anyway, Buster’s due for a break and maybe this’ll be it.”

Moses Kubielski sat alone in the restaurant. It was just past ﬁve- thirty. “Please excuse us,” Mom said to him. “I’m Serena Mason, Jack’s mother; I manage the hotel. Jack told me that you’d checked in, and I just wanted to welcome you to Bisque.” “Oh. Hello,” he said, standing up. “Moses Kubielski. Please excuse my appearance. Maybe he toldja; my car was boilin’ over, and I’ve been stoppin’ to ﬁll it up with water every few miles since it stawted this aftanoon. I was just too hot and tired ta do much cleanin’ up.” “Please don’t be concerned. Just enjoy your dinner and get some rest. This food isn’t all that fancy, but I think you’ll like it.” “Thank you. Wouldja join me?” “Oh no. Thanks. Please, just relax and let Reba take care of you. It sounds like you’ve had some day.” “No, please. I hear ya live here in the hotel. That’s a tradition in Europe, but I never knew of an owner livin’ on the property inna states. Please; join me if ya can spare th’ time.” Mom hesitated, looking at him as he stood there. “Well, we can’t have you standing here like this. Not after your ordeal. Please, sit down.” He pulled a chair out and, like a movie guy, waved his arm at the seat. “After you.” I pulled out another chair and sat down across the table from him. chapter 4 s A Ruptured Duck

1720 Thursday 15 August 1946: I sat sweating in the restaurant, which was in the southeast corner of the hotel. Its ceiling fans gently stirred the late afternoon heat. I picked the ﬁrst table inside the door, as far away as possible from the jukebox, from which some rube warbled “…yew win agin.” The song faded away as a tall, fortyish redhead burst out of the kitchen, coffee pot in hand. REBA, embroidered in red inch-high letters, inclined at a forty-ﬁve degree angle on the considerable slope of her left breast below a broad face, a painted desert of drugstore cosmetics. “Hay- eey,” she chirped. “Cawfee?” Pouring, she advised me that “th’ spay- shul,” smothered pork chops, was ready, and that it would be a very good idea for me to order it. Her smile was one of those that turned down, instead of up, at the corners. “It comes with three vegetables, Hon, an’ the best ones today are pertaters aw gratin, criider peas and sliiced tomaters. An’ maybe you’d liike a l’il chef’s salad to start off with.” Maybe they all talk this way; I thought old Ty Ty Walden down at the garage had a cleft palate or something. Damn strange. I said no thank you to the salad and she left me to look out at passers-by and parked cars, past the sizzling “B” of the foot-high red and green neon BISQUE CAFE that ran the length of both plate glass windows.

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As I drank the surprisingly good coffee, a woman’s low-pitched voice at my elbow said “Please excuse us.” I looked up into deep green eyes in the shade of lush eyebrows. Her hair, cut in a short bob, was chestnut brown,. Thinnish, beautifully crafted lips, unblurred by lipstick. I guessed her age as late twenties; I would find out later that she was thirty-three. She sat down on my right at the table; the boy, sitting opposite me, looked at me with the same direct gaze as his mother. “I understand Smokey’s looking after your car,” she said. So, even if the voice wasn’t exactly what you’d expect from such a small package, they didn’t all talk like Reba and Smokey. “Yeah; at this hour, I doubt that I’ll hear from him until tomorrow.” “Do you have far to go?” As far as I could tell, she wore no makeup at all. A scattering of tiny freckles trickled down the bridge of her nose, across her cheekbones toward a sharp jaw line that would have been handsome on a man. A naturally serious face that softened when she smiled. Her hands would’ve also fit a man; not strangers to work, the fingernails blunt-cut and unpolished. “Florida. On business. Lookin’ for a new business, actually; I’m not livin’ through one more winter up north.” “Oh, we know about those winters, don’t we, Jack? He was born in New York.” “Y’don’t say! So was I. But you’re not from N’yoauk.” “No. I went to Columbia University; that’s where Jack’s father and I met.” “I see. And now da two of you manage da hotel.” She chuckled, low down in her throat. “No. He still lives in New York. He teaches at Columbia.” “Mom, can I go now?” the boy said. “Tom Mix is on.” “Sure, honey, go ahead. I should get back myself; Mr. Kubielski’s– did I say it right? His dinner’ll be here any minute.” A Ruptured Duck 15

“Ya said it just right,” I said. “Could I persuade ya to join me? I’d appreciate da company.” She had already started to stand; pausing, she looked at the boy. “Go on, Jack; you’ll miss your program. I’ll be up in a few minutes and ﬁx your supper.” The boy ran out. She walked over to Reba, spoke brieﬂy with her, and returned to the table. “I think you’ll enjoy your dinner. We should really call Reba’s cook, Nelson, the chef, but that’s a bit much for this little old town. Thanks for the invitation; Jack and I enjoy each other’s company, but some adult conversation over dinner’ll be a nice change of pace.” “Of course,” I said. “I hope ya don’t mind my askin’, but how does a young woman like you, wid a child, end up inna hotel business?” “Easy; my father owns the hotel. When I left my husband I had precious few options, and this was one of them. I like living in the city, even if it’s a little bitty one like this, and I’d rather run a business than just have some job or other. I had to learn fast, but we’ve been here almost two years now, and the hotel’s doing OK.” “That’s good. And Jack likes livin’ here?.” “Yes. He’s a great kid, if I do say so. He reminds me now and then that we live in the biggest house in town. He really loves the hotel, and he’s learned a lot about what it takes to keep it going.” “Maybe he’ll take over one day and build more hotels.” “Maybe. I wouldn’t rule it out. Although he seems to have his father’s gift for mathematics; he may very well decide, as Larry did, that business is just too grubby for him.” The food came; she’d ordered the special, too. As we ate, I said, “Izzat what he teaches at Columbia? Mathematics?” “No. Physics.” “And you left N’yoauk in ’44.” “Actually, we weren’t in the city when I left Larry. He had a wartime job that took us away from New York. If we hadn’t left, we might still be together.” 16 The Rough English Equivalent

“So ya liked it,” I said, watching her eat, admiring her hands, large for a woman’s, buff-gold skin taut over internal structures as they transformed simple tasks into events worth watching. “No. I loved it. I went to Columbia because it was in New York. My fine arts major finished second to my interest in a charming young nuclear physicist and his work. Big mistake,” she said, smiling. I’m going back when Jack grows up. Did you live there long?” “All my life, until I joined the Navy. I was born there, right after my parents moved there from Dublin. Ireland.” “Ireland. Well, you sound absolutely New York. I lived there long enough to pick that accent out of a crowd. But your name’s…” “Polish. My father was from Danzig. Now Gdansk. He met my mother while he was teachin’ at University College in Dublin. And I thought th’ N’Yoauk accent’d worn off a little durin’ my time in Bal- amer.” “Oh. Where’s that?” “Balamer; uh, Baltimore. Maryland.” “Oh, yes. Well, not that much, really. Anyway, I like it. And now you’re headed to Florida. What kind of business are you looking for?” “I’m not sure. I managed a neighborhood theatre in Balamer, but I’m a film projectionist by trade, and I oughta be able to find work almost anywhere. I thought I’d just go down and live for a while; see what life’s like down there, and what the opportunities might be.” “I see. Film projectionist–you run the projector in a movie theater?” “Yeah. Projectors. There’s two in a projection booth. Ya transition from one to the other as th’ reels run out.” “Hm. I never thought much about how that’s done. Or who did it. Do you like it?” “It’s not bad, if you’re inna union. One a’da things I’ve thought about is buyin’ a small theater. I could handle a projection room shift myself while I got things goin’.” A Ruptured Duck 17

“Um-hm, that would help with your overhead at first. I imagine that the movie business is growing down there, but I think you’re wise to take a good look for yourself before you make a move like that,” she said, finishing her coffee. She looked up at the clock above the restaurant’s cash register. “Oh, God. I’m talking your ear off; I’d better get upstairs and take care of Jack. Tom Mix’s off by now, and he’ll remember that he’s hungry. Thanks for the interlude; I love talking about New York, but you must be ready to collapse; if you need anything, just call the front desk and they’ll take care of you.” She stood, extending one of those incredible hands. I stood up, taking it, imagining biting into the flesh between her thumb and forefinger. “It was my pleasure. I hope to see ya again before I go,” I said. “Yes. Please have me paged if I’m not at the desk. Sleep well.” She walked away quickly, leaving me to conclude that the little extra switch of the trim set of hips was for my benefit, and to imagine their sweet resilience. And I wondered who might now be taking pleasure in them; this was not a woman who’d go willingly to seed. Reba was waiting for me at the cash register. “Can I charge this to da room?” I asked. “You could,” she said, brushing back a wisp of damp red hair, “but it’s been took care of. Miz Mason tole me to charge it to the hotel. Didja enjoy it?” “Sure did. I’m lookin’ forward to breakfast awreddy.” “If you really want to sleep good,” she said, “you oughta come with us to prayer meetin’ taniit. It’s riit across the street over there, at the First Babdist Church.” A little shake of her head toward a large red brick building that commanded the view through the window at her left. It sat under a tall white spire, broad steps running the full width of the building. “Thanks, but I’m way too tiyud. But thanks for da invitation; I’ve never been in a Baptist church.” “You ain’t? My stars. What faith’re you?” 18 The Rough English Equivalent

“Jewish, more or less.” “Oh. Well, th’ain’t no Jewish church in Bisque. Not that I know of. Just not that many Jewish livin’ around here.” “We call ’em synagogues, or temples. Thanks for da invitation, anyway. How do ya get away from da restaurant durin’ dinner?” “Oh, meetin’ don’t start ’til eight, and we’re pretty much done servin’ dinner by then. Well, sleep tiit, Mr…?” “Kubielski. Moses Kubielski.” “Yes,” she said, looking closely at me, as if remembering my face would help her negotiate this mouthful. “Mr. Kabeesky. Well, be seein’ you for breakfast, he-unh.” I walked past the register and onto the street, around the corner from the hotel door. As I did, I heard a shrill “Watch out!” from my left. A blow hit the back of my thighs, and just like that my ass was jammed into a big wire basket. I’d become the cargo of a bicycle. We wobbled down the sidewalk; two little girls who’d just rounded the corner, seeing this tangle of humanity and machine bearing down on them, scrambled up on the hood of a parked car just before we hit the bumper and went down. The rider, a nigger boy, was on his feet immediately, big round eyes looking at me. He was about ﬁfteen or sixteen, wearing a too-big army shirt with corporal’s chevrons. Looking up, I saw the circled A of Third Army on the left shoulder. “You OK, mistah?” he asked. Still bent double in the basket, I grabbed his hand and crabbed myself out. “Yeah, I think so,” I said, straightening up. “Where ya goin’ in such a hurry?” “Down de sto,” he replied, waving an arm languidly toward the street. “D’livry.” “Well, be careful, willya?. That thing’s a lethal weapon.” I’d seen bikes like it in Baltimore, with a small front wheel to make room for the big basket. “Whacha deliverin’ in such a hurry?” “Growshry,” he said, standing on the pedals and pulling away, turning sharply right and disappearing up the street. A Ruptured Duck 19

The girls, who looked to be about Jack’s age, still sat, motionless, watching me with solemn faces. They were twins, brunettes, in identical blue dresses. “It’s OK, ladies; just a little accident, nothin’ to worry about. You can come down now,” I told them. They dismounted, continuing to look at me as they did. “A car almost hit ’im one time,” said the one on the left. “Sho did,” said the one on the right. “Spilled growshries all over th’ place,” said the one on the left. “Sho did,” said the one on the right. “Well, no harm done this time,” I said. “See?” I did a little time- step to show them I was really all right. They nodded, skeptically and in unison. “But you already broke a leg one time,” said the one on the left. “Yeah, Pedro, you better be careful,” said the one on the right. Sliding down off the car, they walked to the corner, and stood waiting for the trafﬁc light to change. I stood in my tracks, wondering if I’d heard what I heard. “You all right?” Reba’s voice said from behind me. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks. He came out of nowhere.” “That’s Ziggy, all right.” “Ziggy?” “Uh-hunh. ’Cause he’s always ziggin’ an zaggin’ on that ole bicycle. He delivers groceries for Archer’s Market down the street. When you see that Ruptured Duck a-comin’, best just get out of the way, like them Bishop twins done. Sure you’re OK?” “Yeah. Thanks. What’s a Ruptured Duck?” “That’s what they call that bird inside th’ wreath on the front of Ziggy’s shirt. Makes it OK to wear it after you been discharged, I think.” “Oh, I see. And who are dose little girls?” 20 The Rough English Equivalent

“Them twins? Big Boy Bishop’s kids. I seen ’em talkin’ to you; funny, th’ way they almost sound like one person sometimes. Niice girls, though.” “Sure; well, see you tomorrow.” I walked around the corner, turned into the hotel and headed for the elevator, spooked about the twins calling me “Pedro,” and that crack about my leg. I’d had enough Bisque for one day, that was for sure. The elevator man, who I’d seen doubling as bellboy, shut the door and pulled the control bar to take us up. “That little nigger coulda hurt you bad,” he said, looking straight ahead. A tall, stringy man somewhere in his sixties, he sat bolt upright on the little seat, his voice bouncing off the elevator door back to me. A series of deep creases, like suddenly-healed scalpel cuts, crisscrossed the back of his neck under strings of oily hair. “Sumbidy oughta ﬁx his ass ’fo he rilly hurts sumbidy.” “Fix him? Sounds a little strong for a sore butt,” I said. He stopped the elevator at the fourth ﬂoor and opened the door. He turned to me, his muddy brown eyes, close-set into his bony brown face, looking straight into mine. He had the breath of a fucking cannibal. “I said befo he hurts sumbidy,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. I got out, hoping this lizard hadn’t spawned. chapter 5 s The Town

0835 Friday 16 August 1946: The phone rang, bringing me out of my handstand against the door. “This here’s Smokey. You gonna need a new raddiator core, awriit. Yores is purty well rotted out. I’ll show ye when ye come down. New one’ll run seb’mty-two dollars, and thutty-five labor ta put it in.” “Hm. Well, if that’s what it takes…” “Hit is. Th’old one’s split from shit to shinola. Th’ other thang is, ’at two-cobbarater motor takes a heavy-duty core, and I ain’t found one yet. Hit may be a day er two ’fore I kin gitcha goin’.” “Well–OK. Just gimme an idea of how long it’ll be when you can.” “So that’s a hunderd and seb’m dollars all told, an thas ’greeable to ye?” “Yeah. Thanks for your help.” I hung the phone up and looked out the window at Bisque in August. Eight-fifteen, and the heat was already building. It shimmered off the traffic’s blistering steel, stopping and starting at the light on the corner. A lot of it was long-haul trucks, belching and farting their way up and down the north-south artery of U.S. Highway 1. Five stories above the noise wasn’t high enough.

- 21 - 22 The Rough English Equivalent

I short-cut my calisthenics and lay back down, suddenly wanting my dream of last night back, looking over Serena’s shoulder down the greenest of slopes into a blue lake, stroking her back, from the nape of her neck to the shady parting of her cheeks, bending to kiss her, willing the slick drool out of my cock. But what came back was Sarah, face down, arms above her head, waiting, cool morning light on the nape of her neck, the curve of her back, the twin hollows above her cheeks, sweet places in soft shadow, the dancer’s calves, the slender feet and toes that I’d never suck again. Instead I’m here, deep in Erskine Caldwell country, dreaming about a new woman. They’re like marker buoys in a channel. “Ding-dong, steer to port; ding- dong, steer to starboard.” Except for that rotten fucking radiator, I’d be at least as far south as Jacksonville by now, next stop Miami, and Havana on the horizon. I was in the restaurant by 9:15 in my last clean shirt, sitting down at the same table as last night. Reba sat at the counter; seeing me come in, she went behind it and picked up a coffee pot. “Mornin’, Mr. Kabeesky,” she said. “You musta slept well; you missed our mornin’ rush. You feelin’ OK?” “Oh, yeah, just ﬁne. What’s his name?–Ziggy? He left me in one piece.” “Sometimes I think we oughta call ’im ’Crash’. He’s a sweet boy, but he ain’t got but one speed on that biike–wiide open. What am I gonna feed you this mornin’?” “I dunno; maybe some scrambled eggs’d be good. And sausage. Whole wheat toast.” “You want regular or hot sausage, Hon?” “What? I don’t know. How hot’s the hot kind?” “Pretty hot. I liike the regular m’sef; with sage and black pepper. But we get lotsa calls for the hot, with them little ﬂakes a’red pepper in it.” “Too early in the morning for me, Reba; make it regular.” The Town 23

When she brought it, the sausage was in patties, like little hamburgers, and very spicy. As I ate, my mind drifted back to Serena. I was looking absently across the street at a slowly rolling barber’s pole when Jack materialized at my elbow. “Hi,” he said, green-eying me. “Oh. Hey, Jack. How you doin’?” “Fine. You goin’ down to Smokey’s this mornin’?” “Not right away; he’s gotta ﬁnd some parts to ﬁx my car. Izzat where you’re headed?” “No, sir; I don’t usually go down ’ere ’less I’m with Ricky–remember him from yesterday? We stop by sometimes to get a Coke and watch what they’re doin’. But I thought if you were goin’, maybe I’d go with you–if you didn’t mind.” “Well, he told me this mornin’ dat he didn’t have the part he needs yet, so I won’t be goin’ ’til I hear back from him. Won’t be long before you’re back in school, will it?” “No, sir.” “What grade willya be in this year?” “Fifth.” “That’s a good-lookin’ belt buckle you got there, buddy.” The buckle was a massive chunk of what looked like hand-carved silver, a lump of turquoise embedded in the middle. “Thanks,” said Jack. “My dad sent it to me for my birthday last year.” “I know you’re proud of it.” “Sure am,” he said with a grin. “He got me this belt to go with it when I went up to see him this summer.” “Well, I’d say you might never need another belt buckle in your life. Somebody built dat one ta last. That’s a nice piecea turquoise they put in it, too. Say; as one N’yoauk boy to anudda, if you’re not gonna be too busy this mornin’, howdja like to show me around town a little? If yer mother wooden mind.” He grinned. “N’yoa-uk boy. Wait a minute and I’ll see.” 24 The Rough English Equivalent

I ﬁnished breakfast, and was at the register signing my check, when he came back. “Ready?” he asked. “All set. Where to?” “Jack, don’t you take Mr. Kabeesky to that nasty pool room now,” Reba admonished. “He don’t need to see that collection a’no-goods.” Brushing back a stray blonde wisp, she rolled her eyes toward heaven in search of divine support. “No, ma’am,” he replied, mimicking the eyeroll. We walked up Lee Street from the hotel, past clothing, shoe and hardware stores that hadn’t opened yet. I decided to ask Jack about the elevator man. “You mean Denver,” he said. “Denver, huh?” “That’s his name. Denver Dander. Some people call him ‘Cat.’ He’s the porter.” “He been around long?” “Oh yeah. Since before I was born. He’s kinda famous.” “Famous?” “Well, yeah, kinda. Freddy says he can fart ‘shave and a haircut, two bits’.” Not having a response to this information, I said, “I could hardly understand him in the elevator last night. Don’t care much for nigras, does he?” “One time Reba said he sounds like he’s got a chitlin’ stuck in ‘is throat. I don’t know what he thinks about colored people, though.” “Chitlin’? What’s that?” “Comes out of a hog’s all I know. I never saw one.” Bisque looked like it’d picked up some steam in the year or so of postwar economy. Two drugstores, a Lane’s and a Rexall, faced each other at the corner. Crossing the street to the Rexall side, we walked in a crosswalk made out of brass-colored cast metal ovals, about six inches wide. Set solidly into the pavement, their sharp-relief lettering said “Double Cola.” The Town 25

As we reached the curb, I looked down the block and saw a theatre marquee.

R I T Z

Cascaded from the side of the building in red, green and blue neon…a cultural beacon, of sorts, for the great city of Bisque. “Hey,” I said to Jack, “some movie.” “This here’s the fancy one,” said Jack, as we walked toward it. “There’s two more in town. I like the Roxy the best. It just shows cowboy and scary shows, and it’s only nine cents. This one’s fourteen.” How much? “Fourteen cents. That’s for kids. It’s forty-five for ad-ults.” The current attraction, said the poster locked in the glassed-in cabinet labeled TODAY, was Anchors Aweigh. The poster showed Kelly and Sinatra, dancing horny-happy in their whites, grinning out at the viewer. The COMING ATTRACTIONS cabinet, on the opposite side of the box office, promised Double Indemnity, starting Mon- day. The double doors on both sides were open, vacuum-cleaning noises boiling out. “Let’s go in,” I said. “If Mr. Walton is around, he’ll run us off,” said Jack. “He hates it when you come in before the show.” “Well, I’m new in town,” I said. “How would I know?” We walked in, finding no one in the lobby. The doors to the theatre itself were also open. I looked inside; it was larger than I thought, with about 400 seats in the orchestra. The ceiling arched over them, promising decent acoustics. The vacuum cleaner, somewhere out of sight, was clearly audible where we stood, another indication that whoever built the Ritz knew what he was doing. I’d like to see the projection room, I thought. “Wanna to come back and see the first show?” I 26 The Rough English Equivalent asked Jack, who clearly had had enough of my snooping and was ready to go. “Nah. Maybe we could see what’s at the Roxy.” “OK. Lead on.” We turned to leave the auditorium, but our way was blocked by a large, balding man, at least six-four, around forty, studying us through heavy tortoise-shell glasses. “Are you looking for me?” he asked. “No, sir,” I replied, “Please excuse our–well, my–intrusion. I’m just passin’ through Bisque. My young friend’s been givin’ me a tour of the town, and I couldn’ resist a quick look inside. I’m a projectionist, and naturally curious besides. My name’s Kubielski. Moses Kubielski.” “Richard Walton,” he said distractedly, giving my extended hand a quick, limp shake. “Well, y’all come back now, he-unh; enjoy your visit.” He stood aside, plainly ready to see the last of us. “Thanks. I may be back for da matinee.” “Oh. Good. The feature’s two-fifteen. Bring your friends.” With an abrupt about-face, he strode into the lobby and up the stairs without looking back. “Hey, look!” Jack said as we stepped out on the street. He ran a couple of steps toward a motorbike that was parked out front. It was close to brand new, and resplendent in its glossy black paint and gold-striped trim. Its name, Servi-cycle, ran the length of the gas tank in splashy gold script. Its coil-sprung solo saddle was covered in tan leather. “You like motorbikes, huh?” I asked him. “Sure! Who doesn’t?” “Mostly da mothers udda people who ride ’em, I guess. Why doncha sit on it?” “Oh, no. It’s Freddy George’s, and he’d get really mad. Anyway, my legs’re too short.” “Guess yer right not to sit on it widout permission. I don’t think yer legs are too short, though. What grade didja say ya’d be in?” The Town 27

“Fifth.” “Yer a pretty big kid. Where to now?” “This way; th’ curb market’s open today. There’s this one lady that makes these really great brownies. Dime apiece, or a dollar a dozen.” The curb market sat on the corner, just down from the Ritz, in a building that looked like it had been a fairly large retail store of some kind. The place was almost entirely populated by women, in print dresses and severe hairdos, obviously in from the country. As they busied themselves for the onslaught of Bisque wives, their hunched way of scuttling made them look like a bunch of lower-case “f”s in different type faces, held to the base line of their life sentence by black lace-up oxfords with sturdy heels like the teeth of an industrial gearwheel. As we walked down the stall-lined aisles, it was obvious that Jack knew his way around. “You must come here a lot,” I said. “I come up here with Nelson–th’ cook at th’ café–every now and then,” he said, waving back in answer to greetings from several of the women as they passed. “Here’s Miz Bartow. Hey.” “Hey, Jackie,” she said, enveloping the boy in a hug. “Wondered where you wuz today. Mr. Lord’s done come and gone.” “An’ miss these brownies? No may-um. This here’s Mr. Kubielski, Miz Bartow.” She looked at me, smiling shyly. “Hey, there,” she said, looking away as she did. “Hi, Mrs. Bartow. Could we talk you out of a dozen of your famous brownies?” “Why yes, yes sir, f’you liike. Jackie use’ly just has th’ one, an’ I give ’im that ’un. Thankew for bringin’ me a new customer, Jackie. I’ll put a extry ’un in the baig fer ye.” She began loading a white paper bag with dense chocolate rectangles, their aroma an urgent invitation. Now I’ll show you the fire station,” Jack said between bulging cheeks. We faced the county court house, across Jackson Street from 28 The Rough English Equivalent the market, its white columns extending to the second of its three stories. As we reached the street, a new black Ford sedan pulled into the last parking space before the corner, its chrome siren sitting on the left front fender like a PT boat’s torpedo tube. “Sheriff, Hamm County,” proclaimed the, white badge on the front door. The driver, looking across the street as he got out, waved in our direction. He was tall and spare, a Gary Cooper type. Jack waved back, shouting, “Hey, Wahoo,” as he did. He started across the street, saying to me over his shoulder, “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the sheriff.” The sheriff’s khaki twill uniform, starched and cut to a snug military fit, was holding up well under the heat. “How you doin’, Jack?” he said, smiling, reaching out to tousle the boy’s hair. “Fine. I’m just showing Mr. Kabeesky around town. He’s a guest at the hotel.” Brown eyes, set deeply in the lean, tanned face, shifted quickly to me. “How do you do, sir,” he said. “I’m John McDaniel. Welcome to Hamm County.” “Pleased to meetcha, Sheriff; Moses Kubielski.” “Looks like they’re makin’ you feel riit at home down at th’ hotel,” he said. “Jack dudn’t give every Tom, Dick and Harry a tour of th’ town. Are you stayin’ awhile?” “Just until my car’s fixed; then I’m on my way to Florida.” “Well, enjoy your visit; I’d best be movin’ on. Maybe I’ll see you later; I have supper at the hotel now and then. See you now, he-unh.” He turned toward the court house and moved out with parade- ground poise. “Well,” I said, “looks like ya got a pretty good lawman lookin’ out for ya. Ever get a ride inna squad car?” “Yeah; he takes Mom and me out to Tubby’s barbecue for supper sometimes, but you know what?” “What’s that?” “He wouldn’t blow th’ sireen.” chapter 6 s The Ritz

1230 Friday 16 August 1946: Jack’s Bisque tour covered all the bases; it was lunchtime before we were back at the hotel. Hot and thirsty, we went straight to the café and collapsed into the chairs of the ﬁrst open table. Reba, who was clearing another table, saw us and rushed over. “Johnnie Mae! Wouldja get that table ready fo’ me, please? I got to tend to sump’m else,” she said to the heavy-set Negro woman behind the counter. Dropping her voice as she poured glasses of ice water for us, she said to me, “I thought you all wouldn’t never get back. Some- bidy’s been lookin’ fer ya.” In spite of myself, I overreacted. “For me? Who?” “Mr. Walton. He called up here and made me promise to remind you to come to the show this afternoon. Said he wanted to ask you something.” “Oh. Yes, I told him I might come back to see the feature this afternoon.” “Well, he sure does want to see ya,” she said, gazing intently into my face. She glanced quickly at Jack, then continued, “He’s had a hard time with that show; he keeps it looking so niice, but Nelson–

- 29 - 30 The Rough English Equivalent my cook, you ain’t met him yet–he says he thinks Mr. Walton is about to shut it diyun.” “Shut what?” “Shut it diyun, honey. Close it uup. He just ain’t makin’ any money, Nelson says.” “Oh. I see. Shut it down. What a shame.” “I guess he wants to see if you kin advise him, seein’ you was in the business and all.” News travels fast, I thought. “Well, I don’t know that I’ll be of any help to him, but I’ll drop in. Not before we have lunch, though. What’s good today?” Reba smilingly shook her head. “It’s ALL good, honey, but we got some niice fresh catfish in this mornin’ that’ll make you slap yo’ granpaw down. Nelson fries ’em so light and crispy you’ll think you done died and went to heaven. Jack loves ’em, dontcha?” “Yes ma’am, and hushpuppies.” “Hmm,” I said. “Well, on Jack’s recommendation. I’ve never had catfish.” “I’ll bring y’all some nice mashed sweet taters and half-runner beans, too,” she said, and was gone. “You’ll like the catfish, Mr. Kabeesky,” Jack said. I laughed. “Let me ask you something, Jack. Since I have such a mouthful of a name, would you rather just call me Mose? That’s what my friends call me.” He grinned, looking at me with that direct, green-eyed gaze he shares with his mother. “Sure. Mose. That’s a lot easier. You look like a Mose, anyway.” “Done. Too bad your Mom’s not here to join us. Does she like catfish?” “Oh yeah. But she don’t usually eat lunch here in the café, ’cause it’s such a busy time in the hotel. She just has a sandwich or something up at our place.” “I see.” The Ritz 31

Reba reappeared with the famous catfish. True to her word, and Jack’s, I never ate better fish in my life. “What’s this white stuff?” I asked him, indicating a dish that she’d set between us. “Oh, that’s whatcha call tartar sauce. I don’t much like it, but Mom does. “It’s got onions in it,” he said, grimacing. “So do th’ hushpuppies, but it’s different when they’re cooked.” “Well, I like onions, so I’ll probably like it.” And I did. We ate with very little conversation, savoring Nelson’s genius. The hushpuppies, deep-fried little balls of onion-studded cornbread, were perfect with them. “Want to come see the movie with me?” I asked as we each dug into big pieces of lemon icebox pie that Reba brought us without asking. “No sir, thanks just the same. Ricky and I usually go swimmin’ in the afternoon.” “Well, you better get some rest after this giant lunch so you don’t get cramps. That’s what my mama used to tell me. Where do you go swimmin’?” “In th’ pool out at City Park.” Staying in the shade where possible, I walked up to the Ritz’s box office just after two. Richard Walton, seated inside, motioned to me to come in. With no ticket. I could already see why he wasn’t making money. He met me, shifting his gray-checked trousers under a promising paunch, just inside the door. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I don’t want you to miss the beginning, but if you have time, I’d really like to talk with you afterwards for just a few minutes.” “That’s OK. I’ve seen Anchors Aweigh. We can talk now, if you’re free.” “Oh. Yes, of course. Just let me get someone out front, and we can go up to my office.” That done, I followed him up the steep narrow stairs into the office, most of which was occupied by a desk and sofa. “Sorry to jam us in here, but it’s impossible for me to get away during show hours, and I didn’t want us to be interrupted.” 32 The Rough English Equivalent

“It’s a very familiar place to me,” I said. “As I told you, I’ve been in the business.” “Yes. In Baltimore.” More high-speed intelligence, I thought. “That’s right. Did I tell you that?” He let a little nervous laugh escape. “No. I heard about it down at the café. No secrets in Bisque.” “I guess not. Well, here we are, anyway. What’d you want to talk about?” Walton swallowed, looking at me through rimless bifocals that had replaced his massive horn-rims. “You may have heard that I’m having a few problems here. The truth is, I’ve thought about selling out. As much as I thought I’d love the theatre business, it stopped being fun quite a while ago. In the four years I’ve owned it, it’s cost me almost everything I have, and with the admissions taxes, I just can’t figure a way to make it pay.” “Hm. That’s hard to imagine. Th’ admissions taxes’re ridiculous, of course, and four screens may be one’er two too many in a town this size. “Who’s your main competition?” “It’s hard to say. Some weeks the Roxy, around the corner, really fills up, and others it’s relatively empty. I don’t get out to the other two that often. And the drive-in’s gonna get the older kids, no matter what they’re playing. They won’t see much of whatever it is anyway.” I couldn’t see how he’d kept going as long as he had. “Well, I’d suggest that you try to find out what your most successful competitor, whoever that is, is doing, and do it yourself. You’re th’ only first- run house in town, you’re the largest–you’re the best, in other words. People should be comin’ here in droves, especially now, when it’s so hot and you got a nice cool place for ’em to come to be entertained.” “You’re right. But I can’t seem to get through to enough of them to keep this place as full as it needs to be to make money.” The Ritz 33

In spite of myself, and against my nature, which is always, always, to know all of my options in a situation, I heard myself asking him, “What’ll you take for it?” “What?” “I said, what’ll you take for it? How much do you want for the Ritz?” “Why, I don’t know; I…” “If you want to sell it, ﬁgure out your price and let me know. I was headed down to Florida to shop for a theatre; if we can make a deal, then I won’t have to drive so far. I’ll be checkin’ out the market in the meanwhile, so make sure the price you give me’s the best you can do.” He shifted in his steel chair and looked at me, saying nothing. Maybe he’d gotten me up there for a sales pitch, or just some free advice, but he wasn’t expecting this. Finally he spoke. “I’ll have to have my accountant…” “OK,” I said, “But you probably oughtn’t to give me too much time to think about it. You have some serious problems here, and I might get cold feet the more I look around.” “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “If that’s when you’ve got a price.” I stepped out into the midday heat, sun-blinded and hoping she’d be worth it.

chapter 7 s Radio Waves

1100 Saturday 17 August 1946: I’m in the Bisque Café two or three times a day since I came back to this garden spot last year. Eating’s not my great passion, but one must, and Nelson Lord’s grub’s the best around, hands down. Inter- esting hobby, too; screwing around with every underage split-tail in town. Well, nobody’s perfect, and artists traditionally get the beneﬁt of the doubt. And make no mistake, he’s the closest thing to an artist this town has to offer. So I’m sitting at my favorite table, which by rights should be my private table, as much business as I throw their way, and being a public ﬁgure on top of that. I’m accustomed to better. Atlanta’s my kind of place. Business there gets done in the hotel bars–the Dinkler, the Henry Grady, the Biltmore. And until I drunk my way out of it, and out of town, my private table was at the Biltmore, twenty-four hours a day, a short stagger from my erstwhile employer, NBC station WBS. Now you’re thinking, “Poor chump–on top in the big town, at war with the bottle, now dried out and living the straight life in Pal- ookaville.” Bullshit. I just headed back home to the garden spot of Bisque, where I did what’s sometimes referred to as growing up, and

- 35 - 36 The Rough English Equivalent a job that I could stay on top of drunk. They glad to have me back as long as my supply of Sen-Sen held out. I was just slightly hung over, having choked down a late breakfast, touching up my breath with a Sen-Sen and burning a fresh Chester- field when he walked in. I figured him for the New Yorker right away; Buck Jordan’d told me about a New York-type guy dropping off a big-ass white Buick at Smokey’s, and this joker fit the description. He obviously had no talent whatever for wasting time; he was in, sitting down, and waving at Reba, all in the same motion. I was ready to go anyway, so I hauled my largish ass up and headed for him, catching his eye as I stopped at his table. “Howdy,” I said, very much the local boy. “How ya doin’? I’m Lee Webster, radio station WQUE.” He shot a brief smile, squinty-eyed, up at me. “Oh, yeah? Well, siddown for a minute, Mr. Lee Webster. You’re just the man I need to see.” He shifted in his chair as I took the one on his left, extending a hand. Clear, steel-gray eyes, precision-grade ball bearings, examined me. We shook as he said, “My name’s Moses Kubielski. Whaddya do over there?” His voice pitched high, for a burly type. “Newscaster, deejay, relief engineer and time salesman,” I said, “and they’ve probably thought up something else for me to do since I left this morning. That your Buick down at Smokey’s?” “Yep. Ya take yer news-hawkin’ seriously.” “It’s not that big a town. I was just over at Buck’s Billiards. If news makes it to Buck’s, it’ll be over the county line by sundown.” “I believe it.” I looked up to see Nelson Lord walking towards us. “Hey, Web- ster,” he said. “How ya doin’?” “All right, Nels, how’re you?” “Fine and dandy,” he said, looking at Kubielski and extending his hand as he spoke. “Howdy. I’m Nelson Lord.” “Kubielski,” he said, shaking Lord’s hand. “Moses Kubielski.” “I’ve seen you in here a time or two. Food suit you OK?” Radio Waves 37

“Better than that.” “Good.” He glanced up at the sound of a rap on the café’s window. Two young girls who looked about sixteen stood outside at the café window. The dark-haired one waved, the way you would to flag a cab. “Scuse me. Pussy ain’t got no patience.” “I don’t see how you keep it up, Nels,” said Webster, gazing raptly at the nubility on the far side of the glass. “Daytime, nighttime; you’ll be dead before you’re forty. You better find you sump’m regular and settle down.” “You go ahead. I druther pay by th’ job,” he said, grinning over his shoulder as he turned toward the door. “Maybe they ain’t th’ safest stuff in th’ world, but them sweet little thangs got what it takes to cage my gyro. I prob’ly won’t hafta jack off for a day or two. Ketch ya’ll later.” “Nice piece, n’est pas?” said Webster, looking out at the girl. “They don’t call ol’ Nels ‘Sluts-a-Plenty’ for nothing.” “OK, for jailbait,” said Kubielski as Lord walked outside. “Here’s hopin’ the café’s rest room has one of those ‘Employees Must Wash Hands’ signs. Anyway, what I wanna talk with ya about might not be big news, but it’s gotta be off the record. Might be some advertising in it for ya.” He damn sure knew how to get my interest. Sales commissions are over half my income, and new accounts pay another 10% for the first year. Fuck journalism, in other words. “OK; I’ll tell you when I can’t listen anymore without going on the record. What’s up?” “I’m thinkin’ of buyin’ the Ritz Theatre from Walton, but I don’t want to share the bath he’s been takin’. Why ain’t that place fillin’ up?” “Hadn’t thought that much about it; I love movies, and I’m one of the Ritz’s best customers. You don’t have to fight your way through much of a crowd, though, unless the film’s a Walt Disney. You know anything about running a movie house?” 38 The Rough English Equivalent

Reba took his order for a large lemonade, and mine for another Coke. “I’m a projectionist,” he said. “What about the other three houses? Any of them serious competitors?” “Not any one, but he’d do a lot better if a couple of them just went away. Two are just cheap neighborhood flicks, and the Roxy’s not much better, but four movies are still a lot for a town this size. It keeps ticket prices down, for one thing; you’re not going to get rich charging fifty cents, and fifteen for kids. The others charge kids just a dime to get in, and then some of them stay all day.” “Any of them advertise with you?” “Nobody but the Ritz, and that’s rare. The paper gets most of what ad money is spent, and it’s not much.” “Hm. And show business is supposed to be exciting.” “You don’t understand Bisque-think. In the minds of the great majority of Hamm County’s thirty thousand-odd souls, excitement’s not the objective, at least if you’re of legal age. The goal is to get through life with a minimum of personal disrepute, while discreetly enjoying that of your fellow citizens.” “Well, looks like the clergy’s got that action sewed up. Lotta churches in this little burg,” he said. “Jesus. Pun intended; you are such a city slicker. Churches’re the key to understanding Bisque, or any other little ‘burg’ like this in which you may find yourself,” I said. “How’s that?” “It’s a matter of ecclesiastical pecking order, proto-redneck variety. Your place in the grand scheme of Bisque society is determined in a big way by which church you belong to.” “You don’t say.” “I do say. I say further that if you want to rise above Bisque’s hoi polloi, you’ll hie yourself to one of the dual pinnacles of godliness; the First Baptist or the First Methodist.” “This because of the quality of the religious instruction available.” Radio Waves 39

“Disingenuousness ill becomes you, pilgrim. You know full well that the concentration of luminaries in the congregations is what it’s about.” He leaned back in his chair, letting me have it with the steel-grays, point-blank. “Don’t assume that I know anything about the God dodge. I’ve avoided it as completely as possible up to now, to what I believe’s been my benefit.” “I can say pretty much the same. I’m no pew-hustler; just telling you what turns the wheels around here.” “Thanks. At least movies run it a close second.” “Nope,” I told him. “Not for a minute. They run a distant third, maybe, behind another branch of religion.” “What are you talking about?” “The primary passion in these parts. Football. ‘Fuhbawl,’ as it’s said around here. And high-school ‘fuhbawl’ in particular.” “I’ll be damned,” he laughed. “‘Fuhbawl.’ Why all the enthusiasm?” “Well, let me try to approach it from your point of view. I understand that you’re from New York.” “By way of Balamer.” “Where?” “Bal-ti-more.” “OK. But let’s stay in New York for a minute. In New York, what does yer average married couple do to forget their troubles and have a little fun?” “Hell. All kinds of things; screwing other married people, for one, but high school football’s way down on the list.” “How about baseball?” “Yeah, sure.” “You a Dodger fan?” “No,” with the flick of a sneer. “I follow the Yankees, off and on.” “Well, in this part of the country high school football’s opening day, the All-Star game and the World Series all rolled into one. Kids 40 The Rough English Equivalent make the players their first heroes, then some of them become the heroes of the next generation. And even though most of the star players don’t make it to a college team, they’re still big guys around town for years afterward. People stop them on the street and remind them of some big play that they made back in ’39. Makes a lifetime of choppin’ cotton, truck-drivin’ or sellin’ insurance a little more palat- able.” “I suppose. But they do like Walt Disney.” “Oh, yeah. Can’t get enough of Bambi and Cinderella.” “Well, that’s one thing New York and the boondocks have in common. Maybe it just takes a good story to fill up the house, wherever it is.” “Could be,” I said. “Thing about a Disney flick is, promotion. You know it’s coming for a long time before it shows up, and there’s a big hangover after it’s gone. Dolls, hats, shirts, cups–they probably make as much from that crap as they do from the box office.” “Well, the Ritz can’t be an all-Disney house; what would you do in my shoes?” “I’m not sure I know enough about your shoes, or where they’ve taken you up to now. And why you think you’d like it here. It’s a hell of a long way from little old New York.” “Actually, I got most of my movie-house experience in Balamer.” “Well, still, I’d say that it depends on how much you can put into it, and how long you can wait to get your money back. If you get it back. It’s gotta be a long shot, any way you look at it.” “Looks like it to me, too. Well, there can’t be a deal without a price. We’ll see what his is. Any idea how long he’s had it on the market?” “As far as I know, he hasn’t really had it on the market–until now,” I told him. “I didn’t even know he was having that much trouble making ends meet. He’s kept up a good front–the place always looks good, and he does have traffic, even though it looks like he could use more.” Radio Waves 41

“Well,” he said, “I’m not interested in gettin’ into a bid war with anyone. Keep this under your hat until I decide one way or the other, and we’ll do some business.” “Wait a minute. How much business are we talking about? What if you don’t do the deal?” “Let’s say this; if I’m the new owner of the Ritz, I’m going to use radio to build trafﬁc. We’ll do the business it takes to make it happen. And I’m making a little side bet with myself that I will be the new owner.” He pulled some bills out of his pocket, extracted one and put the rest back. It was a hundred. Holding his hands at the edge of the table, he tore it in half, then tossed one half to me. “If I pass on the deal, you get the other half. If I make the deal, you still get the other half, but you credit it to the Ritz’s advertising account.” I stuck the ripped C-note in my shirt pocket. “You’re an interesting guy, Mr.—” “Kubielski. Moses Kubielski. I’m just a guy who likes movies, Webster. Where do you do your drinkin’?” “All over the place. Why?” “I like to have a beer now and then, and I thought I might get to know the town a little quicker if I went to the main waterin’ hole to do it.” “One block west and two blocks north, just this side of the railroad depot. The Bisque Lunch Room. They pour three or four different kinds of draft, and, as the name suggests, you can have lunch there. Or the same thing for dinner. Of the ﬁfty-seven varieties of redneck, you can generally count on seeing a good cross-section. I usually stop in there after my evening show. Sundown Serenade. Tune me in sometime; fourteen-forty on your radio dial.” “I’ll do it. By the way.” “What?” “Why’s it pronounced ‘BIS-kew’ insteada ‘Bisk’?” 42 The Rough English Equivalent

“Same reason that Cairo, Georgia’s KAY-ro, Buena Vista’s Bewna Vister and Albany’s ALL-binny, I guess. I’m sure that the guy this burg was named after didn’t say it that way.” “Any idea who that was?” “Major Hamilton Hubert “Hamm” Bisque. A Cajun, so the story goes, that picked up a grant of Creek Indian land for his service to the Republic in the War of 1812, farmed it, and got around to prompting the eruption of this commercial carbuncle on an otherwise innocent body of sandy clay in 1847. So the county’s named Hamm and town’s named Bisque, or ‘Miscue’ by certain of its residents, and all of its high school athletic opponents.” “My, my. Well, see you at the movies, Webster.” “You bet. You’re going to do well here.” “Oh yeah? How do ya know?” “I’m sort of a visionary. A peripheral visionary.” “What’s that?” “Well, sometimes I get a feeling about the future, but maybe a little bit skewed toward the inconsequentials.” “I can see how that might be helpful in this town,” said Moses as he stood up. “From what you’ve told me, I see it goin’ 4F one better.” “How’s that?” “Bisque looks like a 5F society to me–food, fuhbawl, flag, fuckin’ & fear. I can live with that.” 0730 Saturday 17 August 1946: “Saturday mornings kick ass, don’t they, Flx? Hotel’s about empty, just Clara to make up the three-four rooms that people’re staying in. Now that Mom’s let us run the elevator by ourselves, we can go where we please. Nothing to it. Just look down at the bottom of the door to see the floors coming up, so you can match up with the doors on the floor you’re stopping at. I like that elevator roulette trick you taught me; just ride up and down with my eyes closed, pull the handle to stop the car, open my eyes, and go up or down to Radio Waves 43 whichever floor I’m closest to. Then hop off and walk around the floor and snoop around.” “It ain’t snoopin’, Jackie; it’s security,” Flx squawked softly. “You can’t tell what the hell might be going on in a hotel. May not be many guests in here, but they’re still strangers, and they bear watching.” “Yeah, I guess you’re right. You know a lot for a two-year old.” “A two-year old Goshawk,son.Accipiter Gentilis, that is, which is a damn sight different from a two-year old human.” “Yeah, I guess so. Glad you hatched out, anyway.” “Didn’t have any choice. When it’s time, it’s time. Eggs’re like that. And I wasn’t gettin’ all that much air, since Mike painted my damn shell olive drab.” “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize you were in there when I traded him my black aggie for your egg. I thought it was just a nice smooth rock. Once I had it, I saw how much it looked like a bomb, so I cut up an Old Maid card and made those little fins for it.” “Damn glad you didn’t take a notion to drop it–me–outa some window. Bad enough that you named me what you did.” “What’s wrong with ‘Flx’? It’s the good part of that bus’s name. Wouldja rather’ve been ‘Flxible’?” “Why name a self-respectin’ Goshawk for a bus in the first place? All they do is roll. I fly, mister. You could’ve at least named me for a plane.” “But we were on the bus when you hatched. You gotta respect that. And I just couldn’t get that ‘Flxible’ outa my mind. How you were supposed to pronounce it, I mean. Then Mom told me that they’d written it that way so it could be a ‘trademark’–still not sure what that is–and to just say it like the missing ‘e’ was in there. Now that I’m used to saying it, I like it better than with the ‘e’ in. Kinda stylish, doncha think?” “Guess I can live with it. Since I won’t be hearin’ it from anybody but you.” 44 The Rough English Equivalent

“Guess not. Anyway, I told you how much the hotel’s like our old building in New York. Both brick, and about the same size. It’s the main reason I like living here so much. But I wasn’t old enough to run the elevator there, even if they’d let me. I don’t guess I would’ve ever known the things about our old building that we know about this one. Like where the electricity comes in, in the basement. And how to turn it off, the way Denver showed us that time. It’s scary to think we could make the whole hotel just stop, if we flipped a couple of switches inside that big black box with the ‘Square D’ stamped on it, in the back corner next to the alley.” “Um-hm.” “It’s where I go when I’m missin’ Daddy real bad, so nobody but you’ll see me cry. You know that light green that the basement walls are painted? I don’t like the color much; it’s got so that when I feel sad, I see that pissy green, even when I’m not in the basement.” “Yeah,” Flx squawked, even more softly than before. “I know.” “Doncha think that livin’ in a big building like this is kinda like livin’ in New York?” “I guess so.” “With a building, you got a lot more to think about all the time than you would just livin’ in a house. You gotta get a lot more people to do things. And because there’s so much to do, you don’t get bored. I hate being bored. When I’m bored, I start to think about the things that make me sad. I’m pretty sure Mom feels that way too, ’cause she’s always doin’ stuff to keep busy. Seems like it, anyhow.” “No doubt about it.” “I know she misses Daddy, too, sometimes. Remember when she asked me the other day, ‘Do you remember in New York, when your Dad and I’d pick you up at school to walk home in the afternoons, and we’d try to sneak up on the pigeons in the little park on Colum- bus Avenue? We could never even get close before they’d all fly away, though, making that ungodly noise when they did.’ I said yes, I remembered. ‘That was one of my best memories of New York,’ she Radio Waves 45 said, and she had this kinda far-off look. Makes me wonder, if we hadn’t gone off to the desert, if maybe we’d all still be there in New York, sneakin’ up on the pigeons, still havin’ good times like that.” “Yeah,” Flx squawked thoughtfully, “pigeons.” “Being here’s OK, though; way better’n Los Alamos, anyway–out there in the desert, burning-up hot, no trees, and then cold at night, in that crappy little house; us on one side and some other people, that didn’t have any children, on the other side. It had a tin roof. Mom said there wasn’t any way to get the house clean, and if there was, it’d be dirty again in five minutes ’cause the place leaked at every seam. “At every seam;” I thought that was funny, like she was talking about a shirt or something like that instead of a house. And Daddy was gone almost all the time. Mom said his job was driving us all crazy, so she told Daddy she was takin’ me to Bisque, so I could grow up halfway normal. He didn’t want us to go, but he was so busy he just had to let us do it so he could get back to work.” “Yeah,” Flx cackled musingly, “I guess he did.” “Well, we’re here now, and have some good friends, like Ricky, to play with. We have fun out at his house, don’t we? Wish Mom had more friends. Aunt Cordelia comes by all the time, but she’s about the only person Mom sees, except when she goes to see that friend of hers in Augusta now and then. She knows some of my friends’ moms, from ’way back; went to school with them, but she says that she don’t have that much in common with them now. She says they’re mostly ‘bridge ladies,’ ’cause they play bridge with each other all th’ time and that’s all. Mom’s always sayin’ funny stuff like that. So lots of times it’s just us, and her, here in the hotel, waitin’ for bed- time.” “By th’ way,” asked Flx, “any chance we could get to bed a little earlier? This late roostin’s hard on a growin’ bird.” “You go on any time you feel like it. We don’t hafta be together absolutely all the time.” 46 The Rough English Equivalent

“OK. Thanks. And if ya don’t mind, I might wanta cut out every now and then to check out a few things.” “What things?” “Oh, just stuff it’d do us good to know, that I might be able to find out easier than you can, since nobody sees me but you.” “But like what? I feel better when you’re hangin’ around.” “I know, but what about this? You know how Wahoo took us to eat barbeque that time? He likes Mom a lot, but she doesn’t like him all that much. Maybe she lets him take us out ’cause she thinks we like him, which we do, but I don’t think he’d want to take just you and me out to Tubby’s. I think he wants to stick his weenie into her, and he ain’t figured out how to get rid of us so he can.” Jack bristled. “Don’t say that. My Mom wouldn’t let him do that.” “Don’t be too sure. Humans are funny about gettin’ that ole weenie in a bun. I’ll see what I can find out, if ya don’t mind.” “OK,” Jack said grudgingly. “But you know what? I think Mose would take just us to Tubby’s. We don’t know too much about him, but I like the way he is, and I think Mom does, too. Too bad he can’t stay. If Mom really wants to do any ’a that ‘weenie bun’ stuff, I hope she does it with him.” chapter 8 s Crawl in the Saddle

1005 Monday 19 August 1946: It turned out to be a lot simpler than I’d imagined. Walton had damn near no equity in the Ritz, having steadily lost money while he owned it. “You’re buying the Ritz? Just like that?” she’d said. “Well, I was gonna to buy a theatre sooner or later, and this one looks like a steal to me,” I replied. “Like to guess his price?” “No thanks. That’s between you and him.” “And our lawyers. Could you recommend someone to handle my side of it?” “Well, I’m sure Bruce–Bruce Goode, the attorney that handles our business, could do it, but there may be a conﬂict.” “You mean about the lease.” “Oh. Yes. Then you know it’s my father’s property.” “Sure. That was a major selling point for him. Eight years left on a ten-year lease, three hundred a month with a ﬁve percent annual increase, lessor Lawton Redding. I don’t see any problem if your lawyer doesn’t.” “Well, I’ll call and ask him right away. Holy Toledo! You obviously don’t have any trouble making up your mind about things.”

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You have no idea, I thought. “A good deal’s where you ﬁnd it,” I said. “If you’ll ask him to give me an appointment as soon as he can, maybe we can get it done in a few days and make a little cinema history in this town. Has Walton ever talked to you about doing any kind of promotion with the hotel?” “No. And to tell the truth, I can’t see that it would’ve done him that much good. Seems to me that the Ritz’s market is the people of Bisque, not those that are just passing through.” “Oh, no. Who’d rather sit in a hotel room at night if there’s a good movie around the corner? A lot of your guests are repeaters, aren’t they? If I mail a monthly coming attractions list to them at home, they can plan to come to the Ritz while they’re here. They’d probably tell their friends and business associates about a good theatre being close by, and you’d get some new business too.” “I must admit that I hadn’t thought about it. Well, let me call Bruce and get you two together. No sense delaying your making us all rich.” “Yeah, the sooner I get my ducks in a row, the better.” “My daddy says that. I’ve always thought it was just another way of saying, at a societally acceptable level, “…as soon as I can convince the necessary number of people to abandon the pursuit of their own best interests in favor of the pursuit of mine.” “Hm. I’m lookin’ forward to meetin’ him,” said Moses.

Bruce Goode and I met in his office, which was in a house on brick-paved Cypress Street, where it crossed Lee street a couple of blocks south of the Hotel. The firm’s name, Billcombe, Goode and Proper, was engraved in black on a silver plate fastened to the white wood-latticed screen door. The joke hadn’t occurred to me until he brought it up. He was a little older than me, and obviously well off, and I guessed his good humor had a lot to do with that. He seemed as happy to see me as if I’d been the governor. “Mr. Kubielski,” he Crawl in the Saddle 49 said in a voice rubbed smooth with long use. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, and to greet the newest member of Bisque’s business community. Thanks so much for letting us handle this transaction for you. It requires a little extra trust for a newcomer to do business with a firm with a name like ours.” “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Goode. It came up unexpectedly. I don’t understand what you mean about the name, though.” “You mean Serena passed up the chance to have a little fun at our expense? It’s just that our founding partners were perverse enough to stay with the alphabetic sequence of last names, and the first one was Billcombe. It’s pronounced “bilk ’em.” “Oh. I see. Bilk ’em…” “Good and proper. Precisely. Well, just put it down to the eager- ness of a bunch of young bucks trying to get some visibility, and some business, any way that they could. Bisque itself was wet behind the ears back then–1895–and the joke apparently appealed to enough people to perpetuate it. In any case, they prevailed, and there’s a second and third generation of pretty fair lawyers now as evidence that they did.” I laughed. “Well, as long as it’s just reverse psychology.” “That’s it!” he said, happy to see that I got it. “Well, as to the Ritz. If you don’t mind my saying so, you drove a damn fine bargain. I’ve examined our copies of the documents that Frank Atkinson, Mr. Walton’s counsel, sent to me yesterday. I really don’t see much that needs changing.” “Good. I’m sure then that I won’t either. I’ll just take them back to the hotel with me and look them over, and get back to you tomorrow. If you’re free sometime tomorrow, that is.” “How about Wednesday? Perhaps we could discuss any questions that you might have over lunch. I’d be happy to pick you up at the hotel–say twelve-thirty? The Elks Club has a very nice lunch menu, and it’s just a short drive.” “That would be fine,” I said. “So far, I’ve only eaten at the hotel.” 50 The Rough English Equivalent

“Yes, of course. I forgot for a moment how short a time you’ve been in Bisque. If you’d like, I’d enjoy showing you a little more of the town, and the county, after lunch.” “I’d appreciate that very much. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” I took a different route back to the hotel, thinking about lunch and a beer to go with it. Heading west on Cypress, I crossed Lee and continued for another block, hoping that I’d remembered Lee Web- ster’s directions to the Bisque Lunch Room. I turned north on Eighth and, seeing the railroad station in the distance, figured that I had. I slowed my pace to a saunter, integrating this part of town, which my walks with Jack hadn’t covered, into my mental map of what was to be my new home for some as-yet-to-be-determined period of time. Tree roots had heaved up some of the sidewalk slabs, letting little moss patches grow in the cracks. The houses here were both larger and older than the ones in lawyer Goode’s part of Cypress street, and less well-kept as you approached Main, where residences left off and business began. Crossing relatively wide Main, I left the rumble and screech of its truck-dominated traffic behind me, and walked on, past a wholesale grocer, miscellaneous small retailers and the ice house down the block on Jackson. The Bisque Lunch Room slouched on the corner of Eighth street and an alley, opposite one side of the post office and just beyond what appeared to be a repair shop. Crossing over to its side of the street, I picked my way past lawnmowers, power saws and various agricultural-looking devices toward the Lunch Room’s swinging doors. A large olive-drab Harley-Davidson and sidecar rig was parked on the street, its back wheel resting against the curb, pointing toward the railroad station. The Steinerbru clock on the far wall read 11:45. Remnants of the morning sun spattered through the swinging doors and grimy windows, highlighting the small cyclones of dust kicked up by the swinging doors, crawling across the sawdust-covered floor and up the front of the two-sided bar that ran most of the twenty-five-or-so foot Crawl in the Saddle 51 width of the room, serving whites at the front and colored at the rear, where the floor was about three feet lower, level with a side door that opened onto the alley, than the front. A gray-haired, gray-skinned fortyish man sat at the cash register on the servers’ side of the bar, in the L created by the bar and the left-hand wall. He looked mildly at me over rimless half-glasses. “Mornin’,” he grunted. “What’ll it be?” “Mornin’,” I replied. “I’m here for lunch, but I’ll have a beer while I look at the menu. Whaddya have on draft?” “Schlitz, Miller and Bud. And them and a bunch of others in bottles. Steinie, CV, Blatz, Black Label, Feingold, Ballantine’s and Red Cap.” “Red Cap?” “Red Cap ale. Carling’s.” “That’ll be fine. What’s for lunch?” “Thar she blows,” he said, raising a dessicated hand toward a sign above the bar and reprising its movable-white-plastic-letter testament. “Best ribeye steak you ever ate, on a plate or in a sandwich, hamburger, hot dog, bacon lettuce and tomater, french fries with everthang. Or baloney on liit bread, that we have mostly for the coon trade. If you’d keer for an appetizer, we got pickled eggs, pickled pig’s feet and pickled hot sausages in them jars riit’air,” indicating three gallon-size glass containers in the middle of the bar. “An’ a Moon Pie for dessert, if yer still hungry.” “It’s early; just a sandwich. Bacon, lettuce and tomato, on toast. Even at this early in my Bisque life I knew better than to add “whole wheat.” “Yeh-baw-ey. We’ll have to grill ’at bread fer ye; ain’t got no toaster.” It took a couple of seconds for me to realize that what he’d said was “Yeah, boy.” “That’s all right.” “I don’t bleeve you been in here before,” he said, setting my Red Cap down to extend a cool, damp hand. “My name’s Randall. They call me Ribeye. This here’s my place.” 52 The Rough English Equivalent

We shook. “Pleased to meet you, Ribeye. Moses Kubielski.” “Oh! You’re the one from up the country. That ’us my nephew brought you to the ho-tel with lil’ Jack. Ricky.” I took a big swallow of Red Cap. It was plenty cold, and its strong taste promised a nice solid hit to the midsection. “Oh, sure. He told me a great story about your Indian ancestors. The Creeks.” He rewarded me with a look of mild disgust, shaking his head. “That’s on his mama’s side; her and my wiife’re sisters, and mosta that’s Smokey’s–he’s their pappy–most of that’s his bullshit, to my way a’thinkin. He’s fulla shit as a crismus turkey. He’ll fix raddiators nobody else can, though. Yores done yet?” “Not yet.” “Well, hit’ll be riit when you git it back. “Flo! Gimme a BLT up here, an’ grill th’ bread! Hey thair, Roy!” he said, looking over my shoulder. A tall, thin-faced, thirtyish guy in once-white coveralls slid onto the stool next to mine. “Hey, Rib.” He took the beer that Randall drew for him, drinking about half of it in the same motion before looking at me. “Howdy,” he said. “This here’s the man with the broke-down Buick from up th’ country,” said Randall. “Smokey’s takin care of it.” “Oh, yeah. That big Buick. Lee Webster said you was thinkin’ about buyin’ the picture show. That right?” “Thinkin’ about it,” I said. “You go there much?” “Every now and then,” said the thin man. “Whenever they have a Randolph Scott, or sich as that. Or a Abbott and Costeller. Them boys are sump’m else.” “That’s Roy’s place next door,” Ribeye put in. “The motor shop.” I waggled my empty bottle at Ribeye. “Looks like you do all kinds of business over there,” I said. “Everything from plows to motorcycles.” “Yeah,” he said, “Seems like the bidness fines me, ‘steada the other way round. Most people just don’t wanta fool with a lotta different Crawl in the Saddle 53 stuff, I guess. They rather just do pretty much the same thing every day. Thatair’s what’d drive me crazy. I just like to figger stuff out. Hit’s liike havin’ puzzles to play with.” “Is that sidecar rig broken down?” “That ole Army Harley? Not no more. I fixed it fer the sonofabitch–jist a wore-out engine sprocket–an’ he never come back fer it. Ain’t seen ’im since June. You like ’em thangs? You kin have it fer what he owes me on it. ‘Ey scare th’ shit outa me.” “How much?” “$48.50, plus fitty cent a day storage.” “Be OK if I ride it first?” “Oh hell yes. Wanta do it now?” I laughed. “Oh hell yes.” We slid off the stools and walked out to the rig. “I’ll take it real slow,” I told him. “I’ve ridden a couple of sidecar rigs, but it’s been awhile.” Looking down to close the carbu- retor’s choke, I realized that it wasn’t what I’d expected; it was much larger. “This’s no forty-five,” I said. “Naw, hit’s that seb’mty-four-inch flathead that they been makin’ since th’ thirties. I reckon the Army bought ’em jist to pull sidecars.” Twisting the left grip to retard the ignition, I opened the throttle just a crack and flipped the bicycle-pedal starter out to kicking position. Pulling up on the bars, I kicked down on it once with the ignition off, thrusting the full weight of my body against the engine’s compression. It started on the third or fourth kick, just as the lever hit the bottom of its stroke, turning over a hair above idle speed, with the unmistakable thumpa-dump-thumpa-dump Clydesdale- lope of a v-twin. “Hop in!” I shouted to Roy, who looked at me as if I’d asked him to kiss a rattlesnake. He shook his head slowly, turning down the corners of his mouth for emphasis. “I can’t ride this thing without some weight in the car,” I protested. “I don’t even like to ride it, let alone set in that goddam bathtub while you ride it,” he said. I was about to shut the engine down when Ziggy, the grocery boy with the Ruptured Duck shirt, rode his bike 54 The Rough English Equivalent around the corner of the building, one hand on the handlebars and one clutching a half-eaten sandwich. I waved him over. “Ziggy! Want a ride?” I said, pointing at the sidecar. Chewing, he looked first at the sidecar, then down the street, then at me. “Sho! Iffen Mister Roy don’ mind watchin’ after mah bike.” “Go awn, bawey,” Roy shouted, fearing a lost sale. “I’ll putcher biike inside. Y’all have a niice ride; take yer time and be keerful, heeunh?” By now the Lunch Room crowd was on the street, ready to witness the unlikely launch of infernal machine, yankee, three hastily- ordered Red Caps and pickaninny down the street to god-knew- what. Blipping the throttle, I pushed the gearshift lever into low gear, waiting for Ziggy to get his lanky frame situated in the car, the bag of Red Caps between his legs. Still chewing, he answered my “Ready?” with the briefest of nods, his eyes bigger than any I’d ever seen. Let- ting a couple of cars go by, I rolled on a handful of throttle and toed the clutch pedal forward. We leaped from the curb, missing a car parked across the street by an inch or two and giving Ziggy a closeup look at his reflection in its shiny gas filler cap, as I remembered how much handlebar-rowing a sidecar rig takes to change direction. Easing off the throttle, I slipped the gearbox into neutral and coasted up to the traffic light at the intersection, opposite the railroad station. We sat there, waiting in a cloud of Harley-Davidson smells, sounds and vibrations, for a break in the traffic. With what I hoped would pass for nonchalance, I asked Ziggy, “Anyplace special you’d like to go?” His eyes had returned to normal size; he looked a lot more comfortable than he had a few seconds ago. Looking around at the gaping faces of the throng of blacks and whites eagerly anticipating the contraption’s next move, Ziggy leaned grandly back against the sidecar’s threadbare cushion. “Allanna!” he said, with the grin of a Zulu holding a fresh kill. Old Ziggy was a player. Crawl in the Saddle 55

“Can’t spare the time today,” I told him, “but let’s head that way for a while.” As the traffic opened up, I slipped it into low, sawed the bars over to the left and got us moving west on Isaac Street, past the still-gaping onlookers and headed out of town toward Atlanta. I ran it hard through first and second gear, loving the power surge of an engine that had obviously had the benefit of Roy’s attention. By the time I pulled it down into third, Ziggy and I were flying along at what the big speedometer on the gas tank said was between sixty-five and seventy, down a section of Isaac that ran through houses, repair shops, warehouses and groceries that had all seen better days. I slowed up going past the textile mills that were, I would learn, the heart of Bisque’s economy, and followed Isaac as it turned north to join the main highway. With Ziggy’s assurance that no one was expecting him to be anywhere for awhile, I drank a couple of the Red Caps and enjoyed scooting the rig over the blacktop roads that ran through the generally flat countryside of cotton fields bounded by ditches of incredibly red clay. We rode the rural area north of Bisque for an hour, waving back at the people who waved at us, and grinning at those that didn’t, as we passed by. We stopped once for gas, and at a couple of places that looked interesting in one way or another. I was surprised to find that Ziggy knew little more about where we were than I did. “Iownno” was his regular response to my questions about the people, farms and settlements that we rode by. He was, it turned out, more curious about me than about rural Bisque. The last stop we made was under a giant oak tree, on the crest of a hill that overlooked white fields of cotton that looked ready for picking. Sitting on the sidecar’s nose, he asked me, “Where you from?” His brown-eyed gaze ranged out over the pasture across the two-lane macadam road. “Baltimore,” I said. “Ever heard of it?” “Hunh-uh. Whey it is?” “Up north. Close to Washington, D.C.” “Whey Roosievelt useta be.” 56 The Rough English Equivalent

“That’s right. Just a few miles away.” “Who have his job now?” “Mr. Truman’s the president now.” “I be done seen de crain wid Roosievelt dead on it.” “Really. Did it come through Bisque?” “Nawsuh; my uncle Bob be drive us downa Macon.” “Well, that was a ﬁne thing for him to do. You’ll always remember seeing that train.” “Yeh, I will. Peoples be cryin’; black folks, white folks, all be cryin, while dat crain go by so slow. Uncle Bob say it be de saddest day de country eber know. Dat Mistah Cruman–do he be a guut main?” Yes, I think so; at least he seems to be an honest man.” Ziggy shook his head slightly from side to side. “I sho hopes so; hope he don’ be gettin us inta no mo waw, anyway. My brother jus’ be back a little while; he say don’ nobody needa be in no waw.” “I guess that’s his shirt you’re wearing.” He smiled. “Useta be; he gibita me. It be miine now.” “Well, he’s right about war; it makes no sense at all. Does your brother live in Bisque now?” “Uh-huh. He stay wid us.” “Well, I’m sure you like that.” “Uh-huh. You gonna stay here? In town?” “Yes, I am. I’m buying the movie theatre.” “Which one?” “The Ritz.” “Whooeee. Whatchoo give fo’ it?” I laughed in spite of myself. “Oh, not all that much. Do you like to go there?” “Uh-huh. We sits in de bayulc’ny. Kin I have a job dere?” “I thought you already had a job at the grocery store.” “I does. I got nudduh job, too–at de lunch room. But I got time fo’ nudduh one, do it be at de show. Who gone clean up fo’ you? I kin clean up evuh niit afuh you close it up.” Crawl in the Saddle 57

This kid’s definitely a hustler, I thought. “You still go to school, don’t you? “Sho do.” “Let me find out who’s doing it now; maybe we can work something out–if your folks don’t mind.” “Iss jus’ my mama, an’ she don’ mind nothin’ I does–honest, I mean–long as it make money.” “Well, drop by next week and we’ll see. We’d better be getting back into town now.” “Awright, den.” Shit, I thought, feeling the oppression of the overripe air that pushed out my cheeks and weaseled up my pants legs, a lifetime of Faulkner wouldn’t get you ready for this. We parked the rig back in front of Ray’s at about three-thirty. By then I was quite at home with it. Ziggy got his bike and left with another “Awright, den.” over his shoulder, leaving Roy and me alone inside the shop. I opened two Red Caps and handed one to him. “Did you say $48.50?” I asked. He took a long pull from the green bottle. “$48.50, plus fitty cent a day fer storage. Just round ’er off tuh thirty bucks; hit’s been here since June.” “That’d be $78.50, then.” I put ten twenties on the counter. “There you go, and another $121.50 on account.” He laughed. “On accounta what?” “On account of you doin’ a coupla things that I’d like to have done to it. Know anybody that could paint it?” “Yeah; they’s a few paint shops around. You talkin’ about just a coata paint, or do you wanta get ’er done riit?” “Damn well right. I like that old girl, and she’s going to do a job for me. I think you sort of like her, too. That engine’s too frisky not to have been gone through. You must’ve overhauled it.” 58 The Rough English Equivalent

He grinned, looking at me and shaking his head. “Well, it ’us too good an engine just to let it splatter itself tuh pieces. She didn’t need what yuh’d call a overhaul; just rings and valves, and I cut th’ heads down a little as long as they was off. Big end’s jist fine; don’t seem like she’s really been rode that much.” “Coulda been delivered right at the end of the war. Well, it’s time she got a new look; who do you think ought to do the paint job?” “Only one I’d trust her with’d be Skeeter. He’s a body man at th’ Chrysler shop. Paints on th’ side at ’is own shop. Liikes ta do old cars; he’s got a T-Model Ford looks liike hit’s brand new.” “He’s our man. Would you get hold of him and find out when he could do it?” “OK. An’ I guess you’d like ta know what it’s gonna cost.” “Of course. Just tell him I want it to look like a new one.” “New? You mean liike it was when it ’us delivered?” “Well, not exactly. Do you suppose he’d come by here one day after work to talk about it?” “He’ll meet up with us next door, anytime you’re buyin’ th’ beer.” “Good. Tomorrow then. I won’t rush him, but I’m gonna need it done as soon as possible. And tires. Guess those’ll hafta be ordered.” “You’ll need to talk to th’ tar store about that. I reckon Firestone or Goodyear, either one, makes some that’ll fit ’er.” “I’d appreciate it if you’d take care of that. Just let me know how much they are, and I’ll give you the money, plus twenty percent for your trouble. I’ll do that on the paint job, too.” “Godamiteydayum, Mister…” “Mose.” “Mose,” he said, “You gittin’ ready to spend a buncha money on that ole rig, but if that’s whacha mean to do, then I’ll be glad to see that hit gits done riit. I love good machinery, an’ I reckin you do too. How come you in sicha hurry?” “Business.” “Bidness?” Crawl in the Saddle 59

“Business. To promote th’ theatre.”

Late the next afternoon, a large shadow cast by Buck’s Billiards’ ceiling fan-stirred light preceded Lee Webster’s rotundity as he wad- dled into the poolroom. Buck, shooting perpetual nine-ball with the perennial regulars, straightened up from shooting a game-winning combination and winked a languid greeting. A couple of the others nodded stingily in his direction. “Hey, Lee. You lookin’ for Mr. Kabeesky?” “Yeah. How’d you know?” “He said he left word fer ye down at Rib’s,” said Buck, swiping his fancy handkerchief over an ample forehead. “He the one that put on the show down ’ere yes’dy? Seems like a nice enough fella. He’s back on th’ snooker table.” Buck moved closer and wrapped a heavy arm around Lee’s shoulder, leading him away from the front table and lowering his voice. “Hey, looka heeunh. If he’s a frienda yours, I b’leeve I’d let ’im know ’at some people, like them ole boys up in th’ front, don’t keer all ’at much fer white folks messin’ ’round wi’ niggers liike ’at…” “Greetings, buster; ya look like a monsoon victim. Why da you guys insist on wearin’ ties with yer short-sleeve shirts anyway? Loosen that fucker up before ya choke.” “There’s certain things you do to get by,” said Webster, looking reﬂexively around before loosening his tie and digging into his neck’s folds of fat to undo his collar button. “Around here, one of ’em is, if you’re a manager, psuedo-manager or a salesman peddling to the aforementioned, you swap your coat and Arrow Dart longsleeve shirt around April Fool’s Day for an Arrow Dart shortsleeve shirt. Burn up otherwise. But you don’t dare shed the tie; people just won’t take you seriously without the goddamned tie.” “Do tell. Got time for a game, Mr. Sincere?” 60 The Rough English Equivalent

Moses leaned across the width of Buck’s lone snooker table to take his shot on the pink six-ball, which sat slightly off the side rail and back some thirty inches from the corner pocket nearest the score- board. “Six in the corner,” he said, easing his cue stick back and forth inside the bridge of his left hand as he sighted the shot. Satisfied, he stroked the cue ball gently toward its target. A soft click sent the six down the table. It hit the rail just at the nearside edge of the pocket’s rounded corner, rattled between corners and rolled to a stop near the middle of the back rail. “Shit,” he grunted, standing up and looking at Lee Webster, who would have a clear shot on the seven once he made the red ball that was a short straight-in shot into the opposite corner. “Appreciate that,” said Webster, flashing a brief grin in the relative gloom outside the coverage of the table’s fluorescent light. “Thought you had it.” “That’s snooker, at least it’s snooker with a hangover. Guess I’m gettin’ old, lettin’ a few beers catch up with me.” “Well, if it’s any consolation, you’ve got plenty of company; according to Buck and the guys on the front table, half the town’s got a hangover from your little ride yesterday.” “What? What the hell’re you talking about? I test-ride a bike, and that gives people hangovers? Besides me, that is.” Moses walked over to the blackboard to chalk down the single point addition to his score. “Well, let’s see. You blow into town in a white limousine, flirt with buying the town’s number one movie house, commandeer an old motorcycle loud enough to wake up the Confederate army, put a coon in the sidecar, come near wiping out a row of automobiles pulling out from Ribeye’s, rip around the countryside for a couple of hours swilling beer, and no one’s going to take notice? You can’t be that obtuse. This is Bisque, not Baltimore. In Bisque, they break out the chastity belts and Klan robes for a lot less than that.” Crawl in the Saddle 61

“Jesus. Well, you know what they say. If they can’t take a joke, fuck ’em.” “Fuck yourself’s more like it,” Webster said, brushing thinning brown hair back off his forehead as he leaned over to pocket the red ball. “You piss off the good people of Bisque and sooner or later they’ll shut you down. All you’d have in that movie’ll be drunks, rats and roaches.” “Not if you can help it. I wanted you to know as soon as possible. I’m the Ritz’s new owner, so dazzle me with what you’re going to do to make it famous. Here’s the other half of that hundred, by the way.” He tossed the torn paper onto the table near Lee. “A solid schedule of your inspired commercials, plus decent newspaper ads, plus the pro- letariat’s unquenchable thirst for the Hollywood miracle, and they’ll be there, lined up to buy tickets, if the the devil himself owned the place.” Lee picked the bill up from the table, sliding it into the side pocket of his wrinkled seersucker jacket. “That, my friend, definitely remains to be seen. As a member of the news media, I’d like to think that you’re right. But I’ve been in this town for long enough to know one thing for sure. Unless you play by their rules, these people will do everything they can to mash you flat. They’re still getting over the Louis-Conn fight, and you drop this turd in the punchbowl.” “Billy Conn; the Pittsburgh Kid. Shit, he was lucky to make it to the 8th. Some Great White Hope. Hope he got what was comin’ to him outa that purse. What was it, two million?” “See? That’s what I mean. That’s an opinion that you oughta just keep to yourself. You got to understand what things like that mean to people in a town like this. It’s like religion. Hell, it is religion.” “Which is another word for fear,” said Moses. “People usually operate out of fear. Relax, Webster; once they see I’m no threat, things’ll go right back to normal. “People in this burg’re like people everywhere else. Give you a hundred reasons why your idea won’t work, then show up looking for a job when it does.” 62 The Rough English Equivalent

“The only thing I see wrong with that theory,” said Webster, using bottom english to drop the black seven and get position on another red ball, “is how long it’ll take ’em to see that you’re not here to tear up their playhouse. Rich or poor, most Bisquites are about the length of a plowchain, psychologically, from a cottonpicker’s shack. Until– and unless–you stop scarin’ em, you might as well be in league with th’ devil.” “Another one of humanity’s little misperceptions.” “Hell, man–humanity is misperception. How many examples do you need?” “Well,” said Moses, “Hope springs eternal.” “No, I think you were closer to the mark just now. Fear, at least in these parts, is what springs eternal.” chapter 9 s Inside Moves

0937 Monday 19 August 1946: “Be still, Cordelia,” Serena said to the lean ash blonde who sat on a tall stool some eight feet away from her to avoid the sculptor’s shadow. They were alone on the Hotel Bisque’s roof, which she had converted into an outdoor studio. “If I’da known that it’d take this long, I wouldn’ta asked you to do the goddam thing,” Cordelia groused. “I got me a serious case of ﬂat- butt, sittin’ on this stool so long.” “That’ll be th’ day, darlin’. That’s the nicest over-21 butt in Hamm County.” “It used to be the nicest under-21 butt in the goddamn state,” Cordelia said. “Let’s take a break. You’re drinkin’ all the wine.” It was just past nine in the morning. Cordelia Redding perched uneasily on her high wooden stool, posing for what they now agreed was an ill-conceived undertaking: a bust of Cordelia as a birthday gift for her husband Buster. They moved to a couple of high-boy director’s chairs, a bottle of Chablis in an ice bucket on a tall metal table between them. Sitting under the seamless ceiling of cool blue morning sky, their isolation from the town was secured by the four-foot brick wall that extended

- 63 - 64 The Rough English Equivalent above the perimeter of the hotel roof. Cordelia pulled a pack of Chesterfields from her bag, shook one out, lit it, and inhaled deeply. “I hear your new Yankee guest’s not bad lookin’,in a burly sorta way,” she said, letting the smoke escape. “Not bad at all. Gray eyes, Jewish but doesn’t look it; appears somebody tagged him on his nose, so he doesn’t have the ‘Meyer’ profile. Built like Buster Crabbe, and smiles like he knows all your secrets. Moves like a tennis player, or a big old cat, on the balls of his feet. Favors his right side a little. Nice guy, from what I can tell; he’s headed to Florida, unfortunately. Wants to buy a picture show.” “Oh. Big dough?” “No. Just tired of cold winters, he says. Guess he’s just saved enough to invest in something of his own.” “Reba said that he was talking to Richard Walton the other day.” “Yes. Jack took him on a walk around town, and they ran into him.” “Maybe he’ll tell Richard how they do it up north.” “Do what?” “Run a picture show. What’d you think I meant?” “Well, you just said ‘do it–’ could’ve been anything–from screwing to the Charleston.” “Maybe he can screw while he does the Charleston. Ever think of that?” “No, Cordelia, I didn’t; but I’m not surprised that you did.” Draining her wine glass, Cordelia stood up, walking back to the posing stool. “Don’t tell me your vote helped elect me Bisque’s official slut.” Serena looked at her over the bust’s shoulder, caressing the wet gray clay. “You’ve got way too much competition to get my vote, if I bought the slut label in the first place. So you like to fuck. So do I. Nobody calls a man who likes sex a slut; he’s an ‘ass man,’ or a ‘Lothario,’ depending on the part of town you’re in.” “Yeah, but we’re in this town; that’s my problem.” Inside Moves 65

“I know it still hurts, honey, but at least you’ve got the satisfaction of knowing that you were that sonofabitch’s last victim. Now that people know what was doing over there with the little BHS girls for so long, there’s just the usual handful of sanctimonious shits that insist on seeing you as anything but the one who caused him to get caught.” “You’d think that twenty years’d be long enough to live anything down. Wish I’d had the sense to leave this town and get my sexual initiation someplace else, like you did.” “Well,” Serena sighed, “It’s a shame we can’t just fuck who we please, when we please, minus the horseshit of men’s jealousy, but here we are today, for better or for worse. “At least you’re getting ser- viced regularly–that’s more than I can say. You are, aren’t you?” Cordelia arched her back and stretched, smiling lazily, her navel peeking out above her white jersey skirt. “I’m just fine, sweetie. But now that Buster’s about to get busy being a car dealer, you miit have to hold my hand now and then.” Serena, shaping the juncture between the bust’s underjaw and neck, let one hand drop to the top of its right breast, her fingers fondling it lightly. “I swear, child. You are way too much. That fool Mat- thew Green didn’t know what he was lettin’ loose on humanity when he started playin’ with you.” “That poor man didn’t turn nothin’ loose; he just happened to be there when it busted loose. If he hadn’ta been such a damn fool, talkin’ about leavin’ his wife and lettin’ the whole mess get out, we’dve been all right. Good lord; to think that little bit of fuckin’ could cause so much trouble.” “The problem is that your idea of ‘a little bit’ just isn’t the same as most people’s, Cordelia. I love you, and I worry about you. Why the hell did you marry Buster, anyway? He’s never gonna get you out of Bisque, if that’s what you want.” “That may be true, but don’t bet the hotel on it. He got me out once, so I guess heeg’n do it again. Buster may not be quite th’ man 66 The Rough English Equivalent your daddy is, but he’ll do OK. By the way, talkin’ about gettin’ outa here–what’s your plan?” “New York again, just as soon as Jack’s done with school. I left here once, and I can do it again. But I’m resigned to making the best of Bisque ’til then.” “That’ll be some trick. It’s funny, you know, how we are. You’re five years older than me, and if we hadn’t gone to Miss Rhonda’s studio, chances are we’d be strangers. Five years’s a lifetime when you’re a kid. You’d already gone up North to school when I was a freshman in high school. And look where we are now.” “I feel old enough without your gentle reminder, thanks. And whacha mean, ‘some trick’? It may not be the Waldorf, but I’m learning a lot running this hotel. I couldn’t’ve bought the education I’ve gotten here, at Columbia or anywhere else. I’m enjoying being part of this town for awhile, instead of just being Pap Redding’s pore old divorced daughter, running home to Papa. I do, however, have precious little time to screw around.” Holding her pose, Cordelia moved just her eyes to look directly into Serena’s. “You look real good for thirty-three. When I first came to Miss Rhonda’s, I was eight, so you were thirteen. You already had a great body, and you still do. I just think that we ought not to get old living here; wouldn’t it be great to strut our stuff in New York? Paris? Maybe the Riviera?” “The Riviera?” hooted Serena. “Who the hell have you been talking to?” Looking into middle nowhere from her perch, Cordelia let a quick pout cross her face. “Listen. People from Atlanta go to the Riviera all the time. Just read the paper; it’s right there in the society pages.” “That’s uppercrust Atlanta, and it’s a helluva long way from here to there, to say nothing of the Riviera.” “Well, it’s for sure that your fine friend the sheriff won’t be taking you there any time soon. What do you see in him, anyway?” Inside Moves 67

“Wahoo? Not much, if you mean romantically. We’re friends, and he likes Jack a lot, so we go to dinner now and then. With Jack. Did you think he was fuckin’ me?” “Not really. But you know he’d like to. He’s a pretty damn fine- lookin’ man; I’d do him in a heartbeat. Guess you’d still have to duck out of town to shack up, though.” Serena looked at her with a sudden, steely gaze. “You’d do well to forget what you just said, Missy,” she grated, her voice just above a whisper. “What I do away from here is my business, and only my business. I don’t want any part of my sex life bounced around this town, and if that happens I’ll know just who to blame. I’m sorry I ever told you.” “Ah, Honey!” she drawled. “You know I’d never ever do that. I know your privacy’s precious to you, and you have to be extra careful because of Jack.” She stood up, walked over to Serena, put a finger under her chin, tipped it up slightly, tenderly kissing her lips. “I’m sorry, baby. Please forgive me?” Serena took Cordelia’s hands in hers, smiling as she broke their gaze with a shake of her head. “Ah hell, sweetie, I know you’d never do me dirt on purpose. But you like to talk, and since I won’t be marrying any of ’em, I don’t want people in this town speculatin’ about me in any sexual way at all. I owe that to my Dad, who took a real chance on me here, but most of all I owe it to Jack.” “How ’bout this–you keep my secrets, and I’ll keep yours. You know I love Jackie, too. Let me ask you something, though; are you gonna live here with him from now on? Shouldn’t he be growin’ up in a house, like his friends?” “Come on, let’s get back to work,” said Serena, standing up. “I want to get a little further along before your butt gives out. “Don’t you worry about Jack; he loves the hotel, and I’m betting that he’ll see very little of Bisque after high school. He was born a New Yorker, and he’ll probably be living in a big city somewhere when he gets out of college. So he gets a little bit of a head start on city life by growing 68 The Rough English Equivalent up here. If I didn’t believe that, we’d be out there on Cherokee Drive with the rest of the goddam striving middle class. But I do believe it; Bisque’s not my destiny, or his.” “No, darlin’,” Cordelia said. “You’re definitely a city girl. And my dearest love.” Serena laughed as she scraped clay away from the bust’s jaw line. “Thank you, honey; now get back on that stool and hold still. Your nipples are all puckered.”

Ray’s Barber Shop was one flight down, in the basement of the “ready-to-wear” store that faced the hotel across Lee Street. The cool, sweet-scented air surprised Moses as he entered. He stopped just inside the door to get his bearings; bright light from the bulbs above the mirrored back wall put the barbers’ chairs into stark contrast with the rest of the large, square room. Two of the three chairs were busy, the barbers intent on their occupants. A couple of other men sat along the left wall in relative darkness. “Come in, sir!” the leftmost barber exclaimed, not raising his eyes from his work, bald pate glistening in the bright yellow-green light streaming from over his head. “Have a seat; it won’t be long. The other barber’ll be back from lunch in just a few minutes.” “Thanks,” said Moses. He turned to find a vacant chair, his eyes still adapting to the change in light. He took the chair nearest to the barber who had spoken. “Don’t believe you’ve been in before,” the barber said, looking at him briefly over the top of his glasses. “New to town, or just passing through?” “Brand new,” Moses replied. “I’m just across the street at the hotel.” “Well, welcome,” said the barber. “I’m Ray Taylor.” He was a fat- tish man, nearly bald, a little below medium height. A barber’s brush had plenty of room in the left hip pocket of his seersucker pants, Inside Moves 69 which hung low around surprisingly meager hindquarters. “This here’s my shop.” “Hello, Ray. I’m Moses Kubielski.” “How do you do, sir. That feller on your left’s Mr. Lewis, and beyond him’s Mr. Robison. This here’s-” he indicated the other barber with a wave of his hand–“Charlie Baker, and Mr. Warren, here in the chair.” Moses shook Mr. Lewis’ proffered hand, and raised his other hand in a brief wave. “Glad to know you all,” he said. “This must be the coolest place in town.” Taylor chuckle-snorted lightly. “I hope it is. We’re in the business of makin’ people look good and feel good. Glad you noticed. Say, you’re the man with the big white Buick, aincha?” “Yes. Yes I am. Unless there’s another white 1941 limo in Bisque. The news gets around this town pretty fast.” “It does. It surely does. But then it’s a small town. Between here and the pool room, you can hear just about everthang that goes on in Bisque.” “Well, newspapers never print it all, so I guess that’s a pretty good arrangement. Heard any news about my car? I haven’t talked to Smokey today.” “Ain’t nobody come in from down thataway yet. If you come back around closin time, I imagine we’llve heard somethin.” “Oh, I’ll know something before then. Just thought I’d stop over for a trim first. By the way, here’s a little news for you. I might be selling that car, if anyone’s interested.” “Izzat right? You think it’s hurt bad?” “Don’t know yet; hope I will today. All that’ll affect is the price, though. I’m looking for something a little smaller. Haven’t had this one all that long; really didn’t want it in the first place.” “That’s some car to be drivin if you didn’t want it. How’d you happen to buy it in the first place?” “Didn’t.” 70 The Rough English Equivalent

“Didn’t buy it?” “Nope. Won it. Poker.” “Goddamiteydayum! Musta been some game.” “Yes, it was.” “You can have a seat right here,” he said, over his shoulder from the cash register. These gents are both Charlie’s customers.” Moses made himself comfortable in chair, still warm from the last customer, as Taylor whisked a drape over him, tucking it and a barber’s tissue inside his collar. “Care for a shampoo, or just a haircut?” “Just a haircut, thanks.” “Hey, Buster,” Taylor said to the backlit figure just entering the shop. “How you doin’?” “Tol’able, Ray boy, jus’ tol’able,” said the figure as it moved toward the the pool of light, revealing a stocky, red-haired man in his early thirties. He looked just enough like Serena for Moses to place him. She had mentioned a younger brother the other night; there couldn’t be that many Busters in a town this size, not even Bisque. “Howdy,” he said, aiming a boyish, gap-toothed grin at Moses. “Hi,” said Moses, returning the grin. “Do you know Mr.–” Taylor began. “Kubielski,” said Moses, extending his hand from beneath the barber’s drape. “Moses Kubielski.” Quickly grasping the hand, he said, “Yessir. Mr. Kabeelsky. Pleased to meet you. My sister was telling me about you just yes’dy. Sorry to hear about your car. Said you might be stayin’ in Bisque awhile yet.” “Well, for a few days, anyway.” “That’s fine. Hope you’re enjoyin’ yourself. Say, would you mind if I went by Smokey’s and had a look at that car of yours?” “Help yourself. As I was saying just before you came in, it may be for sale if I find something around here that I like better.” “That’s why I wanta look at it. I think I’ve got somethin’ you’ll like–a lot better.” Inside Moves 71

“What’s that?” Moses asked as Ray pulled off the drape and he got out of the chair. “A brand-new ’47 Hudson Commodore Eight. Did my sister mention that I just bought the dealership? I’ll beat any deal you’ll find in this town, and with the best-streamlined car in the world.” “No, it didn’t come up,” said Moses, handing Ray a dollar. “And I don’t know a thing about Hudsons. But check my car out and tell me what you can do. Good to meet you, Buster; everyone. See you later.” “What was that guy’s name again?” asked Charlie Baker, after Moses had gone. “Kabeesky,” said Taylor.” “Are you sure?” said the man in Baker’s chair. I think it’s Kub- lesky. “That’s what Reba said when she was tellin’ me about the car.” “Well, maybe so. Whatever it is, with that head I know what his first name oughta be.” “What?” “Cueball. That’s the roundest fuckin head I ever saw.” 1930 Wednesday 21 September 1946: Moses brushed a fly away from the bar before it could get to the foam that ran down the side of his glass and onto the bar. At half past seven on a Wednesday night, he and Lee Webster had the Bisque Lunch Room momentarily to themselves. “I’ll read you some commercial copy tomorrow,” Lee said as he pushed a WQUE quotation sheet across to him. If you can live with those rates, that is.” Moses scanned the figures, then held his hand out. “I can,” he said. “Lemme have your pen. This oughta put you in good with the boss.” Taking the pen from Lee, he signed the sheet and slid it back to him. “You kidding? I do deals like this every day. In my dreams. Well, if you like what you see tomorrow, they’ll start running on Friday.” “You just be sure that I do like it,” said Moses, “because those spots will be running on Friday. I’ve got empty seats to fill.” 72 The Rough English Equivalent

“And filled they shall be. With your gimmicks, and my deathless prose, these people’ll be tearing yer doors off the hinges.” “I guess we’ll know pretty soon. These Bisquites need some serious wakin’ up, that’s for sure.” A slow shake of his head let Moses see both corners of Webster’s wry grin. “It’s a sleepy fuckin town, no doubt about it. But you give ’em something to get as excited about as football and savin’ their immortal souls, they’ll kiss your ass at midday, and give you half an hour to draw a crowd.” “Well, the radio, plus the grapevine, oughta be enough to get the word out. Maybe I’ll drop back by the barber shop and Buck’s and get some kind of a rumor started. Any idea what might get some play?” “Ray Taylor’s shop over there?. When were you exposed to that no-account bag of wind?” “Day before yesterday. Looks like a strong scuttlebutt trail between there and the pool room.” “Taylor’d like you to believe that, but there’s more than one barber shop in Bisque. His is just the only one run by a lunatic.” “Lunatic? He seemed pretty sane to me.” “Yeah, and I’m sure that Jack the Ripper had his moments. Just believe me. The farther away you stay from Ray Taylor and his cronies, the better.” “Well, he gave me a decent haircut. Tell me how he’s crazy.” “He shoots people.” “Shoots people? When? Who’d he shoot? “The first one was his partner. Herschel Long. One shot, from the same nickel-plated .38 he carries today, straight through the ticker. Back in ’39. Long was dead before he hit the floor, so said the paper.” “Why’d he do it?” “Said Long was messing with his wife.” “Did he do time for it?” “Hell, no. Wasn’t even indicted.” Inside Moves 73

“Why not?” “Taylor claimed self-defense. The coroner backed him up, and Franklin, the DA, wouldn’t charge him.” “Who else did he shoot?” Lee shifted in his seat and took a long pull at his beer. “No proof of anyone else. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t shot people. And shot at others.” “Who, for instance?” “Me, for instance.” “You? When?” “In ’45. About a month after I moved back here.” “How’d it happen?” “I’d just been back in town a couple of weeks. I was living at the hotel, and Taylor had just opened his shop across the street. I went in for a haircut, and as soon as I was in the chair, we got into politics. When the subject of niggers came up, he got progressively crazier in what he had to say. The situation went completely to hell after I’d questioned two or three of his stupidest remarks, and I ended up getting out of the chair with half a haircut. I threw a buck at him, and as I was on my way out the door he said ‘You better get the hell outta this town before you get shot!’” “And then he shot at you?” “He’s not that crazy. It was a couple of nights later. I was getting into my car in the station’s parking lot, after getting off work, about ten-thirty at night. Three shots, one right after the other, from a .30 caliber riﬂe.” “Did you see Taylor?” “No, I didn’t. I was too busy digging a divot in the pavement.” “Then how do you know…” “…that it was him? Who the hell else would it have been? And even if he didn’t pull the trigger, one of his Klan cronies did.” “Now let me guess. This barber/Klansman had an alibi for the time of the shooting.” 74 The Rough English Equivalent

“Of course he did. Home in bed, with the good wife to swear to it. Good thing one of the slugs hit the door of my car, or good ole Wahoo’d probably tried to tell me it never happened at all.” “Wahoo. The sheriff. So the station’s outside the Bisque police’s jurisdiction?” “Yeah. Just south of the city limits.” “Sounds like you don’t think too highly of Sheriff Wahoo, either.” “Let’s just say I don’t think that a Purple Heart’s much of a qualification for that job.” “So he was in the service.” “Yeah. He’d been in the Marines long enough to make corporal, so the story goes, and got hit by shrapnel at Pearl Harbor. Bad enough to get a medical discharge. So he came back as Bisque’s first war hero in ’42, got his health back, and ran unopposed for sheriff in ’44, at the ripe old age of 30.” “Well, he puts up a good front, which is a big part of politics. Whether he’s good at it or not, I guess he likes the job well enough to run again–when? In ’48?” “Yep. No doubt about it. Otherwise he’d hafta go to work. The way he’s been squiring your hostess, Miz Mason, around, I’d guess he’d like to campaign next time as a married man–or at least an engaged one.” “Yeah, Jack mentioned his takin’ ’em to dinner. So this romance’s been going on for awhile?” “If you could call it that. As I’ve heard it, she hadn’t been back in town for that long before he came sniffin’ around. Anyway, it was before I came back. But apparently she hasn’t given him the green light; at least not clearly enough for him to stop hosin’ his way through the county.” 1200 Friday 23 September 1946: Bruce Goode’s wood-sided Chrysler Town & Country convertible was as large, and accommodating, as Goode himself. You could land Inside Moves 75 a small plane, Moses thought, on that midnight blue front fender. “Hope you don’t mind a top-down ride,” Goode said. “It cooled off so nicely after last night’s rain that I couldn’t resist.” “Not at all,” Moses had said. “It’d be a shame to miss the opportunity at this time of year. “you can’t have too many like today during the summer.” “Oh, it’s fine most any evening. Most of my days don’t end ’til after dark, so I drive home with the top down all the time. Hope you didn’t find any problems with the documents.” “No, not much at all. We could’ve handled it in five minutes at the office, but I’m pleased to see a little more of Bisque.” “Good, good,” Goode exulted. “We’ll take care of it after lunch, and just enjoy a little social time. I’m sure you’ll enjoy meeting some of the people that’ll be at the club today.” Driving out McSwain Road, they met a number of large dump trucks headed into town. Greenish-yellow liquid sloshed through the gaps around their tailgates onto the road. “What’s in the trucks?” asked Moses. “Peppers,” Goode said. “Pimiento peppers. Big crop for Hamm and the other counties around here. The packing plant’s just north, right at the edge of town. Hamm Foods. We’ll drive by there on the way back.” The Elks Club, a big old two-story brick house, sat on a low rise overlooking the road. Goode parked the Chrysler under an ancient Oak tree that stood at the edge of the parking lot. They walked up the broad brick steps into a high-ceilinged entrance hall, where a smiling middle-aged Negro man in a white coat greeted them. “Good day, Mistah Goode.” “Hey, Franklin,” Goode replied. “Have you seen Mr. Proper yet?” “Yessuh; he’s in the bar.” Goode touched Moses’ elbow and gestured with his other hand toward a double doorway to their left. Walking through it ahead of him, Moses saw several men standing at the bar, all but one standing 76 The Rough English Equivalent with their back to him. The bartender, another middle-aged Negro in a waist-length white jacket, deftly poured the contents of a cocktail shaker into three waiting martini glasses. The man facing them lifted a hand in recognition, and moved away from the bar toward them. He was, Moses guessed, in his late forties; tall, well over six feet, and rawboned, with a thick shock of graying brown hair combed straight back on both sides of the part. Extending his hand to Moses with a broad smile, he said, “Mr. Kubielski, I presume. I’m RogerProper,Bruce’spartner.I’mgladyouwereabletojoinus today.” “The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Proper,” Moses replied. “This is a most impressive–I hesitate to say clubhouse-” With a quick chuckle, Proper said, “It’s just been ‘the club’ to us ever since anyone can remember. The Bisque Elks of our grandfa- thers’ generation bought it, and three acres of property, from the Butler estate right after the First Waw. It’s been altered quite a bit inside, and extended in the back, but the exterior of the house has been preserved as it was in its heyday, after Mr. Butler built it on the foundation of the old house, which burned in ’64, but not by Sher- man’s bunch.” “That’s enough history before cocktails, Roger,” interjected Goode. “Let’s get Mr. Kubielski acquainted with George; he’s a master martini builder, if that’s your pleasure.” “Never turn down a good martini,” said Moses, smiling in his turn. And please, call me Mose.” As George produced martinis, Proper introduced him to the others at the bar. David Browne, the owner of Browne & Browne, Bisque’s leading women’s clothing store; Ted Foster, bookkeeper and son of the owner of Bisque Buick, and Barry Edwards, the general manager of Hopkins Mills, one of the larger, noted Proper, of Bisque’s textile mills. “Roger was telling us,” Browne said, “about your buying the Ritz. And about your having come here from New York City. That’s a hell Inside Moves 77 of a change of scenery. It certainly would be for me, making that move in reverse.” “Actually, I came here from Baltimore, but a big change was exactly what I had in mind when I left New York. Sounds like you’ve been there.” “I have to go at least twice a year to buy for the store,” said Browne. “I’ve been doing it for twenty years, and I’ve never gotten used to it.” “I think you have to be born into it to be truly used to it,” Moses observed. “If the average New Yorker knew much about the alternatives that are out here, a lot more of them would leave. Then there’s the problem of making a living; most of them would have to make a drastic change in how they do that, and that’s very scary to a lot of people.” “They don’t have an exclusive on that state of mind,” observed Roger Proper. We’d rather that not too much changed around here; not too fast, anyway.” “But change obviously doesn’t scare you,” said Barry Edwards, cool-blue-eyed, heavyset, an obvious ex-athlete who had retained the habit of grading every introduction in terms of a level of con- frontation. “Were you born in New York?” “Yes. And the thought of living anywhere else did scare me. It still does.” “Well, human beings are incredibly adaptable,” Ted Foster put in. “And tough. When you think about how some of the Jews in the death camps held on and lived in spite of what was done to them.” Moses looked closely at the younger man. “Yes,” he said. “makes you wonder where conscious thought leaves off and some uncon- scious will to live takes over.” Bruce Goode, seething inside, hastened to turn the conversation in a safer direction. He’d told them that Kubielski was Jewish. What an incredible gaffe! Of course, Serena hadn’t bothered to tell him until yesterday. “Now that you’ve had all of seventy-two hours to 78 The Rough English Equivalent think about it, Mose, any ideas about what it’s going to take to put the good old Ritz into the black?” Moses delayed his response for a couple of seconds, then said “Well, I think things’ll be fine as long as people remember that, dollar for dollar, they can have more fun at the movies than anywhere else.” “With their clothes on, anyway,” dead-panned Barry Edwards, drawing an immediate guffaw from Roger Proper, which grew into a general ripple of relieved laughter as Moses joined in. “Mose and I should go ahead and get some lunch,” said Goode. “I promised him a little sightseeing afterwards. “Anyone else?” “I’m afraid I feel the need for another martini first,” said Edwards. “Yeah, and since we got Ted out here to do a little Elks business, I’d like to get that out of the way before we eat. Ted’s the club’s business manager,” Roger Proper said, looking at Moses. “OK, at least you’ll get the club’s business out of the way in a reasonably sober state,” Goode replied. We’ll see you all later.” With handshakes, nods and smiles all around, He and Moses walked into the dining room. Franklin, the waiter whom they’d seen in the foyer, was immediately at their elbow. “Will anybody be joinin’ you gemmuns, Mistah Goode?” “No, Franklin, it’ll just be two. How about putting us over by the big window?” They sat down across from each other at a table for four, which was covered by a heavy, bright-white tablecloth. Franklin began to remove two of the four silver place-settings. “How about another martini, Mose,” Goode said. “Everything’s cooked to order, so we’ve got plenty of time.” “That’s an easy sale, Bruce,” Mose told him. “George definitely knows his business.” “Two more, please, Franklin,” said Goode, relief apparent in the relaxation of both his face and body. He leaned forward, his eyes seeking Moses’. “I hope you enjoyed meeting my friends,” he said. “I Inside Moves 79 hadn’t expected anyone other than Roger and Barry to be here. Ted has to work the club’s business into his schedule whenever he can, so the introduction to Roger and Barry that I’d planned was unavoid- ably expanded. At least you had a chance to bat the breeze with a couple more of the people who get things done in Bisque.” “It was my pleasure; most kind of you to suggest that we come here. I appreciate the opportunity of getting to know these gentlemen.” “It was the least I could do; you’ve made a significant commitment to Bisque, and I wanted you to understand that it’s appreciated by what you might call the city’s leadership. I must apologize to you, though, for Ted’s remark about…” Moses raised his hand to interrupt. “Please, Bruce. I took no offense. Quite the contrary; it’s no insult to hear testimony to the toughness of the Jewish people.” “I’m glad that’s how you feel. I just thought…” “That I might be sensitive about being Jewish? Nope. I’ve been this way for quite awhile.” Goode laughed. “Forgive me. I just have had very little experience with your people, and it’s painfully obvious.” “Well, it’s also obvious that you’re getting experienced in a hurry by having me as a client. Fortunately, I’ve had considerable experience with your people.” Goode’s hearty laugh was fading away as Franklin arrived with the drinks. “What’s the special today?” He asked him. “Stewed chicken with rice, Mr. Goode.” “It’s very good, but a little too much for me at lunch,” Goode said to Moses. There are several good choices on the regular menu, but if you like steak, let me recommend the steak sandwich. It’s a particular favorite of mine.” “Good enough; medium rare for me, please.” 80 The Rough English Equivalent

As they drank, Goode said, “Barry Edwards is a particularly good contact for you. Besides being the general manager of Hopkins Mills, he’s a director of the First National Bank.” “And also a client of your firm?” “Yes. We handle the mill’s, the bank’s and his personal business.” “A solid citizen, all right. Sounds like I could do worse than to do my banking with First National.” “No doubt about it,” said Goode. “Just drop by anytime and ask for Fred Malcolm. He’s the bank manager. And of course, use the firm as your reference.” “Good. They can handle the transfer of funds from my bank in Baltimore. I’d like to close the Ritz deal with a check from a local bank. Just for luck.” “That’s a great idea.” Goode paused for the last sip of his drink, put the glass down, and shot Moses a smile made quizzical by a quick up-down of eyebrows. “I’m still amazed that you made up your mind so quickly. Not just about the Ritz, but about committing yourself to living in Bisque.” “Bruce, did you ever see something thatcha just had to have?” asked Moses. “Seems like I remember some wise man saying something like ‘Passion is its own explanation.’ I was dumbstruck by what Walton had done to make that theatre a first-rate house. It makes the one I managed in Baltimore look like it oughta be condemned. Once I found out it was on th’ market, and for how much, I wouldn’ta given a damn if it’da been in Calcutta.” “Well, Mose,” observed Goode with a grin, “You are a passionate man, if I’m any judge. I hope you come to like our town as much as you do the Ritz, and vice versa.” “On short acquaintance,” said Moses with a thoughtful nod, “I’d say that there’s a very good chance that’ll happen.” Hamm Foods, Goode’s promised first stop on the drive back into Bisque, was larger than Moses had imagined. Goode stopped the car at the crest of a rise west of the site. The plant, a red brick structure Inside Moves 81 surrounded by a collection of long, one-story wood frame buildings, was enclosed by a high chain-link fence. Loaded dump trucks, the yellow-green juice dripping from their tailgates just as it had from the ones they’d seen driving out of town,, jerked and farted their way into line at the main gate. Others, emptied, bounced up the outgoing ramp, kicking up clouds of red dust as they pulled out onto the unpaved road to meet them. “Looks pretty old,” shouted Moses over the trucks’ racket. “Yeh-baw-ey,” said Goode. “Hamm Foods was here before the first cotton mill. It was started back in the eighteen-eighties, and it’s still doing a big job at what it started out to do, which is can these pimiento peppers.” “I’ve never thought that much about the market for pimiento peppers, but it must be pretty good-sized.” “Big enough to have made Hamm one of the county’s major employers. They have as many folks working here as either of the big textile mills. Seen enough? Let’s get out of this dust.” Through the dust, he saw a line of ramshackle houses on the opposite side of the road. A Coca-Cola sign proclaimed an equally battered shack at the end of the line to be “BRANDON GROCERY.” A Negro boy of five or six stood on the porch of the house next door to the grocery. He looked at them from under a large once-white cowboy hat. As they drew even with them, he shot them both with his thumb-and-forefinger pistol. Moses, laughing, shot back with his own. “Ornery critters in these parts,” he said. “Oh, yeah, this is bandit territory,” Goode replied. “We’d better head for the fort.” As they drove back onto paved road, the scene changed in no time from factory raunch to manicured greenery. “Since it’s so close,” Goode said, “Let’s swing through City Park. They kept it going on a shoestring during the waw (where the hell did they get “waw?” Moses thought), but the golf course is looking quite nice again. The clubhouse is coming up on the right.” 82 The Rough English Equivalent

They had just passed some tennis courts on the left as he spoke. The clubhouse, its porch crowded with golfers, sat on a hill overlooking the parking lot, which was nearly full. Goode tapped the horn, and the golfers waved as the car went by. “When does anybody get any work done around here?” Moses asked him. “I’m all for lei- sure time, but between the crowd here and the one at the Elks club, half the town’s making whoopee on a weekday.” Chuckling his well-to-do chuckle, Goode said, “It’s Wednesday. The town, except for the mills, pretty much closes down on Wednes- day afternoon. Makes up for the long day on Saturday, when all the stores stay open late.” “Good idea,” said Moses. “I’ll keep that in mind. The Ritz could do well then, with a special Wednesday matinee.” “Could be,” said Goode. What a Jew, he thought. Squeeze out a nickel anywhere you can. “You’ll have to compete for that audience, though, and not just with golf and tennis. Half the county goes fishing on Wednesday afternoon.” They had driven past the swimming pool entrance, the golf course’s number three green and a softball field, all in heavy use, as they talked. “What’s your particular vice, Mose?” “Until further notice, the Ritz, soon to be the Winston, Theatre. Then maybe I’ll see about a little fishing,” said Mose. The better to avoid you and your bunch, he thought. “You’re not a golfer, then.” “Nope.” “Oh well. It is a time-eater. But addictive, once you start.” Headed back into Bisque, they rode in silence for awhile, the afternoon sun hot on their faces. I’ll probably get a goddamn sunburn, thought Moses. Back at the law office, Moses read the final draft of the purchase contract for the Ritz and approved it. “I’ll set up an appointment for the closing,” Goode told him, “and call you. Ready to go back to the hotel?” Inside Moves 83

“Thanks, Bruce. I’ll walk back. Still getting the feel of the town. Thanks for a great afternoon; I’ll see you at the closing.” “OK, if you’re sure. Be glad to drop you.” “No, no. See you later.” He’d walked leisurely back to the hotel down Lee Street, letting the experiences of the day soak into his brain, cataloging, classifying, prioritizing. He’d dropped anchor in strange waters before, but these people had the potential to bore him silly. But it seemed safe enough for now, and he did love movies. Now he had one of his own. And there was Serena. 2038 Friday 23 September 1946: Jack, dressed for bed, answered Moses’ knock at the door of the apartment. “Hi, Jack.” “Hi, Mose. How ya doin’?” “Just ﬁne, pal. How about you?” “OK. Just ﬁnished my homework.” “I just wanted to tell your Mom something. Is she in?” “Nope. She’s up on the roof.” “She is? What’s she doing up there?” “That’s where she does her sculpture. She’s working on a bust of my Aunt Cordelia.” “I see. Do you think she’d mind if I went up for just a minute?” “I guess not. Knock real hard on the roof door; she locks it when she’s up there. Go back down the hall past the elevator and turn right. You’ll see a stairway just a little way down on the left. Just go up the stairs to the door and knock.” He rapped on the heavy metal door. After a few seconds, he rapped again. “Who is it?” she asked, so abruptly that he wished he hadn’t disturbed her. 84 The Rough English Equivalent

“Moses Kubielski. I’m sorry to bother you; just wanted to tell you how my lunch with Bruce went today. It’ll wait ’til tomorrow if you’re busy.” “Wait.” He felt a rush of air at his back as the door opened with a scrape. She looked down at him, smiling. “Actually, I need a break,” she said. “The last moments with a piece like this are hard for me; just can’t say ‘That’s it, you’re done.’ Come up and take a look.” She closed the door behind them, sliding a large metal bolt through its brackets as she did. Three aluminum-shaded floodlights made a bright yellow pool at a spot near the front of the hotel. They made deep shadows in the folds of her denim jumper, which fit her loosely in the manner of an artist’s smock. “This is my way of staying sane; people know by now that they’d better have a damn good reason for knocking on that door. There isn’t much privacy in a hotel, so I’ve made a little world for myself up here.” “Another little piece of New York,” said Moses. “The rooftop retreat.” “You know, I hadn’t thought about that. Now I’ll enjoy it even more. Maybe I should put a couple of potted plants and a chaise lounge up here. Up to now it’s just been me and whatever I happen to be working on.” “Jack told me what you were working on right now; Aunt-?” “Cordelia. My sister-in-law. It’s an anniversary gift. They’ll have been married five years this October.” “Your brother’s wife? If she’s anything like your impression of her, I’d say that he’s a lucky man.” She looked at him for a long moment before saying, “Well, Buster’s had plenty of luck, but by no means all good. I’d say the jury’s still out on him and Cordelia, but I guess you could say that about most marriages.” “I guess so.” “I’m having some sherry. Would you like some?” “Yes, I would,” Moses said. Inside Moves 85

“Most of the sherry that you can get around here’s undrinkable, except by drunks. This is a Sandeman, medium dry.” She poured another glass and handed it to him, lifting her own as she did. “Con- fusion to our enemies,” she said. Moses laughed. “One of the great toasts of all time.” He drank, pausing to feel the smooth taste expand to a warm glow. “Must be from Shakespeare.” “Sounds Falstaffian, doesn’t it? Damned if I know.” “Timely in all ages, anyway. This is excellent sherry. You’re an amazing woman.” She looked up at him, her eyes, caught in a shaft of yellow light, a deeper green than he’d ever seen them. “I’ve heard Jack call you Mose. He said you asked him to. May I call you Mose?” “Yes, please do.” “Well then, Mose,” she said, draining her glass and setting it down, “Give us a kiss.” They leaned against the brick wall, his arm around her shoulders, her scent filling him. He put two fingers under her chin, lifting her lips to his. He kissed them lightly. They were soft, opening to the first light probe of his tongue. He explored her mouth gently, thoroughly, giving her the opportunity to respond, which she did, her tongue delicately reciprocating his own. He pulled his head back to look into her eyes, his fingers extended comblike into her hair, cupping her head in his palm. “My God, mister. Where’d you learn how to do that?” she said, smiling up at him, strong hand squeezing his upper arm. “You bring out the best in me, Madam,” he said, returning her smile. “This is crazy. Kiss me some more.” Kissing, then groping. She had nothing on under the jumper. He held her breast gently, the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He kissed her deeply, bringing his other hand up to cradle the cheek of her full, smooth butt. 86 The Rough English Equivalent

“Touch it.” Fingers over the length of her slick wet labia. Saying nothing, she responded to his touch. Her clitoris, large and erect, felt to him like a baby’s finger. Circling it lightly, he put first one, and then two fingers into her vagina, continuing the clitoral massage with his thumb. Her wetness covered his hand; he removed it momentarily, putting a finger between her lips. She sucked it, moaning; he kissed her, tasting the combination of crotch and mouth. “Flick it!” she said; he did, using his index finger to flick her clitoris back and forth as fast as he could. She climaxed almost immediately, with a sharp cry. He kissed her while she came again, and then again. “Oh, Mose! You sweet, sweet darlin’!” Serena whispered when she caught her breath. “Let me see that,” she said, running her hand over his crotch. Unbuttoning his trousers, she freed his cock and held it in one hand, stroking the head with the other. “Oooh. That’s nice. Feels like a nice warm bottle of chili sauce. But we can’t get me pregnant; put it in my butt.” “What?” “Do my butt,” she breathed, squeezing drops of lubrication from his cock, spreading them over its head. “Are you sure?” “Oh yes! Wait a minute.” She broke gently away from him, picked up a white glass jar from a shelf under the platform on which the bust sat, and returned. “This is just cold cream; to get the clay off my hands. Put a lot up in there. Hurry.” She turned around, putting her forearms flat against the wall. Taking the top off of the jar, he put two fingers in it and drew out a lump of the cold cream. He pulled the jumper up over her butt, smoothing the cream between the cheeks. Finding her hole, he eased his thumb in, then found her clitoris with his forefinger, moving it slowly back and forth across its stiffness. Her breath came now in short gasps. He moved his thumb gently, slowly back and forth for most of its length. “Is that good, sweetie?”. Inside Moves 87

“Oh yes. Yes. But hurry. Come in me.” Removing his thumb, Moses replaced it with the head of his penis. Gripping its base with his left hand, he pushed gently. She gasped. “Did I hurt you?” “No, no. It just feels so good.” “I’ll be careful,” he said, bending over to stroke her clitoris with one hand and caress her breast with the other. “So lovely. You feel so good to me.” He slipped in a little farther, moving his hands to her hips as he did. Are you OK?” Yes. Yes. Fuck me, Daddy. More.” With two more thrusts, he was fully inside her. “Feel good?” “Oh yes. Come in me. Come now!” Gripping her hips in his hands, Moses eased slowly in and out of her. The ﬁt was tight, and smooth as velvet. Each stroke came quicker. He groaned, feeling the orgasm from the soles of his feet, still stroking her clitoris as she came, shuddering, again.

“This is my big brother, Gene Debs,” she said to him the next morning. They were standing in the lobby as he got off the elevator. And he was big. Two or three inches better than six feet, lean, with a lighter shade of green eyes than hers. Same direct gaze. “Howdy,” he said, smiling as they shook hands. “Glad to hear you rescued the Ritz; I’m looking forward to catchin’ up on seein’ movies where they oughta be seen, instead of the hangar deck of an aircraft carrier.” “GD’s retiring from the Navy later this year,” she said. “Coming back to live in little old Bisque.” “Well, congratulations,” Moses replied. “I did a hitch in the Navy myself. Planning on doing any more ﬂying? Guess it might be a little tame after carriers.” “A lot more ﬂyin’. I’ve got my eye on a place that I can use as the base for a crop-dusting operation. When were you in?” 88 The Rough English Equivalent

“’29-’33. Most of it down at Gitmo. Came out an AMM3.” “How ’bout that! I’m an AB myself; NAP-type. Naval Aviation Pilot. They bumped me up to temporary JG in ’43, but I’ll retire a Chief. Doin’ any flyin’ now?” “No,” said Mose, “It’s been a lotta years. I’d like to pay you a visit, though, if your deal works out.” “Make sure you do. We’ll go fly one day.” “I’ll hold you to that,” Mose said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gene Debs. Please excuse me; I’ve got to grab a bite and get up to the Ritz. It’ll be the Winston, by the way, as soon as the new sign’s ready. When will you be moving?” “Not ’til October. I’ll be around for a week or so this time, though. I’ll look forward to seeing you again.” Probably not, if you knew what your sister and I were doing on the roof last night, he thought as he walked into the café. Jesus, that was incredible, he thought as he absently consumed his breakfast. I never even thought of doing it that way, except for the “don’t drop the soap” jokes from boot camp in the Navy. She certainly didn’t seem the least bit flustered this morning, but that could be because her brother was there. Anyway, she wanted it. How new could getting fucked like that be to her? What I do know is that this damn sure isn’t the way I thought our first time would be. But I expect that my root’ll turn to rock, evermore, at the smell of common roofing tar. “Hey. Sailor.” Her voice slowed his thoughts’ stampede. He turned to look up at her. She looked so damn good. “I have to drive around with GD a little this morning. Would you mind if I stopped by this afternoon?” “No. Of course not.” “OK. About two be all right?” “Fine. I’ll probably be in the office. It’s right at the top of the right-side stairway. Just tell whoever’s takin’ tickets that you’re there to see me.” “OK. Hey.” Inside Moves 89

“What?” “Thanks for last night; see you at two.” With a big smile, she was gone.

She was early. He’d left the office door ajar, and she’d just walked in, with a tap on the door as she did. “Mose.” “Hi.” “Mind if I close the door?” “No, sure. Go ahead.” She closed it and turned to face him. “I just wanted to tell you that I want to see you again, for you to make love to me again.” Moses looked at her for a long moment. “I was afraid we might have scared the hell out of each other last night, and nothing more would happen. You know I bought this place because of you.” “Yes. It’s what made me seduce you.” He laughed. “Seduce me. Well, I guess it was fifty-fifty anyway. I came to see you last night to see what signal you’d give me, if any. Some signal.” “Yeah,” she said with a mischievous grin. “A real dick in the ass.” She sat on his lap and kissed him, deeply. “Last night was an accident; an incredible accident. We can’t go on just making love on the roof. It’s the only place in the hotel that we can be sure no one’ll see us, which I can’t very well afford to have happen; I know you understand that. Jack’s just one reason. We need some place of our own to go.” “Yeah. I better get hot on some house hunting.” “There’s one other option,” she said. Over in Augusta. An old friend of mine in New York, Hap Rutherford, from school. He owns the gallery that carries my work. He has a house there. He only uses it during the Masters and a couple of other times during the year, and I have a key. We could sneak over there on the weekend every 90 The Rough English Equivalent now and then, when Jack’s staying with Ricky or some of his other friends.” An arty type; I wonder if he’s the one who taught you buttfucking, he thought. “OK. Meantime, this sofa’s not so bad; Walton had to have a big one so he could stretch out on it.” “There’s my chili sauce,” she said, moving her hand to feel his erection through his pants. “Fancy grade, Crosse & Blackwell. I hope that door locks.” “It does,” he said. “I just thought of something,” she said as she eased herself down onto him. He used both hands to pull her teal-blue jersey top up over her breasts, then reached behind her to slip the clasp of her bra. “What’s that?” he said, kissing one pale, rigid nipple, then the other. She kissed the back of his neck. “I want my chili up here some night while the movie’s running.” “I better check with the union on that,” he said, looking up at her as he closed his hands around her hips and moved her gently, just an inch or so, back and forth. “Check this, Chili,” she whispered, moving faster.

He went to the office of Lawton J. Redding & Company to pay the first month’s rent on the Winston. Redding had opened this office more than thirty years ago, next to the warehouse and railroad siding that also dated back to the days when all he did was cotton brokerage. Opening the front door rang a bell attached to its upper panel. A stylish gray-haired lady in her fifties, wearing a pale blue blouse and a single string of pearls, emerged from one of the glassed-in enclo- sures at the back of the office, approached the chest-high front counter. “May I help you?” she asked. “Hello. I’m Moses Kubielski. The Ritz Theatre. I think I spoke to you this morning. I’m here to see Mr. Redding.” Inside Moves 91

“Oh, yes. I’m Ruth Powell. It’s very nice to meet you. Please come this way, Mr. Kubielski.” Lawton Redding rose from behind his desk to shake hands. A trim man, medium height, in his sixties. Wearing ordinary business attire that fit him so well that Moses guessed that both the Oxford cloth shirt and the gray tropical worsted suit were custom made. The repp silk tie, a dark burgundy, neatly tied in a four-in-hand knot, contrasted nicely with his gray temples. His brown eyes looked at Moses over rimless half-glasses. So the kids’ green eyes, Moses thought, must have come from their mother. “Mr. Kubielski,” he said smiling. Serena’s voice, however, had come from him. “Thanks for dropping by. Congratulations on your new business.” “Thanks. Since I’ll be very busy for awhile, I wanted to take this opportunity to meet you.” “I appreciate that very much. In a sense, we’re partners; at least it’s in my best interest for you to do well. I also understand a little bit better than most people around here why someone from up north might find a little town like Bisque attractive. I’m from Tennessee, myself.” Moses smiled at the thought of Tennessee as “up north.” “Is that so?” “Yep. Came here after my army service. I was in the field artillery; my battery was sent to Camp McPherson, over in Atlanta, back in ’05. I met Peter Hartwell there. His father started this business. We were both Second Lieutenants with State Guard commissions; Pete asked me home for a visit when our active duty was finished, and he and I went to work for his dad. I’m the only one left,” he said with a faint smile. “I wasn’t a city boy like you, but Bisque was still a change from what I knew, growing up in Chattanooga. I know what it’s like to be an outsider in a small town.” “Well, I’ve been made to feel very welcome so far.” 92 The Rough English Equivalent

“Oh yes. People are polite here, but you’re very different from anyone most of them have ever met. They’ll take their time accepting you. At least that was my experience.” “Well,” said Moses, “I’ll certainly meet them halfway.” “It’ll take more than that. Some days I still feel like a stranger. Just give it time. In your particular case, a lot of time. Some people will never get beyond the fact that you’re from the North. And Jewish on top of that. But having two strikes against you doesn’t seem to dis- turb you that much.” “If it had, I’d never have come west of the Hudson River.” “I understand Bruce took you to lunch at the Elks Club last week.” “Yes. I enjoyed it.” “Not too much, I hope. It’ll be a long time before the member- ship’s open to Jewish candidates.” “Not that much. The food’s better at the hotel café.” Redding laughed. “You’re right about that. That Nelson’s a genius. He’s the hotel’s secret weapon. Well, there are all kinds of clubs. You and I just started a new one. A club of two; the Ritz Boosters Society.” “I like that,” said Moses, standing up and extending his hand. “But now we have to call it the Winston Boosters Society. Guess we should meet where the best food is.” “No doubt about it.”

“That’s a pretty good Winchell,” said Moses that afternoon, grinning broadly as they sat in the ofﬁce after Lee Webster’s run-through of the ﬁrst Ritz radio commercial. “How many people in Bisque do you think will recognize it, though?” “Consciously? Maybe ten percent. But unconsciously, a lot more than that. In my opinion, though, that’s beside the point. The point is, the Winchell voice is grating, insistent, memorable and ‘not- from-around-here.’ People will notice it, even if they don’t like it. The other point is, as you so graciously suggest, I do it pretty well.” Inside Moves 93

“Well, there’s only one way to find out whether it puts butts in seats. Let’s run it.” “It’ll air this afternoon on Sundown Serenade, and twelve times a day during the Key Largo run,” said Webster. We should know sump’m pretty soon.” “No doubt. By the way, I haven’t had a chance to tell you about my lunch at the Elks Club the other day.” “Oh. Didn’t know that you’d penetrated Bisque Bourgeois already,” Webster grunted. “Bisque Bourgeois?” “Yep. Them that would have Bisque jump up its own ass and look like sump’m grander than what it is. The Elks Club elite. Self-styled nobility, if you will, set down among the clodhoppers. ‘No changes, please, unless of course it’s to our benefit.’ Occupying what I call ‘Bisque under glass.’” “‘Bisque under glass?’” “Pretention par excellence. Fine homes and fine lawns; the southeast quadrant of our fair city, bounded by Academy on the east and Lee Street on the west. Cream of Hamm County’s economy, skimmed and delivered, painless, perfect and thank you ma’am. As opposed to the rest of town, where the general run of Bisquites, we of Bisque Ordinaire, just soldier on scratchin’ a livin’ out of it like it is, and will be. But far more entertainment’s to be had from a third group, that takes both temporary and permanent members from both categories.” “And what group is that?” asked Moses “Bisque Bizarre. More about them later. How’d you happen to find yourself in the Land of the Bourgeois?” “The lawyer, Goode, threw in lunch out there as part of helpin’ me with the Winston deal. Said he thought it’d be good for me to know some of the town worthies.” “Such as?” “Lemme see; there was Browne, of Browne & Browne…” 94 The Rough English Equivalent

“Oh yeah. David Browne,” Webster said, covering his mouth and yawning. “He’s the only one I’ve seen anything of so far, the store being damn near next door to the hotel. Stands out in front sometimes.” “Yeah. Definitely first-family-of-Bisque. Third-generation fashion merchant. About your age, I’d say. Got out of high school just as I was coming in. Nice-looking guy; went to college, sat out the war stateside in some Army unit or another, came back home, buried his wife and has never had much to think about since, near as I can tell. Browne & Browne’s Bisque’s number one women’s clothing store, and since women keep a running score of how they look versus every other woman with whom they might feel remotely competitive, it’s a money machine. All he has to do is smile, hit New York now and then so his suppliers can load him up with what’s hot every season, and stay out of the way. Not that bad a life if you don’t bore easily.” “Guess not. Well, as you say, somebody’s got to supply the demand for high fashion. From what I’ve seen in their window dis- plays, they’re pretty good at it.” “No doubt about that,” Webster said with a grin. And Browne’s an OK guy; does a lot for the community. Community Chest; stuff like that.” “How about Edwards, the mill manager? Goode says he’s high- horsepower of one kind or another.” “He’s right. You sell him a little short when you say ‘mill manager.’ As the president of Hopkins Mills, the number one employer in Hamm County, he swings a pretty big hammer.” “And a bank director.” “Right. Of Bisque’s biggest bank, naturally. First National.” “From what I saw, he seemed like a pretty down-to-earth sort,” said Moses. “Yeah. Well, most big dogs do, as long as they get their way.” “Another first-family type?” Inside Moves 95

“Oh, no. He took a more direct route to the top. Married in. Edwards parlayed modest football stardom at Georgia Tech, and an injury-shortened career with the Chicago Bears, into husbandship of the boss’s–make that the majority stockholder’s–daughter. As soon as the honeymoon was over, so they say, he jumped onto the fast track to succeed Braxton Lewis. Just had to sit out the Depression and wait around for the old boy to die, which he was thoughtful enough to do at a relatively early age.” “At which point, I’d guess, ‘ol’ Barry’s’ instinct for the spotlight no longer had to be suppressed.” “How right you are. Since the lovely Mrs. Edwards was Lewis’s only child, Hopkins Mills dropped squarely into ol’ Barry’s lap.” “How nice for him. But his good fortune doesn’t seem like it’s endeared him to you.” “Or anybody else, some say including the lovely Mrs. Edwards, who’ve had much truck with him,” said Webster with a brief shake of his head. “Local boy?” “No; the way I hear it, he grew up somewhere way down in south Georgia. A trolling Tech recruiter got to him ahead of the competition. He was running over people then, and he’s never stopped.” Enough about him. This younger guy, Ted Foster; the club manager…” “Ah, Teddy!” Webster said, smiling. “He just does that to keep his nose in his fellow Elks’ business. We’re back to the generational stuff again. Ted’s folks have had the Buick dealership since there’ve been Buicks, along with a bunch of Hamm County real estate. Ted just hangs around the showroom, waitin’ to collect his inheritance.” “Sounds like you know him a little better than the others.” “I do. We were classmates at dear old Bisque High. Played in the band. ‘raised up together,’ as they say. Don’t think either of us planned to still be hangin’ around Bisque as grown men. Such a thing is fate.” 96 The Rough English Equivalent

“Guess that’s most people’s lot in life; staying put where you grow up, I mean.” “Yeah. I thought sure that Ted’dve headed up to New York right behind his high-school sweetheart, but he didn’t. Big mistake, in my opinion.” “She must’ve been something,” said Moses. “She was. Is. You’ve seen her.’ “I have? Where?” “At the hotel. She’s Mrs. Mason, your gracious hostess; the former Serena Redding, and generally regarded hereabouts as a permanent member of Bisque Bizarre.” “I’ll be damned,” said Moses. “I’m trying to imagine the two of them together.” “Not all that difficult, if you knew them then. The Depression had settled in; she hadn’t gotten over her mother’s death, to say nothing of the circumstances. She’s a fine looking woman now, but she was achingly beautiful then, very smart and kind of distant. Kids made fun of her behind her back. Smart’s a tough thing to be in high school. She took herself very seriously, and so did he. He listened to her, paid court to her actually, came back here to see her a lot during his first year at Georgia. We were a year ahead of her. Then she just took off for New York, and that was it.” “You said something about ‘circumstances,’” said Moses. “What circumstances?” “Her mother was killed in a car wreck in ’27. She’d just started high school. Bad enough to lose your mom like that, but she was with a guy that she’d been carryin’ on with. For quite awhile, as it turned out. Her dad’s business partner.” “Jesus. That is rough.” “Rough as a cob for somebody like Ríni–proud as she was raised to be.” “Reenie?” Inside Moves 97

“Ríni. That was what we called her back then; some people still do. She wrote it R-I-N-I, with an accent on the first I–I guess it was pride that got her through it. Pride, Teddy Foster and her love of art. She was always involved with arty stuff, and got a lot of encouragement from Miss Quentin, an English teacher who taught dancing on the side. And Teddy, God help him, used to write poetry about her. He showed me a couple; pretty awful, as I remember, but stuff like that was what helped her survive.” “Ríni. Not bad. How about the business partner? Was he killed?” “Peter Hartwell. Yeah. They musta been flyin’. They brought the car, a new phaeton, back to Leland’s. The Packard dealership. It sat there, out in the open, for a couple of weeks. Looked like a giant’d taken it by both ends and wrung it out like washcloth. Just about everybody in town went by there to ogle it.” “Must’ve been rough on the whole family.” “Yeah. I’m no big churchgoer myself, so I can’t say for sure, but the fact that the Reddings didn’t have, as they say, ‘a church home’ probably made it harder for them to get over it.” “‘No church home.’ That does seem unusual, in a town like this. To paraphrase what you were saying just the other day, if you ain’t church you ain’t shit.” “And as I also said, or should’ve, there’s an exception to every rule. Where church and Bisque’re concerned, the Reddings, and the Wat- kinses before them, are it.” “How does that work?” asked Moses. “Well, to begin with, the Watkinses have been one of the big-name families in Hamm County since back before what you Yankees call the Civil War. Ríni used to talk about how the farm got started on land that was part of the old Creek Nation, how her great-great- granddaddy got it in one of the land grants the state had back around the turn of the century. The nineteenth century, that is, when the state capitol was just down the road, in Louisville. When the war got to Georgia, Sherman’s troops swung south of here from Atlanta 98 The Rough English Equivalent on their way to Savannah, and the Watkinses farmed the original grant property, plus more that they bought over the years, without having to rebuild after the war. Most of their slaves stayed, even after emancipation.” “Why would they do that?” “Where would they go where, from their point of view, they could have it half as good? Most of the so-called ‘freemen’ had no idea at all about how to be free. Anyway, by the time Miz Rose came along, the Watkinses could sit out there on the farm, grow cotton and do pretty much as they damn pleased, which included not going to town all that often, and since Rose’s daddy was not so inclined, not going to church at all. “Rose was ‘the baby,’ the third child of three, and apparently got pretty much anything she wanted. She was a smart girl, and what she wanted was to go to college in Atlanta. Decatur, actually. A little school called Agnes Scott, where she crossed paths with a renegade instructor who managed to infect her with a hatful of isms, social- ism, atheism and who knows what else. Those two were the crowd pleasers, though, and by the time she finished school she was as much of a full-blown revolutionary as she knew how to be. She, and Isayshe, not they, named her firstborn after Eugene Debs, the Socialist Party candidate for president in 1904.” “Quite a freethinker, for the time; I’d say a man’d be asking for trouble with that philosophy in these parts, to say nothing of a woman. Hell, they couldn’t vote ’til the Twenties,” said Moses. “You said it. Folks in ‘these parts’ didn’t take all that kindly to a lot of free thinking, let alone from a woman. You think too much, sooner or later you’re on the road outa here. It’s the same way with every little tank town in America, I guess; they’re built on a foundation of docile, God-fearin’ laborers that don’t ask too many questions. Anyway, the boys took her death differently than Ríni did; Gene Debs was about grown, so he handled it a little better. Joined Inside Moves 99 the Navy about a month later. Buster wasn’t so lucky. At twelve, Miz Rose’s death may have hit him the hardest of all.” “I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Moses, excusing himself with a raised hand. He went next door, switched projectors, and returned. “I’ve only seen him–Buster–once. We met over at the barber shop. Seemed like a decent enough guy.” “Yeah, Buster’s all right. Nobody’s Rhodes scholar, of course, and on top of losing his mother that way, I think he feels like he’s got something to prove to people because he got 4-F’d outta the war and big brother shot Japs up one side of the Pacific and down the other. I know how he feels; my flat feet kept me in a radio booth, and you never get used to the way people would look at you–just a split second too long–and you were always sure that it was because you were still a civilian who looked like you oughta be in uniform. Anyway, he hired on at the Bell bomber plant over in Marietta when the war broke out, so at least he didn’t have Bisquites staring at him. He came back last year, married Cordelia Bailey and went to work for his old man selling real estate.” “And now he owns the Hudson dealership.” “Yeah. You don’t hafta look too hard to see his Daddy’s fine hand in that deal. He got ’im in there in the first place. Good timing, too; after nursin’ their old shitcans all through the war, people’ll buy any kind of a new car they can get their hands on, including Hudsons, and ole Paul Simmons’ boy, who’dve normally taken over the shop, got killed in France. It took all of the starch outa Simmons and his brother, who was already pretty old. They wanted out, so Buster’s a car dealer.” “And now all the Redding kids’ve come home to roost,” mused Moses. “Guess the old man’s happy.” “No doubt. You’ve met him?” “This morning. Stopped by to pay the rent.” “Classy ol’ rascal, ain’t he?” 100 The Rough English Equivalent

“Yes, he is. Pretty much a complete surprise to me, for a guy a lot of people call Pap.” “Yeh-baw-ey,” grinned Webster. The office, the clothes, the fine ladyfriend–ah, assistant–not at all what you’d expect in a deep-South cotton broker. Sump’m about the way he was raised, I guess, or what he did in the army. He musta been a sight to see when he first showed up in Bisque.” “I imagine. Looks like he took root pretty quickly, though.” “The story you hear, not that anybody talks about it much any more, is that he liked to work as well as his partner–he wasn’t his partner then, he and young Hartwell just worked there–liked to play. They say old man Hartwell took a shine to him right away, and that made Pete Junior act up even worse. To the point that he went back to Miz Rose, who’d been his girlfriend before th’ war, more outa spite than anything else.” “So the business–the cotton business–fell into Pap’s lap when they took the fateful evening ride togther.” “Yeh-baw-ey,” Webster smiled. Right into Pap’s lap. Guess that’s the way their contract had it worked out.” “But he still had losing her to get over,” said Moses, “assuming he still loved her.” “You get the feeling from hearin’ the story that he did. But did he love her as much as he loved dealin’ in cotton? That’s th’ question. Don’t seem like the business missed a beat. But folks deal with what hurts ’em in different ways.” chapter 10 s Blackwater Blues

1230 Monday 7 October 1946: “Blackwater blues…caused me to pack my thangs an’ go. Old Lightnin’ tells it like it is, and so does Humphrey Bogart. Think you know about tough guys? Think again. They don’t come any tougher than Bogey when he defies evil Edward G. Robinson in Key Largo. He can take it, all right, but when he dishes it out, all bets are off. Except one. You won’t see a better movie this year. See it as soon as you can, but get to the Winston Theatre by Thursday, because that’s the last day for Key Largo. See you at The Winston!” Moses unlocked the Winston at twelve-thirty. He’d had his usual early lunch at the cafe, his first meal of the day after getting up at around nine. Generally, he didn’t leave the theatre until after midnight. Business had picked up over the past six weeks. Webster’s commercials had already begun to boost attendance, and in the Spring he’d add the sidecar rig to his promotion arsenal. Roy Hartwell had undersold “Skeeter”‘s talents; the man, whose actual name, Ribeye said, was Cloyce Daguerre, had turned out to be a bona fide artisan. A little whacky, but art’s like that, he thought. They’d met at Ribeye’s, on the evening of the day after his first ride on the rig.

- 101 - 102 The Rough English Equivalent

The bar was quiet on that weekday evening, with a very few customers sitting at the bar, soaking up beer in steady, workmanlike style under the weak light of the Steinerbru clock. The Negro side of the bar, which Ribeye and his clientele called “the mule hole,” closed at six o’clock. The now-familiar You Win Again alternated with A Fool Such as I and Honky-Tonk Angel on the jukebox. They sat at one of the bar’s four tables, sharing a pitcher of Schlitz. “This here’s Skeeter,” Hartwell announced, in a respectful tone. “I tole him about what you ’awnted done with that ole Harley.” “Hello, Skeeter,” Moses said, adopting Hartwell’s grave tone. “I’m glad to meet you. Roy says you’re the man to make a new rig out of my old Harley.” They shook. The skin of his hand felt like ﬁne-grit sandpaper. Skeeter was wiry and dark; some kind of hair tonic kept his longish, gray-streaked black hair lying close to his head. He poured a fresh glass of beer from the sweating pitcher that Ribeye had just set on the table. “Well,” he said, the single word a clue to his Cajun roots, “Maybe so. I been doin’ ole cars about twenty year now. Started wid ’tings I would ﬁnd aroun’ town, Model A Fords an’ like dat, in people’s yards jus’ rustin’ into de groun’. Den peoples see dem when I put ’em up for sale, and pretty soon some dat had pretty nice ole cars–you know, Packards an’ Buicks–would get me to paint ’em. Den one guy want me to see about gettin’ de interior of his Auburn Speedster put back right. It jus’ went on like dat. Firs’ bike I work on was a ’37 Indian. A Scout. Jus’ a simple repaint, but I learn a lot. Like you gotta take dat bastard completely apart to do it right. I done ’bout twenny since dat one. So I ’spec maybe me and Roy togedder could do whachu want did to dat ole rig. It would not be no fast deal, though.” “No. I didn’t expect it would be. And I don’t expect it to be cheap, either. I’m gonna use that rig to promote the Winston for a long time, and unless it’s sharp it won’t work.” Blackwater Blues 103

“How sharp you want it to be?” asked Skeeter, gazing intently at Moses. Pouring fresh beers all around, Moses said, “I want it ta look like it just rolled out of the factory, only better,” Moses said. “Not stock Harley colors. I want it white, with red trim, with the spare wheel covered with a red leather cover that has ‘Winston Theatre’ in big white leather letters sewn onto it. And a Harley police siren. Oh yes, and the spotlights should have red lenses rigged ta flash, like a police bike’s.” “What color you want the frame?” “Red. Scarlet, actually, same as the trim and wheel cover.” “OK.” “I won’t hold ya to any top dollar figure,” Moses told him, and I’ll pay ya every month, or however ya want to work it. Could ya make some sort of guess, though, about how much the whole thing will come to?” “Oh, man, you could spend a couple grand ’fo I’m troo,” Skeeter said, reaching for the pitcher. “As for payin’, I give you da bills for parts and other stuff I buy. You just pay me for dose, an’ pay me for da work when I’m done an’ you happy wid it.” “Fair enough. How long do you think it’ll take to finish it?” Skeeter leaned back in the wire-backed chair, scratching his crotch in contemplation. “Maybe six mont’, maybe eight. I have to strip it down to da bare frame an’ build it back up from dere. But don’ you make no mistake–dat bastard be slick as a ladybug’s back.” “Whoosh. Well, it’ll give me time to figure out the best way to use it. Can ya start right away?” “I take it tonight, if dat’s OK.” “Yeh-baw-ey,” Moses said, extending his hand. “Hey, Rib! How ’bout another pitcher?” 104 The Rough English Equivalent

1100 Friday 11 October 1946: Moses twirled the bottle of Mumm’s Cordon Rouge in its bucket of ice, pulling it out part way and touching it to check its temperature. The bucket was from the hotel’s inventory, a gift Serena brought to their first morning tryst in the Winston’s office. Her knock broke his reverie. “Good mornin’; can a girl possibly get a drink in this here thee-ayter?” She smiled at him from the door, casually drilling his heart. A navy blue turtleneck sweater eased the formality of the gray muted-plaid suit that she wore with it. “And a first-class drink at that,” he said, standing up with outstretched arms. “Just step this way, Madam.” She came into his arms with practiced ease, turning her face up to be kissed. The faint scent of Chanel came with her. “Whatcha got over there, Mister? Sump’m to make good little girls forget their raisin’?” “I intend to lure you, my child, into my lair with champagne…and other trinkets. Siddown; I have things to discuss with you.” “You’re way too smug for this time of day,” she said, sitting. “Give me some of that champagne before I have to kick your butt.” He poured two glasses and joined her on the couch. “Confusion to our enemies,” he said, raising his glass and smiling. “This is very good,” she said. “I hope your news is, too.” “I hope you’ll think it is; I want to buy somethin’, and I wanted to ask you what you thought about it.” “I don’t think that there’s anything in this town that you could buy that’d surprise me; what is it?” “A house.” “A house! Really! Where is it?” “Out Highway 31; the Wheeler place.” “The Wheeler place! Mose, that’s an awful lot of house. Why would you want to buy that?” Blackwater Blues 105

“It’d be a hell of a lot of house just for me; five bedrooms, four baths and a nice-sized pond. But I didn’t think about it that way. I thought that, after I asked you to marry me and you said yes, we’d move in and it’d be pretty much the right size.” She looked at him with green-eyed intensity. “OK. You surprised me. You really surprised me. Give me some more of that champagne.” She took her refilled glass from him, drank half of it in a gulp, continuing to look at him. “Why get married? And even if we did, I like living in the hotel. So does Jack. But wait. Back up to the other point. Why should we get married? Do you want more sex? Kids? More of my time? What?” “What I want is you. To be my wife.” “Mose. I love you. I love you very much. But I’ve been a wife, matter of fact I’m still one, and I’m pretty sure that I don’t want to go down that road again.” “What?” exploded Moses. “You’re still married?” “I’m afraid so.” “Why? And why the hell didn’t you tell me?” “Did you ever try to get a divorce in New York? I meant to tell you, but the time just never seemed right. Will you please understand that it has nothing to do with you, and that I want to be with you, just the way we’ve been?” “I’ll try. I’ll try because I love you, too. And you know I love Jack. But I’m not sure that I can. Seems to me that people who love each other dearly want to live together forever.” “That’s the way it works for a lot of people; I don’t think that it’s the only answer, because I do love you. Dearly. But wifin’s no business for artists–husbandin’either, as far that as that goes. The role of a wife’s not one that I want to take on again; at least not right now.” “So when do you think you’ll get around to actually not being one? Legally, I mean.” 106 The Rough English Equivalent

“I’m not sure. Larry could do it pretty simply, if he sued on grounds of desertion. But I haven’t pushed it. Doesn’t seem to make much difference, day to day.” His hand twitched slightly as he topped off their glasses, “Well, I’m gonna make an offer on the Wheeler place anyway. Low enough so that if they take it, I won’t lose anything in the long run. I’m sick of that shack I’ve been renting, and I’m sure you are, too. They say it’s been vacant for six months. Maybe I’ll get lucky; they’ll sell at my price, and you’ll change your mind.” “Maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll think about what I said. I liked my life all right before you came into it, Mose; I like it a lot better with you in it. I just don’t want to change it so drastically. And right now it seems like you’re looking through me.” “No,” he said. “I’m tryin’ to see inside you.” She touched his cheek. “You’re quite a guy, Moses Kubielski–the most man I’ve ever met, and I love being your lover. Just please, please understand that I have to be who I am.” “Looks to me as though I don’t have a lotta choice. I honestly thought you’d be pleased. I’ll work on bein’ a better listener, if you promise me that there’s no more big surprises.” “None,” she said. “I think that we’ve both just been hearing what it suited us to hear. For me, having you show up when I was starving for a taste of life from the world outside of Bisque was an incredible stroke of luck. Talking about New York with someone, least of all you, who’d lived there. When I want–no, I need to go back. I just chose to give myself up to it, and I’m glad I did. I hope you are.” “Sure I am. For me, though, you were–and are–like no one I ever dared hope to meet, much less be my lover. I know you want to make a name for yourself as an artist; I just don’t know why. But I’m gonna enjoy it, and try to understand how much your art means to you, and how that’s gotta take you back to New York, sooner or later. At least I understand that an artist who wants ta build a reputation needs ta be where there’s a lotta people who care about art–and Blackwater Blues 107 who’ll buy it. And I guess we’ll make sense outa this situation, sooner or later.” “Maybe you should start with this. Just how many people get to do something they like, let alone love, for a living? And when you’ve answered that one, you need to bear in mind that this isn’t sump’m I want to do. I have to do it. As I work on these pieces, I’m sculpting myself a new soul–well, maybe just grafting on a little more weight to the one I’ve got–and New York’s a part of it. And you’d never go back there; to live, I mean.” “Never say never, baby; it’s scary to think about what I might do where you’re concerned.”

“I didn’t realize that this place had a barn,” said Serena as they approached it. “You can’t see it from the road,” said Moses, “as long as leaves’re on the trees.” “I guess they must’ve had a horse or two. Anybody ever tell you anything about the Wheelers?” “Not much beyond their bein’ from Atlanta.” “That’s pretty much it. Daddy said Wheeler was in real estate; had some big ideas about buildin’ estates and sellin’ ’em to his horsey friends in Atlanta. He made Daddy an offer on my grandparents’ place, but he turned him down. Anyhow, this place is as far as the big plans took ’im. Turned out he was eaten up with cancer. Soon as he died, she high-tailed it back to the city. You thinkin’ about boardin’ some nags of your own in here?” “No, baby,” he said, unlocking the door and inviting her in with a sweep of his arm. “Shovelin’ shit and bailin’ hay? No, thank you. I thought I’d turn it into a gym.” “A gym?” “Sure. A gym. It’s already heated; see? They obviously wanted to keep their hay-burners comfortable. Once I get the stalls and stuff 108 The Rough English Equivalent outa here, there’ll be plenty of room for a ring, and lots left over for a speed bag, heavy bag, weight bench and a squat rack. Hell, I might even put in a steam room.” “All that in here? It won’t be cheap. I didn’t realize you still took boxing so seriously.” “How serious do I have to be to wanta stay in some kinda shape? It’s perfect.” “You’re already in pretty good shape, as far as I’ve been able to tell,” she said, reaching out to squeeze both his upper arms. I don’t want you wearin’ me out.” “Yes you do,” he said, pulling her to him. 1400 Thursday 21 November 1946: It’s my day to recite the poem. She Was a Phantom of Delight. Miz Barton has us going by rows; I’m in the middle of the second row. The first row went yesterday. Today, she’s starting with Diana Bishop, then Dolores Bishop and then it’ll be my turn. I know it pretty well, but I’m still scared. Mose moved last month. He bought a house way out of town, after Lee Street turns into the Polktown highway. It’s a nice place; kind of big for just him, but he said they don’t build houses for just one person to live in. Anyway, it has a nice pond out front that Mose says has catfish in it. Mom and I went out to see it; Mr. Wheeler, the man who built it, died, and his wife moved away, but their furniture was still in it. Mose said if Mom said okay that I could come spend the night when he got settled. Mom said sure, but not on school nights. She likes Mose a lot. But he was my friend first. Sometimes I call him Uncle Mose; just to myself. He wouldn’t be scared of a goddam poem. There’s the bell; here we go. “Good morning, everyone,” she says. Miz Barton’s pretty nice. I’m glad I got in her class instead of Miz James’s. She’s old. Somebody said she taught English to Stonewall Jackson. “Let’s get started with our recitations. Are you ready, Diana?” Blackwater Blues 109

“Yes ma’am, I guess.” “Well, come up and let us hear your version of Mr. Wordsworth’s wonderful poem.” Diana stood up. Like always, she and her sister were dressed just alike. Today they had on light blue, short-sleeved sweaters and white wool skirts that made their perky little butts look too good to be true. They always look really good, but somehow they’re scary, too. She walked slowly up to the front of the room and turned around, right beside Miz Barton’s desk. She looked out over our heads. She took a deep breath and started. “She was a phantom of delight…” And stopped. Then she looked up at the ceiling, closed her eyes and screamed “Fuuuuuck!” She just stood there, very still, with her eyes still closed. The room was really quiet. I don’t think anybody could believe they’d just heard “fuck” in a classroom. And loud. “Diana!” said Miz Barton; she’d jumped up from her desk, one hand over her mouth. She didn’t answer her. She just stood there, her closed eyes looking up over our heads. “What’s wrong, Diana?” “Miz Barton?” Dolores said to her. “Yes, Dolores?” “Could we try it together?” “Together?” “Yes’m. We know it. But we learned it together, and we’ll do it much better if we can do it together.” “Hm,” she said. I don’t think she could believe “Fuck” had been said in her room either. “Well, this is an individual exercise. But I’m going to let you girls do it together today. You’ll have to do it individ- ually later for your grade, but come on up and join your sister. There are six more people that have to be heard during this class period.” And Dolores did. Taking a deep breath, they started.

“She was a phantom of delight When ﬁrst she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament;” 110 The Rough English Equivalent

…and right on to the end. They went straight through without missing a single word, and the way they said the words, you really wanted to hear the next line, and the next. You felt like you knew the woman that the poem told about. When they were ﬁnished, the room was real quiet. Nobody, including Miz Barton, could believe how good they were. Finally she said, “That was extraordinary, girls; just extraordinary. I’m going to change the rules of this assignment. Not only will I allow this recitation from two students, but if any of the rest of you would like to recite in pairs, that’ll be ﬁne, too. Of course, any pairs will share the same grade.” Since nobody else seemed to want to do the poem in pairs, she pretty soon got back to me. “Jacob Mason; are you ready?” “Yes’m.” I decided to pretend that I had a twin, and that he was up there with me. I didn’t do as well as the Bishop girls, but you know what? I think it helped. And we’ll always remember the day Diana Bishop hollered “Fuck.”

1043 Friday 22 November 1946: “Good morning,” said Moses, stopping between the fenders of black and blue Buicks. Ted Foster, his back facing Moses, stood over a narrow table on whose top was a stack of sales brochures, holding one of them in his right hand. He turned toward him, gently slapping the brochure against his leg. “Good morning,” he responded. “How are you?” “Fine, ﬁne,” said Moses, as they approached each other. “Haven’t seen you for awhile,” he said as they shook hands. Mose Kubielski.” The everyday salesman’s smile with which Foster had met him faded, then returned, his eyes widening in recognition behind his hornrimmed glasses. “Oh, yes,” he said, “Yes, of course. How’ve you been?” “Fine, thanks. Are you the man to see about a new Buick?” Blackwater Blues 111

“Yes, indeed;” said Foster. “At least about the one or two that we have available. Did you have a particular model in mind?” “Anything that you have’ll be smaller than my trade-in. I like Buicks, and mine has been a good one, but I’d just like something new.” “Oh yes,” Foster said, “I think I know your car; the white Series 90, isn’t it? That is a lot of car.” “Right. 1941 model. Fairly low mileage for a ﬁve-year-old car. What do you have that’s ready to go?” “We-ell,” Foster said, his eyes scanning the embossed tin of the showroom’s ceiling, “the fact of the matter is, I have exactly one car that I could work with you on immediately. Lots of people are still driving their old prewar cars, and the factory’s doing everything it can to catch up with the demand, but just about every car we get’s been sold for months before we get it.” “What is it?” Moses asked. “That green Roadmaster Estate Wagon up front. Close to the size of what you’re driving now; all Buick, in other words. All that wood on the sides really looks rich, doesn’t it? Thought it’d appeal to somebody by now, but I guess it’s just too much car for most of our customers. The factory put every accessory they had on this one, including leather upholstery; they sort of forced this one on us. Now, I don’t know if you’d be interested…” “Could I drive it?” “Yes, indeed,” Foster said. “When would you like to…” “No time like the present,” said Moses, “if that’s convenient for you.”

“Af’noon,” grunted the man, sharp, dark eyes riveting Ted Foster from deep within folds of fat. 112 The Rough English Equivalent

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bishop,” said Foster, moving quickly from the back of the showroom to meet the man’s plodding steps. “How’s the beef business?” “Steady as ever, I reckon, Mr. Foster. That your white car outside?” “As a matter of fact, it is. A Series 90 limousine. Just took it in on a trade this morning.” “What’re you askin’ for it?” “Well, I don’t really know. Haven’t had time to get it back in the shop yet. Would you be interested in the car?” Bishop looked steadily at the bespectacled Foster, shaking his big Stetson-hatted head slowly from side to side. “Now, what the hell do you think I’m doin’ in here? You say my new car won’t be here ’til January. You gimme a good price, and I’ll drive this over the holidays and ’til my new one shows up. You can go ahead and take my old car in and get it ready to sell.” Yes, you fat shit, Foster thought, since you’ll go four hundred pounds if you go an ounce, it’ll take awhile to respring that old wagon, the way it’s broken down on the driver’s side. And I stole that white car this morning. “Why don’t you take the car for a spin, Mr. Bishop, and make sure you like it. If you do, it’s yours for nine-ﬁfty.” Bishop glanced out the window at the white car, and back at Ted Foster. “That’s a deal,” he said after a brief pause. “If she drives OK.” “Excuse me for a minute; I’ll get the keys.” Bishop extended a massive hairy hand to take the keys from Fos- ter. “Much obliged.” His business concluded, he turned to move slowly between the Buicks toward the front door, like a cargo ship loaded to the gunwales in a strong current. As he did, Foster withdrew to a discreet position in the back of the showroom to watch Bishop’s process of mounting the white car. This job, he thought, may not always be that much fun, but today’s a deﬁnite exception. Blackwater Blues 113

0730 Saturday 23 November 1946: The Bishop twins were up early. Slipping into their customary weekend attire of identical riding outfits, they tiptoed past their parents’ locked bedroom door and made their way to the front porch. The white car sat serenely on the fine gravel driveway next to the house, which overlooked rolling green pasture land on all sides of its hilltop location. “OK,” said Diana. “Push.” Dolores, her feet braced against the base of the back seat, pushed against the back of the front seat. The push broke the wide gray seat loose from the full-back position on its track and carried it some ten inches forward to full-forward, where it stopped with a solid thump. Diana’s nine-year-old legs, long for her age, could now reach the clutch and brake pedals. “There,” she said, peering over the top of the dashboard at pale blue morning sky and sawing the steering wheel an inch or two in either direction. “Come on up; where d’ya wanna go?” “Let’s go to Atlanta,” said Dolores, “An’ get some city boys.” “Here we go…brrrrmm, brrrrmm, brrrrmm” hummed Diana, pretend-driving the white car out of the yard. She drives real smooth, doesn’t she?” “Oh yeah,” giggled Dolores. “Hey! Watch out for that truck!” “I’m passin’ ’im; he’s only doin’ 50. This thang’s got pickup!” “Yeah, pass ’im; see if she’ll hit 100 down th’ hill!” “Yeah, we’re flyin’ now–I’m floorboardin’ it! Look down there– we’re way up here now!” “Diana!!” “What?” “The engine! It’s losing power!” “I know–I’ll hafta land it in that field over there. Gotta keep my airspeed. Hang on, we’re goin’ in!” Dropping her hands from the white car’s wheel, Diana wrapped her arms around her sister, who did the same. The girls sat on the gray wool seat, their teeth chattering as they muttered back and forth to each other in German. 114 The Rough English Equivalent

1730 Saturday 30 November 1946: Recognizing Moses’ head above the swinging doors, Ribeye pulled a Red Cap from the cooler, decapped it and slid it down the bar to intersect his path. Taking a deep swig, Moses sat, his mind on Win- ston Churchill. Happy birthday, you sly old fucker, he thought, lifting the bottle a couple of inches in mute salute. Seventy-two today; that’s six you owe me, and the hell of it is you’ll never know it’s me you owe, or why. “Hey Rib!” “Whut?” “Have one on me. It’s Churchill’s birthday.” “Who’s birfday?” “Churchill. Winston Churchill. Remember him?” “Oh. Winston. Th’ Englishman. Lend-Lease. He ain’t dead?” “Nope; just neglected. Saved his people, and they threw ’im out. Cast their lot with th’ fuckin’ Laborites. Still in Parliament, though.” “Well, that ain’tsa bad, then. Gittin’ lil’ old, ain’tee? “Seventy-two today.” “Gettin’on down th’ piike. Hey.” “What?” “You ain’t related to ’im, ahya?” Moses grinned into the middle distance. “No. I just like ’im. Stared Hitler in th’ eye ’til he blinked. Except for him, they’d be speakin’ German in England, right now.” “Good thang we won. Ain’ no way I could learnta talk enny ’a that shit. Hey. Been meanin’ ta ask you sump’m. If you don’ miind.” “What’s that?” “Whassit liike bein’ a Jew, anyway?” “Where? Here?” Ribeye paused, looking at him. Then he said “Hell yeah, here. Thass where ya be, ain’t it? Here?” Moses barely suppressed a laugh. “Yeah, I’m here, for sure. I just thought you might’ve meant New York, or someplace else where there’s a big Jewish community.” Blackwater Blues 115

Ribeye’s tic-like shake of his head suggested that he wasn’t up to thinking about large Jewish communities right then. “Naw, I mean jus’ in general. Y’all havin’ a differnt God, and eatin’ differnt food, an’ all. Mus’ be tough.” This time Moses couldn’t hide his grin. “Lemme ask you sump’m.” “Whut?” “When’s the last time you went to church? Not countin’ funerals and weddings.” After a couple of seconds’ look at the ceiling, Ribeye said, “Some- time back when I ’us a kid.” “Same for me. And I eat everything you do, includin’ this pickled swine you got up here in th’ jugs. Because I’m not what they call a practicin’ Jew. Don’t know if you consider yourself a practicin’ Chris- tian or not, but it seems to me that we get through life pretty much the same.” Pondering this, Ribeye paused, then said “They’s one big dif- fernce.” “What’s that?” “Ain’t nobidy at yo’ house on Sunday mornin’ givin’ you hell about it.” Moses raised his Red Cap in sincere appreciation of that fact. “Well, here’s to Winnie, one more time. Bet he don’t go much anymore, either.”

chapter 11 s Take a Tater & Wait

“…take an old, cold tater & wait” —Little Jimmy Dickens 1415 Friday 20 April 1947: “Say hello to the Wincycle,” said Moses, as they walked out the hotel’s front door into the sunlight of a warm spring morning to view Skeeter’s handiwork, which sat, so shiny it seemed to be vibrating at a very high frequency, in the loading zone. The old Harley warrior had metamorphosed into postwar dude, sporting the ivory- and-red livery that Moses had speciﬁed. What he’d ﬁrst imagined, however, was far less than Skeeter had delivered. The painted surfaces were deep and glasslike in their smoothness; the engine’s crankcases and cylinder heads were polished to a sheen that those of no new Harley had ever enjoyed. The spotlights’ red lenses matched the red trim perfectly, as did the sidecar’s leather spare tire cover, a large ivory “Winston Theatre” scripted slantingly over its full diameter. The sidecar’s upholstery repeated the deep, rich red; a large chrome- plated siren was embedded in the front fender. “My God,” Serena exclaimed. “What an incredible piece of work. Wish I’d done it.”

- 117 - 118 The Rough English Equivalent

“Incredible just about says it,” said Moses. “Hop in.” “OK. How do I do this?” “Just give me your hand and put one foot on that little step. Then put the other foot inside on the floor, and then bring the other one in. That’s it. Now put a hand on the side of the car and just sit down.” She did, smoothing her skirt as she sank into the seat’s red soft- ness. “Man. New-car smell. This is really something.” “I thought you’d like it,” he said, straddling the seat and flipping the starter pedal into position. “Now let’s let the town have a look.” Firing on the second kick, the engine, exhausting now through twin chrome mufflers, had assumed a deeper, more dignified tone to match its new cosmetics. “Ready?” “As I’ll ever be,” she said, smiling at his enthusiasm. “Let’s go, Showboat.” At the first break in the busy morning traffic, Moses headed the rig across Main Street’s westbound lane, turning east on Main and south on Lee. He hit the horn twice to greet Ziggy, who had stopped his bicycle on the corner in rare respect for the red light. He returned the greeting with a wide-eyed grin and a wag of the hand, swiveling for a longer look at the rig as Moses turned the corner. “My first passenger,” he shouted to her, returning the wave. They continued south on Lee, commerce giving way first to small, then to larger residences. The heads of these households having left for work a couple of hours earlier, the pace of midmorning life in Bisque’s better neighborhoods could only be described as leisurely, and this Friday morning was no exception. The smell of dew hadn’t yet left the lawns. An occasional car and a yardman or two doing springtime seeding summarized the morning’s visible movement on Lee Street. The understated prosperity of this part of town had immediate appeal for Moses; it was, he thought, very like the small towns in Connecticut to which some of his father’s senior colleagues at the university had migrated. He’d wanted to live somewhere out this way when he rented the two-bedroom house west of town, on Take a Tater & Wait 119

Jackson Street, but it was the first thing he could find that was reasonably decent. Now that the Wheeler place had become, as dubbed by Lee Webster, “Chez Mose,” he much preferred “the country” instead. They rode at a leisurely pace through several neighborhoods, attracting second looks from a few ladies in their front yards, some of whom returned their waves; a couple of them actually smiled. Ser- ena gave no sign of knowing any of the women. She sat, it seemed to Moses, perfectly content behind the sidecar’s windshield, occasionally squeezing the calf of his leg, which was inches from her face. They drifted toward the southern outskirts of Bisque and into the beginnings of rural Hamm County; what each of them had expected to be a half-hour ride had already gone well beyond that. They rode from farm to farm, enjoying the sights and smells of spring planting and, again, swapping waves with an assortment of black and white men who directed the progress of mules and tractors. As they crested a rise on the two-lane macadam, Moses recognized the large tree on the left side of the road as the one under which he and Ziggy had parked last year during the old rig’s test ride. He rolled off the throttle and turned in, wheeling the rig around to the angle that he’d parked before, overlooking the acres of fields that were full of cotton plants last August, but now lay empty, the dead stalks having been raked away, a frizz of green weeds having emerged to replace them. “I stopped here with Ziggy last year,” he said after he’d shut off the engine. “These fields were full of cotton then.” “It’s been a long time since I was out this way,” she said. “Probably not since I was in high school.” “Aha,” he said, extending a hand to help her out of the sidecar. “Out here playing grabass with the boyfriend, were we?” “I think you were born with a hard-on.” She walked around to the other side of the bike and sat against the junction of the seat and gas tank. “No, my girlfriends and I used to ride all over the place, including here, on the weekends. One of them had a ’25 model Packard; a 120 The Rough English Equivalent sedan. We’d get as many of us as possible in it and just go. To be fair, we were always on the lookout for boys, but the first real sex I ever had was after I was married.” “Real sex.” “Yeah. You know, pee-pee to pussy.” “What comes under the category of unreal sex, then?” “I imagine you’ve heard of jackin’ off.” “Seems to me I have.” “You didn’t think just boys did it, did you?” “No, but…” “That’s a relief. I’d hate for you to think that my sexuality just showed up one day. Remember when you first did it?” “Mmmm…maybe when I was ten, eleven. Sump’m like that.” “Nice, wasn’t it?” “Sure.” “Easy, too.” “Yeah.” “Girls have to work on it a little harder, at least at first. At least that’s the way it was for me. I had to visualize getting fucked, from start to finish. Or what I imagined that it’d be like. And it helped to have something like a dick inside me when I did.” “What’d you use?” “Oh, different things; small ones, like the handle of my hairbrush. But I moved on to thinks that filled me up better. You know what I liked best?” “What?” “A small Idaho potato. You know, for baking. Right shape, nice rough texture that rubs in there just right, with some Wesson Oil on it. And here’s the best part; I found this big screwdriver on the porch one day, and two and two all of a sudden made ten. I stuck it into my potato, and that combination got me through high school and right up to the point that I traded it in on Larry.” “You were what, twenty-one?” Take a Tater & Wait 121

“Twenty-two, and still a Vagitarian,” she laughed. Moses laughed too. “You beat all I’ve ever seen. Maybe you’ll show me that trick sometime; gives a whole new connotation to ‘screwin’. But I wish I could’ve swapped places with old Larry the day you gave it up.” “It was his ﬁrst sex too, and there were deﬁnitely a few funny moments, looking back on it. But we loved each other, so we thought, and it worked out. I just didn’t understand what I was up against. Married to the nicest man in the world, whose only real passion was, and is, nuclear physics.” “Yeah. You wouldn’t have any interest in second place.” She looked sharply at him. “And why the hell should I? As I recall, the vow says ‘…forsaking all others.’ That certainly included Robert fucking Oppenheimer, as far as I was concerned. I was stupid enough to buy into it for too long, letting him haul Jack and me out to a 3- room shack in that stinking hellhole Los Alamos, and once we got there we hardly ever saw him. “Looking back on what was at stake, I understand why they worked at such an insane pace; but there we were, little Jack just seven years old and completely confused about what we were doing there. I couldn’t tell him anything that made sense, because I didn’t know what the hell Los Alamos was all about. Larry wasn’t permitted to tell us anything, so I got more and more frustrated as the days dragged on. We were only allowed to go into town once a week; one day in May of ’44, it was past a hundred degrees by lunchtime, and I just snapped. I packed a bag for Jack and a bag for me, caught the bus to town, and got on another bus, the next one headed east.” “Just like that.” “Yep. I left Larry a note telling him that we were headed to Bisque, and that I’d call when we got there. I don’t think that he was that surprised, except by the abrupt way I did it. I didn’t do right by him, or Jack, by handling it that way, but I don’t think that I could’ve done it if I’d had to see the two of them say goodbye.” 122 The Rough English Equivalent

“I guess not.” “Nope. Whatever room there is in Larry’s heart for loving people, is all Jack’s now. He’s just one of those guys who’s married to his pro- fession. We fell in love without either of us realizing that he was already married. I wish I could’ve talked to my mother about him before we’d gone that far. Of course, we wouldn’t have Jack if we hadn’t gotten together.” “You know, in all the time that I’ve known you, you haven’t had much to say about your mother. I know that she died when you were pretty young…” “I was fourteen,” she said, very quietly, her face gone solemn. “Hey, sweetie. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” “It’s OK. I’d like to tell you about her; Miz Rose was quite a gal.” “That’s what you called her.” “Yes. Rose. Rose Watkins Redding. The Watkins, her folks, had one of the largest farms in the county, about twenty miles southeast of town. She and daddy got married in 1907, when she was 21; he was 30. She was the youngest of five children; Granny Watkins was almost forty when she was born. Being the baby, she got pretty much anything she wanted, including going to college. One of her teachers had gone to Agnes Scott, over in Decatur, and that’s where she wanted to go, so naturally that’s where she went. And that’s where she became what she called ‘progressive.’ Gene Debs is named after Eugene Debs, the Socialist, who ran for president the first time in 1904.” “Oh, yeah. Ran one time from prison, didn’t he? I never stopped to think about that, with all the ‘Roy Genes’ and ‘Joe Lees’ around Bisque.” “That’s the one. Anyway, she and Daddy got married before she finished school, in 1907. They say it almost killed Granny Watkins; marrying a man almost ten years older than she was. After she died Aunt Bonnie told me that she married Daddy mostly to spite Mr. Take a Tater & Wait 123

Hartwell, his partner; she’d wanted to marry him for years, but he wouldn’t ask her. “Old Man Hartwell left Daddy half the business when he died, back during World War I. He’d come to love him like his own son, and Daddy had taken to the cotton business like a duck to water, unlike Peter Hartwell, who preferred just having a good time. He became the wheelhorse at Hartwell & Redding, and he had less and less time for Mama, which of course was asking for trouble. She and Pete Hartwell took up with each other again, sometime in the mid- twenties. They were driving out in the country one summer night in 1927; the car turned over somehow and killed both of them. She was 41.” “How awful. And what a time for you to lose her.” “Yes,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “Yes, that’s what it was. It was awful.” He held her tightly to him while she cried, and after. She looked down at him, her eyes liquid emeralds. “She had way more to offer the world than little old Bisque knew how to handle. She should never have stayed here. And I know it’ll get me if I stay. So I’m getting out.” “Back to New York.” “Yep. If I don’t I’ll wake up one day, still here and as old as Mama was when she died. I’m not gonna get old in this little armpit of the world.” “And Jack? Does he know how you feel?” “Sure he does. I’ve never tried to fool him about why we came back to Bisque in the ﬁrst place. It was home, and we had no other choice.” “So what’s your timetable lookin’ like?” She laughed, her eyes regaining their brilliance. “Well, I can’t go tomorrow. Much as I’d like to. Hap Rutherford’s been after me to do just that, but I’ve gotta make sure Jack’ll be OK in college. Get him through his freshman year, maybe. Then Miz Ríni’s gone for good.” “That’s a long time to wait for something you want.” 124 The Rough English Equivalent

“What choice do I have? I’m not taking Jack back to New York, now that he’s started school and made friends here. All I can do is go on with my art as best I can, run the hotel and look after my son. And now that you’re here, that doesn’t seem like such a bad way to spend a few years.” Making it sound, Moses thought, more than ever like a tour of duty. 1622 Monday 1 September 1947: It’s Labor Day. Mose says it’s a holiday up north. We had school, though; first day. Miz Borden made me a Captain of the School Safety Patrol. Gil Walters is the other one; last year we were the only two fifth graders on the patrol, and she said that’s why she picked us. We’re also the biggest, which she probably thought about, too. Our badges are different; they have a blue center, where the regular patrolman badges are all silver. Now I have to think about who I’ll pick for my Lieutenant. They get badges with a red center. Miz Bor- den says that it’s an important job, and we shouldn’t just pick the patrolman we like the best. It would be easy if I could just do that; then it would be Ricky. I’ll probably pick him anyway. But I’ll have to think about that later. I just got to the Winston, and I gotta clean up after the 2 o’clock show. Mose is down at the café, and Freddy’s in the projection booth. Evelyn, who’s new, is in the box office. She’s still in high school, but she can be here for the early show because she’s in the DCT. I’m not sure what that stands for, but it’s part of high school; she gets credit for coming here just like she was in school. She brings her books into the booth, but I never saw her study. I think Freddy likes her; she looks OK and has those nice titties. Be better if she didn’t chew that gum all the time, though. I work here on weekends, and sometimes after school. When Mose bought the Ritz, my Mom told me that he asked her if it would be all right if he offered me the job, and she said it would. It kind of Take a Tater & Wait 125 surprised me; I never thought about working anywhere but the hotel. But then Mose told me what he wanted me to do, just sweep up, tear peoples’ tickets in half and give them the stubs for the six o’clock show, and help at the candy counter. And of course see all the movies free. It sounded like fun, and Mom said she could spare me at the hotel. So I said OK. Now, when Ziggy and I finish cleaning up, if I’ve already seen the show I go up and watch Mose or Freddy run the projectors. I think I could do it myself, but I haven’t asked to yet. Those film reels are big, and you have to start the projector with the new reel and shut off the one with the old reel pretty fast, when you see the black circle up in the corner of the screen. I’m going to watch a little longer before I ask to do it. Sometimes I take the film boxes that have the new shows in them up to the projection room, if they’re still downstairs. A Bar- ton Brothers Film Express truck drops them off at night, and picks up the ones that have show that we already ran in them. I can’t work here after school on Tuesday and Thursday because I have to practice football; Ziggy has to clean up by himself on those days. I’m right end; Ricky’s quarterback, and he passes to me a lot. He even got Mr. Harris, Roland Harris’s daddy who’s our coach, to let us put in an end-around play so I could run the ball. So I guess he’s going to be my Lieutenant. I like the Wincycle a lot. It has red lights and a sireen, just like the ones on the police motorcycles. Since Freddy’s eighteen and has had his Servi-Cycle for a long time, Mose is teaching him to ride it. Mom says I can only ride in the sidecar, but sometimes when he takes Ziggy and me someplace I get up behind Mose on the buddy seat. And he’s gonna let me ride with Freddy in the high school football parades on Friday afternoons before home games. He said I’ll have some free passes, each for two people, rolled up in little cardboard tubes. The tubes’ll have stickers with Winston printed on them. My job’s to throw ’em to people on the street; I have to make sure not to run out before we get back up to where we turn off Lee Street and go 126 The Rough English Equivalent back to the parking lot at the high school. People stand on the side- walks, and in the parkway that runs down the middle of the street, too. So I’ll throw some out on the way up the street, and the rest after we get to the spot where we turn around to go back down the other side of the street. Mose says I can always throw them to people I know, but to pretend to shut my eyes, so people won’t think I’m playing favorites. Anyway, working at the Winston is OK. But I get tired of Ziggy borrowing money from me all the time. Usually I don’t have any, or very much, but he must think I do. He won’t ask me in front of Mose or Freddy; he tries to get me alone to ask me, and some of the things he thinks of are so funny I have to laugh when he tries them. The other day I was up in the projection room with Freddy, looking over his shoulder as he threaded film into one of the projectors. Ziggy stuck his round brown head in the door, and when he saw me he said “Hey Jack. Ya package down heeunh.” That’s what he was saying, but he said it so fast I couldn’t understand him. “What?” “Yuh package down heeunh, bwy,” he said, pissed because he had to hang around long enough to say it again and have Freddy realize that he was there at all, let alone why. “What package you talkin’ about, Zig?” I said. I was getting a kick out of his pissedness, which was getting worse fast. “Yuh PACKAGE, gotdammit. Yuh better come get it now.” “Who’s it from?” No answer to that; just a nasty look as he disappeared. “Just put it behind the counter,” I yelled behind him, laughing. “I’m busy right now.” Freddy was laughing too by now. “Why you so hard on ole Zig? He’s just tryin’ to put the bite on you.” “Oh, you noticed? And he thought he had you fooled.” “Hell, it’s not just you; he does it to everybody.” Take a Tater & Wait 127

“I don’t know what he does with his money; he’s got three or four jobs,” I said. “I’ll tell you what he does with it.” “What?” “He puts it in the goddam bank.” “Hell. How do you know?” “I saw his bank book one time. He keeps it in his shoe.” “In his SHOE? Bullshit.” “He does,” Freddy said, grinning like a fool. “He took his shoe off one time, and it fell out. That Ziggy’s smart; puts his money in the bank where it draws interest, borrows from everybody he can and don’t pay no interest.” “Damn,” I said, as impressed as I was surprised. “And that fuckin’ coon’s been ridin’ my ass all this time. How much you reckon he’s got?” “I got no idea, and he’ll never tell. Just don’t waste your time worryin’ about Zig. He’ll always take care of himself.” “And you know what he’d say.” “What?” “Awright, den.” Freddy laughed so hard he had a coughing fit. “No shit! He says that all the fuckin time!” “Not just him. Lots of ’em do.” “Awright, den,” he said, laughing even harder. “Awright, den,” I said, laughing at how funny it struck him. “Awright, den,” he wheezed, struggling to get his breath. Sometimes we can get a little silly about shit like that; good thing we have Ziggy to kid around with, though, because some of the movies are really boring. During the week we have love pictures, with the woman crying, slapping the man, and then crying some more. They almost always make up by the end, looking at each other like they weren’t ever mad in the first place. The actors, people like Greer Gar- son and George Brent, aren’t in any other kind of picture. Lee Web- 128 The Rough English Equivalent ster talks about each feature in the Winston commercials on WBQE. He acts like he’s a character in the movie, saying stuff like “No one, not even I, a police inspector, could believe that Ivy had had anything to do with her husband’s death…” He really gets ’em going. Some women come to see every one; even Mom comes to see a lot of them. I wonder if she and Mose ever carry on like that; I sure hope not. At the Wednesday matinee, we have a drawing; whoever has the winning ticket stub gets a set of dishes or silverware, or something else that Mose has made a deal for. He really can deal; last Valentine’s Day it was a wedding dress, and the week before Easter a ladies’ hat, both from Browne & Browne’s. Then, in June, he let the girl whose aunt won the wedding dress get married in it on Sunday morning on the Winston stage, and all the guests got free passes. It’s getting so the Winston seems like one of the official places in town, like a church, or a bank, or something. But the best thing Mose has done’s gonna happen this Friday. Tex Ritter’s coming to town! First we’re gonna show his picture Marked for Murder, then he’s gonna come on stage and sing. 1040 Saturday 6 September 1947: “That big ole Tex’us sump’m, wadn’t he?” said Jack through a mouthful of waffle. They sat by themselves on the terrace of Moses’ house, he having gone to the Winston after getting their breakfast ready. “Sho was. I liike to’ve laughed my aiess off when he’us singin’ that Rye Whiskey. I thought he’us gonna fall offa that damn stool every time his head dropped down like he’us passin’ out,” laughed Ricky. “That ’us a whole lot better’n th’ movie, an’ th’ movie wadn’t bad. Whipped up on th’ bad guys ’n made th’ ranchers ’n th’ sheepherders get along. Got th’ girl, too.” “He ’us real niice about signin’ ’is pictures for everybody. Stayed around ’til he’d signed everything in siit. Seemed jus’ liike he is in th’ Take a Tater & Wait 129 movies. You know sump’m else I liike about him? He talks liike he ’us from around here someplace. Roy Rogers don’t sound western or southern either one, to me, and Gene Autry just plain talks through ’is nose. Sings thataway, too.” “How’dja liike ’at car?” said Ricky, reaching for the bacon. As’sa best-lookin’ Cadillac I ever saw. Th’ driver tole me it ’us a V12. Spe- cial-made on a ’38 chassis. With them big spare tires like Mose’s ole Buick. Look even bigger on a convertibile, don’t they?” “Yeah, the way that back end draws down to a point. We’d fit jus’ perfect in th’ rumble seat. Howja liike it if we coulda gone with ’em?” “Tell ya how I’d liike it,” said Ricky, grinning at the horizon. Us in ’at rumble seat wid Rita Hayworth in th’ middle, playin’ wid dem titties alla way back ta Hollywood.” 1005 Saturday 27 September 1947: The high-priced end of Augusta, Moses concluded, looked a lot like the high-priced end of Old Lyme, or any of those other Connecticut towns through which his dad would drive them, him and his Mom, on numberless, aimless “house-hunting” weekends back in the twenties. Large well-kept houses on well-manicured lawns. The driveway that they turned into led to one of the more modest structures, a kind of Cape Cod contemporary with a two-car garage, into which they drove the cars after Moses had slid the overhead door open. “The large key unlocks that door right there,” said Ríni, indicating the door that led from the garage to the house. They entered the house between the kitchen and a large breakfast area set into a bay-windowed alcove. A faint odor of pine-scented disinfectant punctuated the house’s dust-free order. “Nice place,” said Moses. “Sure is,” she said. The real estate people make sure it stays that way, not that they rent it out all that much. Let’s unpack and get comfortable.” 130 The Rough English Equivalent

The master bedroom opened onto a sundeck that was fenced on both sides, overlooking a patch of freshly-cut, bright-green Bermuda grass. A boxwood hedge and stand of old poplars closed off the back of the lot, shielding the deck from casual view. “You could get a lot of sun out there,” he said, noting the two padded lounge chairs that sat on either side of a white-painted wrought iron table. “That’s why we brought swim suits,” said Ríni. “It’s sunny out there pretty much all day. Not that we really need ’em, the way they’ve got the deck fenced off. Now. How ’bout stirring us up some Bloody Marys, and let’s get this here party under way!” Although they’d been lovers for over a year, this was the ﬁrst time they’d been able to get out of Bisque for a weekend. Moses had just gotten comfortable enough with the thought of leaving Freddy George in charge of the Winston for a couple of days, and Jack was staying with Ricky. Not that they’d left together; they made the half- hour drive from Bisque nose-to-tail, the Roadmaster trailing her well-worn ’42 Hudson station wagon. Ríni had her regular ruse of visiting a high school chum, Martha Harris, whose telephone number she could leave, and Moses was on a “business trip” to Atlanta, telling Freddy he’d call to check in with him. He went to the kitchen and emptied two grocery bags. Obsessed as ever with the loveliness of her body, he’d thought about very little but seeing her naked, at ease and in broad daylight, since they ﬁrst talked about coming here. Vodka, salt, lime juice, Tabasco, Lea & Perrins into two squat tumblers, sweet tits on his mind, swinging loose and heavy underneath, taut across the tops as they tie back to her collarbones, nipples dark pink bullseyes in paler silky areoles. Undercurves replicated in the cheeks of her butt. He shook a can of V8, punched holes in the top and poured, leaving room for ice. Two sets of sweet wet lips, he thought, opening quickly to my touch. My cup runneth over. God, I need another pair of hands to touch all those parts at once. Matter of fact, there just needs to be two of me to do her the way I want to. Take a Tater & Wait 131

It was as though she’d read his mind. She stood naked at the bathroom door, luxuriating in her sunlight-dappled skin. She extended a hand to take one of the drinks, smiling at her surprise and its effect on him. She took a quick sip and set the glass down. “Very nice,” she said as she closed the distance between them and kissed him, Tabasco-heat fusing their mouths. “OK, Chili, let’s christen this joint, one room at a time.” They lay prone on the loungers, which he’d moved together, letting the noonday sun do a few minutes’ work on their whiteness. “So how long have you known these folks?” he asked. “Since Columbia,” she said. “Hap was a senior and Maggie a pre- cocious freshman, out of the New York High School of Performing Arts. She was sixteen, a day student living at home. We had a class together–life drawing–and her work was so good that she quickly became the talk of the department. I thought I knew what I was doing with anatomy, but she absolutely intimidated the rest of the class, including me. We were enough alike, though, that we became friends almost overnight. I was already going out with Larry, who stayed in the Physics labs ’til all hours, so we started doing stuff together–movies, listening to music in her room, galleries, going to bars–her driver’s license had the necessary date, of course–and one day Hap walked up and started talking to us. He was an Art History major, and he, like everyone else in the department, had heard about Maggie. Well, things progressed, they got together, and we became a foursome, as much as Larry’s workload permitted, that is. The rest of the time we were a threesome. Hap’d take us both around town to hit the high spots–and the low spots. New York in the thirties–you remember–wasn’t a bad place to pub-crawl. Hap always had money– his dad owned the Rutherford Galleries, where he’d be going to work after graduation.” “And where your work’s being shown now.” “Right.” “Sounds like big times for a small-town girl,” said Moses. 132 The Rough English Equivalent

“Yeah, we had some really fine times, and when Maggie turned eighteen she and I got a place together, a loft on Third Avenue big enough for the guys to sleep over on weekends. Well, things went really well for quite awhile, and then, looking back on it, the inevitable happened and I found myself looking both graduation and motherhood in the face.” “But you all stayed in touch as things, as you say, progressed.” “Oh yeah, they stood up with us at the wedding–just the four of us, at a place called The Little Church Around the Corner-” “Oh yeah,” said Moses, “I’ve heard of it.” “…and Maggie went on living with me until Jack was born. God knows she was a lot of help, standing by me through the before-and- after of telling my dad. They were at Jack’s christening, and baby-sat him later on–they finally got married in ’38–but there’s a gulf, and a big one, between couples with children and those without. So our friendship survived, but on a different basis. We had to grow up and they didn’t.” “That’s always the deal, I suppose. But you guys had Jack.” “Yes we did. And do. I didn’t say that I’d rather’ve been doing what Maggie and Hap were doing instead of having Jack. It was just different, my role in particular; I was a mother now, first, last and always. Not that Larry wasn’t a good father, as far as he understood what being a good father was all about; it just took second place to his work. After all was said and done, he was an Associate Professor of Physics at Columbia, pushing for promotion and tenure. I felt, sometimes, that he dealt with marriage and fatherhood as he did with other things that were outside his work; necessary distractions from the main point of his life.” “I know. Same with my dad. Those guys do most of their living inside their heads.” Moses sat up. “I think I’m done on this side, and it looks like you are, too. Ready to roll over?” “Yeah. And enough of the Life of Ríni for awhile.” She rolled over and lay back down, using the back of her hand to brush beads of Take a Tater & Wait 133 sweat from her brow. “Come sit over here, why don’t you?” she asked. “No, honey, not like that; straddle it.” She brought her knees up to her chin. “Come closer, young man, to learn the secrets of the Orient. Put some more of that oil on me; you, too.” A long, soapy shower later they lay naked on the bed, the covers turned down, waiting for the wispy breeze that wafted through the house to cool the heat that lingered from near-sunburn. “Where exactly were you?” she asked. “When?” “Then, in New York. While I was bellying up to motherhood.” He laughed. “Nicely put. Well, I was over on the East Side, projec- tin’ films for th’ loyal patrons of th’ Apollyon Cinema on East 58th, despondin’ over my almost-career as a light-heavyweight.” “Light-heavyweight? But didn’t you stop fighting in the twenties?” “Well, my last fight, if you wanta be charitable, was in April of ’32. A prelim for the Atlantic Fleet championships. Which, bein’ out of shape and paranoid about getting caught with my boss’s wife, I lost. Damn near by a knockout.” “And by ’37, you were still ‘desponding’? You know, I think I’ve caught you at it every now and then. Seem like you drop into the deep blues, and I mean deep, and then snap out of it so fast I can’t be sure you were really there. Is fighting really that far down into the core of who you are?” “Must be.” But not in any way that you could imagine, he thought. I fought a war that you can’t know about, because if you did you’d have me hogtied, and I already know that I can’t ever claim a big enough piece of you to let that happen. Oh Jesus. Somewhere along in there you broke your leg.” She reached down to stroke the streaky pale blue scars on his right shin. He winced, even though the pain was long gone. “Well, actually, a cab broke my leg. But the despondin’ woulda gone on just the same, because by then I was dealin’ with the fact that, even with two good 134 The Rough English Equivalent legs, I didn’t have it in me to get to the top as a fighter. And I was sittin’ in there in an East Side projection booth, pushin’ thirty.” “I’ll bet you had some help with the desponding, though,” she said. “You mean women?” “I don’t mean sheep dogs, Bub. Somebody–or bodies–must’ve helped you ditch the blues.” “Well, I had a couple of pals over that time who blunted the edges a tad. Nothin’ like you, though.” “Tell me.” “What?” “About your pals. What they did for you. Specifically.” “Why?” “I might pick up a pointer or two about what you like, for one. For two, it’ll excite the hell out of me,” she said. “OK. If you’ll reciprocate.” “You want to hear my fuck list?” “If you think it’ll excite the hell out of me.” “OK. And I’ll go first. Hap and Maggie.” “Whaddya mean, ‘Hap and Maggie’?” “Just that. Hap and Maggie made love to me. On this bed.” A chill flashed through his guts. “How’d that happen?” “I called them to tell them that Jack and I were back in Bisque, and why, and they invited me over here for a weekend. We had dinner, and were sitting out in the living room with brandy and coffee. One minute they were consoling me, and the next they were kissing me. Maggie slipped her hand inside my blouse, and looked at me for permission. I just looked back at her; then Hap kissed me, and I kissed him back. When we finished, he pulled back to look at me. He said, ‘Ríni, we’ve always loved you, and we thought you might enjoy making love with us. If it doesn’t appeal to you, we’ll stop right now.’” “But it did appeal to you,” said Moses. Take a Tater & Wait 135

“Yes, it did. I was lonely, had been for a long time, and I wanted them to fuck me. And they did.” Moses’ thumb and forefinger had encircled his dick. “How was it?” “Really good. We went into the bedroom; they were gentle, and they were thorough. And I reciprocated. We did each other in every way we could think of, until we were exhausted. Then we fell asleep. I waked up the next morning to feel Hap’s fingers in my pussy. He got them slick with my juice and slid one into my butt.” “Roll over and let me,” said Moses. She did, moving onto her hands and knees. As before, he used his thumb, putting some suntan oil on it, spreading more over her cheeks. Its fruity-metal fumes filled his head as he thrust into her. “Ooh. Gently. Just like that. I’d never felt anything like it. By now Maggie had waked up too, and moved over to kiss on me. He didn’t move it much at first, just in a sort of circling motion. Then he added a finger, and started moving them in and out. He must’ve done it for ten minutes, until I was really relaxed. Then he spread the pre-come that was drooling out of his dick over the head and slipped it in. God, it felt good, and Maggie kept on kissing me while he fucked my butt ’til I came. Then I got up and made coffee, while Hap did Mag- gie.” Moses had slipped two fingers into her pussy, and flicked her clit with his ring finger. “That thing of yours feels like the nozzle on a firehose.” “I know. Oooh, baby, that feels good. Don’t stop; let me come like this, and then you can fuck me all you want to.” They napped until midafternoon. “Hey,” he said, rolling over on an elbow. “Hey yourself. We passed out.” “Yeah. And I still owe you the story of my escape from the slough of despond.” She looked up at him. “Still love me?” “Sure,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I?” 136 The Rough English Equivalent

“After hearing what a slut I am?” “Bullshit. You are a sex-bomb, but who can complain about that?” “You didn’t have all that much fun in New York, did you?” she asked. “Nope. Why do you think I bailed out to Baltimore?” She was out of bed when he woke up. “Hey,” he called into her absence, “are you here?” “Hey yourself, Chili. Just uncorking a nice cool rosé, and getting your surprise ready.” “Oh. Another surprise already?” “The best yet, I hope. You know what I do, right?” “I know many things that you do. Which one did you have in mind?” “The part that involves my art. I’m going to make a cast of that magnificent dick of yours, after I suck it a little. I want to feel every one of those veins in my throat, so I’ll remember what it felt like when I’m working on the sculpture.” “A cast? My dick’s not going in a cast, now or ever.” “I’m not putting a cast on it; just a nice little red rubber coat, and you can lick my pussy while I do it. It’s painless, and then I can put that boomerang in one of my sculptures-to-be.” She appeared in the doorway, her hands full, still naked. “I need that dick as hard as it’s ever been; that’s what the rubber band’s for. Now I’m just gonna ease down on you; you lick and I’ll suck. I wanta feel every one of those veins slidin’ across my throat. Then when you’re nice and stony I’ll oil you up so this liquid latex won’t stick. Wait’ll you see it when it dries.” “Damn. What I don’t do for art. Lemme have that wine,” he said, taking the bottle from her. 2010 Monday 29 September 1947: Shaking out the raw rice that she’d poured into the mold of Moses’ penis to hold its shape into a large bowl of the same grain, Serena Take a Tater & Wait 137 wrapped her fingers around the thin tube of red rubber, its ragged, hair-embedded flange snug against her thumb and forefinger, and poured plaster of paris from a quart-size measuring cup into the cylinder until it was full. Glad he was circumsized, she thought. Where is it, somewhere in France, that they claim they have the True Fore- skin? Christ’s little cracker. Too bad they didn’t have liquid rubber back then. She carefully moved her hand over the rice bowl and made an indentation into its surface, easing the mold into the rice and continuing to deepen the hole with her other hand. Soon she had the mold surrounded with rice, which would support it until it dried. She moved the bowl carefully to a nearby shelf and stepped back to look at her handiwork. Now that the heat of the moment that had spawned the idea had cooled for a day or two, she allowed herself a wry smile at her own expense. How, she thought, do ideas like this worm their way into my head? Guess Daddy’s been right all of those times when he’d tell me, wagging his head gently from side to side, “Child, you take way too much after your mother.” God knows she loved dicks, having died for one, after all. Well, we all die for some damn thing or other; at least on this one we have solid precedent from the Greeks. Speak to me of Priapus, you big veiny fucker; your new likeness’s gettin’ harder by the minute. She turned her attention, with the enthusiasm of the condemned, to her current work in progress. Conceiving the penis project made getting back into intersecting ellipses, looking more and more to her like tangled Amazonian bangle bracelets, more of a challenge than she’d imagined. Then her mother sprang unbidden, as she did from time to time, from her subconscious, speaking to her breathlessly of the urge to break free of male dominance that she’d passed, dementia and all, along to her; congratulating Serena on her own applications of that obsession, that could, like this graven dick, sometimes be even crazier than her own. Turning her scraper against the moist clay, she thought of the decision, somewhere shy of turning fourteen, 138 The Rough English Equivalent she’d made to wrest the upper hand from certain fifteen and sixteen year-old boys who’d managed to get her alone after Sunday night church, during dance intermissions and on the dates on which her parents, with less misgivings than they should’ve had, had let her go. The bulging crotches that rubbed against her would soon, she was convinced, present themselves as a real threat to her freedom. She called the tactic “jack-off blackmail.” It was simple, in the light of Miz Rose’s frequent sex briefings, that were always closed with the proclamation that “getting pregnant by anyone within a hundred miles of Bisque will be a quick end to your ambitions.” She’d just take their initiative away by eliminating the problem at its source. Simple, amazingly so early on, when just circling a boy’s erection with her hand was likely to trigger an ejacula- tion. Once they’d squirted, they were as docile, and grateful, as a house dog fresh off a tummy-scratching. And when the next incident of dry-humping broke out, she’d just say something like “Come on, let’s go take care of this.” If pressed her to go farther, she’d shut the offender down with a terse “Do you want to come, or not? Because this is all I’m doing. And if you tell anybody, I’ll never do it again.” And for a long time she shared her secret with no one, except her handful of beneficiaries. All she needed to keep her knickers intact, it seemed, was Jergens lotion and a handkerchief or two in her pocketbook. Except for one thing. She hadn’t counted on what she’d be feeling as she propelled her beaus over the brink. The more expert she became, the hotter she got. Putting the bit in the mouths of these would-be stallions was itself a powerful aphrodisiac, and the pure sensation of herding a pulsing dick over the peak and down through the valley was getting her wetter with each episode. At first, she just fingered herself with her free hand as she went about the jack-off du jour. Later, alone in her bedroom, she’d recall favorite moments and come herself. Humanity being what it is, however, she came to want more. Reciprocity seemed only fair; she knew, however, that touch- Take a Tater & Wait 139 ing her pussy would drive her chosen co-masturbator even crazier than she had before. She’d have to pick just one boy to trust; having someone say that you’d jacked them off was one thing, but pussy- touching was a much more powerful secret. She didn’t ponder her options long before deciding on Ted Foster. Sweet, tender Teddy, whom she was certain she could control. He was always so apprecia- tive, and had never pressed her for more. And so it was that he became the custodian of her crotch, fingers caressing, first at her direction but soon with added touches of his own, the prominent clitoris that neither of them would recognize as remarkable, as it was the only one either of them had ever seen. They’d gone steady for just a few weeks when her father called her and her brothers downstairs early that hot August morning to tell her that her mother was dead. For a long time after that, her insides were frozen. She couldn’t even think about a penis, let alone look at one. Poor Ted. As nice as he was about everything, not just about the sudden disappearance of her willingness to embrace life below the waist, he became afterwards, for no good reason, the target of her ill- concealed malice. He took it, and came back for more, with understanding and insight that, as she looked back, would have been phe- nomenal for anyone, let alone a boy his age. She still had, somewhere she was sure, the poems he’d written her during that arctic winter of her crippled adolescence. Yet, at the end of high school, he was left, along with the rest of Bisque, adrift in the wake of her departure for Columbia University and ex-Bisque sex, as her mother had wished. And when she felt her body reawakening, her memory of his loving kindness was quickly flushed away by the immediacy of Larry and, soon after, the fact of Jack. And now Mose, who’d punctured Bisque’s determined dreariness like a Marlin on the prowl. Combining moments of Ted-like tender- ness with quick humor and a dick worthy of its imminent homage in bronze, he complicated the execution of her master plan to show everyone, dead or alive, that hers was a soul to be reckoned with. 140 The Rough English Equivalent

Where their respective hungers might take them she could only guess, but she’d told him what she intended to do, and that wouldn’t change. She thought, as she often did, of the quotation from Oscar Wilde, rendered in gilt on the door of Hap’s gallery: “It is through Art and through Art only that we can realize our perfection; through Art and Art only that we can shield ourselves from the sordid perils of actual existence.” The truth of that had become the cornerstone of her existence, and the devil, among others, take the hindmost. 1845 Monday 3 October 1947: Closing the door to the roof behind her with a bang, Serena moved quickly to the cabinet next to her workstand. She’d had an idea, but the hotel had been full all week, and that plus a spur-of-the-moment trip to Augusta had kept her from spending any time at all on the roof, so the cast of Moses’ penis remained in its mold. She set the smallish cardboard box that she’d brought with her on the stand and pulled the bowl of rice from the cabinet, setting it beside the box. Removing the red cucumber-like mass from its rice bed, she stood it on its flat end, pointing to the sky, and contemplated her work thus far. Reminds me, she thought, of that song Miz Rose would sing now and then, but mostly hummed, The Big Rock Candy Mountain. Only this one’s red. She picked it up, hefted it for a brief moment, then squeezed it between vise of her knees and began peeling the rubber skin away. A little over an hour later, she replaced the cast on the workstand, now rotated ninety degrees so that its length was parallel to the stand’s surface. One end of a steel dowel was screwed into a hole that she’d carefully drilled in the middle of its belly; the other end was attached to a six-inch-square metal plate, anchoring the plaster penis for visual reference, its protecting coat of shellac drying in the night air. Serena retrieved the box from the stand, sat back in the tall director’s chair with her heels hooked over the footrest, and pulled open one of the end flaps. Extracting the contents, she peeled apart the Take a Tater & Wait 141 paper envelope that protected the chrome-plated surfaces of a brand-new hood ornament for a 1947 Buick Roadmaster. Since she’d taken a good look at the one on Moses’ Estate Wagon when they were in Augusta, she’d thought about making a certain alteration to it. Turning it over and over, she noted the length that the torpedo-like center element extended in front of and behind the circular piece that surrounded it. Its underside revealed the set screw that clamped the three pieces–the torpedo, the circle and the vertical stanchion that connected them–together. The two threaded holes on either side received the larger screws that fastened the assembly to the hood. Good, she thought, all I have to make is the new “Tor- peter.” She thought about the shape of the cast as she’d reinterpret it. First of all, it’d have to be completely straight; arrow-like, the same as the torpedo it replaces, but with a different balance. The tail’s extreme taper could, no must–be replaced by a set of smoothly tapered testicles, faired into the Torpeter’s cylindrical mass. They would continue the streamlining that she’d already imagined for the circumcised head, slit removed, piercing the airstream with a smooth, streamlined surface, sweeping back and down, retaining the elegant sweep of the glans. A second look, and only a second look, would reveal the new prickness of Moses’ hood. That was crux of the joke; how long he’d drive around town preceded by his prick before anyone noticed. She took a pair of pliers in each hand; be interesting, she thought as she bent wire for the Torpeter’s armature, to see what he does then. 1010 Tuesday 15 November 1947: Hands on either side of the Estate Wagon’s big steering wheel, she pushed herself back in the driver’s seat, arms locked at their full length, and screamed in triumph as she drove up US 1 to Augusta. It had been so easy; all she’d had to do was to ask Moses to swap cars with her for the day, saying that she needed the wagon’s extra cargo 142 The Rough English Equivalent capacity to take a new sculpture to the foundry. She was foundry- bound, true enough, but the cargo bay, devoid of cargo, served today solely as an echo chamber for her scream. Awaiting her at the foundry was the finished Torpeter. In point of fact, the Pro-Tour Services foundry wasn’t up to casting pieces anywhere near the size that the wagon, with its seats folded flat, could carry. Their principal business was the design and pro- duction of custom-made sets of golf irons, and club heads were pretty much all they cast. Up to now, Serena had given PTS, as they referred to themselves, her business because they were nearby, and her work up to now hadn’t been that large. The big bonus for her where the Torpeter was concerned was that they did their plating in- house. As she walked in she saw the top of Mark Stubbs’ blond head at the back of the building. Stubbs, one of the two partners in PTS, was bent over one of the furnaces. She whistled; looking up, he greeted her with a wave, looking over her shoulder through the window at the Buick. “Hey, Miz Mason! Be right up. What’d you do, trade cars?” “Hi, Mark. Nope, just tryin’ it out.” She stepped into the small office, impatience devouring her, and sat down. Stubbs followed her through the door in a couple of minutes, rubbing a silver cylinder with a polishing cloth. Cradling it in the cloth, he presented her with the finished product of her inspiration. She took it from his hand, rotating its surface in the autumn sunlight streaming through the office window, her face lit in its satiny reflected glow. She turned her face to him. “It’s beautiful, Mark. More so than I’d dared to hope. Thanks for rushing it.” “It’s my pleasure, Miz Mason. What kinda world would it be if fellow sculptors didn’t help each other out?” And what kinda world is it, he wondered, that has a classy woman like this craftin’ a chrome- plated dick, and me shovin’ pre-sold work back in the schedule to put the shine on it for her? Take a Tater & Wait 143

“I promise you more warning on the next piece,” she said, tearing a check from her checkbook and handing it to him. No warning necessary, he thought, if a piece of you would be involved. “We’ll look forward to it,” he said. “Would you by any chance have time for lunch before you head back?” She smiled at him, green eyes turned to half-strength. “Wish I could; give me a rain check?” “Done,” he said, hoping his lust wasn’t showing. “Next time, for sure. Just say when.” She sped to the Rutherfords’ house, her eyes switching constantly between the road and the rear-view mirror. Pulling into the garage, she pulled the Buick’s hood release and ﬂipped the light switch on the kitchen door-facing. She plugged the trouble light that she’d brought with her, along with a small assortment of hand tools, into one of the receptacles over the workbench. Positioning the light to direct its beam onto the inside of the hood, she switched it off and unwrapped the new Roadmaster hood ornament. In less than an hour, tapping, drilling and screwing complete, she packed her tools and went inside the house. Taking a Miller High Life from the refrigerator, she popped the cap, locked up and left. Switching on the car’s radio, she headed for the highway, left foot tapping to the wail of hillbilly ﬁddle, lips parted by an autoconspira- tor’s grin, savoring the curve of the Torpeter’s testicular bulge.

chapter 12 s A License to Steal

0912 Sunday 11 January 1948: The icy chill of the kitchen sink’s porcelain snapped at Serena’s belly; her robe had fallen open as she leaned to look through Moses’ frosty kitchen window, down the slope of frozen grass to the edge of the pond, gray-green opacity reflecting a sullen morning sky. She backed away a little, still looking outside, waiting for the percolator’s final spasm. Moving to close the robe, her hand drifted to her still-wet crotch. Bringing her fingers up to her nose, she sniffed them, then put two in her mouth for a moment before wiping them on a dish towel. Our juices taste good mixed together, she thought. She took two crockery mugs down from the cabinet, filled them and walked back down the long hall to the master bedroom. “Hey, Bub!” she barked at the motionless lump under the covers. “Roll over and get yer heart started.” “No more,” came a guttural whisper from the lump. “No more.” “Hush. Sit up, drink this coffee and get me some breakfast. Then we can play some more.” Moses rolled over, grinning as he went up on one elbow to take the coffee. “Deal. Bloody Marys, Smithfield ham omelet, runny-ass grits and a side of sodomy. Nice to know we’ve got all day.”

- 145 - 146 The Rough English Equivalent

She eased into the bed beside him, inhaling deeply, savoring the coffee smell, leaning over to blow lightly into his ear. “Yeh-baw- ey…ah, shit! You’ve got me doing it now!” He chuckled, putting his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to him to get his ﬁngertips inside her robe and tweak her nipple. “What’s so bad about that? Authentic Bisque patois; at least I never heard it anywhere else. It’s such a perfect thing to say when you’re pleased. I love it, particularly when you say it.” “Enjoy it while you can, because I don’t share your fascination. Patois, patooey! Hifalutin yankee label for a plain old redneck expletive. Stick that in your patois.” “Didn’t mean to get esoteric; I just have to take any available opportunity to show show off m’hard-won larnin’.” “The dipso librarian. She did manage to cram quite a bit into that hard head of yours. Ever wonder about how she’s doing? Or do you know?” “I have no idea, and no desire to get one. What a question.” “Sorry–just a minor jealousy twitch. After all, she did have you for quite awhile. And you yourself said that you owed her a lot for gettin’ you started readin’ sump’m besides the newspaper.” “You’re right, I did say that. I’m a lot different from what I woulda been if I hadn’t haunted that library. For one reason or another, the ﬁrst thing she handed me was Requiem for a Nun. I’d felt a lot like Popeye, without knowin’ who the hell he was, for a long time; still did when I got here, but now I’m getting to understand Flem Snopes. But I also stumbled across Epicurus.” “Epicurus.” “Um-hm. One of the few people endorsed by my old man’s all- time favorite, Nietzsche: ‘wisdom hasn’t come a step farther since Epicurus, but has often gone many thousands of steps backwards.’ Epicurus of Samos, three hundred-sump’m BC. The old Greek crowd-pleaser; not that popular a guy since then, what with most people’s rejection of pleasure as a good thing. Good morally, I mean. A License to Steal 147

And not in society’s list of admirable human traits–humility, charity, compassion, wisdom, honor, justice–they’re all just fine, but pleasure? Of the first-string philosophers, Epicurus, as far as I know, was the only one for whom living an upright life meant pursuing pleasure.” “I can see why he’d appeal to you. What’s the difference between that and Hedonism?” “I guess they’re in the same ballpark, but there’s a major difference.” “What?” “Ataraxia. The experience of optimal, enduring pleasure. That’s what the Epicurean shoots for, not just maximum sensation.” “And all this time I had you pegged,” she said, “as a definite maximum-sensationalist.” “You do me grievous wrong, babydoll. Maybe neoepicurean, epi- fuckincurean…your choice. But don’t let’s beat it to death; I owe Sarah plenty, but that debt, without goin’ into it, has been paid. At least to my satisfaction. Living with an alcoholic’s its own special kinda purgatory.” “There are people who’d say that we’re alcoholics,” she said. “What most people around here call an alcoholic,” Moses said as he moved to get out of the bed, “is anybody who has two beers back- to-back before lunch. And you only have to do it once to be con- signed to the ranks of Bisque Bizarre.” “Bisque Bazaar? Where’s that?” “It’s not a place, it’s a status. Bi-zarre. It’s a Websterism.” “Oh,” she said warily. “What’s it mean?” “He classifies Bisquites as Bisque Bourgeois, Bisque Ordinaire and Bisque Bizarre. Bizarros can come from either the Bourgeois or the Ordinaire classes, earning their entry by, naturally, behavior of the bizarre persuasion. You are, for example, as much as you’ll hate it, Bourgeois/Bizarre, while I, the quintessential plebeian, am Ordi- naire/Bizarre. According to Webster.” 148 The Rough English Equivalent

“I see. And for whom, besides himself, does he reserve the ‘Just Plain Bizarre’ label?” “Now you’re talkin’ transcendentalism. We can always ask him.” “Let me ask you something.” “What?” he said, turning his face to hers. “When your car broke down–were you really looking for a theatre, or were you running from her?” “Just a theatre. Do I strike you as a torch-carrier?” “For me, I hope. But someone taught you an awful lot about making love, and people like that aren’t easily forgotten. I’m guessing she’s the one.” “Moses smiled. “Well,” he said, “It certainly wasn’t Laverne Levine.” “You’re making that up.” “No, she was my high school sweetheart. Wouldn’t even screw me before I left for the Navy; I had to settle for a jerkoff.” “Guess she ﬁgured you’d be getting enough, being a sailor and all.” “Guess so.” He dropped off his elbow onto his back and looked up at her. “She had one thing exactly right, though.” “Who?” “Sarah.” “What?” “She said makin’ love should be the highest form of art.” “On that point she had it exactly right.” She took his hand and put it between her legs. “Do me a little before you start the eggs.” He was swollen again as soon as his ﬁngers felt the slickness of her lips. “Oh, baby. She’d be prouda you.” And I’m prouda you, too, buddy, she thought. And more than a little amazed that you’re still driving around town with your dick on your hood. That’ll get you into Just Plain Bizarre, hands down. A License to Steal 149

0930 Sunday 11 January 1948: “OK, boys,” Mr. Reynolds said, “let’s settle down and take a look at today’s lesson.” Any time I spend Saturday night at Ricky’s, I have to go with him to Sunday School. And church. And get up early to get ready. It’s not so bad once you get there, the taste of Miz Terrell’s scrambled eggs, toast and jelly still hanging on at the back of your throat; everybody’s real nice, particularly to me since I’m a visitor. Flx hates it, though; he just sits on my shoulder, beak shut, lettin’ me feel those little claws now and then. What gets me is how a lot of the grown folks, and a few of the kids, act like they’ve got this big secret, and don’t you wish you knew it? Most of the kids in the class, though, are like Ricky and me; we’re here because somebody else thinks it’s a good idea. Seems to me like Mr. Reynolds might be here for the same reason. He doesn’t look much like a Sunday school teacher; tall, dark and handsome, like they say, and still pretty young. He played first base for the Bullets, but when he married Miz Reynolds he quit and went to work for Mr. Terrell selling insurance. I heard Mr. Terrell saying to Ricky’s mom that it was gonna be good for Jim, that’s Mr. Reynolds’s name, be good for his business to be active in church work. Miz Reynolds–her name used to be Laura Bateman–Ricky says she’s been singing solos with the First Baptist Church choir since she wasn’t much older that we are. She’s really good-looking, too. So I guess it wasn’t all that hard of a choice that Jim Reynolds had to make. First base with the Bullets or a home run with Laura Bateman. Anyway, he starts talking about the lesson, which all of the regulars are supposed to’ve read out of their little magazines–they call ’em “quarterlies”–and he tells us the main idea of the story, which is about this boy about our age who finds a wallet with some money in it. It’s enough to pay for the new football he’s been wanting, and at first he’s so happy that he can’t wait for the sporting goods store to open the next day, which is a Saturday, and he can go buy the football. But what happens is he can’t get to sleep, thinking about the 150 The Rough English Equivalent person who lost the wallet and what they might’ve needed the money for, and he remembers the last time he was in Sunday School, when his teacher told them “Whenever you want to know what to do when you have a problem that you can’t solve, just ask yourself, ‘What would Jesus do?’” So when he’s done telling the story, he asks us who wants to tell the class what Bobby, who’s the boy in the story, does. And this one kid, Perry, raises his hand, just like he’s in regular school, and saying “Ooh, ooh,” like he’s gotta take a shit. And Mr. Reynolds says “Tell us what Bobby did, Perry.” “He, he, ah, he told his daddy he had th’ wallet and gave it to him, an’, an’, his daddy said he’d keep it ’til they could put an advertise- ment in th’ newspaper. An’ he told Bobby what a good boy he was to tell ’im about it.” “That’s right,” Mr. Reynolds said. “And it’s a good lesson for all of us, idn’t it? Whenever we don’t know what we should do in a situation, all we have to do is say to ourselves, ‘What would Jesus do?’” Well, everybody nodded and smiled at Mr. Reynolds, and about that time the lady started playing the music that tells everybody to come out to the main room, so he sort of blew out his breath so his cheeks fluttered and said, “Well, that’s it for this week, boys; see ya next Sun- day.” We got up, walked out and sat on the benches in the main room. The piano was making so much noise that it was hard to talk, so I was looking around the room and I got to thinking about what Mose told me about Thomas Jefferson’s letter to somebody about Epicu- rus, a guy who lived way, way back, even before Jesus. He was writing about how he liked Epicurus’s ideas so much better than what some of the other big shots had to say way about what life was all about back then, how if you weren’t having a good time, you really weren’t living wisely. I’m sure Epicurus would’ve given back the wallet too, but from what I know about Jesus, which isn’t all that much, it doesn’t seem like he never had much to say about having a good A License to Steal 151 time. Maybe next time a good question would be “What would Epi- curus do?” Flx, who happened to be tuned in right then, agreed. 1815 Friday 1 April 1948: “Hey, Mose.” Roy Hartwell’s head and one shoulder protruded through the swinging doors. “Hiya, Roy. What’s up?” “Couldja step out here for a minnit?” “Uh, yeah. Hang on just a second.” Draining his Red Cap, Moses slid off the barstool and walked outside. “Whatcha need, buddy?” Roy looked at him briefly, then across the sidewalk to where the Estate Wagon was parked. “I ’us jus’ lookin’ atcher car. Th’ hood ornament. I may be nuts; I prob’ly am. Wouldja mind tellin’ me somethin’?” “If I can,” said Moses. “What is it?” “I jus’ happm’nd ta be lookin’ ’at way as I ’us passin’ by,” he said, the color rising in his cheeks, “an’ I saw it; then I stopped an’ looked at it agin. Thassa helluva April Fool joke. Where’dja git it?” As Moses moved to the front of the car, a couple of inbound Lunch Room customers stopped to look over their shoulders. “Hell,” the shorter of the two, whom Moses recognized as one of Ribeye’s fellow handgun aficionados, said. “ ’At’s a dick.” Moses’ mind took him on a brief, warp-speed trip, out and back. “Not just any dick, my boy. That’s a very sharp dick indeed. I wonder where it came from.” “’Less you look close,” Roy said, shaking his head, “You’d never notice it. Looks almost ’zackly liike a reg’lar Buick.” “Yeah,” the sometime pistol packer said, “ ’Cept ’at’s a Bu-dick.”

By the end of the next day the fact of Bu-dick was abroad on the streets of Bisque. It was a couple of minutes past six that afternoon when Moses nosed the wagon into a parking spot opposite the neon 152 The Rough English Equivalent

Bisque, which had developed a sputtering blink sometime during the last week, got out and walked into the hotel lobby. He tossed a wave at Jerry McClain as he approached the desk. “Hey, Mose,” he said with a grin that was just a shade too wide. Looking for Mrs. Mason?” “Bingo, my boy. She around?” “She’s up on three. You can go up if you want to. She’s just checking on some paint work in 314.” “No thanks. I’ll just wait in the café.” Serena showed up just as Moses was finishing his coffee. “Hiya, sailor.” “Hiya, sculptor. Or you can call me Bu-dick, if ya wanta be stylish.” “Bu-dick? What’re you talking about?” “I’m talkin’ about that effigy of my dick that you put on my hood. When’d you do it?” “Back in November, when you lent me your car to go to Augusta.” She worked to suppress a smile. “I thought you’d notice it way before now. The more time that passed, it just sort of became part of the wagon and I honestly didn’t think about it that much after a couple of months, except when it popped into my head occasionally, and like as not I’d laugh out loud. Are you mad at me?” “Ask me in a day or two. I may find that I prefer it to ‘Cueball,’ but I wanta see how the good people of the hamlet digest my silver dick, and that oughta be long enough to get it spread all over town. I walked up on some high school kids standin’ around lookin’ at it this afternoon, laughin’ like hell; one of ’em had a camera.” “Would you like me to take it off? I have your old one upstairs.” “Nah. Why doncha just give it to me, and I’ll switch ’em when I’m ready.” “OK. I’ll run up and get it in a minute. Say.” “What?” “I want you to know something.” “What’s that?” A License to Steal 153

“This whole hood ornament business was a just a dumbass brain- storm of mine. I didn’t take a cast of your dick just to play a joke on you. But the more I thought about the shape, the more I could see it, tastefully streamlined of course, a merger of your dick and your car into a single art object. I thought it’d be funny, of course, but I thought I might find some inspiration if I started working with the shape on some kind of immediate project, no matter how limited the scope might be. Then, once I finished it, I was afraid you wouldn’t go along with putting it on the car, and it wouldn’tve made sense unless it was on the hood.” “And it was all right with you if I looked like a jackass, or more likely a friggin’ sex maniac, as long as you pursued your art.” “As far as your ‘image’ around here’s concerned, nothing else seems to’ve bothered you; I figured you’d handle it, maybe get a little PR out of the whole thing.” “The whole thing? What whole thing? Bein’ Mr. Bu-dick for the rest of my life?” “Given the amount of crazy shit that you’ve pulled since you hit town, buster, you’re begrudgin’ me this puny little prank?” Her sudden truculence made him smile. “I guess not. Mind if I go up with you?” “I guess not. Want to see what I’m working on?” “Sure. I’ve got sump’m to show you, too.” “I’ll bet you do, Chili,” she said. “C’mon.” 1515 Friday 8 April 1948: Jack and Ricky stood on the corner of Willow Grove Lane and Acad- emy Street, watching their peers trickle by in twos and threes on their afternoon walk home, some waiting to cross Academy, others staying on the near side in no need of Patrol assistance in crossing the street. Ricky, filling in for the ailing Harold Glass today, had taken over his post, since it was the farthest from school and not subject to scrutiny by Ward B Grammar School faculty. The post 154 The Rough English Equivalent required a steady and experienced patrolman, and Ricky had decided to take it himself rather than entrust it to another patrolman. As the patrol’s Lieutenant, decisions such as these were his to make. Jack, the Captain, had given him wide latitude in running the patrol, much more so than Gil Walters, the Captain of the other patrol, had given his Lieutenant. Jack circulated from post to post on his bicycle, his mobility, bright-white Sam Browne belt and blue-and-silver badge combining to project an image of quiet authority. They’d switch with Walters’ patrol next week, doing mornings, which was a much more intense activity than afternoons, particularly a Friday afternoon in Georgia’s springtime, the emerging pale green of the street’s eponymous willows, like the weekend’s possibili- ties, just starting to open up. As lawmen will, Jack and Ricky took momentary advantage of this undemanding duty to speculate on off-duty pursuits. “Daddy’s talkin’ about takin’ Mom and me with ’im to Atlanta week after next,” Rick said. “Said we could go see th’ Crackers play. He thinks they’re playin’ Boston that Sunday. Wanta go? We’d hafta miss school next Friday, but he said he’d talk to Miz Borden and get us off.” “Hell yeah I wanta go. Guess Glass’ll be back next week. He can be Captain and Lieutenant both for a day.” “Ah hell, let ’im appoint somebody Lieutenant. We’ll be watchin’ big-time baseball, might as well let him have that much fun.” “Hm. Guess so.” Jack looked up as the unmistakable sound of a Big Twin exhaust grew louder. “Hey. Here’s Brady.” Fifty percent of the Bisque Police Department’s Motor Corps rolled to a stop at the curb, the Harley-Davidson’s broad solo saddle sinking on its hydraulic post under Officer Dan “Tub” Brady’s ample physique as he took his feet off the floorboards. One hand went to his cap, easing it up slightly on his forehead, the other to the Big Twin’s gas tank-mounted ignition switch. “Afternoon, men,” he said, A License to Steal 155 eyes blanked by aviator-style Ray-Bans, the rest of the round red face smiling just slightly to indicate an intent to amuse. “Hey, Brady,” said Jack, the ranking officer, his eyes on the Big Twin’s black bulk. “Whenja get the new motor?” “Wednesday,” said Brady, having swung a leg over the bike to sit with his feet on the curb. “Rode it over from the dealer’s in Atlanta.” “How’s it ride?” Ricky asked him. “Jam-up, with this new Hydra-Glide front end. This ’49 model’s th’ first one the dealer’s had to sell since fillin’ th’ Atlanta PD’s order.” “Sure looks good,” said Jack. That the radio?” He pointed at two black boxes that were mounted where a civilian model would mount saddlebags. “Yup.” How fast’ve you had ’er?” “Oh, still breakin’ ’er in; ran ’er up to 70 once or twiice, on th’ way back, but she needs a coupla thousand miles on th’ clock before I turn ’er wide open. At which time she’ll top a hunderd, or go back to that Cadillac-drivin’ dude of a dealer ’til she can.” He shifted on the seat, bringing a cordovan-putteed leg up to rest on the other knee. “Had to give yer boss a citation while ago,” he said, looking at Jack. “Who?” Jack asked. “Ole Cueball. How many bosses’ve ya got?” Jack maintained a poker face. “What’d he do?” “Cited him under City Ordinance 163-d. Obscene behavior in a public place.” Both boys’ faces paled under their tans. “What?” said Jack, poker face long gone. “163-d. He’us ridin’ around town with a chrome-plated penis on th’ hood of his car.” “I don’t believe it,” said Jack. “Seemed like he didn’t, either,” said Brady. “Riit up ’ere in th’ hood orny-ment, liike it ’us put on at th’ factory. Ya’d miss it if ya wudn’t lookin’ fer it. But seein’ is believin’.” He stood momentarily, 156 The Rough English Equivalent swinging his leg back over the Big Twin. He flipping out the kick- starter pedal, he paused before kicking down on it. “Gotta go,” he said, retorquing the stingy smile into place. “You boys be good.” The engine wheezed under the first kick, growled to life with the second, and Brady was gone with a screech and a roar, leaving Jack and Ricky goggle-eyed under the willows.

Leaving his bicycle in the hotel garage, Jack rode the elevator up to ﬁve, wondering if he’d ﬁnd his mother in their apartment. Turning his key in the lock, he opened the door. “Hey, bub,” she said, turning to greet him with a bright smile. “Hey,” he said, the uncharacteristic glumness of the reply captur- ing her full attention. “What’s up, Jackie-boy?” she asked, moving to put a hand on either side of his face. “Ol’ Tub Brady told Ricky and me he gave Mose a ticket today.” “Oh-oh. How fast was he going?” “Not for speedin’; he said Mose was ridin’ around with a penis on the hood of his car.” Serena’s face fell; he hadn’t switched them. She said nothing for what seemed to Jack to be a very long time, so long that he started toward his room. “Jack.” He stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Ma’am?” “Nothing. Aren’t you spending the night with Ricky?” “I was s’posed to, but I don’t think I will now. I don’t really feel all that good.” “Want some cocoa?” “OK.” A License to Steal 157

Flx was perched on top of my bookshelf, preening. “Well, Jack,” he said, his squawk grating more than usual on top of my confusion. “Whaddya think of this here can of worms?” I sipped some cocoa, glad that Mom had remembered to put extra sugar in it. “You talkin’ about this penis bidness?” “I ain’t talkin’ about cream of wheat, son. So whaddya think?” “Think, think,” I mimicked his squawk, for which I got a really nasty Goshawkian stare in return, but time to actually think about what the hell it was I did think about Moses havin’ a dick on his hood in the first place, let alone gettin’ a ticket, which means it’ll be all over town before you know it. “I think somebody else put it on there, is what I think. Without him knowin’,” I finally said. Flx glided over to the foot of the bed. He spread his wings part- way, putting one around my back, strong gray feathers extended like separate fingers touching me lightly, to show me that he knew I was pissed and that he wasn’t holding the squawk imitation against me. “Let’s see,” he said. “What was it Tub said? “…liike it ’us put on at th’ factory.’? We need to see that. But even without seein’ it, we’ve got a pretty good idea about who’s behind it, don’t we?” “I guess so.” This time it was Flx’s turn to mimic. “I guess so,” he said, as human as a bird who ain’t a parrot could manage. “Son, most people only do two or three things with dicks. They piss through ’em, play with ’em, and stick ’em in other people. Now if we assume that dis- playin’ a dick like that ain’t about pissin’ or playin’, what’s left?” “Stickin’ it in other people,” I said through my teeth. “Bingo! And while it ain’t the pleasantest picture there is, we know where Mose’s been stickin’ his dick since he came to town.” “Bingo your own goddam self,” I said. I didn’t want to think about Mose’s dick, or anybody else’s, gettin’ stuck into Mom. If it took 158 The Rough English Equivalent pissin’ Flx off to make me stop thinkin’ about it, then that’s what I’d do. But he didn’t jump on me claws-first like he does sometimes when I piss ’im off. He stayed put, slappin’ me lightly with the wing that stayed around my back. “Hey,” he squawked, “how the hell old are you, anyway? Grown people stick dicks into other grown people. They do it because they like it. Time you got used to it.” “I don’t fuckin’ wanta get used to it,” I said to him. “Well, sport, I know you’re mad when you use language like that. But when you have some more time to think about it, you’ll realize that it’s part of what all of us fauna gotta do. Your mama’s lucky to have a friend to fuck ’er; not everybody does. Might as well live with it; make a joke out of it if that’s what it takes. Be seein’ ya.” Flx had had his say, and as he sometimes does, he spread his gray wings and flapped straight through the window, not even asking me to open it first. Guess he couldn’t wait to see that hood ornament. 1315 Wednesday 16 February 1949: “Well, Moses,” said Pap Redding, settling himself at the table nearest the lobby in the Bisque Cafe, “Am I missing anything at the Ritz–ah, the Winston–this week?” “You’ll always miss something when you don’t come to the Win- ston,” said Moses, stirring sugar into his coffee. “But you really shouldn’t miss She Wore A Yellow Ribbon.” “Yellow Ribbon? Is it a musical?” “Nope. “A John Ford western, with John Wayne. He’s a cavalry officer; an old cavalry officer. Good title song, too.” “Well, seein’ as how it’s John Wayne I’ll see if I can get there before it’s gone. How long will you have it?” “Today through Sunday.” “I’ll see what plans Mrs. Powell has. Seems you’re doing right well with the theatre.” “Yes. Better than I expected, to tell the truth.” A License to Steal 159

“Well, they say promotion is everything. That big white motorcycle outfit was a hell of an idea. Although I guess it’s parked today.” He looked out the window at the cold blue winter sky. “Yeah, it’s a little cool today for biking, but I’m goin’ flying this afternoon with your oldest boy.” “Is that right? You a pilot?” “Nope. Not yet. Just a student. Anyway, you’re right. The bike’s helped a lot, along with the other stuff. The Saturday morning kids’ shows haven’t done so bad. A lotta the kids come to town for the morning show, and come right back for the first regular show in the afternoon.” Reba interrupted them briefly to take their orders. As she walked away, Pap asked, “How’d you feel about getting into another business?” “Another business? What other business? I’ve just got this one where I can afford to think about something else every now and then.” “Something’s come up that I think you’d be interested in. Not sug- gesting that you give up the Winston; hiring a good manager could free you up to do something else, if you’re interested. The money side of it, though, may be more than you want to take on, excuse my saying so.” “Go on,” said Moses, his eyes showing white above and below the gray irises. “I don’t know if you’ve ever met my good friend Harvey Fulford; he owns Hamm County Beverage, the beer and wine distributorship, over on Seventh Street.” “No. I know who he is, but never met him.” “Harvey’s my age; sixty-eight. He’s built up a very nice business over there, and unlike me, he’s ready to retire. The son who would’ve taken it over was killed in the D-Day landings on Omaha beach. So he wants to sell. I asked him to keep it quiet until you and I could talk. How’d you like to be a beer baron?” 160 The Rough English Equivalent

“Depends. You’re talking about some pretty big dollars. Any idea how big?” “The best part of a million.” Moses looked at him silently for the better part of a minute, waiting for him to smile. He didn’t. “You’re serious,” he said. “Yes, I am. I don’t joke much about money. I’d like to see you make this deal. It’s one I’d keep in the family if I could, but none of my kids are up to it. They’re all doing other things, it’s out of my line and frankly I think that you’re more of a merchant than any of them ever will be. If the money were available, would you be interested?” “Yes. And thanks for thinking of me. I guess Acme Brands is the main competition.” “They’re the only other player, with most of the big names. They’re owned by Zenith Brands in Atlanta. Harvey says he does about a third of their annual volume, around three-quarters of a million.” “Does he owe any money?” “Hell, no. It’s the closest thing there is in this town to a license to steal. Since Hamm’s a beer-and-wine-only county, people are going to drink a lot of beer, in good times or bad. All the distributor has to do is make sure they don’t run out.” “So if I’m hearin’ you right, you’d like us to be partners. I run it and you bankroll it.” Pap smiled. “That’s it, if we can work out the details. “Harvey would’ve taken my note for the full amount ten years ago, but now he just wants out, on a cash deal. So we’ll need a bank loan, which is certainly no problem.” “Sounds pretty straightforward,” said Moses. “How do you see it playing out? You’ll pardon my saying so, but I wouldn’t want to end up being a partner with your estate. Where’s the point down the road that you’d want to get out of the deal, just as Harvey does now?” “This time last year, I would’ve thought that it wouldn’t be an issue. My guess then would’ve been Ríni’d gotten her goddamn A License to Steal 161 divorce and that you’d be my son-in-law by now. Apparently that won’t be the case; suppose I should’ve guessed it after she owned up to puttin’ that thing on your hood.” Moses aimed a wry smile at him. “That wasn’t that big a deal. Once I realized all the trouble she went to in gettin’ it on there, and got over the fact that my new name around town was Bu-dick, and got the friggin’ thing offa there, I started to see the joke in it. Sorry for any embarrassment on your end, though.” “Hell, son, I wasn’t born yesterday. What’s between y’all is between y’all. She’s her mother’s daughter. Well, anyway, since you won’t inherit my share as part of the family, we’ll need a buy/sell agreement to take care of our mutual interests. That way the surviv- ing partner would own the whole thing. I have absolutely no plans to die any time soon, but we can take a look at how we’re doin’ in a year or two and adjust things as necessary. The agreement will let either of us buy the other out, or we could just sell it and take our proﬁt.” “I like the idea. And I appreciate your asking me to be part of the deal. But there’s just one thing.” “What’s that?” “If I’m going to run it, I’m going to run it. I won’t be asking your help, and I’ll appreciate your not volunteering it, beyond board meetings, that is.” “Hell, son. You’re a good businessman. I’d rather you handled the headaches. If I’d wanted to run it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Come AWN, Jack; they’re prob’ly there already!” “OK. Just a minute. Can’t drink this any faster; I ain’t gettin’ a headache just so you’gn go snifﬁn’ around for Trisha.” Jack sat at the counter in the cafe, a metal mixer cup and a glass of chocolate milk- shake in front of him. Ricky Terrell spun slowly at his side, face toward the ceiling, eyes closed. 162 The Rough English Equivalent

“Gonna’ dance with Trisha,” Ricky crooned to himself. “Gonna’ sniff her sweet hair. Put my arms around her, sweet little tits riit ‘air. Tellin’ ’er I want her, that we could be a lovin’ pair.” “You want sump’m, Ricky?” Reba asked as she took the empty metal cup from the counter. “How ’bout a shake?” “No thanks, Miss Reba. I’m just fine. We gotta get goin’. Come AWN, Jack.” “Awright, den.” “Where you boys goin’ in such a hurry?” “Oh, nowhere,” Jack said, draining the glass and banging it down on the counter as he jumped from the stool to catch up with Ricky, who had run out of the cafe, through the hotel lobby and onto the street. “Thanks a lot, Reba.” “Tell y’all’s little sweedarts ‘hey’,” She laughed, watching them disappear up Main Street. That’s all about girls, she said to herself. They get that look on their faces even when they’re little boys. Chasin’ girls, even when they don’t know what to do with ’em if they ’us to catch one. Them little peters’re prob’ly stickin straight up riit now, just thinkin’ about gittin’ next to sump’m. Jack caught Ricky at the corner, where he had pulled up and was dancing an impatient jig, waiting for the traffic light to change. The heavy midafternoon traffic on US 1 prevented his darting across against the light, which he desperately wanted to do. Turning to Jack, he asked, “Is my hair stickin’ up in the back?” “Hell, yeah. Sides, too. Ol’ Trisha’s gonna take one look at you an’ run th’ other way.” “Butt-hook!” The light turned green, and Ricky was gone, juking to the right to miss the bumper of a rust-mottled blue ’39 Dodge as it creaked to a stop. “Butt-hook!” Jack shouted after him, laughing and running to catch up as Ricky’s lean, dark figure streaked ahead. They ran past the front of Archer’s Market, the least well-kept of three grocery stores along Main Street with Archer in their names, A License to Steal 163 each the property of a fiercely independent Archer brother. They hit the stairway leading to the space above the store at a dead run, slowing to a halt before the glass-paned door at the head of the stairs. Most of the glass surface was taken up by a piece of orange paper, on which bold black hand-lettering proclaimed

BISQUE YOUTH CENTER

The glass was also obscured by a gauzy white curtain, through which, around the edge of the sign, they could see activity, but couldn’t make out faces. “Shh!” Ricky whispered, putting a restrain- ing hand on Jack’s belt buckle. “What’re you waitin’ for? We ran all the way over here.” “I wanta see if I can hear who’s talking.” Nat “King” Cole’s voice sang Mona Lisa over the muted voices and laughter inside. “Ah, shit. Le’s just go in and see.” “You were kiddin’ about my hair, right?” “Yeah. Except it’s gettin’ gray now, waitin’ for you to open the door.” “Butt-hook,” said Ricky over his shoulder, opening the door and walking in. “Butt-hook,” echoed Jack, laughing. A large open expanse of marbly-green linoleum separated them from the three girls who stood around a dilapidated juke box at the far end of the room. “Hay-eey,” said Trisha, drawing out the greeting to two languid, inviting syllables. She was tall, slim and under control, her dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She and the others were ninth- graders, just a year ahead of Jack and Ricky, but the year’s difference put them in high school, while Jack and Ricky, eighth-graders, still languished in the limbo of junior high. “Hay-eey,” Ricky echoed, as they approached the girls. “Whachall doin’?” 164 The Rough English Equivalent

“Nothin’ much,” said Trisha. “I liike that shirt.” “Thanks,” Ricky said, smiling, his eyes fixed on her. The sonofabitch, Jack thought. They can’t resist that smile. Terry Marsh, standing next to the juke box, looked in the boys’ general direction with mild interest. “Y’all wanta dance?” she asked, as “When I Fall In Love” faded away. She was, to Jack’s eye, almost a double for Diana Lynn, from the willowy, near-fragile physique to the sweetness of her smile. “Play sumpm’ fast,” he said. “You,” Terry replied. “I’ve put enough money into this thing.” Jack walked over to the jukebox and looked at the titles. He pretty well knew them by heart by now; they only changed them for Christ- mas. He dropped a nickel in the coin slot and pressed E2, “Beg Your Pardon,” by Francis Craig. As it began, Phyllis Rogers, girl #3, moaned aloud. “That old thing again? It’s just music.” Her disgust came with a woeful, equine look. “It’s for dancing,” said Jack, stretching out his hand to Terry. Her full, pleated gray flannel skirt flared as Jack spun her in a casual jit- terbug. Her dancer’s calves, muscular and full under the skirt, fascinated him. She was so slim, almost skinny, except for them. They shared the floor with Trisha and Ricky, who ignored Mr. Craig’s rhythm, slow-dancing. She was slightly taller than Ricky, who used the difference to his advantage, whispering into her ear, then kissing it. She giggled, pulling back very slightly. “Ricky,” she said. “Watch out. Miz Redding’ll run you off.” “But she’s not here,” Ricky observed. I’d like to be kissin’ her ear, he thought. “Where is she, anyway?” “Said she had to run home for a minute. She’ll be back any time now.” “She leave you in charge?” “She left us all in charge–of ourselves.” “Then give yourself permission to come out on the porch with me. For just one kiss.” A License to Steal 165

She giggled again, pushing back from him as the song ended. “I swear I don’t know where you get the guts. Preston’d kill you if he knew you were kissin’ on me. My little next-door neighbor.” “You gonna tell ’im?” “No, silly. But if you kiss on me out in public, it’ll get back to him.” “J’you ever think he might get killed?” “What?” “Just don’t worry about ole Preston doin’ any killin’–he ain’t the type.” “He’d do anything for me.” “So would I.” “Ricky, you’re really cute–but you can’t be my boyfriend. You know that.” “Trisha!” Phyllis squealed from the Center’s battle-scarred sofa as she squinted into her compact’s mirrored lid. “You said you’d help me with this mascara, and I’ve gotta go in just a little bit. You can play with your neighbor boy any time.” Ricky looked over at the sofa, shaking his head. “Goddamitey- dayum!” “‘Scuse me, sweetie, but I did promise her,” Trisha said. “You know how Phyllis is about her looks.” “I just know how I am about her looks. Scared to death.” “Be niice. She had sump’m bad happen to her today.” “What?” “Don’t say anything. Charles Crawford passed her a note in English.” “So what?” “It had a buugah in it,” she said, giggling in spite of herself. “Hm. Guess I know what her new nickname is. Hey, Jack. Ping pong?” “Quarter a game, if you spot me two.” “Awright, den.” 166 The Rough English Equivalent

“Clear!” Moses shouted, echoing Gene Debs. “Contact!” Gene Debs responded. Moses pulled the Piper J-3’s prop through, standing back as the engine sputtered, caught, roared briefly and settled into a lumpy idle. At his thumbs-out signal, Moses pulled the wheel chocks clear of the landing gear, tossed them out of the way and jumped into the front seat. Pulling the clamshell cockpit doors shut, he slipped the fittings of his shoulder harness into the buckle of his lap belt and closed the latch. The narrow bucket seat felt good under him; he was a pilot again, for the first time in more than a decade. He had told Gene Debs that he’d had a few pre-solo instructional flights in J-3s out of Teterboro airport when he lived in New York. That had been long enough ago, he said, that he’d like to start completely fresh, as though he’d never had a lesson. “That makes two of us,” said Gene Debs. “You’ll be my first civilian flight student.” Moses had gone through the CAA’s ground school material for a private pilot’s license in a few weeks, and this crisp winter morning would see him in the air again. “I’ll get the intercom installed in a couple of weeks; for now, it’ll be too damn noisy for a lot of conversation in the aircraft,” Gene Debs had told him. “We’ll cover everything that we’ll be doing on this flight now. After we do our pre-flight and start the engine, I’d like for you to try your hand at taxiing us into position at the end of the runway. We’ll do our run-up and power check, and I’ll take us off and climb out to five thousand feet. Then you’ll do some three-sixties in both directions; first shallow ones, then gradually steepen ’em on up to forty-five degrees. You want to hold your altitude, and roll out gradually on the same heading that you began on. After that, I’ll demonstrate this aircraft’s stalling characteristics to you, first power off, then with the power on. Then you can try a few stalls and recov- eries yourself, and we’ll finish up with some touch-and-go landings, A License to Steal 167

first me then you. On this flight, I’ll always take over from you before we touch down. Any time that I wiggle the stick and say ‘I’ve got it,’ you just show me your hands so I know you know that I’m flying the aircraft.” Moses gave the engine half-throttle to get the J3’s fat tires rolling, then eased it back as the aircraft began moving. He dabbed the left brake to turn out on the grass runway, taxiing down its left side to the eastern end. At the end, he turned the aircraft ninety degrees to the right, letting it roll to a stop before setting the brakes. As Gene Debs observed, he advanced the throttle until the engine reached 3500 rpm. He then turned the magneto switch from the BOTH setting to LEFT, noting a small drop in rpm, then back to BOTH, then to RIGHT, for a similar drop, and finally back to BOTH. He brought the power back to idle again, and moved the stick and rudder pedals through their full travel as a final check on their operation. “I’ve got it,” Gene Debs called, adding power to taxi onto the runway. He kept adding power as they lined up, and the little yellow aircraft, feeling the urge of its newly-fitted 140 horsepower Continental engine, picked up its tail almost immediately. They broke ground a few seconds later, and Gene Debs began a climbing turn to the left as they passed over the runway’s end. When they were level at five thousand feet, Gene Debs tapped Moses on the head. “You’ve got it,” he said. Moses banked the J3 into a shallow right turn, and the years fell away. It was as if he’d never stopped flying. The gently rolling green fields south of Bisque swept underneath them as Moses completed turn after turn, each one smoother than the last as he felt more and more at home with the little yellow bird. “OK, I’ve got it,” said Gene Debs, with a slight shake of the stick. Making two successive ninety degree turns to the left and right, he immediately cut the power and brought the nose up, holding the stick back until the aircraft shuddered slightly and the cockpit became very quiet. Then the nose dropped as the stall occurred. Gene Debs popped the stick forward, letting the plane lose altitude 168 The Rough English Equivalent as it regained the speed necessary for flight, the airstream making its rigging sing. Bringing the nose up to level flight and adding power, he began a climb back to five thousand feet. “You try one,” he called to Moses, tapping him on the head again. “You’ve got it.” The stalls, spins and touch-and-go landings all having gone well, Gene Debs gave Moses the aircraft back as they rolled down the runway after the flight’s final landing. As he taxied to the hangar, he thought that the hour of flight time seemed more like five minutes. They exchanged big grins as they stood by the plane. “Looks like it all came back to you,” said Gene Debs. “You’ll be soloin’ before you know it. J’you hang onto your log book?” “Unfortunately not. Guess I’ll lose those few hours.” “Too bad; I hate to see anybody not get credit for flight time. Well, if it’s gone, it’s gone. We’ll start you up a new one. Come on up to the house; you’ve earned a drink.” They sat in Gene Debs’ kitchen, in the back of the old farmhouse that sat on the high ground just north of the airstrip. A fifth of Jack Daniels’ Black Label sour mash whiskey sat on the enamel-top table between them. They drank it straight from a couple of jelly glasses, chasing it with water that Gene Debs had poured into more jelly glasses over slivers of ice from the large block in the icebox. “Gotta get a ’lectric reefer;” he’d said as he chipped, “just haven’t had th’ time. Linin’ up my dustin’ customers’s takin’ longer than I thought it would.” “What’s the problem?” Moses asked. “Oh, hell,” he said, leaning his chair back against the wall, “anything and everything. It just ain’t in the average farmer’s nature to make quick decisions, particularly if it involves spendin’ money. Most of these ole boys’ve still got the first dollar they ever made.” “Well, if they hate to spend money, they sure as hell must not like to lose it. Seems like they’d be glad to have one less thing to worry about.” A License to Steal 169

“Mm-mm-mm-fuckin’-mm,” Gene Debs chuckled, in that deep- down-in-the-throat way of the Redding family. “What you ain’t fac- torin’ in is a farmer’s built-in love of worryin’. If they didn’t have it, they’d be in some other line of work. No, I take that back. Lovin’ to worry’s just part of it. These people farm because they’re bound to. They love the land. Daddy’s always said that most of the cotton farmers he’s bought from all these years would’ve been way better off doin’ something else, but that the only way they’d leave the land would be feet ﬁrst. It’s in their blood.” “And a good thing, too. The economy in this part of the country wouldn’t amount to much otherwise.” “Yeah, that’s for sure. It’s changin’, though, slowly but surely. And people like you are helpin’ to make it happen. People can see from your example that workin’ smart’s a lot better than just workin’ hard.” “What the hell are you talkin’ about,” Mose said, picking up the bottle and topping up their glasses. “I work goddamn hard.” “I didn’t say you didn’t; but you work smart, too. You don’t mind takin’ a risk to get ahead. You been here, what, three years?” “Three years in August.” “And you took a failin’ business in a town full of strangers and made it succeed. You spent money to make money. Farmers understand that, because they have to do it every year, borrowin’ from the bank to put seed in th’ ground. What’s different’s th’ payoff. It’s th’ same for farmers, year after year, and if your farm’s big enough, you got enough left over to live fairly well. But the people who’re comin’ back to the farms from all over the world’ve seen different ways of life. A lot of ’em won’t stay on the land for the rest of their lives the way their parents did. They want more, because they’ve seen more, and a lot of ’em’ll leave the farm to get it. And every time they see someone like you makin’ good in a hurry, with your brains instead of your back, it pushes against that inherited love of the land and tells ’em that they can do it too.” 170 The Rough English Equivalent

“Well, I hope enough of ’em’ll stick around to give you the dustin’ business ya need.” “Oh, hell,” Gene Debs said, “Ain’t none of this gonna happen overnight. People’ll still be workin’ this land when you and I’re in the ground. Agriculture ain’t goin’ away; it may change a lot, but people gotta eat, and the bugs’ll always be with us. I’ll do all riit.” “I’m sure of that. And have a damn good time doin’ it, too.” “If I don’t, I’ll damn sure die tryin’. For a lotta years I thought this’d be th’ last place that I’d wanta live, but the older I got th’ more I could see that there was lots worse places ta be.” “No shit,” Moses said. “Hey, one of these days maybe you’ll check me out on dustin’. I’d know I’d love that kinda flyin’.” “And th’ way you flew today tells me you could do it. Some day. But I won’t be th’ guy to teach you; that’s too big a job for me, with one sprayer that’s got to fly for money every day possible. You could take a vacation some day, though, and go out to the place I where I checked out, in Waco. They’re set up ta do it right, and you’d be a certified duster six weeks later. You need to log a few hundred hours of normal flyin’ before you start thinkin’ about that, though.” Gene Debs grinned as he refilled their glasses again. “And since you’re not gonna be my brother-in-law, I wouldn’t have to take a lotta shit from Ríni if you did have bad luck and auger in.” “Yeah, but if I did auger in, you’d still prob’ly get stuck with the funeral speech.” This struck them both as being very funny, and they laughed like hell. Moses’ mood sobered as he caught his breath. “Just so you know,” he said, “I’da been your brother-in-law if I’da had my way about it. But it looks like your sister’s had all the husbands she wants.” “Hey, looka heeunh,” said Gene Debs, staring solemnly at Moses from underneath bushy eyebrows, “My sister’s always known what she wanted. And it’s not that enjoyable to be in her company when she don’t get it.” He held up his hand like an Old Testament prophet. “It’s not that I don’t love her; I do. But she’s the most determined A License to Steal 171 woman I ever knew.” He took a long drink and set his glass down with a thump. “Flyin’, fuckin’and drinkin’ve brought me most of the joy that I’ve known in this life; wives, in my experience, are generally against these activities. I think that’s the way Ríni feels about husbands, except art’s in th’ place of flyin. She won’t rein in for nobody but Jack. I know you wanted to marry her, but I personally think that you’ll be a helluva lot happier with her as a friend. She can be a damn good friend.” “Well, that’s where we are at this point, and the world’s still on its axis. How about pourin’ a little more of that Jack while I take a pee?” “Sump’m I’ve meant to ask you, and never gotten around to,” Gene Debs said as Moses sat down again. “We coulda used you in ’41. Why didn’t you come back in the Navy when the war broke out?” Moses looked at him, his eyes tightening. “They weren’t takin’ 33 year-olds with one leg shorter than the other,” he said. “Or maybe you thought I just walked this way for the hell of it.” “Oh. Sorry, but I didn’t think you walked all that funny. What happened?” “Cab clipped me crossin’ the street one day. By the time they got my leg straightened out,” he straightened the leg in front of him, slapping the knee with the back of his hand, “it came up a little short.” “Too bad,” said Gene Debs, peering up and down the length of the leg. “Now that I look at it, I see your shoe’s built up a little. Well, it sure as hell hasn’t hurt your flyin’ all that much. I was just curious.” “That’s understandable,” said Moses. Ríni had told him that Gene Debs had won the Navy Cross for shooting down three Jap planes during the battle of the Coral Sea. “What outfit were you in, anyway?” “VF-2, for most of it.” “Flying Hellcats?” 172 The Rough English Equivalent

“Not ’til late ’43. Most of my time’s in F4F’s–Wildcats–of one kind and another.” “And all in the Paciﬁc.” “There and the West Coast. Never made it down to Gitmo, or anywhere else in th’ East, except Pensacola.” “Good ol’ fuckin’ Gitmo. Well, here’s another one for you.” “What?” “It may be none of my business, but what’re you gonna do with that bazooka in the hall?” At the end of a healthy pull of his drink, Gene Debs smiled the laziest of smiles. “You saw that. Just picked it up last week, along with eight crates of six rounds apiece, if a ‘round’ is th’ riit word for a fuckin’ rocket. Traded out with a Marine corporal over at NAS Atlanta for a Jap NCO’s sword. I guess he thought it was sump’m special, which of course it wudn’t, but since he no doubt stole the bazook, he didn’t have a lot in it.” “Ever ﬁred it?” asked Moses. “Notchet, but I got ’im to show me how. Wanta do it? It’s a lot easier with two people.” “Now?” “Shitchyeah.” He waved an arm at the door. “There’s a bank over yonder about ten foot high. We’gn shoot inta that.” 1915 Tuesday 6 September 1949: “Hey, beer man,” said Jack, sliding into a chair opposite Moses in the Bisque Café. “Hello, sport. What’s up?” “Friggin’ school. This new English teacher, Ol’ Miz Brady? She sho didn’t waste any time loadin’ us up with work.” “What’s the problem, bud?” Moses asked, easing a last bite of silky chicken and dumplings into his mouth. “Ah, a damn old book report. First crack outa the box. That’s some welcome to th’ eighth grade, idn’t it?” A License to Steal 173

“Sounds like she’s tryin’ to get y’all’s attention,” said Moses. “What book you readin’?” “The Return of the Native, by Thomas Hardy,” Jack said, holding the book up with a grimace. “Hm. Thomas Hardy. He’s good, but that Victorian language of his could put you off at first. Have you read much of it?” “Not any, yet; you’ve read it, huh?” “Yeah, but it’s been awhile.” “Well, see if you remember this: ‘Indeed, it is a question if the exclusive reign of this orthodox beauty is not approaching its last quarter. The new Vale of Tempe may be a gaunt waste in Thule; human souls may find themselves in closer and closer harmony with external things wearing a–’ He paused, staring at the book. “uh–’sombry-ness’–” “Let ’s see,” said Moses, taking the book from him. “Where’re you reading?” Jack put his finger on the word. “Oh. That’s sombreness. SAHM-ber-ness. means seriousness.” “OK. ‘a sombreness distasteful to our race when it was young. The time seems near, if it has not actually arrived, when the chastened sublimity of a moor, a sea, or a mountain will be all of nature that is absolutely in keeping with the moods of the more thinking among mankind.’” “Sounds like Hardy, all right,” Moses said with a grin. “And that’s right at the start of chapter one,” the boy said in dis- may. “How’m I gonna get through this?” “Oh, you’ll get through it, bud. It’s just a matter of pullin’ the story out of all that old time language and sayin’ and what you think about it. Last time I checked, you sort of liked tellin’ people what you thought about things. I reckon that’s still the case.” Jack thought for a moment, grinned and said, “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” “Well, why don’t you give this a try; spend about an hour tonight seein’ if you can’t get the basic story out of the book. Don’t try to 174 The Rough English Equivalent read every word; just try to pick out the main story without getting hung up on the flowery language. Then I’ll meet you back here around this time–how ’bout day after tomorrow?–and we’ll compare what you got out of it with what I remember about it. OK?” “I’ll give it a try,” said Jack. “but don’t expect all that much. This thing’s over four hundred pages long.” “I know. Just treat it like a puzzle, and look for his main story,” Moses told him. “You’ve got a lifetime to appreciate how people like Hardy use language.”

“Whaddaya got there, buddy?” Flx asked from his perch on Jack’s chest of drawers. “Flx. When’d you get here?” “Oh, not that long ago. Not that you’da noticed, with your head in that moth-eaten book.” “I’ve gotta read it for a book report. Mose says I oughta be able to get the main story outa the damn thing in about an hour, but I get bogged down in these damn old-timey words.” “Lemme see. Aha! Thomas Hardy; that old rascal. These old English teachers just love ’im. I know this book; want a little help?” “You betcha. Flap on over here, bud.” “I can see just ﬁne from right here, thanks. Let’s see; which of the characters do you know anything about, so far?” “Well, I’ve been jumpin’around in the book the way Mose told me to do, and it looks like this guy Diggory Venn–the reddleman? He looks like one of the key people.” “Yeah, he is,” squawked the bird. “One of the good guys. That there Egdon Heath’s fulla characters, and he’s so straight it hurts, red skin and all. And, like most of us, a sucker for a pretty face. Who else you like?” “Well, that Eustacia Vye seems interesting.” A License to Steal 175

“Yeah. She’s deﬁnitely the other side of coin. And the only character in the book named for a body part.” “A body part?” “The Eustachian tube. Part of the inner ear. Not really; I’m just havin’ fun.” “Speakin’ of fun, I wonder if they ever made a movie of this.” “Don’t think so; anyway, you don’t need the Classic Comics approach to this one; I told you, I know Hardy’s stuff.” 1920 Thursday 8 September 1949: “Hey, bud; had your dinner?” “Yeah, but not dessert; how ’bout you?” “I guess I could choke down a piecea pie,” laughed Moses. “Whaddl’ya have?” he asked, waving at Reba. “So, “Moses asked him, “How’d you do with The Native?” “I think I’ve got the basic story, “Jack said. “Took me a little longer than an hour, though.” “Sounds like it may have caught your interest. Guess you’re startin’ to get used to the lingo.” “A little bit, I guess. He’s got a lotta people millin’ around on that ole heath.” “Yeah, he does. But I imagine you’ve seen already seen that just a few of ’em’re really important.” “That’s for sure,” said Jack. “a few good ’uns and a few bad ’uns. Some happy with their lives, and some not so happy. Not all that much different from Bisque, when you think about it.” “Yeah, I guess you could ﬁnd pretty close copies of Clym and Eus- tacia and Wildeve around here, if you looked around a little bit.” “And don’t forget old Diggory,” Jack said with a grin. “Oh, yeah, he’s a pretty key guy. Be interesting to see what that caravan of his looked like, wouldn’t it?” 176 The Rough English Equivalent

“Yeah; he’d be a sight to see if he was as red as the red clay we’ve got around here. There something else I wanted to ask you about, too.” “What’s that?” Moses asked him. “I got the feeling that Hardy was sort tryin’ to make a character out of the heath itself. Whaddaya think of that?” Moses pushed his chair back a bit and looked closely at the boy, not trying to disguise the the excitement in his gray eyes. “You’re exactly right, buddy, “he said. “You’re a very quick study. I didn’t realize that’s what he was doing until a friend of mine tipped me off. According to her, the heath’s the main character. And just to make sure the reader gets it, he’s got Diggory there to, in a way, be the heath’s human counterpart.” “I guess that’s why he makes him such a straight arrow, “Jack mused. “you’ve gotta be a really good human bein’ to measure up to the ol’ heath.” “Seems like he thinks more of the heath then he does of humanity, doesn’t it?” “Yeah, you could say that, “Jack said, nodding thoughtfully. “Won- der if anybody feels like that about Bisque?” chapter 13 s It’s Made to Sell

“…after all, beer’s made to sell, not to drink.” —Harvey Fulford, late of the Hamm County Beverage Company 1815 Monday 3 July 1950: Trucks in the barn, their pre-holiday deliveries complete, Moses leaned back, feet on his desk, in his chair at the Hamm County Bev- erage Company. It was a good day, he reﬂected, to be in the beer business; President Truman ordered U.S. troops into South Korea last Friday, and the town was in an uproar. Speculation was afoot about how many Bisquites would be drafted to go to a place that few of them have ever heard of, let alone know where it is. Lots of talk, though, means thirsty talkers, and I’m thinking that we set an all- time one-day record today. Didn’t take the world long to get back into the war business; when I think of what’s happened in the last ten years, I have a hard time believing it. Jesus, I’m not here four yet, and look what’s happened. It would’ve been a hell of a different story if that radiator had blown out ten-twelve miles up or down the road, instead of here. But here’s where I am, at the age of 42, unlucky in love and pretty damn fortu-

- 177 - 178 The Rough English Equivalent nate in every other way. Wish Mama and Papa were around to see their boy in “high cotton,” as people around here like to say. His thoughts, as they usually did, turned to Jack. He’d be going to high school this year, and the bond between them had become as strong to Moses as if they’d been father and son. Not yet fourteen, Jack had grown to the point where he could look Moses directly in the eye. These days, when a young man’s questions could come thick and fast, he often did. It had turned out to be a good thing that his and Serena’s involvement had evolved into the simplicity of carnal friendship. He couldn’t say exactly why, but he was certain that he could never hear Jack out on the problems of growing up if he were still in love with her. God knows I miss it, he thought; I doubt I’ll know that much passion ever again in my life. At least the sex, when we have it, hasn’t suffered. A slender black man stepped into the office, with a by-the-way knock on the doorjamb as he passed it. “Buildin’s all secure, boss,” he said. “You need me for anything else?” Moses came out of his reverie with a smile. “Nope. Not a thing, Ralph. Better get on out of here before somebody hollers for a last- minute delivery. You know I can’t stand to turn down business.” “That I do know. Well, have a big time tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see you at the parade.” “If you’re there, you’ll see me. Freddy’s gone to Myrtle Beach, so I’ll be ridin’ the rig.” Ralph laughed, shaking his head. “You and that Harley. Ziggy still talks about the ride you gave him the first day you got that thing.” Moses laughed too. “How’s Ziggy doin’, anyway?” “Just fine. Still at Pendleton; I hate to think about him gettin’ shipped out to this Korea binness, but all we can do’s hope.” He shook his head. “He just had to go to the Marines.” “You know, he wore that Third Army shirt of yours for so long I have a hard time picturin’ him without it. Seems like he’dve headed right to the Army for a new one.” It’s Made to Sell 179

“Well, he always was a kid who liked to be out in front. He’s been bustin’ ass since he could walk.” “Well, he’s a great kid, and he’ll be a great Marine. I wish him the best of luck.” “Awright, den. See ya tomorrow.”

The afternoon sun, still high in the late afternoon, stained Bisque High School’s arid infield grass chrome yellow. Its front straightaway sat in the latticed shadows of the bleachers on the visitors’ side of the football field, to which the track backed up. At the far end of the field, the wire of the baseball diamond’s backstop screen wriggled in the rising waves of hot air. “Le’s catch the last two,” Jack said, standing up after pulling his shoelaces tight and retying them. They stood, two almost identical figures, sweat running from dark, short hair down tall, lanky bodies into high-topped football shoes. Jack, just back from his annual New York visit, was anxious to make up for lost time. “What? That’s eighteen already,” Ricky moaned. “Four and a half miles in this goddam heat. It’s five o’clock. Trisha’s pickin us up at six-thirty.” “It’ll be hotter in August. You wanta be pukin’ and fallin’ out in front of everybody then? Come on,” Jack said over his shoulder as his feet crunched onto the cinders; “two more. We said we’d do five miles.” Ricky spat a meager blob and ran after him. They pulled up after a final staggering sprint, the day’s last half- mile of pre-practice conditioning behind them. They paced in slow circles in the bleachers’ shade, arms akimbo, breathing hard. “Shit,” panted Jack, “that was harder than I thought. Six more weeks ’a this.” “At least,” gasped Ricky, “They won’t be able to laugh at us for bein’ outa shape. “Sometimes I wish Coach Harris hadn’t got Coach Whitehead to let us into varsity practice. They’re gonna kick the shit out of us.” 180 The Rough English Equivalent

“Well, they can’t kill us. And we’ll learn a helluva lot.” “Wish there was going to be more of us. Just six amongst all those big bastards.” “Well, there’ll be a bunch of tenth-graders, who’ll mostly end up on the B team with us. Coach Harris said that six from the junior high team was all he could talk ’im into. Just be glad we’re in there, muffuck.”

“Ow! Watch it, godammit!” “What?” “You damn near took my ear off. Your foot goes on my shoulder, darlin’.” “Well, stand still then. I can’t help it if you’re wigglin’ around while I’m tryin’ to get up here.” “Just hurry. The cops could be drivin’ by here any minute.” Terry was already over the eight-foot cyclone fence that enclosed three sides of the pool. “Come on, Trisha,” she said. “I’ll catch you. Just drop right on over.” “You just stay out of the way, Missy. I don’t need any catchin’.” Par- ticularly by you, she thought. What the hell am I doing here, sneak- ing into the pool with these kids in the middle of the night? This goddern Ricky’s nothin but trouble. What the hell, here I go. She hit the grassy slope on her feet, and looked through the fence at the boys. “Come on, you guys; pass the cooler over. I need a beer after that.” “Here it comes,” said Ricky. “Y’all get ready to grab it on both sides; it’s heavy.” “Wait,” said Jack. “You go on over, Terrell. Then I’ll hand it to you. We ain’t got enough to be breakin’ any.” “OK. Gimme a boost.” It’s Made to Sell 181

Using the steps in one corner of the pool’s shallow end, they eased into the dark, warm water in their underwear, beers in hand. “They’ll never see us down here,” Ricky chuckled. “This is great,” said Jack, pushing off the bottom to ﬂoat on his back toward the opposite side of the pool, holding the bottom of his beer bottle against his stomach with both hands. “Come on over here, y’all.” He slid into the opposite corner, putting his arms on the converging pool sides, and taking a long drink. “Thanks for gettin’ the beer, Trisha.” “My folks won’t miss it. I really don’t liike it that much,” she said. “But I liike the way it makes me feel.” “Yeah,” said Ricky, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “and I liike the way you feel.” “Mmm. That feels good. It’s warm under water, but this air’s a little chilly. And the beer’s cold, too.” “Scoot down a little, then,” said Jack. “Come on, Terry.” They slipped further under the water, two by two, facing each other across the corner, the necks of their four bottles sticking up like snorkels. “This is nice,” Terry said. She turned to look at Jack. “Go ahead and kiss him, honey,” Trisha said. “We didn’t go to all this trouble for anything els….” Her last word was interrupted by Ricky’s kiss. For a minute, the only noise was the trickle of water that ﬂowed down the surface of the kid’s sliding board. Jack and Terry, having kissed, now watched Ricky and Trisha, who hadn’t stopped. Trisha, her mouth covered by Ricky’s, moaned softly in her throat. Then, sensing an audience, she broke away. “What are yall lookin’ at?” she said. “Didn’t you ever see people makin’ out before?” “Not like that,” said Terry. “Ah, we weren’t watchin’ you guys,” Jack said, taking a long swig of beer. “Just catchin’ our breath. Anyway, if you want privacy, this is a damn big ol’ pool.” 182 The Rough English Equivalent

“Yes it is,” Ricky said, standing up and pulling Trisha to her feet. Come on, sweetie; let’s go sit on the steps.” “Well, we’ve gotta leave soon anyway,” Trisha said. “My folks’ll be back by twelve, and I’ve gotta get the car back.” They waded back to the stepped corner of the pool, sat on the second step, and immediately resumed kissing. “Jack, let’s go. I’m scared,” said Terry. “We shouldn’t have done this.” He pulled her close to him, his arm around her shoulder. “We’ll go soon. Let’s finish our beer and watch them make out. They think we can’t see them over there.” “If they catch us in here…” “They won’t. The car’s way back by the tennis courts, and when you look down into the pool from the road it’s so dark you can’t see anything.” “I want to get out of here. She doesn’t even have a driver’s license. And don’t tell me to drink any more of this beer. I hate it.” 1140 Tuesday 4 July 1950: “Hiya, Sport,” said Moses, wiping the Harley’s already gleaming front fender with a red shop rag. “Ready to knock ’em dead one more time?” “Hey,” said Jack, yawning. “You bet.” “Where’s your pal? I thought we were ridin’ 3-up today.” “He’s a little under the weather today. Sick to his stomach.” “Too bad. Well, this heat sure wouldn’t help him out that much; you and I’ll handle it, as usual.” Jack looked around the high school parking lot, which served as the assembly point for all Bisque parades. He accounted for the par- ticipants, one by one: both of the police department’s jet-black Har- ley-Davidsons, the parade’s head and tail; the Bisque High School band; politicians in the new convertibles from the car dealers; green John Deere, orange J.I. Case and gray Ford farm tractors with their It’s Made to Sell 183 trailers full of things and people promoting Bisque businesses; a J.I. Case cotton picker; a GMC flatbed truck for the cheerleaders and Buster Redding’s pride and joy, Bisque Motors’ blue-and-white Hud- son NASCAR Grand National racer, resplendent on its lowboy semi- trailer. A Hamm County Beverages delivery truck, Ralph Williams at the wheel, its sides ablaze with red-white-and-blue bunting and the logos of Carling Black Label Beer and Red Cap Ale. And a company of National Guardsmen, along with one of their tanks on its trailer. Both the men and the tank would soon be in Korea. “Thought I’d go flyin’ tomorrow afternoon,” said Moses. “Wanta come along? If your Mom wouldn’t mind, of course.” “Guess so,” said Jack, as casually as he could manage. It would be his first time in a small plane, and his pulse pounded as he thought of flying with Moses as the pilot. He’d had his license for a few months now, but hadn’t asked Jack along until today. “I’ll check with her. What time?” “Oh, five or so, after it cools off a little. I’ll pick you up if she says you can go.” “OK. Where’ll we go?” “Oh, just around here, I guess. Run out to the lake; check out the countryside.” “Can I fly it a little?” “Maybe. You don’t need to be telling your Mom about doing any flying, though. I’ll have to see how things go once we’re airborne.” A squat, dark-haired man in his early thirties, wearing a yellow armband with black lettering that proclaimed him a PARADE MAR- SHALL, walked toward them. “Here comes the marshal,” said Moses, polishing the Harley’s gas tank. “Oh boy.” Jack’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Pissant Grant.” “They really like to say ‘pissant’ around here, don’t they?” mused Moses. “The first time I ever heard it was the day we met.” “Not all that much,” said Jack. “But when it fits so well, you can’t just ignore it.” 184 The Rough English Equivalent

Stopping as he neared the Harley, Grant spoke. “Kabeesky. You ready?” “All set,” said Moses, looking up at him momentarily. “Well, fire up that crap can and move it over ahead of yer fuckin’ beer truck. The Guard’ll be leadin’ this parade.” Moses raised his eyes to look into Grant’s. “I think you’d better go find something else to do.” “What?” squawked Grant. “You’re talkin’ to a Marshal. I just gave you an order, boy.” Moses dropped the shop rag into the sidecar and reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a dollar bill. “Jack,” he said, handing him the dollar. “Run over to the Coke stand and get us a couple, will you?” As Jack walked away, Moses closed the distance between himself and Grant to six inches. “I understand they call you Pissant,” he said. Grant’s adam’s apple bobbed once, but held his ground. “I know what they call you, too,” he said. “And what’s that?” “Cueball Kabeesky. But Kike’ll do.” The words had barely left his mouth before the back of Moses’ open hand crashed against the side of his face, sending him backpedaling a couple of steps to keep his balance. His face contorted into something less than human as he looked at Moses with purist hate. “Well, Pissant,” said Moses, “I guess you can tell your Klan friends that a Kike slapped you silly. You people should really learn some manners. If I hear you say ‘Kike’ again, I’ll slap you again, because I don’t think you’d survive if I hit you with my fist. Now GIT.” “You’re dead,” hissed Grant, breaking into a run as Moses feinted a move toward him. “Dead!” he squawked over his shoulder as he continued running. By the time Jack returned with the Cokes, he was nowhere to be seen. “Didja get Pissant straightened out?” he asked. “Yep,” said Moses, after a large swig of Coca-Cola. Ready t’go?” It’s Made to Sell 185

At a little past five that afternoon, the men sat talking among small explosions and drifting smoke on Pap Redding’s porch. Cane- bottom rockers creaked in counterpoint to the conversation as they watched the kids igniting an array of firecrackers, skyrockets and aerial bombs. The house, which Pap had built in 1925, had a porch that wrapped around three of its sides; Pap, Moses, Richard Terrell and Fred Marsh, having just arrived from the golf course, sat on the porch’s middle section at the side of the house. Savoring freshly-lit Chesterfields, they looked absently down the road, which unwound to the south through a mixture of forest, fields and a few large houses, a couple with columns out front. “How’re your drinks holding out, gentlemen?” asked their host. “I think I’m about ready for a refill,” said Fred Marsh, passing a tall glass over to him. “As much as you hear people talk about mint juleps, this is only the second time I can remember actually drinking one. These are really good.” “You can thank Mandy for that,” Pap said as he filled the glass from a large china pitcher. “She may not have invented ’em, but she could show whoever did a thing or two; heavy on th’ bourbon, light on th’ sugar. Let’s top everybody up and empty this pitcher before they thin out.” “You’re startin’ to get some company out this way, Pap,” observed Richard Terrell after a long pull off his fresh drink. Guess they’ll be callin’ this Academy Street Extension before long. “I can remember when your place was the last house near the road between here and the county line.” “Yep, you could say that we’ve got neighbors now,” said Pap, standing to pick up the empty pitcher from the glass-topped wicker table next to his chair. “Highway 6 suits me just fine, but I guess that’s progress. Not that these would-be postbellum mansions are all that bad, but I must say I druther have the woods. Y’all excuse me; 186 The Rough English Equivalent seein’ as you like ’em so much, I’ll see if I can’t get Mandy to start us a new batch.” Heading toward the kitchen door, he rounded the corner of the house, nearly colliding with his daughter. “Whoa! Watch out, Daddy–those juleps are lethal enough by the glass.” Grinning, the old man caught her right hand in his, squeezing it momemtarily as he went by. “Pretty respectable julep consumption, gents,” she said, resting one hip on the porch railing and taking a sip of her own. “Listen to the voice of experience; they’ll sneak up on you.” “Like those bastards snuck up on us in Korea?” said Marsh. “I hope we’re better prepared for these than we were for that little maneuver.” “They took the airport at Kimpo yesterday,” said Moses. “If we don’t get a bunch of troops in there right away, they’ll run us straight back inta the ocean.” “They already have the capital, don’t they?” asked Serena. “Seoul?” “Yeah,” said Moses. “MacArthur’s really got his work cut out for him.” “And not that much to work with, right off the bat,” Pap said as he sat a new pitcher of juleps on the table. “Just a handful of American troops in Korea, and some occupation troops from Japan. Congress has cut the armed forces back so much that he’s gonna be very short for awhile, in men and equipment both.” “How in the world did we get into this, anyway?” said Richard Terrell. Seems like we just finished up with the krauts and japs, and now this. And they’re calling it what? A police action?” “That’s what the UN came up with,” said Moses. “Reassurin’, ain’t it? A world where countries call the cops to fix things, and guess who gets to be the cops? Cops insteada warriors. Looks like a real bad deal to me.” “Well,” said Fred Marsh, “I wasn’t in the last one, although I was 3A and ready to go if they called me, so I don’t know what it was like It’s Made to Sell 187 to get shot at. Can’t be much fun. Seems like a good thing, though, to try to stop these things before they can get up a real heada steam.” “Guess we were all a little old to’ve made the big one,” said Terrell. I’d like to hear what Gene Debs has to say about it. Is he coming, Pap?” “No, afraid not,” said Pap. He went to Atlanta yesterday. Friends of his on their way to somewhere–Miami, I think–stopping over there on the way.” “Does he think he might get called back?” asked Marsh. “No,” said Serena, flinching as a firecracker exploded in the yard, a few feet away. “Jack! Y’all better not throw any more of those over here unless you wanta quit right now! Excuse me,” she said as the firecracker’s smoke and gunpowdery smell drifted over the porch. “He says no, even though he wants to be; he’s already called a friend of his in the Pentagon, and the man told him there wasn’t much of a chance.” “Our National Guard unit may get called up if this thing goes on for any length of time,” said Moses, “but there’s at least one Bisquite that could be in Korea any day.” “Who’s that?” said Pap. “Ziggy Williams.” “Ziggy Williams?” said Terrell. “That wild-ass little nigger that Ricky and Jack’re always laughin’ about? He joined up? I wouldn’ta thought he’us old enough.” “Just barely, I reckon,” said Moses. His big brother told me he’s finished infantry training at Camp Pendleton, and will be going somewhere soon. He’s afraid that it’ll be Korea.” “His big brother?” said Terrell. “Who’s that?” “Ralph Williams. One of my warehouse guys. He’s a vet himself.” “Camp Pendleton–that’s a Marine base,” said Pap. “Yep–ole Ziggy’s a leatherneck,” said Moses. “For better or worse.” “And they always go in first,” said Terrell. “Well, Ziggy’s always been good for a surprise.” said Serena. 188 The Rough English Equivalent

“You ever see him ride that bicycle through traffic?” said Marsh. “That little coon’s the closest thing to fearless that I ever saw. I didn’t know they took colored people, though.” “Why wouldn’t they?” asked Moses. “Well, you hear about them being an ee-liite force and all. You just figure unless you’re white and six foot tall or better, they’d turn you down.” “From what I’ve seen of Marines,” said Moses, “Ziggy’ll give a nice boost to their average IQ.” “Hey, that’s right–you were in the Navy, werncha?” said Terrell.” “Yeah. A long time ago. Before the war.” “Didn’t ever run across Gene Debs, didja?” “Nope–spent most of my hitch down in Cuba. Guantánamo Bay.” “That must’ve been pretty nice,” said Marsh. “Not bad, if you don’t mind heat and bugs,” said Moses. “See there, honey,” said Jolene Marsh, standing beside Serena. “We didn’t miss a thing but heat and bugs. He wanted to go on this trip down there, to Havana, that Parker Pens set up last year, but it was in June and we hadta go to my cousin Margaret’s wedding in Mobile.” “Talk about heat and bugs,” said Marsh through his teeth. “Here, Jolene,” said Pap as he got up. “You sit down right here.” “Uh-uh, thanks–I came out to get Ríni. She promised to get a couple of her high school annuals for me. I’m in charge of getting out the invites to our class’s 20th anniversary reunion, and mine’re nowhere to be found.” “Oh yeah–let’s do get that out of the way,” said Serena. Mandy said that she thought she could find them, but she may not have had time to look yet, so it might take a little while.” “Twenty years,” said Pap as they left. “Hard to imagine y’all’ve been out of school that long.” “Longer, for some of us,” said Terrell. “I would’ve graduated in ’29, and Freddy–when? ’27?” It’s Made to Sell 189

“Yep,” said Marsh. “And I can remember it like it was yesterday.” He paused to watch the ascent of an aerial bomb, the WHUMP of its launch promising a signiﬁcant explosion. It shook the porch as a Hudson convertible pulled into the last available space in the driveway. “Well,” he said, smiling as he returned Cordelia Redding’s over- the-windshield wave, “look who’s here.” “Who’s that with ’em?” said Terrell. “Don’t believe I’ve ever seen ’im before,” Marsh said. “Got some suntan, whover it is.” Young, about twenty-four, Marsh guessed. He’d vaulted from his spot in the back seat to the driveway beside the Hornet’s passenger door, opening it for Cordelia with a bright smile and a little bow. Buster Redding got out under his own power, with a little less style but comparable enthusiasm. They made their way to the house, sporting the know-it-all grin of drunks the world over. “Hiidy, folks,” said Buster, gap-toothed grin widening in the bright-pink face. He put an arm out to encircle Cordelia’s waist, letting her lead the way onto the porch. “We brought a guest along; ﬁg- ured there’d be plenty. This here’s Poncho; struck out seven in a row today for th’ Bullets.” “Well, welcome, sir.” said Pap, extending his hand. I’m Lawton Redding. It’s my party, and welcome to it.” “Sank you,” said the tan young man, shaking hands with a bashful smile and another small bow. “Francisco Jesus Herrera y Brancusa.” “An’ that’s why everybody calls him Poncho,” said Buster. “Fine lookin’ bawey, ain’tee? Whatchall drinkin’?” “Does it make a difference?” asked Serena, her eyes on Cordelia, who had casually slipped her arm around the tan young man’s waist. “Pour your guest a julep, Buster,” said Pap, waving a hand at the pitcher. “Unless he’d rather have something else,” he said, eyeing his daughter-in-law’s hand on “Poncho’s” hip. 190 The Rough English Equivalent

Deep-gold afternoon sunlight, shimmering through filmy curtains, pooled on the bedroom’s oak floor. “Looks like you could move right back in here and catch th’ bus to school on Monday,” said Jolene, letting her ample frame collapse onto the four-poster bed’s white satin spread. She lay back on one of the pillows and examined the ornate molding that separated white ceiling from walls of robin’s-egg blue. “Huh?” Serena shouted from inside the closet as she pulled books out of a maple hope chest. “I said,” Jolene raised her voice, “That it looks like you never moved outa here.” “I can’t keep all of this junk at the hotel,” she said, dropping two large flat books on the bed. “I could throw most of it away, I guess, but it’d take a day or two, and I just keep shoving it down on the to- do list. Plus it’d probably upset Daddy.” “Doncha be doin’ that,” said Melinda Terrell, stopping to lean against the door frame. “Your daddy’s way too niice to be gettin’ him upset.” “Hey,” said Jolene. “We were just talkin’ about how much Ríni’s room looks like she still lives here.” “Some days that’d suit me fine,” said Melinda as she sat down at Jolene’s feet. “Being back in Bisque High, I mean. Remember how much of a hurry we were all in to get outa school?” “I remember,” Serena said, “and I think we were right. Jolene, you almost made me laugh when you said ‘catch the bus on Monday.’ That ghost-bus can just pass this house right on by, as far as I’m concerned.” “Just like it did back then,” said Jolene, looking at her over the cover of the 1931 edition of the Bisque High School, annual, the Bea- con. You never rode the bus anyway. Hey, here’s old Kenneth Morris. Somebody said he was goin’ to Hollywood. Wonder if he did?” It’s Made to Sell 191

“Did or didn’t,” said Melinda, “I doubt he’d come back here, even for a 20th reunion. People were so nasty to him; callin’ ’im ‘Sister Kenny’ right to his face.” “I wonder if he’s been in New York all these years,” mused Serena. I heard he came up the year after I did, but I never heard from him.” “I ’magine he had all he could do just stayin’ alive up there,” said Melinda. His folks couldn’tve helped him all that much, even if they’d wanted to.” “What was that girl’s name–his cousin, once removed, or something?” said Jolene. She was in your class, wudn’t she?” “Dotty Rawlings,” said Melinda. “That’s right. Haven’t seen her in a coon’s age. She’s out in th’ country somewhere.” “Gee, Dotty. That’s right,” said Serena. Married Perry Adams. Remember that time we were riding around in that old Packard of Martha Jennings’, and she and Cynthia Baker got into a cat fight? She barfed all over Cynthia. The back seat was covered in puke, all vi- anna sausages and creamed corn from the lunch room. Oooo…. I can smell it right now.” They were laughing so hard that Jolene collapsed into a coughing fit. “I bet we could get Information to find their phone number,” Serena said when she’d caught her breath. “Want to?” “Wanta what?” Cordelia’s julep-richened voice preceded a con- spir-ator’s smile as it crept around the edge of the door. “Whatchall doin’, anyway? Pap sent us to check on y’all. We broughtcha fresh drinks, ya been up here so long.” She took a step into the room, her left hand gripping the Julep pitcher and her right the Hispanic pitcher. “Didjall all meet Poncho?” she asked, dragging him into the room behind her. “Say ‘hey’ to the ladies, hon. How do ya say ‘hey’ in Spanish, anyway?” “Ju say ‘hóla’,” he said, embarrassed but determined to meet the challenge. “Hóla, señoras.” “Hóla, Pancho,” said Serena, standing and offering her hand. “Somebody should’ve warned you; Cordelia kidnaps people.” The 192 The Rough English Equivalent pitcher’s demeanor relaxed somewhat, but since he wasn’t sure of what she’d said, his fixed smile, like that of someone arrested and awaiting classification, remained. “Are you gonna pour us a drink, Cordelia, or are you gonna make him do that too?” “I’ll pour, Miss Priss; just stick out your glass. Jolene, Melinda? There you go,” she said, setting the pitcher down on the top of the chest-of-drawers. “What’s in the ol’ Beacon? Y’all lookin’ at old boy- friends, or what?” “Gotta track all these people down for th’ Class of ’31’s 20th reunion,” said Jolene. “What class were you? ’35?” “’37, thank you. Two years behind Buster.” “We’ve done got old,” observed Jolene. “This boy’s trapped by a buncha matrons.” “Well, y’all matrons better come on down an les’ eat before y’all’s chillun blow up th’ place,” observed Cordelia, bridling at any sugges- tion that the label applied to her. “I guess so,” said Melinda. “But cradle-robbers first. After you, Cordelia.” “Hey, Pancho,” said Cordelia with a lazy grin, “How do you say ‘Piss on you, Melinda.’? Never mind. C’mon, darlin’.” As the couple hit the steps, Serena shook her head. “I wish they’d get outta here. That girl drives me crazy sometimes with her teasin’. That poor boy doesn’t know whether he’s comin’ or goin’, and a couple more Juleps down th’ road, he won’t care.” “Teasin’, hell; zebras can’t change their stripes, darlin’,” observed Melinda. “Don’t let it worry you. I know Buster’s your brother an’ all, but he’s th’ one that decided he could put hobbles on that filly.” “You’ll excuse me if I don’t pursue that with you,” said Serena. It reminds me too much of people tryin’ to box Miz Rose in. Just let her be, if you don’t mind.” Melinda flushed. “I wasn’t ever part of that, Ríni. Neither were my folks, and you know it. And if you’re telling me that you believe we It’s Made to Sell 193 were, I better just leave right now.” She stood up; Serena caught her arm as she tried to walk past her. “Wait, Melinda. Listen. When something happens to bring that shit back to me, I can’t always control what I do. I wasn’t accusin’ you of jumpin’ on Miz Rose; I know exactly who’s who as far as that’s concerned. But I get protective about Cordelia when she does things outa desperation. Her girlhood’s slipped away in this little red-clay pisshole, and Buster ain’t much help to her as far as that’s concerned. If holdin’ hands with that kid does something for her, we oughta just smile and go on about our business. Comeer and have a drink with me,” she said, putting her arm around Melinda’s still-rigid shoulders and steering her toward the sweating julep pitcher. “Here’s what I’ll never forget,” she said as she filled their glasses. “After the funeral, when Daddy and I were walking up the aisle, I was crying so hard that when I looked up and saw you, you were just a blur. You left the pew, put your arm around my waist and walked out with us. You never said a word; when we got to the car, you just squeezed me tight around my waist and walked away. Do you think I’ll ever forget that? You think you could ever be anyone to me but my best friend in all the world?” Melinda looked at her for a long second. Tears sprang from her eyes so abruptly that the first ones cleared her cheeks and fell straight to the floor. She put her hand on the back of Serena’s neck, pulling her forehead to her own so that they touched. “Ríni. Ríni. Ríni. Baby. What they did to y’all. I’m so sorry, baby.” She sobbed uncontrollably; in moments, Serena and Jolene did, too.

“You missed sump’m today,” Jack told Ricky in a subdued voice as they set up another large aerial salute, alone for a moment in a corner of the yard. “Whassat?” asked Ricky. “Mose slapped the ever-lovin’ shit outa Pissant Grant.” 194 The Rough English Equivalent

“What? No shit.” “He dawno I saw him. Ole Pissant staggered a couple of steps back, but he stayed on ’is feet.” “Why’d he do it?” “Pissant was talking sassy to him. ‘Get that shitheap into line,’ sump’m like that. Guess he thought that parade marshal’s armband packed enough weight to let ’im get away with it.” “Where were you?” “On the way to th’ Co’cola stand. He sent me over there to get a couple, but it was just to get me away. I walked around behind a car and stuck my head back out. And a coupla seconds later, Mose let ’im have it.” “Serves the fucker right,” declared Ricky. “Nobody likes that shi- tass anyway, ’cept ’is fella creeps, Cat an’ Chili Dog. Wonder if he’ll try to get back at Mose?” “Not if he knows what’s good for ’im. Mose just backhanded ’im today. You know what he could do to a guy like that if he got serious…” He stopped, seeing the girls heading their way. “Y’all waita minute,” he said, “this thing’s goin’ up.” “Well, hurry up and light it, then,” said Lynne Browne, who assumed a position of authority based on being two years older than everyone but Trisha, and her possession of a “learner” driver’s license. “Who made you the big ﬁrecracker specialist anyway?” “Bitch,” grunted Ricky under his breath. “I’d like to shoot it right up her fat ass.” “Don’t piss her off so she’ll run off with th’ car,” said Jack. “I wanta get Terry in there and make out after we eat.” “Fat chance,” Ricky shot back as the rocket whooshed away. “She’s gotta be home before dark. That learner’s license’s only good for daytime.” “Yeah, and she’s supposed to be ridin’ with somebody that has a real license, too. I don’t see anybody like that around. She’ll do whatever she wants to. Terry says she tells her folks what to do.” It’s Made to Sell 195

The rocket exploded in a shower of red and green light. “Who’s gonna be first, buddy?” Ricky asked with a knowing grin. “First to what?” “First to get some pussy, what else? You wanta wait ’til you get to college?” “Nossir; near as I can tell,” said Jack, looking up at the voiceless conversation Cordelia and Pancho were conducting on the porch, “as far as fun goes, ain’t much gets in fronta fuckin’. I ain’t countin’ on bein’ aheada you, though; you got too much of a head start with Trisha. Ol’ Preston’s gonna be sorry he was gone this summer. I thought you slipped it in last night.” “I tried, but she wouldn’t let me. I got blue balls like I never had before. I gotta get her to where she’ll at least jack me off. Once they swell up, even that hurts.” “Good thing Freddy told us about how to fix that,” Jack said, smiling as he shook his head. “Otherwise we’d still be tryin’ to get to sleep with ’em hurtin’. Didja get some rubbers?” “Yeah. Now I gotta figure out how to use ’em.” “I bet old Ziggy’ll be learnin’ all there is ta know about rubbers, if he hab’mnt already,” said Jack. “He ’us out in California all ’at tiime, even before headin’ out ta Korea.” “Yeah, I imagine he was able to find all kindsa colored girls out there in California.” “Well, who says they gotta be colored? California’s a lot different from the way it is around here, let alone in Japan and Korea.” “You think Ziggy would fuck a white girl? He’d never do that.” “Well, he’s gonna be fuckin’ the next thing to ’em when he gets over there. And he’s not a bad lookin’ guy, for a nigger.” “Well, he better never let me hear about it,” said Ricky. “ I’d hafta whip ’is ass when he gets home.” “You gonna whip a Marine’s ass? You better start workin’ out now. He’ll’ve whipped some asses of his own by the next time you see ’im.” 196 The Rough English Equivalent

“Well, I’ll see what I can do about it, anyway,” Ricky said, his jaw set. “I don’t believe he’d do it in the first place.” Looking over Jack’s shoulder, he said. “Watch it.” Mandy, Pap’s housekeeper, much-ventilated chenille slippers flapping, stepped ponderously down the porch steps into the back yard, carrying a plate of pork in one hand and bags of buns and potato chips in the other. “Mistah Jack,” she called to him on her way to the picnic table, “wouldjall git de cawn and slaw an’ dat big pitchera tea so y’all kin git stahtid? Oh, and dat stacka cups.” The picnic table sat in the shade of an old water oak, about a hundred feet away from the house. The girls sat on its benches, arranging the plates they’d brought from the kitchen. “That’s smelling so good,” said Trisha, “I bet I could eat all that barbeque myself.” “Robert stay up all night wid dat ol’ pig,” said Mandy as she turned back to the house. “You know it be good. An’ if you eats alla dat, honey, dey be about fawty pound mo’ in de house. Watch out fo’ dem rosh’neers, honey. Dey hot as dey kin be.” “Well, you sho’ won’t have forty to put up,” said Jack, sliding in beside Terry. “Oooh, I gotta have a piece a’that corn riit now.” Pick- ing up the salt shaker, he shook it liberally on the ear of hot white corn-on-the-cob. “Jack.” Terry said. “I already put butter and salt on it.” “That’s OK,” he said, chewing. “Can’t be too salty. God, I love this Silver Queen. Yella corn can’t touch it.” Lynne hastily swallowed a mouthful of barbeque to bridle, “You shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Jack.” “Whatchoo talkin’ about, Lynne?” said Ricky, grinning as he reached for the potato chips. “That was th’ blessin’.” The adults sat around the Redding dining room table, made long enough by Mandy’s insertion of both its extra leaves, the fresh linen tablecloth contrasting starkly with the two sets of massive, carved triple legs that thrust clawed feet out underneath it. Cordelia had seen to it that Pancho sat between her and Buster; seeing this, Pap said a It’s Made to Sell 197 blessing so cursory that some heads were still bowed when he asked, “How’s th’ racer comin’ along, Buster?” “Huh?” grunted Buster, swiftly completing the process of swallowing a third of a bottle of Miller High Life. “Th’ race cor? Jus’ fine. Jus’ finished th’ paint job in time for th’ parade; th’ motor’s still tore down, waitin’ for Smokey ta finish th’ portin’ an’ valve work. We’ll get ’er buttoned up next week.” “It looks right fast just sittin’ on th’ trailer,” said Fred Marsh. “What’ll she do?” “Geared fer Dahlin’ton, I figger one-twenny an’ change,” Buster said as he took meat from the large plate of barbeque that sat in front of him to build a sandwich. “We’re lucky Hudson makes a set ’a rear- end gears that’ll let us run that fast. Ya cain’t run nothin’ but factory parts in this showroom-stock division, that they’re callin’ Grand National now. Only thing they let us do is put in a roll bar, take out th’ back seat an’ weld a plate onta the riit front wheel to keep th’ lug nuts from pullin’ slap through it. Otherwise, that’s th’ same Hudson Commodore you could be drivin’ down Lee Street tomorra, Fred. We got a tan an’ dark mahogany two-tone on th’ floor riit now that’d look real good in yo’ driveway.” “Well, they’re right pretty, set down low like that, but I’m a Merc’ry man anyway, Buster. That forty-nine ’a mine out there—” Marsh swept an arm in the direction of the driveway–“—well, I reckon it might get close to one-twenty itself. I’ve got overdrive in it, see.” Buster’s good-natured smile stayed in place. “Oh, ’at Mer’cry’s a fiine automobile, an’ I kin offer you a real good trade-in allowance on ’er, cause there’s quite few folks that appreciate them big ol’ heavy cars. But they’re mostly a lot older than you’n Jolene. I’d love ta see y’all drivin’ sump’m that says, ‘Hey! Sure she’s beautiful, but she’s engineered for tomorra!’ Thatair Step-Down Design that lets it hug th’ road th’ way it does? It also runs th’ frame rails outside’a th’ seats, 198 The Rough English Equivalent so you an’ yer passengers’re protected from crashes in a way no other car kin touch.” “I ’preeshate it, Buster, but I believe I’ll just keep on drivin’ that Merc’ry. I gotta think about what our customers expect from a man who they come to for counsel when they make some a’the most important purchases of their lives–wedding and engagement rings, sterling flatware–things that they’ll own all their life. I need to show ’em that I understand graceful, traditional livin’s important. On the other hand, I can’t have them thinkin’ that I’m gettin’ rich helpin’ ’em decide on these precious pieces ’a their future. I miit well be able to drive a Lincoln, but if I did it’d just be puttin’ th’ wrong idea in people’s heads.” “Yep,” said Richard Terrell, “It’s amazing what people expect from the folks they trust. It’s the same way with life insurance. When people start thinkin’ about the things that’re really important in their lives, they want to be sure that they invest their money with people who respect it, and who know how hard they had to work to get it. They sure’s the world don’t wanta feel like their money’s buyin’ other folks’ fancy cars, or houses, or anything they can see them enjoyin’. Most peoples’ world’s just too serious for that.” “That’s gotta makes Mose glad that he sells alcohol and entertainment,” said Serena. “Sooner or later, people gotta get some relief from all that earnest strivin’.” Her comment produced polite, but restrained, chuckles from the diners. The mood thus lightened, Ruth Powell took the conversation in a new direction. “Have you started anything new, Ríni?” “Not yet; I’ve done some test pieces and gotten them cast up over in Augusta at the foundry, but I haven’t come up with a subject that I feel like committing to for my first metal piece.” “Well, I don’t suppose you can just order up some inspiration any time you feel like it,” said Ruth. “If people could do that, this world’d be a much different place from what it is.” It’s Made to Sell 199

“Yes, it would. But its seems that the more I try to think of what I’d like to do, the less I come up with. Guess I’ll just have to wait for something to come to me.” “When you do decide on something–how long do you think it’ll take to do it?” asked Richard Terrell. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said. Robert Fuller, the artist whose work got me interested in moving into metal, told me that it sometimes takes him as long as a thousand hours to do an original, and another three hundred to cast the image. “If it takes him that long, no telling what it’ll be for me.” “Sounds like you could spend a year on it,” said Jolene. “It beats me how you can stay with it the way you do.” “It might be different, Jolene, if I had a choice. For better or worse, though, I have to do it.” Jolene, somewhat over-Juleped at this point, crinkled her nose slowly, deliberately, bringing her eyebrows together above the corrugated bridge. “Sounds like you’re talkin’ about feelin’ th’ call–th’ way people do about preachin’.” Ríni’s laugh was closer to a cough. “I guess, in a way, if you mean that it’s something I can’t live without. You know how you feel when you’re pregnant, and toward the end you just can’t wait for that baby to stop foolin’ around and get on out? Well, I’ve been carrying this sculpture baby since I was eight, when somebody gave me some modeling clay to play with when I had my tonsils out. You know that baby’s coming out, and there’s nothing that you can do to keep it in, and you don’t know what it’s gonna look like, but you are by God ready to be done with th’ havin’ of it.” “Yea-yuh,” Buster said, his voice spiraling upscale with the effort of avoiding falling backward, having leaned too far backward in his chair. “I’m startin’ to feel that way about ’at ol’ race cor.” Ríni ignored Buster’s interjection, and the guffaws of appreciation that it prompted from a couple of males in the group. “Anyway, I’ve messed around with my art for a long time now, and moving into 200 The Rough English Equivalent metal and larger figures means I’ve decided that I’m through messin’ around. The next piece I do’ll be like nothing I’ve ever done before, I know that much. I just wish I knew what it’s gonna be.” “Well, honey,” Cordelia said, “I love that piece you did of me back in ’46. “An’ I don’t think my taste’s all that different from lots of other folks.” “Thanks, honey. As Mose says from time to time, ‘From your mouth to God’s ear.’” Dinner over, a couple of the women helped Mandy clear the table as the rest of the adults reclaimed their places on the porch. The kids had long since finished eating and returned to firecracker-punctuated conversation around their table. “Well, the kids seem to’ve had a good time,” said Richard Terrell, rocking placidly next to Moses and nursing an after-dinner Julep. “Yeah,” said Moses, “they look like they’re ready to start all over. I’d like to bottle that energy and sell it to old farts like us.” “I’ve never thought to ask you, Mose; am I right in assuming you don’t have any kids of your own?” “Yes, you are. Just wasn’t in the cards for me to meet the right girl, I guess.” “Well, I don’t suppose it’s too late for you and Ríni to think about it; the way Ricky tells me you and Jack get on like Gangbusters. I’ll bet you’d be a pretty good dad.” Moses rocked gently, his eyes drifting out over the treetops. “I guess the biology’s still in the ballpark, and thanks for your thoughts about my potential as a father. But one of your assumptions is way off the mark.” “What’s that?” “You mean you wouldn’t like to hazard a guess, after what she had to say about what her art means to her?” Terrell turned to look at him. “Oh. You mean–” “Yep. She’s had all the children she intends to have. The number one thing on her mind’s being an artiste. A serious artiste.” It’s Made to Sell 201

“Damn. I just assumed-” “Well, I’m sorry to have to correct your assumptions, which you probably share with most of the rest of Bisque; but since she straightened a few of mine out years ago, I’ll do the same for you. No more marrying and no more chillun for Serena Redding Mason.” “Mm, mm, mm. I’m sorry to hear that. I won’t say it’s a total surprise, but I am sorry. You guys seem like you really get along; now that I think about it, I guess I thought she was probably waitin’ for somebody like you.” “Whattaya mean, ‘somebody like me?’” “Somebody from outside. And the farther outside, the better. Excuse me for saying so, but you must know by now that everybody in this town–every man and boy with a pulse, that is–has wanted to make love to her since she was a little girl. You know she married a Yankee.” “Yes.” “Well, it’s just that Ríni doesn’t seem like she has much patience with home-grown nothin’.”

The clock in the hall chimed ten as Moses sat down next to Pap. They had the porch essentially to themselves; Buster, his regular snores counterpoint to the clock’s soft ticking, sprawled in a chair at the corner nearest the road. Cordelia had left to drive Pancho to the Bullets’ boarding house about an hour ago, and everyone else had left soon after. A chorus of crickets, frogs and mosquitoes celebrated the night’s dominance of the sparse yellow light from bug-repellant light bulbs. “Nice party,” said Moses. “Yes indeed,” Pap observed. “Quite a group. Enjoy yourself?” “Oh yeah. This’s my favorite holiday. I wanted to be out there with the kids shootin’ ﬁreworks. If Gene Debs’d been here, we probably would’ve horned in on those little shitbirds.” 202 The Rough English Equivalent

Pap chuckled. “I don’t doubt it. And a couple of rascally sailors’re the only grown folks they mighta tolerated.” “Makes sense, if you consider us grown,” said Moses. “Bullshit. Gene’s the only one of my offspring who has grown up. And if I didn’t think you were grown, you and I wouldn’t be in business together. Those kids just know you like ’em.” “Hell. Who doesn’t like kids?” “A lot of people, in my experience,” said Pap. “You can love people without likin’ ’em. I think that’s the way it is with most parents. Rai- sin’ kids keeps people so busy, sometimes lovin’s all there’s room for. Kids have a way of being unlikable a lot of the time. So do parents, as far as that’s concerned. Just because you’re livin’ in the same house doesn’t mean you have to like each other.” “I’d never really thought much about it. Until I came to Bisque, I wasn’t around that many kids. Close up, I mean.” “Well, you must have some talent in that department; otherwise my one grandchild wouldn’t have such a high opinion of you.” “The feeling’s mutual. Jack’s a terriﬁc kid.” “Yes, he is. And I have you to thank for helpin’ him to be such a terriﬁc kid. He’s the offspring of two people who have a very hard time thinkin’ of anybody but themselves. I don’t know if the time he’s spent with you has kept him from being that way, but it damn sure hasn’t hurt.” “The pleasure’s been mine, Pap; make no mistake about that.” “Well, it makes me surer than ever that askin’ you to throw in with me was the right thing to do. I want to see Jack do well in life more than anything else in the world; I was glad when Serena brought him back to Bisque. From what I’ve seen of New York, it’s ten times better to grow up here, to say nothin’ of that hellhole they were in out west.” “New York didn’t suit you, huh?” Moses said, smiling. “Not on short acquaintance. And the circumstances that got me there didn’t help any.” It’s Made to Sell 203

“How’s that?” “I went up there every now and then to see Jack and Serena. Mason, the pissant professor, wouldn’t set foot in Hamm County.” “He wouldn’t? Why not?” “Oh, he’s got some kind of hard-on for the South. God knows there’s plenty up there who do. The way she put it to me was, they agreed before they got married that she’d never ask him to come down here. The thought of that must not’ve bothered her too much at the time, because she agreed to it. Not that an agreement like that’s got any teeth in it, p’tickly when it wasn’t ever put on paper. She agreed, but she told ’im that she’d never go to his folks’ place, either. Good basis for a marriage, wudn’t it?” “Where was it, anyway?” “Masons’ place? Out on Long Island somewhere. Northport, sump’m like that. Way the hell out from Manhattan.” “But not too far to commute from there,” said Moses as he got up to freshen their drinks. “I guess you’ve met his parents.” “Oh yeah. A couple of times. “Decent enough people. He’s got sump’m to do with Wall Street. Tall, skinny guy, like his son, but wavy grey hair, like Tom Dewey’s. She smiled a lot, but looked like she was ready to cry half the time.” “He their only child?” “Yep. Guess they ﬁgured they got it right the ﬁrst time.” Moses laughed. “Guess it’s all in your point of view.” Pap snapped his close-cropped gray head around to look Moses in the eye. “Then they pulled up way short, as far as I’m concerned. He and Serena were no good for each other, not as husband and wife. But they managed to give me one hell of a grandson, so I can’t say I’m sorry they got together. But Jack deserves more of a daddy than that guy’s willing to be. Three-four weeks a year; for your son,”he said with a short bitter shake of his head. “And she’s going back, too,” Moses observed. 204 The Rough English Equivalent

“I know. She’s bent on it. Just being an artist isn’t enough. She’s got to be a New York artist, if it harelips hell.” “But not until Jack’s through high school.” “Yeah,” Pap said, “she’s not that crazy. Guess the Watkins blood got thinned out enough so she doesn’t forget about what the boy needs altogether.” “Well, granted they’re not living the typical Bisque life, but I’d bet my last buck that nothin’ comes before Jack for Ríni. Not even her art.” “I’d like to think that’s true, but I remember somebody sayin’ sump’m like ‘the rich live as they choose; the poor live as they can; but rich or poor, artists live as they must.’ So I’m keepin’ an eye on the situation. I had the dubious advantage of livin’ with her mother, and I haven’t forgotten one damn day of that. You’ve probably heard the story, the nasty essentials anyway.” “Well…” “Rose was 41 when she died; May the sixteenth of ’27. She never gave up on gettin’ her old ﬂame back, and nothin’ was gonna get in her way. She wanted Pete, and she was gonna have ’im, one way or another. Marryin’ his best friend was just a step in her strategy. So the poor boy from Chattanooga worked his ass off and made babies with a woman who loved somebody else, and I was just too damn busy, or dumb, to realize what I’d stepped into. I came from very little, and she never let me forget it. Till the day she and Pete went out and got themselves killed, all I knew was that if I made enough money, she’d have to respect me. Wish I’da known how little difference money really made in this little sprint for happiness that we call life.” “Don’t tell your average linthead that,” said Moses. Caught ﬂat- footed by Pap’s proffer of intimacy, Moses had no other immediate response. They sat in silence for a bit, these business partners from adjacent generations, each contemplating the onset of age and responsibility from his own perspective. It’s Made to Sell 205

“I’ll be 73 this September,” he said after a while. “Reasonably well off and healthy as a horse; I reckon most people around here’d swap places with me. That only goes to show how far below the surface we go when we look at each other. Which is to say, not very.” “Hell,” said Moses. “Not many get that far below the surface with themselves, let alone anybody else. Probably scare the shit out of most people if they did.” “I’d love to see some more grandbabies,” Pap went on, ignoring Moses’ invitation to remain safely on the surface; “looks like it’s up to Buster if I’m goin’ to. And he hasn’t been in any big hurry; one a’ these days somebody like that high-yaller baseball pitcher might do it for ’im.” “You think they want children?” “What the hell have they got otherwise? P’tickly in this town. Chillun’ an’ fuhbawl’s about it. Buster knew that when he came back here.” “Came back?” “From Mayretta. He got a job at th’ Bell bomber plant over there in ’42. They came back here when he got laid off in ’46; not that long before you showed up.” “Marietta; that’s close to Atlanta, isn’t it?” “Just north; twenty-ﬁve miles, sump’m like that. Anyway, I brought ’im back in with me. Put ’im over on the real estate side of th’ house this time; but when the Simmons boys put their Hudson dealership up for sale, he pestered me night and day ’til I agreed to back ’im so he could buy it. Good thing, too; he was drivin’ me crazy in the ofﬁce, and he loves cars. Specially th’ racin’ side of it.” “Yeah, you can tell that right off. And it oughta help his business, if he doesn’t go crazy with it. People–young people, specially–will probably wanta buy cars like the ones that win, assumin’ Hudsons win.” 206 The Rough English Equivalent

“Well, you put yer finger on it when you said ‘if he doesn’t go crazy with it,’” Pap said. “Buster’s subject to go crazy with things that strike his fancy. Like C’odeelya.” “Cordelia?” “Th’ same. She who’s gettin’ ’er eyes screwed out by José High- yaller as we speak. Yet you see how much that worries Buster,” with a wave at the boulder of comatose protoplasm. “Hell,” said Moses, “he’s in no shape to worry about a goddam thing right now. How is it that he don’t run ’er off, if she’s that prone to whorin’?” “Hell,” said Pap. “That ain’t whorin’, not to her. I ‘speck she’d just call it sportin’ around.” “Sounds more like spurtin’ around,” ventured Moses. They awarded this witticism the appropriate burst of drunken laughter, loud enough to cause a momentary shift in Buster’s bulk. “How long they been married, anyway?” he asked, sensing the old man’s need for further disclosure. “Quite awhile. Since ’38. Even then, he shoulda known better. I could smell trouble when I was twenty-three, couldn’t you?” “Most of the time,” said Moses. But, he thought, not always; and that’s why I’m out here, most improbably, on the porch with you. “Can’t say I batted a thousand, though.” “Th’ difference between bein’ seen as a trifilin’ motherfucker and a pillar of the community ain’t no wider than a human hair sometimes. A good wife’s a big help to a man in Buster’s sitchayshun. All she’s done’s stir up man trouble around here since she was in high school,” he went on. Got a teacher fired, and damn near locked up, before she could drive a car. You just don’t marry a case of itchy britches like that.” A car turned into the driveway, its headlights stuttering from high beam to low several times before being shut off. “Guess that’s old Itchy Britches now,” said Moses. It’s Made to Sell 207

0740 Wednesday 5 July 1950: “Mose?” “Yeah.” “Me.” “Hey.” “I need some help, honey. Can you talk for a minute?” “Sure. What’s up?” “It’s Jack. The sheriff brought him home last night; about one- thirty this morning, actually.” “Why?” “He said that he found him and Ricky parked on the golf course in Trisha McNeil’s car with her and Terry Marsh. He found a pair of panties on the ground outside the car that Trisha admitted were hers.” “Hm. One-thirty. A little past curfew.” “I know. I was worried sick. Mindy Terrell called at eleven-thirty. Jack was spending the night over there, and they had to be in at eleven. They’d given them an extra hour as it was, because of the holiday.” “I thought they were all with Lynne Browne.” “They left Daddy’s with her, but Jack said she wanted to go home, so they told her to drop them off at Trisha’s house.” “Where’s he now?” “Asleep. He got sassy with me and I told him to go to his room and stay there. I’m so mad at him; I got absolutely no sleep last night, and I don’t want to be at close quarters with him until I get hold of myself.” He looked out at a weeping gray sky. “Want me to come get ’im?” “Yes, if you can. I hate to ask you, but-” “Forget it. You need some rest, and he needs a workout. I’ll be over in a few minutes.” 208 The Rough English Equivalent

They sat in the café looking at Denver omelets and whole-wheat toast. A look from Moses told Reba they needed privacy. “You sleepy?” Moses asked him. “Hell yeah I’m sleepy. You’d be sleepy too if you’d been in th’ county jail half th’ niit,” Jack responded. Moses’ eyes narrowed. “What the hell were you doin’ in th’county jail?” Jack cut into his omelet, flinching slightly as egg-juice spurted from the cut. Grabbing the ketchup to cover it, he said, “Trisha ain’t got a driver’s license, so they took us all in and called her folks to come get her. And fuckin’ Wahoo locked us up ’til they came.” “No wonder it took so long to get you home. What were y’all doin’ out there, anyway?” asked Moses. “Aah, nothin’; we were just foolin’ around, playin’.” “Bullshit. Playin’ around lookin’ for a place to stick your dicks, right?” Jack looked around the room, checking for open ears. “Ricky was; Terry and I were mostly listenin’ to them from th’ back seat. She won’t let me do much of anything with her; kissin’ and feelin’ around a little’s all.” A pause. “I really don’t care that much about it.” Moses paused to take a large bite of his omelet, catching a piece of green pepper that tried to escape. “That’ll change soon enough,” he said upon swallowing. “When it does, when you’re where Ricky is now, remember this; rubbers or not–he did have rubbers, didn’t he?” “Yeah-” “Well, rubbers or not, when you decide to–let’s say–have inter- course, you’d damn well better be ready to back it up. Th’ human race wants its crop of little critters, and what life does to them that spawns ’em’s completely secondary…” Jesus, he thought, what the hell am I doing, telling him about this? He knows damn well I’ve been screwing his mother all this time, and I’m preaching to him It’s Made to Sell 209 about fucking. “…anyway, if the rubbers let you down, you’re an instant father. You just tied an lifetime anchor to your ass. Pretty bad deal for a few minutes of–what?” “I dawno. I told ya, we wudn’t doin’ nothin’. I don’t eb’m know how ta use a fuckin’ rubber.” Jack stopped for a bite, took it, chewed. “Mose,” he said, still chewing. “What, bud?” “What’d you do?” “Do? What about?” “What’d you do when you wanted to?” “You mean, what’d I do when I had a girl inna car? When I was your age?” Jack looked at him, green eyes bright. “Yeah.” Moses wiped his mouth, put his napkin on the table, and looked back at the boy. “My first time was a little bit further down the road than yours. And it wasn’t in a car. And nothing happened. I mean the girl didn’t get pregnant. She wasn’t even my girlfriend. So I was stupid, and lucky. I’d hate for your luck to run out on you, pal, that’s all.” “Me too. I sho don’t wanta be anybody’s daddy anytime soon. I told Mom that we weren’t doin’ anything but kissin’ and foolin’ around, and she said I shoulda got out and walked if Trisha wouldn’t leave.” “And you didn’t think much of that idea.” “No.” “And I guess you told her so.” “Yeah, I did. And then she started hollerin’, and wouldn’t listen any more, and then I did, and things just quit makin’ sense. She told me to go to my room, the way she did when I was a little kid. So I did. But I’m not a little kid any more.” “No,” said Moses. “You’re a big kid. And gettin’ bigger every day. But you won’t get anywhere buttin’ heads with your mama. Hell, bud, she was worried about you, naturally. And not just about this 210 The Rough English Equivalent little stunt. My guess is that she’s not real comfortable with alla this growin’ up you’re doing.” “Well, I’m not either, but there ain’t much either one of us can do about that. I’ll tell you sump’m else, too.” “What’s that?” “Those four little rooms up there are gettin’ pretty small for two regular-size people.” “I imagine they are,” said Moses.” “When we’re in there together, seems like we’re always tryin’ to get through doors at the same time or sump’m. Of course, she’s up on th’ roof almost every night bein’ an artiste.” Said through his teeth. “Well, how about if I ask your mom if it’s OK with her for you to bunk in with me for a few days? C’mon, I’ll drop you off at th’ house and call her when I get to the office.” “Suits me. Can I call somebody to come over?” “Yeah, but wait ’til this afternoon. You need some more sack time, and I’m countin’ on you to fix us some lunch.” “You got stuff for bacon, lettuce and tomato?” “You bet. Just make sure th’ bacon’s crisp, bud.”

Jack had just moved the last of the bacon out of the skillet onto a paper towel-covered plate when the Buick pulled to a stop under the carport. “Hiya, bud,” said Moses, wrestling a case of soft drinks, kicking the door closed with a heel. “Hey.” “That’s smellin’ good. How ’bout a Nehi?” “’Ja get some grape?” “Grape, orange, strawberry; eight each. Have to have ’em on th’ rocks, though, ’til we get ’em cold.” Setting the case down in a corner, he retrieved a grape and a strawberry and put them on the kitchen table. “That’ll do,” Jack said as he thin-sliced a tomato. It’s Made to Sell 211

They sat, temporarily mute, savoring the merger of home-grown tomato and smoky bacon. Moses broke the silence with a single word. “Congratulations.” “Thanks,” said Jack. “What for?” “Becoming a hell of a cook when I wasn’t looking. This is one great BLT.” “Well, thanks again. I’ve been gettin’ a lot of practice at home. Mom pushes dinner off on me about half th’ time. Like I said, she’s up on the damn roof every chance she gets.” “Yeah, your mom’s got some pretty deﬁnite ideas about the kinda artiste she wants to be, so she’s pretty ruthless about having her time up there. It sure as hell ain’t a hobby with her, that’s for sure.” “For damn sure. And she wonders why she’s got problems.” “She may not think she has any,” said Moses. “Hell, she’s not that far gone. Or she wouldn’t be givin’ me hell every time I turn around. You either.” “Me?” She’s not givin’ me any hell.” “She is. You’re just not hearin’ it.” “Then I guess you must be.” “I am.” “Then what’s th’ nature of this hell I’m gettin’?” Moses asked him. “She don’t say that much to me. But she says plenty around me. She must not think I hear it, but like I said, that’s a pretty small place we live in.” “You gonna tell me, or not?” “Sure, I’ll tell ya. Th’ thing is, it won’t sound th’ same when I say it. It’s more how it sounds when she does. It’s like she wishes you hadn’t showed up here at all. Th’ one thing she says all th’ time is ‘big impresario sonofabitch.’” “OK. What else?” “Ahh, stuff like ‘Plucked from bullshit by th’ fuckin’ Egyptians.’” “Makes me wish I had a name from some other book than th’ bible. Wouldn’t be so easy for her to make those herniatin’ meta- 212 The Rough English Equivalent phors. So what you’re tellin’ me is she’s mad at both of the men in her life.” “Yeah, off an’ on,” said Jack. He drained his glass and set it down with a thump. “She’s gonna be a major artiste, an’ we’re gettin’ in her way.” “Hm. Well, nobody’s perfect. I guess she’s told me pretty much what she’s told you. About goin’ back to New York, I mean.” “Oh, yeah. She’s been tellin’ me that for a year or two. Makes me think I’m holdin’ her back, just bein’ her kid. An’ I guess I know how you must feel, bein’ in love with her.” “If anybody knows, pal, it’s you. She’s some homo sapiens, your mama.” Standing up from the table, Jack went to the refrigerator for another Nehi. “If that’s what you think,” he said as he sat down, “how come y’all don’t get married?” “She’s still married to your dad.” “Would you want to if she wasn’t?” “Yep. Nothin’s changed since I asked her four years ago.” The boy, his face very still, contemplated this. “Well then, I reckon we better just keep on seein’ If we can handle who she is. But it ain’t exactly the easiest job in th’ world.” 1620 Tuesday 11 July 1950: “Telephone, Mr. Kubielski, line three.” “Hello.” “Mist’ Kabeesky.” The Cajun quartertones of Skeeter Daguerre, just above a whisper, trickled into his ear. “Skeeter?” “Yeah.” “How you been? Hab’mnt seen you in a coon’s age.” “I been all right. Listen, you need ta know ’bout sump’m.” “Can ya speak up a little?” “OK. You know ’bout de Klan?” It’s Made to Sell 213

“Th’ Klan? Th’ guys with th’ white sheets?” “Das right. You gonna get a visit from dem dis Friday niit.” “A visit.” “Yeah. A cross-burnin’.” “What the hell’re you talkin’ about?” “I’m talkin’ about you oughta not be home Friday niit, ’cause if you be dere dey probly won’t stop wid a cross-burnin’. Dat fool Pis- sant Grant got ’em riled up and ready ta hurt you. Say no goddam Jewbaby’s gonna slap his ass an’ live.” “Hm. So how many of these gentlemen would you say I could expect?” “Huh?” “How many in this cross-burnin’ party?” “Oh, twenny-thutty. Sump’m like dat. You don’ wawna be standin’ up to no crowd like dat. Please jus’ be someplace else dis Friday.” “You pretty sure ’bout this, aincha?” “Dead sho, Mist’ Kabeesky.” “OK. Listen, Skeeter, thanks a lot.” “OK. ’Bye.” Still holding the handset, Moses pushed the one of the plungers on its cradle, held it for a second and dialed. “Hello.” “Gene Debs.” “Yayuh.” “How’d you like to blow up a Klan meetin’ this Friday?” “Where?” “I understand they’re plannin’ to burn a cross over here to thank me for poppin’ one of their boys the other day.” “Oh yeah. Pissaint. Pap told me you had ta straighten him out.” “The very same. Hope you didn’t get rid of that bazooka.” For a few seconds, all he heard was laughter; then Gene Debs caught his breath and said, “Still got it. Ain’t thought about it since you and I made that bigass hole in th’ dirt last year.” 214 The Rough English Equivalent

“Well,” Moses said, “I thought it’d be fun to do th’ same to their fuckin’ cross-burnin’.” “Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-fuckin’-mm. What time’s th’ party?” “Why doncha ease on over here about three? We can shoot some skeet and get in th’ mood.” 1515 Friday 14 July 1950: The shadow of a large thunderhead shaded the porch from the afternoon sun as Moses opened the door. “Hey,” said Gene Debs, his craggy face split by a wolfish grin. “Ready ta make a lil’ noise?” “You bet,” said Moses. “How ’bout a beer?” The skeet table sat just a few steps from the edge of the pond nearest the road. The shotguns, Moses’ Savage and Gene Debs’ Reming- ton, breeches open, shared its sheet-tin covered surface with a hand trap and four boxes of 12-gauge shells. Moses bent over to pull open the top of a case of Peters clay pigeons that sat on the grass underneath. “You take the first five,” he said, “and I’ll get warmed up with this trap. Haven’t thrown any with it since Spring.” “That beats me by a year or two,” said Gene Debs, pulling a pair of yellow-lensed shooting glasses from the bib of his Big Dad overalls. “I ain’t used a hand trap more’n two or three tiimes in my liife.” “Oh, with this one there ain’t a lot to it. Just gettin’ the hang of hittin’ the release at the right point in your swing. See?” Slipping one of the dark green discs into the trap’s bracket, Moses pulled it back to set the spring. “The spring does mosta the work.” They were out of targets by four o’clock, in time for the sun’s pas- sage to leave half the terrace in the shade, where they sat among assorted hardware. “Any idea which way they’ll come?” asked Gene Debs as he swung the bazooka’s two tubular halves into line, a solid, lubricated snick of mating metal confirming their alignment as the latch slipped into place. “Well, they’ve got two choices,” said Moses, “‘less of course they come both ways. Wouldn’t surprise me if they met up someplace It’s Made to Sell 215 south of here, though, to get alla their shit together and go over who’s doin’ what. You don’t figure they’d want to do that in town, in front of a lot of people, with their goddam hoods on; somebody might tag along and screw up their surprise. Either way, they’ve just about gotta put the cross over there on the edge of Larkin’s field, just opposite my gate. Otherwise, you couldn’t see it from here, which you’d think was the whole idea.” “Good thang about that,” said Gene Debs, “is ’at hill runnin’ up behind there’ll catch any of ’ese he-unh rockets that miss. I never did ask you; I don’t guess you wanta kill any a’ these stupid bastards.” “No, not that it’s not tempting. We’d be doin’ the world a favor, but it’s not worth it. I just thought it’d be fun to let a few rounds go and watch ’em scatter.” “’At’s what I figured. And since we hab’mnt had a lotta practice with this here M9A1 tank smasher, I reckon we oughta start shootin’ up inta th’ kudzu with a round er two, an’ gradjilly ease down on th’ cross. Hell, hittin’ that hill’ll prob’ly get ’em movin’ right by itself. They won’t have a real good idea where we’re shootin’ from ’til we get a few off.” “I was thinkin’,” said Moses, “that if we set up just a little way up there, beyond th’ barn, we’d have a pretty good field of fire and be shootin’ down on ’em.” “Makes sense. No big trees blockin’ th’ view, an’ maybe sixty-five, seb’mty yards range at th’ most. I think I got this sight pretty well figured out. Lemme show ya sump’m here.” After Moses locked the gate, they began moving gear up to the firebase, in a clearing in the hillside’s stand of pines from which the view of Larkin’s field was generally clear for forty-five degrees or so either side of where they figured the cross would be. Besides three cases of bazooka rounds, each holding six rockets, they took the shotguns, four boxes of 00 buckshot shells, and Gene Debs’ Marlin .30-06 carbine, fitted with a 4X telescopic sight. Sitting sweat-soaked in the shade on ground softened by a cushion of pine straw, they 216 The Rough English Equivalent cracked a couple of Red Caps and were sharing Nelson Lord-fried chicken with the mosquitoes and flies by six-thirty. “What in the hell d’you suppose makes people do shit like this?” said Gene Debs. “What?” “This fuckin’ Klan shit.” “Oh. For a minute I thought you meant us.” “Hell,” said Gene Debs, “What should we do, let them idiots just go on doin’ what they please? It’s time they’us shut down, and we’re th’ boys to it.” “A couple of old sailors, and not a Landing Party Manual between us.” “Old, young or one-legged, I’d put two sailors up against a packa shitheels like these any day a’tha week,” said Gene Debs. “Got any idea who’s involved, besides Pissant Grant?” “Well, ya hear things. Like ole Chili-Dog Chiles has been for a long time, still is, th’ Kleagle, or head asshole. Ríni told me about Cat Dander, that ole buzzard that she keeps around to sweep out th’ hotel, sayin’ one time how proud he was ta be in th’ Klan. People like that; fuckin’ scum. None of ’em could whip yer average nigger in a fair fight, so they put on bedsheets an’ gang up on ’em at night. Bisque’s got its share a’freaks like that. You could probly pick ’em out on sight, just walkin’ down th’ street. Hell, we’ll probly recognize th’ cars they’re in.” “Well,” said Moses, “I’ve been here long enough to know that the law sorta picks and chooses how it gets enforced. You see that everywhere. Even so, how in the hell this kinda shit can go on in th’ middle of th’ twentieth century amazes me.” “It’s gone on for a long time; since Reconstruction,” said Gene Debs. Back then it wasn’t the scum ’a th’ earth under th’ hoods. After th’ war, with Union troops an’ carpetbagger Yankee civilians ta back ’em up, there was quite a few niggers that abused th’ privileges of their new citizenship, along with th’ worst kinda whites. Vigilante justice was th’ only kind available, and that’s what some white South- It’s Made to Sell 217 erners put in place with th’ Ku Klux Klan. But as time went on and things got better, th’ Klan hung on, recruitin’ from the no-counts in th’ name of ‘white supremacy.’ And all this time, they’ve carried on without much interference from th’ law, because th’ people that they prey on can’t, or won’t, identify ’em.” “And, on occasion, because the people who’re responsible for enforcin’ the laws’re in cahoots with ’em, or at least don’t see much harm in what they do,” said Moses. “Well, yeah, you gotta think about where these lawmen come from; pretty much th’ same places as th’ Klanners. And I guess they figure that what th’ Klan does to keep th’ niggers down jus’ makes their job easier.” “Looks to me like,” Moses observed as he picked up a fresh drum- stick, “These boys’re spoilin’ for the ultimate in practical jokes.” Gene Debs grinned as he patted the bazooka’s barrel. “It may seem damn impractical to ’em, time we’re done.” 1935 Friday 14 July 1950: They did, as Moses expected, come from the south, a black 1936 Auburn sedan leading the caravan of six cars and two pickup trucks that slowed from a stately pace as they rounded the bend below the pond. “Looka yonder,” said Gene Debs. “Umm-hm,” grunted Moses. “I’ve seen that heap in fronta th’ Burger Shack. It’s Chili Dog’s.” A brown 1939 Chevrolet was next, followed by a dark green 1946 Ford flatbed truck carrying the cross and two robed figures standing on either side of the cab. The lead car stopped momentarily, directly in front of Moses’ gate. “Guess they’re talkin’ about where to put it.” Several minutes later, a hooded figure opened the Auburn’s right- side front door and got out. It walked back to the Chevrolet, gestur- ing toward the left side of the road. The driver pulled the car out of line and drove it well ahead of the Auburn, wheeling it hard left and backing it onto the edge of the field. The Auburn then followed suit, 218 The Rough English Equivalent leaving room for the flatbed to back in directly across from Moses’ gate; the next vehicle, a 1936 Dodge pickup, did likewise, leaving a space of about forty feet between the trucks. The rest of the cars backed in beyond the pickup and disgorged their cargo. The two Klansmen riding on the flatbed jumped down and walked over to the pickup, pulling a pick, posthole digger and five-gallon water can from its bed. Going to the center of the open space, one of them swung the pick into the rock-hard red earth, penetrating no more than two or three inches. He swung again, and then again, going a little deeper each time, then paused to let the other pour water into the depression. The digging went on for about half an hour, one Klansmen spelling another, before the necessary hole was produced. The drivers of the three cars that chanced to pass by, realizing what was taking place, all sped up quickly and were gone. As twilight faded, several hooded figures surrounded the flatbed on its three open sides, laying hands on various points of the Creo- soted wood cross and pulling it toward the back. Another soaked the burlap sacks that had been wired around it with kerosene from a five-gallon can. They pulled the dripping cross off the truck, carried it to the hole and dropped it in, jumping back as the heavy timber fell into place. Except for two that were detailed as lookouts at opposite points several hundred feet from the site, the party surrounded the pickup’s bed and two large chests of beer. “Mm-mm-mm–fuckin’-mm,” said Gene Debs. They built ’at thang out of a phone pole. If we ’us ta hit it dead center, an’ it a-burnin’, they’d be splinters from shit to shinola.” “Be some trick, from here,” said Moses, “but we’ll damn sure get their attention. Hey; looks like they’re ready to light it off.” The light of a match, pin-point brilliant in the now-dark field, blossomed into a bigger ball of light as the torch to which it was touched ignited, illuminating the red-trimmed hood of the Klansman who held it. “Guess that’s Chili-Dog in th’ fancy hood.” The torch-bearer handed it to another figure (maybe Pissant? he thought), who approached It’s Made to Sell 219 the cross and touched it to the base, which exploded into flame with a roar that could be heard on the hill. The flames ran quickly up the cross’s shaft, out to the ends of the crossbar and up to its top as the Klansmen circled it outside scorching range. “Well, they do know how ta burn one, I’ll give ’em that,” said Gene Debs. “Guess we oughta give it a few minutes to let th’ wood light off.” “Makes me wonder if they’ve got anything else in mind,” said Moses. “Seems like this’d motivate ’em to some further mischief.” Gene Debs drained a Red Cap and stood up, walking over to one of the ammo boxes. “It might, if they ’us dealin’ with their usual victims. But I doubt they got anythang else in mind. They got that gate to deal with, and they don’t know what else.” “Well, they’re about ready to find out,” said Moses. “Shall we find the range?” Gene Debs shouldered the bazooka, looking through its sighting tube. “Damn if I can see much but that cross. Guess I’ll just ease up a little from th’ top and lay one in ’ere.” “OK,” said Moses, sliding a round into the tube and plugging its wire contacts into the trigger box, making sure he was clear of the backblast. “Light ’er off, bud.” His voice was lost in the rocket’s whooshing roar. The fire team watched its glowing tail flash past the blazing cross and disappear. A split-second later, it crashed against the kudzu-choked hill with a momentary flash that dwarfed the cross’s flare, followed by the explosion’s concussive BOOM that Moses felt sure took the Klansmen’s breath away, as it had his when they’d first fired the weapon at Gene Debs’. To a man, they appeared to be frozen in place. “Damn, wish we had nighttime binoculars. I’d love to see the looks on those bastards’ faces.” “Load me up again,” said Gene Debs. “Maybe I can blow some ’a them fuckin’ hoods right off.” Moses slid another round into the tube and got out of the way. The whoosh and explosion repeated, the BOOM louder. “Yeeehaah! Right at th’ base of th’ hill! Look at ’em 220 The Rough English Equivalent scatter! Quick, load me up!” As the Klansmen ran to their cars, Moses shoved another round into the bazooka and plugged in the contacts. This time the roar of the rocket and the explosion of the round were almost on top of each other. “I hit it!” Gene Debs crowed! I hit th’ sonofabitch!” And he had; the cross was blown to bits, and the red-hot bits were everywhere; in the Klan robes, on the roofs of the vehicles and all over the road. The Klansman in the red- trimmed hood stood alone, his robe smoldering in several places, fists above his head, shaking them at the sky. Seeing him, one of the others came back to where he stood, sprayed him down with a shaken bottle of beer, and dragged him into the back of the Auburn. The pickup wouldn’t start and was abandoned, its roof in flames. In less than a minute, they were gone. They sat for a moment in the deepening quiet, saying nothing. Moses broke the silence as he went for the ice chest. “Reckon that pickup’ll light off?” “Hard to say,” said Gene Debs as he took a fresh Red Cap from him. Guess we oughta sit here an’ see.” “Makes sense; then we need to think about clearin’ off this hillside an stashin’ the bazooka.” “Hell; you think they wawna bring th’ law into this? What th’ hell would they say, ‘somebidy illegally innerfered with our illegal doins’?’ even that buncha fartheads got more pride than that. They got whupped, an’ they don’t even know how. The last thing they want is for people ta fiind out about it.” “That’s true,” said Moses, “but I can’t just act like they weren’t here; that’d be a dead giveaway. Particularly if that smokin’ pickup over there goes up. Gotta put in a concerned citizen’s call to ole Wahoo, and if he wants to look around I’d just as soon he didn’t find our tracks up here.” “Guess so. Hey.” “What?” It’s Made to Sell 221

“J’you see ole Chili Dog shakin’ them ﬁsts up at heaven?” Gene Debs’ chuckle escalated slowly into uncontrollable wheezing, to which, as he recaptured the image, Moses added his own whoopery. Convulsed, they both slowly slid down the trees they’d been leaning against. “I’ve just got one thing to say about today, GD.” “Yeah? What’s that?” “Mm-mm-mm-fuckin’-mm.” The piney woods rang with their laughter. 1535 Saturday 15 July 1950: “I’da been here sooner, but we’re short-handed,” said Wahoo McDaniel, gingerly scraping the ground around the base of the cross with the lacquered sole of his highly-polished boot. “Anyway, since you said there was no real damage or anybody hurt, I thought I’d take a look personally, in broad daylight.” “Well, I appreciate that,” said Moses. “For all the noise they made, there really isn’t much to see.” “Thatair post looks like it’us hit by liitnin’,” the sheriff said, squinting up at the long, jagged splinters menacing the sky. “Lucky nobody got hit by th’ pieces when they hit th’ ground.” “I thought at ﬁrst that it was thunder,” said Moses. “More like some kinda bomb that went off when it ought not to. Where were you when you heard it?” “Up in th’ barn.” “You keepin’ livestock?” asked the sheriff, his eyebrows lifting slightly. “No. Just workout gear. I converted the barn into a gym; I was skippin’ rope up there when I heard the blast. The trees block the view of the road from there. By the time I got far enough up the driveway to see what was going on, they were all pullin’ out.” 222 The Rough English Equivalent

“You were skippin’ rope,” said the sheriff, letting the beginning of a grin develop before suppressing it. “And you were alone on th’ property.” “Right.” “Well, somebody’s gonna get a bill for cleanin’ this up. You didn’t see how any of ’em were dressed? That is, you didn’t see any Klan robes?” “All I saw,” said Moses, “was a buncha cars and trucks hightailin’ it outa here.” “Could you identify any of th’ vehicles?” “No; the only impression I got was they were pretty old, and mostly black.” “Hm. Well, I think we can safely assume that it was a Klan undertakin’,” said the sheriff. “And I think we can also safely assume that it was directed at you, since nobody else lives within half a mile of here. Any idea why you’d be a Klan target?” “Nope. I thought their specialty was people who were more or less defenseless.” The sheriff looked at him for a long ten seconds before saying, “There’s a lotta truth in that. And you don’t consider yourself in that category.” Moses returned his gaze, saying, “Would you put me in that category, offhand?” “No, offhand I wouldn’t,” the sheriff said. “We don’t know each other all that well, but I’d say you’d be likely to give a pretty good account a’yourself. Unless you’us outnumbered, or ambushed. And they like ta do both.” “I appreciate the warning; I’ll watch my back; is there anything else you’d suggest?” “Not much, short of leavin’ town, and I doubt you’d have any interest in that.” “Not a bit.” It’s Made to Sell 223

After another of the sheriff’s lengthy looks, he said, “Doubt I would either, if I was in your shoes. Well, he said with a wave, “lemme know if you have any more contact with these pissaints. The way they’re goin’, they miit just blow their own up an’ save me some work.” “Thanks for stoppin’ by,” said Moses to the sheriff’s erect khaki back. 1615 Tuesday 19 December 1950: Seeing much more black ink than usual at the top of the front page, Moses picked up the Bisque Bugle lying on his ofﬁce sofa. He unfolded it to reveal a banner headline: BISQUE MARINE DECORATED IN KOREA “Corporal Reginald R. Williams of Bisque, serving with the U.S. Marine Corps’ First Division in Korea, has been promoted to his present rank and awarded the Silver Star, the nation’s third highest decoration for valor in combat.” The citation followed:

WILLIAMS, Reginald R. Rank and organization: Private First Class, U.S. Marine Corps, Company C, 3d Battalion, 7 Marines, 1st Marine Division (Rein.). Place and date: Korea, 8 December 1950. Entered service at: Augusta, Ga. Born: 3 February 1932, Bisque, Ga. Citation: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving as an acting squad leader of Company C, in action against enemy aggressor forces. Assuming the point position in the attack against a strongly defended and well-entrenched numerically superior enemy force occupying a vital hill position which had been unsuccessfully assaulted on 5 separate occasions by units of the Marine Corps and other friendly forces, PFC Williams fearlessly led his men in a bayonet charge up the precipitous slope under a 224 The Rough English Equivalent

deadly hail of hostile mortar, small-arms, and machine gun fire. Quickly rallying his squad when it was pinned down by a heavy and accurate mortar barrage, he continued to lead his men through the bombarded area and, although only 6 members were left in the casualty-ridden unit, gained the military crest of the hill where his squad was immediately subjected to an enemy counterattack. Although greatly outnumbered by an estimated enemy squad, PFC Williams boldly engaged the hostile force with hand grenades and rifle fire and, exhorting his gallant group of marines to follow him, stormed forward to completely overwhelm the enemy. With only 4 men now left in his squad, he proceeded to spearhead an assault on the last remaining strongpoint which was defended by the enemy on a rocky and almost inaccessible portion of the hill position. Climbing up the extremely hazard- ous precipice, he hurled grenades with one hand and, with 3 remaining comrades, succeeded in annihilating the pocket of resistance and in consolidating the position. Immediately subjected to a sharp counterattack by an estimated enemy squad, he skillfully directed the fire of his men and employed his own weapon with deadly effectiveness to repulse the numerically superior hostile force. By his valiant leadership, indomitable fighting spirit and resolute determination in the face of heavy odds, PFC Williams served to inspire all who observed him and was directly responsible for the destruction of the enemy stronghold. His great personal valor reflects the highest credit upon himself and enhances and sustains the finest tradi- tions of the U.S. Naval Service.

Moses reread the article, then read it again. Then he got up and walked out into the warehouse, carrying the paper and looking for Ralph Williams. Seeing him, he shouted “Hey Ralph!” Ralph looked up and, seeing Moses, walked toward him. “What’s up, boss?” Moses handed him the paper. “J’you see this?” Ralph took the paper, looked at it for a moment, then at Moses. “No, sir, I didn’t. Got a letter from ’im a coupla days back. He said It’s Made to Sell 225 keep it under my hat. Guess we shoulda known the Marines’ PIO’d get this to th’ home town paper.” “Well, I’ll be damned. Why’d he wanta keep th’ lid on this? Ziggy’s a hero.” “He said too many Marines didn’t get nothin’ outa that action but dead, and that he didn’t feel too good about takin’ th’ credit for sump’m they all did together.” “Well, he’s the one who was there, and he knows how he feels about it. But he can’t give it back. Any chance he’ll get some leave out of the deal?” “He said there hadn’t been any word. Wounded’ll get priority, and I’m damn glad he’s in one piece, even if he don’t get leave right away. Oh, there’s one other thing.” “What’s that?” Ralph’s effort to conceal his pride was real, but failed. “He said he made Corporal.”

“Wonder if the war hero still keeps his money in his shoe,” mused Flx, perched on the crown of Jack’s head as they read Ziggy’s Silver Star citation in the Bugle. “How the fuck’d you know about that?” “Goddam, kid. When’re you gonna get used to the fact that I’ve been around the block a time or two? I’ve hatched and hatched and hatched again, and I’ve got a range you would’nt believe, over space and time.” “OK, shitbird. Since you know so much, I got a simple one for you.” “Whassat?” “How many men did Ziggy kill?” Flx ﬂew to the top of Jack’s chest of drawers. “Sorry you asked that.” “Aha. You don’t know, do you?” 226 The Rough English Equivalent

“I could ﬁnd out, but I ain’t going to.” “What? Why not?” “’Cause it won’t do him, or you, any good to know. Once a person kills one other person, all bets’re off. If you knew how many he killed, that number’d be forever stuck to Ziggy in your mind.” Jack thought, then spoke. “You’re right. I don’t need to know. Glad one of us’s got some damn sense.” chapter 14 s Precious Lord

1323 Thursday 6 October 1951: She sensed being looked at as she bent to shift a table into place at the end of one of the lobby sofas. “Hey, darlin’.” She stood up to ﬁnd Wahoo McDaniel at her elbow. “Wahoo,” Serena said, not bothering to disguise her exasperation. “What’re you doing, sneakin’ up on me?” “Couldn’t help it,” he said, “I was struck dumb. I guess it was the angle.” “Nice sentiment,” she said levelly. “What’s up?” “Well, maybe nothin’; does there have to be somethin’ ‘up’ for a friend to drop by?” “Guess not. It’s just a bit of a surprise to have you make a ‘friendly’ call, if that’s what it is, after such a long time.” “Well, there’s all kinds of friends. I thought you and I was just sort of th’ ’noddin’ and smilin’ type by now.” “Guess so. So shall we just nod and smile and you run along and fuck my sister-in-law some more?” She got the tightest of murderous smiles in response. “Actually, I am here in the line a’duty. Just wanted to pass the time of day with

- 227 - 228 The Rough English Equivalent ya, which used to be a pleasure. Guess you just have one too many close friends to leave much room for some of your old ones.” “May be. What the hell’s going on, anyway? Does it involve the hotel?” “Only so far as it bein’ the location of a sensitive meeting’s concerned. Just had lunch with a couple of guys from Washington.” “Oh? What’s the deal?” “Nothin’ much. That I can say anything about, that is. They wanted to brief Chief Bolton and me on security operations over at the Savannah River site.” “Oh. The a-bomb plant. That place gives me the willies, and I’ve never been near it.” McDaniel’s eyes widened. “Where’d you hear anything about a- bombs? That’s a highly classified site. There’s nothin’ at all being released about what’s gonna be done there.” “Oh, not officially. But people talk, and the talk’s about a-bombs. You can’t have that many people working on something and not have it get out.” “Well, from what these guys told us today, people who get caught talkin’ about anything that’s going on over there will be up to their necks in trouble,” said McDaniel, recovering his poker face. “If I was you, I’d just act like the place didn’t exist.” “I wish that it didn’t exist, at least in our backyard. I’ve had all the nuclear crap I want, for a lifetime.” “I know. I guess I’d feel the same way if it had cost me a marriage. But nookie-lar weapons are what’s going to keep this country safe, as long as we stay ahead of the reds. They’re not goin’ away.” “Now it’s my turn to clam up. Except to say that Larry’s involvement with ‘nookie-lar weapons’ just sped up our understanding that getting married was a mistake. My feelings about nuclear fission do come from what I learned while we were together. And the main thing I learned is how easy it is for it to slip out of control. I’m not the least bit interested in glowing in the dark, or ending up like those Precious Lord 229 poor Japs that survived Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I wish that goddam plant was a thousand miles from here.” Wahoo’s smile went patronizing. “But, just like the reds, it ain’t goin’ away. The more talk, though, about stuff like glowin’ in th’ dark gets around, the more upset people’re gonna get. That was one of the main things that these AEC boys talked about today. Even though that site’s been designed to be so safe nothin’ bad can ever happen, public opinion could go against it and cause ’em a lot of problems. That, and of course keepin’ the reds from gettin’ hold of our technol- ogy, is why the security lid’s gotta stay tight.” Serena’s face was execution-witness somber. “That’s great,” she said. “We’re over here on the edge of their friggin’ abyss, but we certainly shouldn’t cause them any problems. That’s doomsday shit they’re messing with over there, Wahoo; nothing less than that. An a-bomb’s a nuclear chain reaction gone wild. And one of them can kill fifty thousand people. Already has. And they’re gonna stack these things up in quantity, not fifty miles away from here? And what about the radioactivity from the reactors that they’re running to make the uranium? Did anybody ask us if we’d like this nice little piece of hell next door? You bet they didn’t, because they knew damn well what they’d hear. But Jimmy Byrnes and the rest of the big dogs over there in South Carolina wanted it, and Senator George and the Georgia delegation didn’t object, so it got done. And we get to live with this goddam death machine from now on. One more reason, and a big one, for Jack and me to get the hell outta here.” “If that’s the way you feel,” said McDaniel, “then maybe you should. Most people around here don’t appreciate that yankee style of yours anyway, gettin’ people all stirred up about crap that they can’t do anythang about.” She looked at him with something close to pity. “Yeah. I’m stirring ’em up, all right. The good people of Bisque sit around the café with me, drinking coffee and listening to me prophesy doom. Hell, half of ’em’ve already dug their fallout shelters. People aren’t that stupid; 230 The Rough English Equivalent they don’t have to listen to me to know that Moscow’s got this town targeted. The tragedy is that they think crawling in some goddam hole’s gonna save ’em.”

“Gimme an R,” Freddy George called over his shoulder, reaching back and down with his right hand from his perch on the ladder. “Wait,” said Jack, who had stepped back from the foot of the ladder and the case of marquee lettering, looking up at the letters that were already in place. “You need to switch the last 2. It’s spelling ‘NIGA’ right now.” “Oh, shit. Well, get an R ready while I change it.” Shifting his position to face the marquee, he removed the foot-high sheet metal “A,” holding it in his left hand, and slid the “G” to the right on its support bars to make room for the “A,” and made the switch. “NOW gimme the goddam R,” he said. “Here you go,” said Jack, stretching to slip the letter into Freddy’s hand. “Woulda been kinda funny to have people driving by here in the morning seeing ‘NIGARA’ on the sign, though.” “Probably get more business that way,” grunted Freddy. “Marilyn Monroe and Joseph Cotten in ‘Nigara.’ They’d be wondering who’s playing the nig. Gimme an A.” As he handed up the “A,” Jack observed, “That Marilyn really looks good, don’t she? Layin’ back in that red dress singin’ ‘Kiss me?’ Boy, she’s got some nice ’uns.” He closed the letter case, securing its latches. They had already ﬁnished the other side, and it was getting close to his eleven o’clock curfew. He held the ladder as Freddy descended. “Yeah, they’re niice all riit,” Freddy said, “but Evvie’s ’re bigger.” “You talk like you’ve seen ’em,” Jack said, knowing this would bring a response. He lifted the heavy letter case, taking it inside the lobby doors, and came back outside to hold the bottom of the ladder while Freddy tipped it over and lowered it to the street. Precious Lord 231

“I seen ’em, Buster, and since she’s not around, I’ll tell you sump’m else; I’ve sucked ’em ’til she squealed.” Jack laughed. “That’s not what she says. She says you’d like to.” “Then she’s a liar. I’ll tell you what. If she’s tellin’ you so much, ask her about them little bumps all over her nipples.” They were taking the ladder down the right-side aisle, heading to its understage storage spot. “Whaddaya mean, ‘little bumps?’ What kind of bumps?” “Just bumps. Like zits, but bigger, and they’re not zits. I wouldn’t suck on a zit.” They lifted the curtain that screened the space under the stage, turning the ladder onto its ﬂat side, and dropped the curtain back in place. “You’d suck anything she’d let you suck,” Jack said as they walked back up the aisle. He was enjoying this unexpected disclosure, true or not. “I’m going to ask her to show me. I bet she will, and I bet there ain’t a bump in sight.” It was Freddy’s turn to laugh. “Show you? Show you?” He chor- tled. “She won’t show you shit. She’d be afraid you’d tell, and they’d lock her ass up for corrupting an innocent cheeeild.” He released the stops on the lobby doors, letting them swing shut behind them, still enjoying his joke. “An innocent cheeeild!” “We’ll see. I’m asking her tomorrow.” “Well, just be ready, Sport,” Freddy said, lifting the Servi-Cycle off its stand and swinging a long leg over the saddle. They’re bumpy as blackberries. Don’t tell her I said so, though. See ya.” He kicked the bike’s starter, blipped the throttle a couple of times, and eased off in a sputtering cloud of blue smoke. Jack turned in the same direction, walking up toward Lee Street and home. I wonder if they are, he thought. No chance I’m gonna ask her. She’d kill me. Oooh. What if they are? That’d be awful. Like zits. I’d throw up; tits’re too beautiful for that. 232 The Rough English Equivalent

A couple of blocks away, Hank Williams sang “Kaw-Liga,” and Moses sat with Lee Webster at the Bisque Lunch Room bar, watching sweat beads run down the side of his third, or fourth, Red Cap. Rib- eye was at the bar’s other end, inspecting a nickel-plated S&W .32 snubnose that a chubby, late-thirtyish guy who looked like he’d just come off a cotton-mill shift had brought in. No, too early for that, he thought; shift changes at 12. Maybe he snuck off to beat the rest of ’em here, in order to peddle the pistol in peace. He laughed to himself, just loose enough for that to be hilarious. Peddle the pistol in peace, dum dum. You could dance el jarabe tapatío to that. While Ribeye does gun business. He must buy and sell half a dozen, or more, in a week’s time. Wonder if he ever fires any of them. Wonder what he’d give for a shoulder-stock Luger? The things I’ve left behind. He dropped in Ribeye’s one or two evenings a week; had since the beginning, except for the few weeks just after he bought the house. The house. He winced, thinking of the fantasy in which he was bath- ing when he bought it, and the eight-and-a-half acres of pasture and pine woods around it, almost five years ago. The fantasy had been gradually eroded into something else, the evolution’s irony claiming a smaller part of his consciousness each year. It would still come back to him, however, as the anniversary of buying the house approached; he’d closed on the property on the twelfth of October. And he’d lived there all this time, fantasy slipping away, after buying it for her. But she came and went, according to her mood, and he and Jack had some fine times out there in her absence. Slamming car doors and squealy women’s laughter just outside refocused his thoughts. “If that’s coming in here,” he said to Lee, “Old Mose’ll be movin’ along.” He drained his Red Cap and stood up to reach into his pocket as the party breached the swinging doors. Instead of the crowd that the noise suggested, it was Nelson Lord, Precious Lord 233 another man he’d never seen before, and two passable-looking women, all looking to be fairly drunk. “Hey, Ribeye!,” said Lord, as they pulled out chairs and sat down at the far table next to the jukebox, “Could we have a pitcher of yer fiinest horsepiss over here?” Seeing the pair at the bar, he grinned. “Howdy, gents.” “Evenin’, Nels,” said Lee. “Evenin’, folks.” The women, flattered, giggled hello, showing, Moses thought, what looked to be complete sets of teeth. “I’ll see you, Webster,” grunted Moses, sliding his stool back. “Hang on a minute,” Lee said through his teeth, twisting his pudgy frame around to grip Moses’ forearm. “The world may be coming to an end. Here’s Precious Lord, president pro tem of Bisque Bizarre, at the public trough with a stranger and not one, but two, grown women. We owe it to posterity to divine the reason.” “Well, Newshawk,” said Moses, “I think I can help you there. If he brought jailbait in here, old Rib would lose a boot in his ass. Public drinkin’ requires mature company.” “True, all true. And all the more reason that old Sluts-a-Plenty doesn’t show up in here all that much. Let’s have a nightcap and observe this rarity.” Lee beckoned Ribeye, just back behind the bar from serving the Lord party, who had surrounded the jukebox. “Another round, gents?” “Yeh-baw-ey,” said Lee, pushing a wet dollar bill toward him. “And how’s the scent of those lovely ladies this evening?” “They smell all riit,” Ribeye said, scooping up the money. I hope they smell good enough to Lord so he won’t miind gettin’ shot over bein’ out with ’em.” “Whoa!” Lee responded in a low voice. “Precious Lord’s tempting fate again…as only he can. Who might these ladies be, that you’d think Precious is in such peril?” “I jest know th’ one with th’ long hair. She’s Johnny Lindall’s ole lady. Works at one of th’ mills. Reckon he’s on the road.” “Lindall? Who’s he?” 234 The Rough English Equivalent

“Trucker. Farms a little on the side. He don’t come in here; he’s some kinda holy roller. But he’s bad when he’s mad. I hear somethin’ outa th’ Mule Hole ever’ now and then about how he’s done threat- ened to shoot some nigger n’other for fishin’ in his pond.” “Well, from the looks of the goings-on over there, ole Precious’ll be in the crosshairs before you know it,” observed Lee. Butcha can’t blame him all that much. Dat ole crotch crusher’s the strongest muscle on earth. Some people stand up to its lure better’n others.” Lord and Mrs. Lindall sniffed each other, their heads almost touching across the corner of the table. The other man and woman appeared to be engrossed in watching lust unfold until the man, tall, wide, and fortyish, sandy hair cut severely short, abruptly stood up and ran for the swinging doors, obviously seconds away from being sick. The woman who’d sat next to him watched his exit with mild interest. She had a broad, open face and a mop of dense, curly hair made blond. She was built solidly, about a hundred and twenty-five, Moses guessed. She had glanced toward the bar several times, but Moses put that down primarily to the small size of the place, there not being all that many places to look. There was no mistaking her intent, however, when she stood up and walked over to them. “Hey,” she said. She was looking at Moses. She was taller than he’d realized; he bumped up the weight estimate accordingly. “Hey yourself,” said Lee. “How ya doin’?” “Better’n miiy friend,” she said, still looking at Moses. “I’m Lee Webster. What’s your name?” “Maxine.” “Pleased to meet you, Maxine. This is your host, Mr. Randall, and this is Mr. Kubielski.” “Mose,” said Moses, extending his hand. “How’re y’all,” she said, taking Moses’ hand in a firm grip and nodding at Ribeye. Her pale blue eyes were heavy-lidded under blue mascara, and moderately bloodshot. “I hope you don’t mind me comin’ over here for a little bit. My friend and ol’ Nelson are just a Precious Lord 235 little too damn busy to be sociable, and I thank th’ guy I come with’s through for th’ niit.” “Yeah, they do look busy,” said Lee, extending a battered Zippo to light her cigarette. “Are you from Bisque, Maxine? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in here before.” “I’m from riitchere,” she said, exhaling, “an’ I definitely know you, Mr. Lee Webster. You’re callin’ yourself R&B Lee these days.” “Right you are, but only on Fridays; do you enjoy rhythm and blues?” “Well, my nieces do. They luv that nigra music.” “That’s the idea. Would you like to join us? I don’t think they’ll miss you.” Lee said, sliding off his stool so that she could sit there. “Thanks,” she said, looking at Moses as she sat. “As long as I won’t be interruptin’ anythang.” “No,” said Moses. “We were just about to leave when you guys showed up to make life more interesting. Where were you before here?” “Over at Sadie’s. Just sittin’ around, drinkin’ and talkin’. Nelson’s funny. Don’t know when he hooked up with that Mickey giiy.” “He damn sure is,” Lee said with a grin. “He’s a regular Jack- fuckin’-Benny. I don’t know how he does it. Juggles all these girls around, rambles all night and still slings that gourmet-grade hash.” “And pretty natty without the apron,” said Moses. “Little bit of a Steve Cochran look, now that I think about it.” “Steve Cochran in th’ movies? Y’know, you’re riit,” said Maxine. “‘Cep he mostly plays naisty kinda giiys, an’ ole Nellie’s jist a teddy bear.” “That could explain the attraction,” Lee observed. “Little girls love those hairy little rascals.” “Honey, he just goes out jukin’ ever now and then. Don’t you liike a little jukin’?” “Just a little off the top,” Lee laughed. “Anyway, he’s consistent. He’s been jukin’ ever since he hit town.” 236 The Rough English Equivalent

“How long’s he been here?” asked Moses. “Showed up in the summer of ’45, as I understand it; right after they dropped the a-bombs. Caught Reba between cooks, just after burying her husband, and been there ever since.” “Hm. Well, maybe they both got lucky,” Moses mused. No tellin’ what people’ll do, or trade for, to get what they want.” “Nope. Precious gets a rich and varied social life, and Reba gets herself a cradle-robbin’ cook.” “Hey!” Maxine was finished with philosophy. “If y’all are so interested, le’s go over there and see what Nellie has to say about it.” “Now it’s my turn to say goodnight,” Lee said, shifting his rotundity forward in a first preliminary to getting on his feet. “I think this is my limit on Lordly insights for one evening. “Coming, Mose?” “Oh, no!” said Maxine, linking arms with Moses. “I’m not goin’ back over yonder without at least one a y’all. “I’m tired a’this ‘extra girl’ bidness. Come on, Mose, let’s play some juke or somethin’. Ennythang.” “How about your friend?” “’At Mickey? He’s probly back in th’ ho-tel by now. I dawawna mess with nobidy smellin’ like puke, noway.” “I’ll stay for awhile,” said Moses. “Suit yourself,” Lee said, grinning and shaking his head. “Enjoy the human comedy.” With a wave to Ribeye, he was through the swinging doors and gone. “I’m ready for a drinka likker,” said Maxine, “but there ain’t that many places to git it this time’a niit. We could go to th’ VFW, but Sadie won’t do that. Her brother-in-law works up ’air.” “Not that you look like you need your beauty sleep,” said Moses, “but you don’t seem to be too worried about gettin’ up tomorrow. Do you have to go to work?” She looked directly into his eyes. “Oh yeah, I gotta go to work; my shop’s just around the corner and up the street two blocks away. Maxine’s Beauty Shop. Now don’t tell me you never saw it. Some Precious Lord 237 a’my customers’re the top people in this town. Married to ’em, anyway.” “Oh yeah. Of course. I’ve seen your sign out front.” “But we don’t open ’til ten, and my first appointment’s not ’til twelve-thirty. And since Sadie got me out toniit, I’m not in enny big hurry to go home. Let’s go have one with the lovebirds.” “Why not,” Moses heard himself saying, halfway wishing that he hadn’t. “Hey, you two! Break it up. They’ll be callin’ the law.” The woman looked up first, staring at Moses with the hint of a leer. “Hey, yerself. Who ya got there?” “Hey, Mose,” said Lord, turning slightly in his chair, sliding his arm around her shoulder. Definitely Steve Cochran, Moses thought. Black Irish good looks on a shortcoupled frame, and the bright, slightly mad eyes of a Jesuit. “How ya doin’?” “Fine, Nels. You’re lookin’ well.” “Feelin’ well, too, thanks. Better’n ole Mickey, anyway. He left here liike sumbidy give ’im a mickey.” This produced uproarious laughter around the table. “Don’t believe I ever saw him before,” said Moses. “Is he a friend of yours?” “Just laid eyes on ’im tonight; he ate every last friggin’ catfish we had in the place, and put up a goddam row wantin’ me to come out front so he could tell me how good they was. So I thought I’d bring ’im along, and damn if he don’t up and barf out on us. Oh, ’scuse me, Honey, this here’s Mose Kabeesky. He owns th’ Ritz. Well, it wuz th’ Ritz.” Sadie turned her head slightly, working to focus her eyes on Moses. “Th’ what?” “The movie house, darlin’. Th’ Winston Theeatah.” “Oh.” Mose, meet Sadie Lindall. I see you met Maxine.” “Yes. Hello, Sadie.” 238 The Rough English Equivalent

“Hey there, Mose. Good thang your first name’s easy. Why donchall siddown?” “We’re tireda beer,” said Maxine. Let’s go to the VFW.” “You know I cain’t go out there.” “Law, chile, not ta go in. I’ll just run in and get us a jug. They’ll sell it to me. Then we could drive out ta Spring Creek an’ go wadin’.” “You comin’, Mose?” asked Lord. “Sure he is,” Maxine said, “If he don’t I’ll biite ’is goddam ear off.” She put her lips next to his ear, then gently pushed her tongue into it, exploring its ribs and channels. “Come on, honey. We won’t keep ya out too late.” “I could use little snort of Canadian,” said Mose. They were driving Sadie’s car, a black ’48 Ford two-door. Lord drove, using most of both lanes, emitting an occasional groan, Sadie sitting snuggled under his right arm. Sadie’s head slipped down behind the seat back and out of sight. As she disappeared, Maxine caught Moses’ wrist in her hand and brought it around her shoulder, turning her face to him and touching his lips lightly with the tip of her tongue. The slickness of the move surprised Moses, and gave him an immediate erection. As they kissed, he put one hand inside her blouse and the other on his crotch to straighten his swollen cock. “Ooh, are you hurtin’, sweetie?” Maxine said. “Let Mama fix that.” She pulled his zipper tab down and encircled him with her thumb and forefinger, surprised at the thickness. Squeezing lightly, she kissed him again before wrapping both hands around his shaft. He slipped back in the seat as she bent to take it, a little at a time, into her mouth. Squeezing it rhythmically, she teased the tip with rapid flicks of her tongue. Moses lay back against the seat while she continued for the short time it took for him to come in a powerful gush, which she swallowed in quick little gulps, lips distended over the shaft, as fast as it came. She sat up to kiss him again, sharing with him the come that lingered in her mouth. She sat back, looking at him with satisfaction. “You OK, honey?” Precious Lord 239

“Just fine, Sweetie,” said Moses, lying back in the seat. “How about you?” “Lovely. I rilly enjoyed that.” “So did we,” giggled Sadie. “I fixed the mirror so Nellie could see. Hey, here we are.” They turned off the highway and into a gravel drive. The drive led uphill, past a large one-story building and into a parking lot. Lord pulled the Ford into a spot at the rear of the lot. “Somebody gimme me some money,” said Maxine, pushing the seatback forward and reaching for the door handle. Moses found a ten dollar bill and gave it to her. “Thanks, Hon,” she said. “CC OK with evrybidy?” As she high-heeled it up the gravelly grade to the club’s back door, Lord, his arm draped across the back of the front seat, looked back smiling at Moses. “Mose,” he said. “Reach up here and feel these titties.” “What?” “Reach over and feel Sadie’s sweet little titties,” said Lord. “They’re the niicest ones in Bisque. How come they so hard, Baby?” Sadie looked slyly at Mose. “They’ve just always been that way,” she said. “Wanta see, Mose?” She, or Lord, had already unfastened her brassiere; it lay in the valley of her breasts as she opened her blouse. The breasts themselves, of medium size with pale nipples the size of half-dollars, stood out, firm and symmetrical, sloping gently from her clavicles. “Feel,” she whispered. Moses, his hand turned palm up, put his fingers under the globe of her right breast and lifted it gently. “Very nice indeed,” he said, extending his other hand under the left breast. Moving to the nipples, he squeezed them simultaneously, gently, using three fingers and his thumbs, in a light, fluttering motion. “Does that feel good?” “Um-hm. Do it a little harder.” She put her back against the dashboard for support as Moses continued. “Aren’t they somethin’?” said Lord. “Yes they are,” agreed Moses, by now very much into the rhythm. 240 The Rough English Equivalent

“Y’all hush,” breathed Sadie, who had moved her hand to her crotch. “I’m gonna come.” Her eyes stared, unfocused, at the Ford’s gray headliner as her breathing grew shallower. “Twist ’em!” she said through her teeth. Moses obliged, with a gentle twist of the nipples in opposite directions. “Oooh,” she said, an octave higher. “Really twist ’em! Hard!” Shifting his grip to the globes themselves, he turned them what he was sure a quarter of their circumference and held them there, squeezing hard. “Aaaaahhhh!” “What the hayul are y’all doin’?” Maxine, gripping a quart of Canadian Club in its tightly twisted paper bag, advanced rapidly on the car. Sticking the bottle through the window, she glanced at Sadie, who was buttoning her blouse with Lord’s help. “They playin’ doctor with you, Baby?” “Um-hm,” said Sadie. “Cured me, too.” “Get in, Maxine,” said Lord. “let’s go.” “Wait a minute, Nellie,” said Maxine, “I gotta piss.” She squatted beside the car, and did. Still adjusting her drawers, she climbed into the back seat. “Damn! Good thang I had m’high heel shoes on! Hey, honey. J’ya miss me?” 0920 Friday 7 October 1951: Moses’ half-open eyes scanned a new ceiling. Maxine lay beside him, an outstretched elbow supporting the hand on which her head rested. She used the forefinger of the other one to trace delicate figure 8s around his nipples. “Mornin,” she said, bending to kiss him. How you feelin’?” “Hi. Not so bad. What time is it?” “Little past nine. You hungry?” “No. A beer’d be good, though.” “What a giiy,” she said, getting up. “Hope I got one.” They shared a Miller High Life on either side of more love-making. Maxine lay on her side behind him, one hand on top of his shoulder, massaging the trapezious muscle. It felt, she thought, like Precious Lord 241 squeezing new rope. “How long you been around here, anyway?” she asked. “About five years.” “Damn. And we’re just gettin’ around to meetin’ up. Guess we just go to different places. I aint never been in that beer joint before last niit.” “Have you always lived here?” “No, honey. I’m from Alabama. Huntsville, up north. I come down here the year after my sister did. She and her husband live on a farm–ranch–they raise cattle, out south ’a town.” “What’s their name?” “Bishop. They call ’im Big Boy. He played ball over at Georgia ’way back yonder. Met my sister there, and married her right outa school. They moved to the farm, his daddy’s place. The old man started raisin’ beef cattle out there amongst all these cotton-choppers right after th’ first war, and got filthy rich a-doin’ it. He died back just before th’ big war, an’ Big Boy took it over. The twins was three, four years old, and runnin’ my sister crazy. They’ve got some kinda thang makes ’em act real crazy if they get too far from each other. Liike they’us almost one person, but in two bodies. Know what I mean?” “No.” “Anyway, she ’us s’lonesome she jist begged me to come down. I didn’t much want to–I didn’t like this flat land all that much–but Big Boy said he’d set me up in my own shop, so I come on. I couldn’t turn ’at deal down.” “I guess not. Now that I think about it, he’s the guy that bought my old car. He is a big boy. Saw ’im the other day; the damn thing’s got a permanent lean toward the driver’s side now.” “He breaks ’em all down like that. Weighs closeta four hunderd pounds. So that white Buick’s yore ole car? He don’t drive it that much any more. Th’ girls drive it around out t’air on th’ ranch all th’ time now.” “So do you and your sister still see a lot of each other?” 242 The Rough English Equivalent

“Oh, yeah,” she said, rolling onto her back, stretching. Them girls’re still runnin’ her crazy. They’re fifteen now, an’ wantin’ to drive all over th’ place, now they got learner’s liicense. Sissy’s got all she can do ta keep up with ’em. Takes ’em to th’ doctor over in Atlanta twiist a month. I’m payin’ this little customer of mine, Evvie, who’s got a driiver’s liicense, ta ride around with ’em some on Sad’dy, just ta get ’em outa her hair for awhile.” “Evvie. Evvie Summers?” “Yeah–Oh, Yeah! She works for you, don’t she? I’m just puttin’ this together. You’re Mr. K! She’s mentioned you now an’ then. Ain’t that somethin’!” “Evvie was the first person I hired after I bought the Ritz. She’s a lot smarter than she lets on. Well, anyway; you feelin’ better about this flat land by now?” She reached across him for the beer. “Better than ever, sweetie.”

It was a short walk from Maxine’s back to Ribeye’s, where Moses’ car was parked across the street. As he bent to put his key in the door, he heard a whistle. He looked up to see Ribeye standing in the doorway, waving him over. “What’s up, Rib?” he asked as they stepped inside. “That giiy ’at ’us in here with Lord last niit. He come back after y’all left.” “He did? “Yeah. Looked liike hell, but still had lovin’ on his mind. Guess he went to th’ ho-tel and cleaned hisself up. He ’us surpriised ya’lld done gone.” “What’s his name? Mickey?” “Yeah, I think so. Said he works over’t ’at Savannah River plant. Some kinda guard boss ’er sump’m.” “Well, Nels says he really likes catﬁsh. That’s a long drive just for dinner.” Precious Lord 243

“Well, like I said, he probly thinks hit’s a short drive if they’s a little poonfish thrown in.” “Well, I guess he’ll be back,” said Moses. “Anybody likes fish that much.” 1920 Wednesday 12 October 1951: He was back. He sat at a table near the Bisque Café’s cash register, chatting conspiratorially with Nelson Lord. Even in mid-October, the café’s fans still dusted into the warm air of early evening. Seeing Moses come in, Lord waved him over. “Mose,” he said, his grin widening, “comeer a minute.” As Moses approached, the man still only known as Mickey extended his hand. “This here’s Mickey Porter,” Lord said. “You almost met him last week, but he had to leave in a hurry.” “Yeah, I noticed,” said Moses, shaking the man’s hand and joining their laughter. “But I heard you made a comeback. That’s a sure way to build respect down on Eighth Street.” Looking down at him, Moses saw what he’d later realize was the sheen of lunacy oscillating deep in Porter’s eyes, which were bright blue and surprisingly clear. Set in a balding head shining with tiny sweat beads, they moved almost constantly in a gentle roll, illuminating the ironic grin that widened his ruddy face an extra couple of millimeters. “Hell, I jus’ needed me a little drinkin’ room. I ate sa’ many of this ole boy’s cat tother niit, there jus’ wont no place fer beer ta go. Had ta say ’bye to them baweys first. An’ I miit justa made th’ same mistake agin.” “Them cat’ll stay down all right,” Lord said, “‘long as you don’t confuse ’em too much. Sadie had th’ butt end of a fifth of gin in th’ car, and he killed it between here and Rib’s. Ain’t no fish wants to swim too long in hard likker. Anyway,” he said to Moses, “we’re goin’ partyin’ in a little bit, soon’s it gets so I can leave. Wanta come along?” 244 The Rough English Equivalent

“I’ll leave it to you boys tonight; I’m still restin’ up from last week. But if you still have some of them cat left, I’ll have some and sit here and visit with Mickey ’til you’re ready to leave. If you can stand to watch me eat ’em, that is,” he said, looking at Porter. “Sho. Sitcher ass down, podnuh.” “Praise th’ lard,” Lord said over his shoulder. Moses sat across from Porter, continuing to size him up as he stirred sugar into a large glass of the café’s presweetened tea. His bulk was accentuated by the red floral-pattern shirt that he wore with the tail out. Moses figured him to be a little better than six feet and two- forty. “Rib was tellin’ me you’re from over at th’…” The blue eyes slowed to a stop, fixing him with a rare steady gaze. “They call it th’ Savannah River Project. That’s about all I can say about it. P’ticly with my job.” “Whatta ya do over there?” “Security.” “That’s gotta be some job. Makes sense that you’d like to get this far away from it now and then.” Porter blew out his cheeks, spraying a mist of tea as his eyes rolled. “Yeah, it is. I oughta be used to it by now. Hell, I ’us raised up over in Spartanburg. But gettin’ away’s just part of it. I’d drive a lot farther than this for a messa Old Nellie’s catfish.” “It’s the best I ever had. And on top a’that, he’ll party witcha ’til hell freezes over. What you guys doin’ tonight?” Dunno. Maybe get wid ’em same two from last week. Or maybe some young stuff, if they show up before we leave. One time ’is little fuckin’ looteant tole me, ’Sarge, there’s survival fuckin’, passion fuckin’, horny fuckin’, an’ sport fuckin’–but the greatest of these is adventure fuckin’.’ An’ ’at damn Nellie’s got ’em treed all over town,” he laughed, his eyes once again rolling free. “I’ve heard a little about the site,” Moses told him. “Sounds like a hell of a perimeter to guard.” Porter’s fixed stare returned, focused on Moses. “How you know?” Precious Lord 245

“What?” “How you know it’s a hell of a perimeter to guard?” “Oh, you hear about things; like a cleared-off spot the size of Texas across the river.” “Where j’you hear it?” “Hell; that story’s all over town; I’ve heard it lots of places, but I couldn’t tell you where I first heard it.” Porter cast his eyes around the café; they became visibly larger as he brought them back to stare fixedly at Moses. “Was you in the service?” “Yes, I was.” “What branch?” “Navy.” “Rank?” “Aviation Machinist’s Mate, Third Class.” Porter’s face relaxed, his eyes continuing their lazy, elliptical orbits. “You oughta know this. There’s nuthin’–an’ I mean nuthin’– more important than what’s goin’ on over there. We’ll live or die dependin’ on how secure we keep our nook-e-lar secrets. I been in that business for quite awhile now. Pretty much from th’ start. An’ I’m over at SRP now. Shift supervisor in th’ security department.” Porter’s expansive forehead gleamed afresh as he drove his point home. “What I’m sayin’ is this. We all got a duty ta do everthang we can to make sure our nook-e-lar secrets’re kept. I do my job the best I can ever day, an’ you an’ everbody else around here needs to do y’all’s. Th’ more you put SRP totally out of yer mind th’ more you’ll hep us stay ahead of th’ Reds. That’s what this’s all about; keepin’ our side so far ahead a’their side that they stay scared shitless a’what we can do to ’em that they keep ’ere damn bombers in ’ere own friggin’ airspace. That make sense?” “Yeah, it makes sense,” said Moses as a plate of hot, fragrant catfish slid under his nose. He wagged a finger over them in Porter’s direction. “Want one?” 246 The Rough English Equivalent

Porter hesitated momentarily. “Naw, I bed’ not. You go ahead. But listen. You was military, an’ you know how impawt’nt security is. I’m gonna ask ya to do sump’m. Not jus’ fu’ me, not jus’ fu’ you, but fu’ya cuntry. OK?” “Sure,” said Moses, chewing. “What’s that?” “Jus’ avoid talkin’ about th’ SRP facil’ty. But if ya hafta talk about it atall–an’ I hope y’won’t–jus’ call it SRP. OK? Not, fer God’s sake, ’th’ bomb plant,’ er anythang like ’at. I caint tell ya much about th’ operations overair; it’s all classafied. But I will tellya this–bomb- makin’ ain’t no part of it.” “That’s little enough to ask,” Moses allowed. “Guess you’re glad to be back home again.” “What? Oh yeah. I am. Guess ya hafta get away from a place like South C’lina fer awhile before ya can ’preeshate it. My momma ’n daddy’s dead, but I still got a buncha folks up in Spartanburg. Funny thang, though. That guy from over’n Aishville, Tom Wolfe? He wrote a book called ‘Ya Caint Go Home Agin.’ He’us riit, too, if he means that it ain’t never no way th’ same–least not fer me. My folks sho as hell treat me differnt. It’s hardta pin down, an’ when I try they tell me it’s me that’s changed. M’first cousin, a ole boy I ’us raised up with, we’us settin’ on th’ porch at m’grandaddy’s las’ month. He don’t know about what duty I’ve had, ’cause I caint talk about it, it’s all classified–he says to me, shakin’ his head back ’n forth like he’us preachin’–he says ‘Mickey, what in th’ hayul happened ta you?’ So I say ‘Whacha mean?’ an’ he says ‘It’s liike you aint here sometimes. I mean when y’are here. I called yer name jus’ now, three-four times, ’fore you answered me. Iowno what they’ve got you adoin’ down’air, but it aint adoin’ you no good.’ Ya know, ya git tireda hearin’ that, even if it’s true. It’s got me where I’da whole lot rather jus’ come on down here an’ blow off some steam, steada lis’nen to that shit on m’time off.” “Yeah,” said Moses, “I guess people that’ve never done military duty have a hard time understanding what a job it can be. Particu- Precious Lord 247 larly your relatives. My mom and dad’re dead too, but I don’t think they ever understood what I was doing, or what I had to deal with. Civilians’re just in another world.” “That’s it!” Porter said, his voice dropping as the luminous blue eyes looked around the café once more. “They are! It’s another fuckin’ world fer them! They caint possibly understand what the hell it’s liike ta know what’s goin on–an’ what could go on, if them fuckin’ reds had their way. Them’a my kin that ain’t still on th’ land’re punchin’ th’ timeclock at th’ cotton mill, ain’t been nowhere an’ ain’t seen shit. How th’ hell can ya expect anythang else? Listen, anybody that hasn’t seen the power’v nook-e-lar fission for therself caint imagine what we’re dealin’ with.” “Well,” said Moses, that includes most of the world–and me.” Porter looked around the café’s perimeter once again, then riveted Moses with a conspiratorial gaze as he bent toward him. “I ’us at Los Alamos, when they set off what they called ‘th’ gadget’, th’ first nook- e-lar explosion. I had guard duty at th’ Omega Site one niit about a month later, 21 August ’45, when this guy Ragland, one of th’ scien- tists, come in ta th’ lab ta work. He ’us one ub’m doin’ sump’m they called ‘criticality experiments.’ They had these little bricks a’metal– damn heavy fer ther size, th’ way they handled ’em–one ob’m’d fit in th’ palm a’yer hand–and they’d lissen to th’ radiation counters while they stacked ’em up, one at a time. They ’us tryin’ ta make this balla ‘49 metal’ inside th’ stack do what they called ‘goin’ critical.’ “He showed up around 2130. He said ‘hey’ an’ went straight over ta th’ assembly bench. He went over ta th’ vault ’n took out th’ balla 49 metal. He started stackin’ bricks an’ th’ instruments commenced ta clickin’. I ’us sittin’ with m’back to ’im; wudn’t but a few minutes ’til I heard a ‘clunk’ and th’ whole wall in fronta me lit up blue. I wheeled m’chair around and saw Ragland just a’standin’ ’air, ’is arms hangin’ down by ’is side, limpliike. I hollered at ’im, “What th’ hell happened?” 248 The Rough English Equivalent

“He said ‘She went critical, Sarge.’ He started takin’ down th’ blocks’n stackin’ ’em over’t ’th siide. ‘I need some help.’” I started out to alert th’ duty officer, an’ ran inta this gal, a lab assistant, on th’ way in. ‘What happened?’ she ast me, an’ I tole ’er what I knew. She said ‘I’m taking him to the infirmary.’ I ran out ta th’ duty office an’ briefed th’ duty officer. Pretty soon th’ place was a fuckin’ madhouse. They hauled my ass off ta th’ base hospital; they me there for a coupla days, then gimme liit duty ’til October.” “What happened to Ragland?” asked Moses. “Shit, he’us dead inside a month. They let me in t’see ’im once, an’ it’us all I could do ta stay in’air fer a coupla minutes’r so. He’us awake, but swole up like a balloon and hurtin’ bad. I said ‘Hey, Doc,’ an’ he looked over at me an’ saw who it was. He smiled, best as he could, an’ said ‘Hi, Sarge. Sorry.’ He’us dead a week later.” “And you’ve been OK since then?” “Oh, yeah. They transferred me up ta th’ Presidio, in Frisco, an’ gimme anuther striipe. Then downere ta SRP las’ month.” “That’s some story, Mickey. I’ll keep it to myself,” said Moses. “I would’na toldja if I didn’t thinkya would,” said Mickey. “I caint talk ta just anybody about it, see. But you-” “I’ll sit on it. For sure,” said Moses. “What’s amazing to me is that you’ve still got the stomach for it.” Porter’s blue eyes turned into agates. “Fer whut?” “For nuclear–uh, research.” “I tole you,” he shouted. “What’s goin’ on at SRP’s classified, gotdammit, an’ I aint discussin’ it, widju er anybidy else. I’d liike ta hope they’d be some sensa security in th’ civilyun popyalashun. Miit as well expect ta find a platoona virgins down ’ere at ’at slop chute we’us at ’tother niit.” “Mose.” It was Reba, grimfaced. “Yes, Reba.” “Are you leavin’ any time soon?” “I was just about to, as a matter of fact.” Precious Lord 249

“Then I’d appreciate you takin’ this gentleman with you, before I hafta ask him to leave.” Porter looked sleepily up at her. “You know, sister, I’d marry you just so I could beat you up.” Then his gaze shifted to the kitchen doors. “Yunder comes Nellie!” And, thought Moses as he regarded Reba’s momentary paralysis, not a moment too soon. 0835 Thursday 1 November 1951: “Morning, Mose,” said Bruce Goode, opening the door to his ofﬁce and smiling broadly. “Nice to see you; our paths haven’t crossed for quite awhile.” He waved Moses into the chair at the corner of his desk. “How’s the beverage business?” “Fine, just ﬁne, Bruce; everything jake in the world of legalities?” “Couldn’t be better, thanks,” said Goode, his broad smile widening. “Well, I guess it could get a little better, depending on what I can do for you this morning.” “I need a will.” “Yes, always a good idea to keep your will up to date.” “I’m not talkin’ about updating anything; there’s nothing to update. I need a brand new will, since I’ve never had one.” Goode’s eyes widened slightly as he pushed back his chair; the weighty package slid back on well-oiled wheels and bumped the heavy-laden book case behind him, sitting him abruptly upright. “Well,” he said, “Looks like we’ve got the proverbial clean sheet of paper to work with.” Pulling one of two Parker 51 pens from his onyx-based desk set, he scribbled something at the top of the top sheet of the fresh legal pad that gleamed canary yellow in the morning sun. “Why don’t we start with a list of your assets. Did you bring along a list of them, by chance?” “No, I didn’t; don’t really think it’ll matter if I’m leavin’ everything to one person, will it?” 250 The Rough English Equivalent

Goode’s lower lip protruded a little while his eyes remained wide. “No, I don’t suppose so, but with wills it’s a good idea to be as specific as possible. We can fill them in later to whatever degree’s necessary. Who’s the lucky legatee?” “Jack Mason,” said Moses. “I see. Well, we’ll need to provide for the period of time between now and the time that he reaches legal majority. Should you, God forbid, die before he reaches legal age, the property that you leave to him will have to be placed in a trust until he does.” “Bruce, I’m more than happy to leave those details in your hands.” “Mose, a trust must be administered by a trustee. You’ll need to give some thought as to who you’d like that to be.” “Moses looked at him for a moment, then glanced out the window and as he said, “His mother’ll be fine.” Goode looked back at him momentarily, with an air of being about to say something and, having thought better of it, said something else. “We’ll get a draft ready for you to look over; just as a starting point, you understand. I’ll call you in a week or so. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you could get up a list of your assets for us to plug in there; we’gn have it picked up whenever you’re ready…” “OK,” Moses agreed.” I’ll call you in a couple days.” chapter 15 s Jus’ Rub On It

0810 Saturday 8 October 1951: Moses, his back to the door, turned turned toward the scuff of Jack’s approaching bare feet on the hall carpet. “Hey, shitbird,” he said, sitting the percolator down on the kitchen counter. “Yo, shitbuzzard,” yawned Jack as he pulled a chair out to take a seat at the kitchen table. “Good game last night. Four catches.” “Yeah. I coulda had more if they’da left me in.” “Well,” Moses said, sliding a cup of coffee in front of him, “you made the best of the time you were in. That one down in the ﬂat was really nice. Right at twenty yards, I’d say, and over your offside shoulder.” “Yeah. The play’s called 15 Out, but Ricky and I’ve been doin’ that one since Mr. Harris taught it to us in sixth grade.” “You and he are doin’ a hell of a job as sophomores,” said Moses. “and you’ve got a lot of the season left. If you weren’t playin’ behind a senior, you’d be ﬁrst string for what you did last night. Ricky too. He played most of th’ second half as it was.” “Yeah, he did. I’m glad we went into th’ second half ahead 23 to nothing, so Coach put ’im in early. He didn’t screw up once.”

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“Don’t forget, he had number 81 to throw to. Foldberg woulda been prouda you.” Jack grinned at hearing the name. “Dan Foldberg. All-America, Army, 1950. Whatta guy. Wonder if he’s in Korea, right now?” “Wouldn’t be surprised,” said Moses. “But wherever he is, he’d love to know about what you did while you were wearin’ his number last night.” “I hope so. Doubt I’ll ever be in his league, to say nothin’ of Davis or Blanchard.” “Hey! Army’s had some great teams, but even Foldberg couldn’t get ’em by Navy in ’50.” Jack laughed. “Yeah, that was the high point of the year for you and Gene Debs. 14 to 2. Y’all had ’way too much fun that day; I had to drive ’im home, remember?” “Yeah, I sure do. That was th’ day he spilled th’ beans to you about us shootin’ up Chili Dog’n them.” “Oh, yeah! What a story–we haven’t seen th’ Klan around here since. Pissed me off that y’all didn’t tell me.” “I was goin’ to tell you later. Tell you th’ truth, I didn’t know how long a war I’d started with those fuckin’ idiots, and I didn’t wanta get you involved with somethin’ that mighta had a nasty side to it. Hell,– ol’ Cat Dander was in with that gaggle a’goons.” “Yeah, I know,” Jack said, standing up to reﬁll his cup. “Scuttlin’ around th’ lobby with angry-lookin scorch-spots on his ratty-ass head. Th’ whole story was all over town in a coupla days, and everybody knew damn well that you had sump’m to do with it. Nobody guessed th’ bazooka part, though. I bet he was fartin’ sump’m besides ‘shave and a haircut’ that day. That was really some job. You and Foldberg’re my two Jewish heroes. So far.” he added. “Well, I’m glad you said ‘so far,’ buddy. Because when you add the ‘Jewish’ adjective, Lieutenant Dan Foldberg and I take serious back seats to a lot of people. David Ben-Gurion, for instance.” “Oh, yeah. Israel’s head guy, right?” Jus’ Rub On It 253

“Right,” said Moses with a big grin. “You’ve been readin’ the papers. You know why there’s an Israel in the first place?” “Just that the Germans killed all those Jews during the war, and that most everybody thought that the Jews should be able to go back and live in their original homeland.” “Good, as far as it goes. But here’s what you probably don’t know. The Jews’ve been trying to get back to their homeland of Israel since before I was born, and Ben-Gurion’s been at the heart of that process for all that time. He’s been an advocate, a criminal, a spy, a soldier, a politician and now a statesman. In fact, He’s the founder of Israel. That’s my idea of a hero.” “Mine, too. I just thought the whole thing came out of the war,” said Jack. “It did; you’re just thinkin’ of the wrong war. Their war’s been going on for a long time, and it’s not over. The League of Nations gave England sump’m called a mandate over Palestine at the end of World War I. They partitioned Palestine into Arab and Jewish states. England gave up the mandate back in 1948, after the Jewish State was declared, and the war between Arabs and Jews got goin’ almost immediately. The United Nations came in as mediator, to very little effect. Because Ben-Gurion saw to it that Israel had a serious army, they got control of a fair amount of Arab land. And they’re still fightin’, every day, to keep it.” “They must be some kinda people. You’re lucky to be one.” Moses laughed. “A lot of people wouldn’t see it that way, but I guess you know that.” “Hell, Mose, a lotta people’re fulla shit. Far as I’m concerned, I’ve learned a lot more from you than I have at school.” He looked out the window as a flock of geese swept over the house, headed for a landing on the pond. “And you’ve seen me play more football than my Dad ever will, which is none.” He continued to look out the window, after the geese were gone, fighting his tears. 254 The Rough English Equivalent

Moses busied himself, ﬁrst at the sink, transferring coffee from the percolator to a pitcher, then opening the refrigerator door and putting it inside. By the time the door closed, Jack was on his feet and heading back down the hall. Minutes later, he was back with a question. “Do you know what a fack-ade is?” “A what?” Moses asked, relieved at the boy’s change of mood. “A fack-ade. See here?” He had a volume of Moses’ encyclopedia, open to the entry on Buckingham Palace. He read as he put a ﬁngernail under the word in question. “Built by the Duke of Buckin’ham in 1703. Residence of British rulers since 1837. Located in Westminster metropolitan bor- ough, London, England, near St. James’s Park. Purchased by George III in 1761. Remodeled in 1825 by John Nash; the eastern fack-ade was added in 1847.” “Oh,” said Moses with a grin, “Façade; that means the front. Comes from a French word, so it’s pronounced ‘fuh-sahd.’ Some- times, when somebody’s putting up a front, people’ll say that they’re ‘hiding behind a façade.’ Whatcha doin’, homework?” Jack’s answering grin had a sardonic twist. “Naw. I just woke up thinkin’ about Buckin’ham Palace. Hell, yes, homework. A paper, really. For my History class; on government in England. I’ve got ’til the end of the month, but I thought I might get a start on it with your encyclopedia. I’m not meetin’ Ricky’n them ’til one.” “What’re y’all doin’?” “Just gonna take a little ride on th’ bikes.” “Looks like there’s Whizzers’re all over town these days,” said Moses. “There’s a bunch,” Jack agreed. “ ’Ol Roy’s business has sure picked up since he started sellin’ ’em. I ’preeshate you lettin’ me keep mine out here. The less Mom sees it, the better.” “Yeah, Moms’re like that. Hell, it’s just a small step up from a bicycle. You don’t even need a driver’s license.” Jus’ Rub On It 255

“They’re really fun, though. And since I already had my spring- fork Schwinn to put the motor in, it didn’t cost near as much as a Cushman or anything. Definitely worth a hundred and ten. And you helpin’ me puttin’ it together saved me twenty-five.” “Glad you’re enjoyin’ it, pal. How’s it runnin’?” “Just fine. I’m gonna drop in a new plug and check the points before I leave. But I’m gonna jump on Buckin’ham Palace for awhile. You fixin’ breakfast?” Smiling as he turned back to the sink, Moses said, “Yeah, I’ll call ya. Go get ’em, Bud.” As they finished their breakfast of waffles and bacon, a particular favorite of Jack’s, he leaned back in his chair and blew out his cheeks. “Wish we could come back here to spend th’ niit. This Sunday mornin’ routine over’t Ricky’s is gettin’ a little old.” “His folks won’t make an exception to him bein’ in church every Sunday?” asked Moses as he refilled their coffee cups. “Hmp,” Jack grunted. “ ’Bout as much chancea that happenin’ as th’ sun comin’ up in th’ west. It’s like they’re afraid he’ll run outa God if he don’t get topped up once a week. I can’t see it; maybe I’m missin’ sump’m, I dawnno.” “I’m sure they think they’re doin’ right by ’im,” said Moses. “It’s probably what their parents insisted on, too. Most of what people do about God’s what they were told to do as kids by the minigods–their parents.” “Was that the way it was with you?” Jack asked him. “Pretty much. My papa’s people were Catholic, but he was the typical academic of his time; he looked down his nose at most of the world, but particularly at religious people. His favorite text was the essays of Thomas Huxley, who did a lot to popularize the views of Charles Darwin. You’ve no doubt heard of ’im.” “Oh, yeah,” said Jack. The evolution guy.” “That’s th’ one. They called ’im ‘Darwin’s Bulldog,’ and ol’ Dad loved ’im. ‘The unmeetable challenge of the twentieth century,’ he 256 The Rough English Equivalent used to say, ’is to replace discredited myth-based gods, and the guilt- fed religions that perpetuate them, with something superior to these so-called belief systems. An enlightened world will have no patience with irrational answers to rational questions. Humanity itself must provide the inspiration for society’s evolution.’” “Wow! He didn’t beat around th’ bush, did he?” “Oh, there’s more; I must’ve heard it two, three times a week. ‘This objective will not be reached as long as humanity remains far too abundant a commodity. Short-sighted leaders who are afraid to confront the need to reduce population growth will bring the world to a gradual and tragic standstill.’” “Couldn’t call him an optimist, couldja?” “No. I called him ‘Herr Boss,’ which sorta tickled ’im and pissed ’im off at th’ same time. And my mama came from the kind of Jewish background that didn’t have much truck with God beyond a polite nod at the various holy days as they came and went. As a kid, I asked him why most of the people that lived around us went to church, and we didn’t. ‘Superstition,’ he’d say. ‘A total waste of time.’ And that was it for him. Case closed.” “So that’s how you look at it too?” “Yeah, pretty much. Guess I’d say, like Huxley, if you can’t see it or measure it somehow, it’s not worth worryin’ about. Meanwhile, the church bandies the Holy Trinity about, and th’ faithful respond with th’ Bisque Trifecta–low self-esteem, delayed gratification and parenthood–early and frequent. Long as that goes on, I don’t see how people have a chance in hell of gettin’ a handle on what life’s about.” “All this hootin’ an’ hollerin’ about God an’ what he wants us to do about this an’ that.” “Well, it comes down mostly to fear. Most people don’t like to think about dyin’, and more so not havin’ a nice place to go when they do. And that’s one thing every religion I know anything about guarantees. When you die, you go someplace else, good, bad or indifferent. And generally, the closer you ‘cleave’ to the rules of what- Jus’ Rub On It 257 ever religion that’s under consideration, the nicer your new destination’s likely to be. Plus, it’s an ego shot for whatever priesthood’s involved. Easy to imagine what the first caveman priesthood had to say to each other about gettin’ th’ parishioners cranked up; ‘Hey–let’s tell ’em they’ll get it all in this place, Heaven, after they die, as long as they agree how bad they’ve been and kick a tenth of their bearskins into the–let’s call it, umm, church, then their, uh, spirits’ll live really well, forever, in Heaven!’ Makes th’ old saw ‘Whacha dawno won’t hurt ya’ ring a little hollow, huh?” Jack chuckled. “So you don’t believe we go anywhere when we die?” “Nowhere but back to Mother Earth, sooner or later. Don’t see much evidence to th’ contrary.” “That’s pretty much what Mom says, too. Sometimes. And if there is a god–does that mean you need to worship it? Why would it care? So why are so many people religious?” “Or who’re pleased to say that they are? Th’ number of truly religious people in th’ world who’re capable of holdin’ on to true and abidin’ self-delusion’s a pretty small fraction of that bunch. For th’ majority, I’ve got no better answer than what I said a minute ago: just th’ simple human fear of dyin’. Unless it’s sump’m that scares a lot of people more than dyin’.” “What’s that?” Jack asked, eyes shiny with the search for truth. “Hell, son. Bein’ different.” 1405 Saturday 8 October 1951: “Hurry, Di, ’fore she changes her mind!” Dolores Bishop’s long legs propelled her through the front door into the warm Fall afternoon, her twin sister at her heels. She ran across the porch and down the steps, snatching open the white car’s driver’s door. Diana, unhappy at being outmaneuvered, slid with clinched teeth onto the front seat from the other side. Dolores stepped on the starter as she closed the door, pulled the gearshift lever down into low, and got the car mov- 258 The Rough English Equivalent ing down the driveway. Unconsciously matching her gum-chewing rhythm to the wheels’ skrunch-skrunch over the pea-gravel, she glanced with a wide-eyed grin at her twin sister. “I still don’t believe it!” she said as they turned north out of the driveway toward Bisque, the big straight-eight’s torque building implacably under her right foot. We’re drivin’ to town, just you an’ me!” “Damn these learners’ licenses anyway. Be a lot better if we could just cruise around by ourselves, steada’ havin’ to pick Evvie up,” said Diana. “Just ’cause she’s got a license. Any boys we run into’ll spend all their time lookin’ at her chest.” “We promised Mama we’d go straight to pick her up, and that’s what we’re gonna do. If that’s all we have to do to get out cruisin’ in this ole car, Evvie can lean out the window and shake them titties in the breeze if she wants to.” “That’s what we’d have to do to get some attention, with her along,” said Diana. “I will if you will,” Dolores said with a grin, not taking her eyes off the road. Evelyn Summers lived in a small house near Bradenton Mills, one of many virtually identical clapboard bungalows that the textile company built in the thirties to house its workers. She stepped out onto the front porch within seconds of Dolores’ drumming out “shave-and-a-haircut” on the horn. At nineteen, she dressed to command the attention of every post- pubescent male who crossed her path. Her shiny, straight brown hair fell in a heavy mass onto the shoulders of a teal-blue sweater, which, with no blouse underneath it, embraced the contours of firm, black- lace-brassiere-constrained adolescent breasts the size and shape of fancy-grade tangerines. A tiny football player, suspended in mid- stride from a fine-linked, gold-colored chain, shot a stiff-arm into her cleavage. The view presented by the sweater’s scooped neckline, its effect diminished only slightly by a scattershot of tiny skin erup- tions over the hemispheres that continued up over her neck and face, Jus’ Rub On It 259 promised a hard tweak to small-town sensibilities. Her tan wool skirt, cut modishly long, split well past the knee on the right side, dropped down over black mesh stockings whose seam ran from panty-girdle clips into ballerina slippers. She opened the car’s back door and looked inside. “Godamighty!” she breathed, gauging the distance from the folded jump seats on her right to the back seat on her left. “What a playpen!” Climbing in, she settled herself on the white car’s dove-gray upholstery, extending her arms to stroke it with flattened palms, exhaling a small sigh that pushed the scent of her perfume forward to the twins. “You sure you can drive this thang?” “We’re here, ain’t we?” said Diana, twisting around to look at her. “We’ve been drivin’ it all over the ranch for a year; we’re way past ready.” “Well, then, drive on, honey; I’ll just lay back on this di-van and see if I can get over that ball game last niit. Winnin’ a game, after this losin’s gone on forever–it’us tough on us pore cheerleaders when them boys’d just go out an’ get beat, game in an’ game out. I’m glad I’m not doin’ it no more–by th’ second half, even if we’us ta win, th’ crowd prob’ly won’t yell, ’less you ‘end up’ after every cheer, and show ’em yer cute little asses.” “Sounds like fun to me, ’specially if they’re gonna win now an’ then,” said Diana. “We’re tryin’ out next year. Maybe you can help us out–we need to practice showing ’em our cute little asses.” “Sure; I guess so,” Evvie said. Good lands, she thought, when Maxine said she’d gimme ten bucks to ride around with these kids on Saturday afternoon, I didn’t bargain for no “big sister” bidness. But it’s more’n I make in a niit of sellin’ tickets at the Winston, and their daddy’s loaded. I guess I could get to know me a rich boy or two if I went to their friends’ parties. It’s not like I’m that much older. And they seem like they could be kinda wild if they got the chance. “I can get you girls all set to get picked next year, but you’ll have to work with me. It’ll take some tiime.” 260 The Rough English Equivalent

“How would we do it?” asked Dolores, as she turned right on Main Street. “Well, we could practice once a week for an hour. Some time when I’m not workin’. And I can tell you a few thangs about gettin’ friendly with th’ junior cheerleaders, who’ll be seniors then. They all have a vote on who the new ones’ll be.” Maxine’s gonna hafta pay me more than she figured, thought Evvie. But she’ll get it the same place that she got this ten; from these kids’ mama. Since they’re sisters and all. “That sounds great to me,” said Diana, pulling down the sun visor to peer into the vanity mirror mounted on its back side. “Wonder who’ll be at th’ Dog House?” “Well, we’ll know in just a minute,” said Dolores as the car approached the top of the hill at Main and Fifteenth streets. As they reached the intersection, the girls all looked to the left at a couple of dozen cars parked in a cratered, gravel-surfaced lot. The lot sloped up toward a small building sitting under translucent red light bulbs that spelled out DON’S DOG HOUSE. Dolores put her arm out the window to signal a stop. They began identifying cars as they waited for a break in the oncoming traffic that would let her turn into the lot. “There’s Gary Sartain’s ’48 Mercury,” Evvie said as they turned into the lot. “They say he’s had it up to a hunderd and fifteen or somethin’.” “What’s he doin’ now, anyway?” asked Dolores. “He’s been outa school for a couple of years.” “Anybody he can, I reckon,” Evvie said with the faintest of smiles. Dolores pulled the car into a vacant spot under a big oak tree. A slight negro boy in a white coat and paper Dog House hat saw them parking and walked out to the car. “Whachoo ladies gonna have today?” he asked, smiling as he looked the white car over from stem to stern. Jus’ Rub On It 261

“Hey there, Eugene. Lemme have a cherry Co’cola and an a order a’ pickles,” said Evvie. “Me, too,” said Diana. “Make it three,” said Dolores, craning her neck to survey the cars and the boys standing around them. As the carhop left, she said, “I shoulda backed in here.” “No,” said Evvie. “Don’t make it look like you wanta see these ole boys that much. They’ll start comin’ over directly; this’s a new car to th’ Dog House, an’ they’ll wanta see who’s in it.” “There’s Freddie Dawson over there talkin’ to that bunch in Lynne Browne-who-thinks-her-shit-don’t-stink’s car,” said Diana, indicating a tall boy with brush-cut blond hair, leaning on his hands against the driver’s door of a Plymouth station wagon with four girls inside. “Sho ’nuff,” said Evvie. “He had a good game last niit, even though we lost, as usual. Intercepted ’at one pass an’ ran it back all th’ way, for our only touchdown. Must’ve been thirty-five, forty yards.” “Cute as shit,” observed Dolores, “And smart, too. They say he’s goin’ to West Point.” “Where?” said Evvie “West Point. The Army school, up North.” “Oh.” No point in messin’ with him, Evvie thought. I need me a Georgia Tech boy or two, to go see in Atlanta. As the carhop locked the tray of paper-plated pickle slices and Coca-Colas onto Dolores’ door, Jack rapped on the trunk as he, Ricky and Walt Jefferson rode in on their Whizzers. The girls swiveled in unison as they rode to the base of the big tree in front of the car, “echo tube” exhausts booming, shutting the bikes down and leaning them against the big tree. “Hey girls,” said Jack, walking over to the car and looking inside. “Cruisin’ in the old Mose-mobile, huh?” “Hey, Jack,” said Evvie, looking at Walt Jefferson as she did. That Jefferson kid’s folks’ve got half the money in Hamm County, she 262 The Rough English Equivalent thought, an’ that brother of his looks real sharp. “Wher’djall find them rattletraps? Gonna get mufflers for ’em some day?” “Mufflers?” said Ricky, looking through the back window at Evvie and her assets. “What for? That’s way too mellow a sound to be chokin’ down with a muffler. Come take a ride with me; you’ll like the sound when you’re sittin’ on it.” “You’re crazy,” Evvie sniffed. “This here’s the kinda riide I liike. Smooth an’ quiet; room ta stretch out. Hop in ’an see what I mean.” “I know all about this ole car,” said Jack as they scrambled into the back, he and Walt unfolding the jump seats as Ricky slid onto the back seat beside Evvie. “I rode around in it some with Mose Kubiel- ski, before he traded it in. That was a long time ago; how do y’all like it?” “We learned to drive in it,” said Diana, smiling, turning on the seat to look back at him, wide-set brown eyes glowing with secret thoughts, “and we love it. I guess you always love the car you learned to drive in. J’you ever drive it?” “Nope. It was gone before I was big enough to want to. Looks like fun, though.” “Those motorbikes look like fun, too,” said Diana. “I’ve seen ya’ll on ’em at school. How fast can they go?” “Fifty-plus down that hill out there,” said Ricky, sitting as close to Evvie as he dared. “Walt’s brother’s got the new model; it’s a little faster than ours.” “Supposed to do sixty-five,” ventured Walt out of painful shyness. He’d heard about Evvie; who hadn’t? And now he was sitting in the same car with her, and Terrell trying to look down her dress. If they knew where I was right now, he thought, my folks’d shit. They hadn’t been that hot about his getting a Whizzer in the first place, even though Charlie, his older brother, had had the first one in Bisque. But it was different with Charlie, who’d go on to flunk out of Georgia in two quarters, which is fairly hard to do, and come home to his new career of nail-driving. So his folks had long since ratcheted Jus’ Rub On It 263 down their expectations for Charlie, and at the same time ratcheted up for him. And their expectations didn’t include what his father would, he was sure, label “whore-mongering.” “He says he can soup up the older ones to be just as fast, though.” “As fast as that little black ’un Freddy useta have?” asked Evvie with a grin. “I had a riide on that rascal one tiime.” “You ought to catch a ride with ’im now,” said Ricky, who had slid his arm from the top of the seat back down to a point where it barely grazed Evvie’s shoulders. “That ’40 coupe of his’s full-race.” “I know,” she said, sitting up on the edge of the seat and stretching her arms up to the headliner, arching her back and stopping all breathing in the back of the white car but her own. “Him an’ his Charles Atlas Di-matic Tension. He takes me home sometiimes after I get off at the Winston. It makes too dayum much noise, too.” “Does Mr. Kubielski ever let you drive that wagon of his, Jack?” asked Dolores. “Mose? Yeah, just a couple of times out to his house. I won’t have a learner’s license ’til next month.” “Mose. Why do we always want to call him Pedro, I wonder? Or Peter. We just can’t help it.” “Beats th’ hell outa me,” said Jack. “He’s a damn good guy, but I don’t think he’s Saint Peter.” “No,” said Diana, her face solemn. “We don’t think so either.” “He miit not be no saint,” said Evvie, “But he’s the best boss I ever had. Wish my boss on my full-time job was half as niice as Mr. K. If he ’us ten er fifteen years younger, I’d see what I could do about marryin’ ’im.” “And all this time,” said Jack with a chuckle, “We’ve been thinkin’ you’d be Miz Wahoo someday.” Evvie skewered him with a look that made him realize he’d made a mistake. “I don’t think that giiy belongs in this here conversation, do you?” Watch ’im back offa this, she thought. That damn Wahoo 264 The Rough English Equivalent miita stuck that big dick inta me a tiime or two, but it’s been in his mama, too, and everybidy in town, includin’ Jack, knows it. “Hey!” Jack said, reaching for the car’s door handle and opening it without looking at Evvie again. If we’re gonna make it over to Water- ville today, we better shag ass. See y’all.” “Walt?” said Evvie before he could get to the door. “Uh, yeah?” “Would you mind doin’ somethin’ for me?” “What’s that?” he managed in a strangled squawk. “Tell Charlie I’d love a riide on that new model. Habn’t seen him since hiigh school.” “Uh, OK.” “Don’t forget. I’d rilly ’preshate it.” Diana hopped out of the car as they headed toward the Whizzers. “Jack. Wait a minute.” He turned as she walked up the hill toward them, almost as tall as he was, her white tennis outfit in sharp contrast to her slow-to-fade summer tan, the tenacious ghost of Evvie’s scent clinging to her. Smiling, she touched the bike’s clutch lever. “What’s this do?” “Clutch,” he said, still dealing with the olfactory message. “Lets th’ engine run when th’ bike’s standin’ still.” “I know what a clutch does,” she said. “How about a ride around the block?” “We’re just takin’ off to Waterville…” “Oh, come on, it’ll just take a minute. You can drive our car…” “When?” “Anytime you want to. Don’t you have to get on first?” He said nothing for a minute, then smiled. “Yeah, I’ve gotta sit on the gas tank. You sit on the seat. There’s no place for your feet. Just let ’em hang down, and watch out for stuff in the street. Wait while I crank up. Hey,” he called to Ricky and Walt, “Back in a minute; gonna take ’er for a quick ride.” He straddled the Whizzer combination of air-cooled motor and bicycle, a single cast iron cylinder on Jus’ Rub On It 265 top of an aluminum crankcase that occupied the usually empty space between the wheels of its host, a maroon spring-fork Schwinn that had long since shed its fenders, but retained its pedals and chain. A combination of two “vee-belts” took the Whizzer’s booming, if asth- matic, power pulses from its flywheel first to the clutch pulley, thence to a sheave screw-clamped to the spokes of the rear wheel. Jack pulled the handlebar-mounted compression release to open the exhaust valve, rolled the Whizzer down the hill into the parking lot and pushed the release shut as the bike hit walking speed. Deceiv- ingly powerful thrums exited the “echo tube.” Thus did some three horsepower take Young America into harm’s way. Jack swung the idling bike around, heading it downhill to let gravity, rather than some undignified pedaling, get them moving. Sliding forward onto the gas tank, he glanced down to check the clearance between his right knee and the spark plug, contact with which would bring a shock like a lick from a baseball bat. Responding to his beckoning wave, Diana ran out and swung a leg over the seat, putting her arms around Jack’s waist and grinning at Evvie and Dolores, who had gotten out of the car to observe the launch. “Don’t you get too far away, Di,” Dolores shouted. As Jack’s left hand gradually released the clutch lever, his right twisted the throttle grip open. They were off. He banked the bike to the right and headed across the parking lot to Fifteenth street, Diana’s outstretched legs an ongoing threat to stability. As they reached the end of the block where Fifteenth dead-ended into Juniper, Jack looked both ways and, with no traffic on Juniper, ran the stop sign, maintaining their momentum and crossing the street into the Juniper Street Grammar School’s parking lot. He turned left and headed toward the athletic field, loving the echo tube’s booming sounds as they bounced off the side of the building. “This is really fun!” Diana shouted as they circled the field. “I wanta ride it some time.” 266 The Rough English Equivalent

As they returned to the parking lot, a pale green ’50 Chevrolet two-door turned into the lot from the opposite end. Preston, Jack thought. As the distance closed between them, the car moved quickly to its left toward the bike. Jack saw it in time to swerve, jumping the curb as the car ﬂashed by. The quick movement and Diana’s ﬂailing legs put the bike into side-to-side oscillations that almost dropped them onto the schoolyard grass before he got it stopped. They sat there in mild shock for a moment before realizing that the car had stopped and backed up to a point just behind them. They turned to see the driver’s door open and Preston Rogers’ argyle-socked, Weejun-shod feet slide out. “Gee, I’m awfully sorry,” he said, smirk- ing. “Hope you’re not shook up or anything.” As he spoke, Kenny Brown’s head and large shoulders appeared above the roof on the other side of the coupe. “Fuck you,” Jack croaked. “Hop off, Di.” As she did, he swung his leg over the bike, closed the gas tap under the tank and dropped it on its side. He walked toward Preston, not knowing exactly what he was going to do. This guy was no athlete, unless you counted golf, but he was a couple years older than him, and Kenny the Ape, who’d managed to hang on to a second-string tackle position on the Bisque Bears, appeared to be backing him up. All he could do was take Mose’s advice about handling trouble. Meet it head-on, keep your options open, and watch the other guy’s eyes. Preston hadn’t expected the situation to develop into anything. It had just been a target of opportunity; he and Kenny had seen people on one of those shitty little motorbikes like Terrell’s. Once he realized that it wasn’t Terrell, he thought, he should’ve just forgotten it. But it was his asshole buddy, Mason, and he just couldn’t let it go without doing something. “What’d you say?” Jack, now two feet away, responded off the top of his head. “I said ‘fuck you,’ Rogers. What the hell you think you’re doin’? Can’t you drive that shitcan?” Jus’ Rub On It 267

“You’re the po-tential accident,” said Preston, checking Kenny’s position with a quick glance over his shoulder. “Pissin’ around outa control with a passenger on that goddam stomach pump; hell, you don’t even have a driver’s license. You’re lucky you’re both not in an ambulance right now. You still could be, if you don’t get on that piecea crap and get outa here.” He reached a hand out to Jack’s chest to push him. As a dim memory of a mail-order judo book illustration jumped into clarity, Jack clapped both of his hands on top of Pre- ston’s, anchoring it to his chest, and quickly bent forward at the waist. His hand bent back to the limit of its travel, and Preston went to his knees, yelping in pain and surprise. Jack, just as surprised, stepped back, saying nothing as Preston scrambled to his feet, gripping his wrist with his other hand as he fought back tears of embarrassment. “Kenny! What the hell’s going on? Get that bastard!” Kenny’s synapses labored through his mental molasses, processing the non-fight; eyes narrow, lips drawn back over green teeth, he’d picked up considerable momentum as he rounded the corner of the car, his objective a collision with Jack at destruct velocity. He collided instead with Diana’s outstretched foot, sending his two-fifty-plus crashing nose-first to the concrete, lungs exhausting in a whooshy grunt. Stepping between his splayed legs, she eliminated any remaining interest in carnage with a smart kick in the balls. And she wasn’t done. Stepping over Kenny’s fetally-contracted body, Diana moved past Jack and confronted Preston, looking straight into his distended eyes with a fury that neither boy could have ever imagined. She screeched “Asshole! Asshole! Asshole!” Her face distorted by an anger that seemed to have no place to stop short of murder, she grabbed the boy’s sore wrist and smashed it against the car’s fender. As he screamed, she reached down and gripped both his ankles, pulling his feet out from under him. Preston sat down hard on his coccyx, crying uncontrollably. Diana turned back to Kenny and kicked him in the side of the head, continuing the “Asshole!” chant. 268 The Rough English Equivalent

In the forty seconds since “bastard” had left Preston’s lips, Jack had been a dumbstruck spectator. Seeing that Diana had no inten- tion of stopping her assault, he tackled her as she jumped up and down on Kenny’s midsection, taking her into the grass and rolling on top of her. “Di! Stop! They’re hurt. They’re hurt bad!” “No, they’re not,” grated Diana. “But they’re gonna be. Lemme up.” As she struggled to get up of Jack’s grip, the Bishops’ car rolled to a stop beside them, two Whizzers on its tail. “Diana!” screamed Dolores. “What’d you do?” “Jesus Christ,” said Ricky, running to the pair, looking over them at Preston and Kenny. “What the hell happened, Jack? Get offa her!” Seeing her sister, Diana stopped struggling and sat up, crying softly. Everyone jumped out of the white car; Dolores pushed the boys out of the way and sat on the grass next to her sister, holding her, stroking her hair and talking to her in hushed, soothing tones. Ricky gave Jack a hand up and, under Evvie’s watchful gaze, pulled him aside. “What the fuck did you do to those guys, and how?” “I didn’t do a damn thing,” Jack replied, looking fixedly at Preston and Kenny, who were still on the pavement. “It was Di.” “Bullshit.” “No. But I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’tve seen it myself. She went nuts. It was like she was a different person.” “What happened?” After hearing Jack’s recap of the events of the past few minutes, a fast-growing smile lit Ricky’s face. “Holy shit,” he said, “She must be friggin’ fast. Come on.” He walked over to a spot between Preston and Kenny. “Hey Preston, how’s it feel to have a girl kick your ass and the help’s? If I was you, I’d be keepin’ my distance from these girls. Just think what both of ’em could do to ya.” Preston’s wet face looked up at Ricky and Jack with high-test hatred, saying nothing and saying everything. Kenny, who had rolled to a sitting position against a back wheel of the green coupe, made a move to get up that his body Jus’ Rub On It 269 quickly vetoed. “I wouldn’t do that, Ken,” said Ricky in a stage whisper. “She’s still here.” “Accidents will happen, boys,” said Jack. “Get well soon.” He walked over to the girls. “Everything OK?” “It is now, at least as far as Diana’s concerned,” said Dolores. “Will those boys be OK?” “Oh, sure,” Jack said, standing the Whizzer up on its wheels. “We’ll wait on you girls to get outa here. Y’all ready?” The boys fired up their bikes, turned and waited for the Buick to back up and pull out of the lot. Dolores headed the car toward town on Julep, away from the Dog House and back to Evvie’s. “Y’all gotta be straight wi’ me now,” said Evvie, who had gotten into the front seat with the twins, “P’ticly if I’m gonna hep you make cheerleader next year. I heard Jack say that you ’us th’ one laid them two big boys out, Diana. I never saw nuthin’ like that in my life. Y’all must be ju-jitzers ’r sump’m. What’s goin’ on? “It’s nothin’,” said Dolores, “Just that we’re better off stickin’ together. If we get too far away from each other, sometimes we get excited and do stuff that we ought not to.” “Like what?” “Like that situation back there. We just sort of over-react to things we don’t like. But as long as we stay together, we’re just like anybody else.” “No, honey. I just saw that ‘sitchashun’ back there, and I know y’all ’re sump’m special, ain’t no gettin’ around it. How long’ve ya’ll been livin’ with this stickin’ together bidness?” “Since we could walk,” said Diana, fully restored to her Dog House bounciness. When we were two, Granny took Dolores to the doctor one time, and she popped ’im. Gave ’im a black eye. It didn’t take too long for our folks to figure out we did better by stayin’ together.” 270 The Rough English Equivalent

“Guess not. Is hittin’ people mainly what y’all do when you get separated?” “No. Sometimes we cuss. Real bad,” said Dolores. “But, you know what,” Diana interjected, “We do some really special things–interesting things–when we’re together.” “That’s right,” said Dolores. Like seeing ahead.” “Seein’ ahead?” said Evvie. “Ya mean liike ’at ’ere fortune teller– whassername, Madam Sophia–out north a’town?” “She’s a fake,” sniffed Diana. “We do it.” “Izzat riit? Tell me somethin’ that’s gonna happen.” “It’s not like that. Stuff comes when it comes. We don’t have a crystal ball or anything.” “Sump’m else that comes sometimes,” said Dolores, “is stuff that happened before. Guess we got ourselves some kinda cranky-ass time machine. It won’t work ’less it wants to.” “Oh. Well, I’d sure liike to know anythang that comes inta ya’ll about me; you know, just anythang. You can tell people when sump’m–uh–comes to ya about ’em, caincha?” “Oh, yeah, we can; but it’s not always such a good idea. There’s good stuff and bad stuff, and sometimes it’s just a feelin’ that could be either good or bad. So we really haven’t told anybody much–yet. We’ve seen a lot of stuff happen the way we understood it would, though. If you’re sure you wanta know, though, you can make the chances better for us to have sump’m of yours.” “Liike what?” “Just give us sump’m of yours that we can keep around. Seems liike people’s stuff attracts stuff about them sometimes.” “OK. What?” “Anything that’s yours. If you’ve had it for awhile.” “Well, miit as well take care uv it riit now. Lemme see, what can-” “Evvie,” said Diana. “How ’bout your little football player?” Evvie looked down at the gold ﬁgurine. “Sure. Guess that’d be better than my panties, wouldn’t it? There’s not much else I got ta take Jus’ Rub On It 271 off, an’ the boy I got it from’s long gone. Here; undo th’ chain an’ just hold onto th’ whole thang.” She turned her back to Diana, who undid the clasp. “Hey; why donchall just take turns wearin’ it? Might shake sump’m loose a little quicker, bein’ so close.” “There’s no tellin’ when something’ll come, or if it will at all,” said Dolores, but we’ll pass on whatever we get, if you’re sure you want it.” “Sure I do, Hon. Nothin’ like a little warnin’, don’t matter if th’ news’s good’r bad.” “That’s true, I guess, about the future,” said Dolores as they stopped in front of Evvie’s house. “But not about the past. Then it’s not a warning. Just reminds you about things. Things you might not want to remember.” “I’ll take m’chances, Hon,” said Evvie, leaning on the white car’s window sill, grinning. “Ya’ll jus’ rub on ’at little ballplayer fah me now an ’en.” 1032 Monday 10 October 1951: Nelson Lord, mouth agape and breathing hard, cut through the hotel lobby, marbly black eyes looking back in terror over his shoulder as he pushed through the swinging doors to the kitchen, a half-hour late. He’d parked two blocks away and run along the network of back alleys that crisscrossed Bisque’s business district. Sweeping lank black hair out of his eyes with a shake of his head, he grabbed his apron off its hook and stuck his head through the neck loop. Johnnie Mae, who’d been looking at him since the doors had hit the wall with a boom, shook her head resignedly and stirred the large skillet of streak-of-lean that was destined for the day’s collard greens. “When’re these here meat loafs due out, Johnnie Mae?” he asked as he closed the oven door. “Ten-thutty,” she said, still studying the bubbling sowbelly. “Stew meat’s ready riit now.” 272 The Rough English Equivalent

“OK. “I’ll git th’ carrots.” He took three bunches out of the refrigerator, chopped the tops and tails off with a large chef’s knife, and took them to the sink to scrub. That crazy bastard won’t come in here, he thought, his hands steadying as they sliced the carrots. Layin’ for me outside my place, talkin’ about retterbewshun, that shotgun propped up where I could see it, an actin’ like he wanted ta whup my ass. Next time I see that bastard I’ll have my own iron. I’ll use this here knife on his fuckin’ neck. Wouldn’t be much more to it’n loppin’ th’ head off a turkey. Moses saw the black ’48 Ford as he pulled up to the hotel, its driver’s door agape, a thread of blue-white smoke drifting up from its tailpipe, abandoned in the street. Maxine had called him at the ofﬁce, unable to keep the hysteria out of her voice. “Mose? I just hung up with Sadie; she ’us just a’squallin’. Johnny beat ’er up when he saw them black an’ blue tits, and she told ’im she’d been out with Nels. She tried to call ’im at th’ cay-fe, but th’ line ’us busy, so she called me. He left th’ house carryin’ ’is shotgun.” Shouting at Ralph Williams to call the police as he ran out the door, Moses was outside the café minutes later. Leaving his car in the street, he ran inside just as a shotgun’s thunder shook the building. Crashing through the kitchen doors, he almost collided with Reba, who stood over a writh- ing, screaming John Lindall. She held his 12-gauge Remington pump and looked down at him as though he’d dropped onto the ﬂoor from the moon. “Reba,” Moses said in a gentle voice as he held out his hand to take the gun. She gave it up without looking at him; he pumped the shells out of it and stood it in the corner. He put his arm around Reba, who hadn’t moved. “He ’us gonna shoot Nels, Mose,” she said, her voice barely audible. A small crowd had gathered behind them, holding the swinging doors open. “Somebody call an ambulance,” Moses said over his shoulder. “Did you shoot him, Reba?” Jus’ Rub On It 273

“No. He’s burnt from the coffee I poured on him. The gun went off when I picked it up.” “Run get some ice, willya?” He took a step toward Lindall, whose screaming had turned to groaning. Help’s on the way, Lindall,” he said. “We’ll cool ya down in a minute.” Two policemen, one a sergeant, pushed through the crowd. “All riit, ch’all; move on outa here,” the sergeant said. “Show’s over.” He turned to Moses. “What’s your piecea this, mister?” “Got here just aheada you. Looks like this guy had shootin’ th’ cook in mind, and Miz Reba put a stop to it with a pot a’ hot coffee.” Reba had returned with Johnnie Mae, who rolled Lindall on his back and covered his lap with the café’s miniature ice cubes. “That what happened, Miz Reba?” asked the sergeant. “Yessir,” she said through chattering teeth. “He come in here totin’ that gun, grabbed me by th’ arm and said, ‘where’s ’at damn Lord at?’ We’us headed for th’ kitchen, and I grabbed a pot a coffee offa th’ hot plate an’ poured it on ’im.” “Where is Lord at?” “He run out th’ back door when he saw this crazy fool,” said Reba, “an’ us with th’ lunch rush ta handle.” “Well, call us if he shows up. We’ll need to talk to ’im. Don’t look liike you’ll be covered up with business thisheer lunchtime, no way. We need ta take yores an’ Mr…” “Kubielski,” said Moses. “Oh, yeah, Cue…uh, Kabeesky. Th’ beer dealer, riit? Sergeant Malone. We need yore statement about what happened, too. Does any a’them cars out’air in th’ street belong ta you?” “Yeah. The Buick.” “You mind if my man parks it while we go in yonder-” he indicated the hotel lobby–“an’ getcher statement? We gotta get this trafﬁc movin’.” “That’s ﬁne. Ask ’im to bring the keys back, willya?” 274 The Rough English Equivalent

At the end of Moses’ ﬁve-minute police interview, he stood in the lobby in a haze of decompression when Serena’s voice cut suddenly into the back of his neck. “Well, dickhead; whattaya do for an encore?” “Huh?” Startled, he turned around to face her stony gaze, the green eyes dark with a rage he’d never seen. “Whatchoo talkin’ about?” “Nothing much. Just about you and your goddam pal in there bringing your fucking low-life antics into my hotel in broad daylight, disrupting my business this way. What the hell is this bullshit all about? What’re you doing just happening by when that maniac shows up?” “I got a phone call…” “Oh, you did? How nice. His wife, no doubt.” “Well, yes, in a way; she told a friend of hers that that asshole was gunnin’ for Nels. What should I’ve done, just let ’im get blown away?” “Obviously not. But I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna let you worthless sonofabitches ruin this hotel. I don’t care how good a cook Nelson is, this is his last day under my roof.” “I think you owe it to him,” said Moses, “to hear his side of the story.” “Oh, I know the story,” she grated through her teeth. “It’s been making the rounds for a day or two. Maxine runs a beauty parlor, remember? They say she really thinks a lot of you and Nelson. Sorry I can’t say the same.” Moses reddened. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t afford the time to watch you cut off your nose to spite your face. Be seein’ you.” He walked out on the street to ﬁnd his car. Jus’ Rub On It 275

The Steinerbru clock’s hands pointed to ten after eight when, against his better judgement, he walked through the Bisque Lunch Room’s swinging doors. For the ﬁrst time in his experience, there was no place to sit. Lee Webster, who must have been there for awhile, waved him over to the left side of the bar. “Hey, buddy; take this stool. I need to stretch my legs.” Moses sat, looking behind the bar at Ribeye and a volunteer cracking beers as fast as they could. He caught Webster, who was looking toward the door, by the shoulder. “What’s going on?” “Huh?” said Webster, startled. “Why the crowd?” “You’re kidding–I heard you were there.” “Where?” “The café. When Lindall shot at Lord today.” “I was. Lindall didn’t do any shootin’. Not that he wouldn’tve. Reba baptized ’im with a pot a’ coffee before he could throw down on Nels.” By now half the bar was eavesdropping. “Is that right? The story goin’ around here says he shot and missed.” “Reba shot,” said Moses after a swig of Red Cap. “Or the gun did, when she picked it up. By then Nels’d run out the back door; haven’t seen ’im since.” “You can get odds either way that he’ll show up here tonight, now that Lindall’s in th’ lockup,” said Webster, glancing again toward the swinging doors. “I’m betting yes.” “Looks like you win,” said Moses as a swarthy ﬁgure pushed through them. “Hey, boys,” said Nelson Lord, stopping two steps inside as he checked the crowd. “…Whad’jall do with th’ women?” 276 The Rough English Equivalent

0830 Tuesday 11 October 1951: Terry and Lynne stopped talking and turned earnest faces to Jack as he walked up to them. The homeroom bell had just rung, and the crowd in the yard began moving sluggishly toward the front steps of Bisque High, but the girls stayed put in their near-identical sweater sets and pleated skirts. Do they call each other in the morning to make sure they dress alike, he wondered, or set it up the day before? A darker thought ﬂitted across his consciousness; they just know. Can’t argue with the effect, though, he concluded as Terry’s hazel eyes picked up the sky blue of her sweaters and shot it back at him as green highlights. “Hey, y’all,” he said. “Jack,” said Terry, why didn’t you call me about what happened over there?” “You mean that ole buzzard comin’ after Nelson? It’us all over by th’ time I got there. Coach kept us out at practice ’til ’way after six, and Mom didn’t say much about it. She was real tired, and went to bed pretty soon after we ate. Time I was done with homework, it’us after eleven, and all she said to me this morning was ‘get up, it’s almost eight,’ before she went down to th’ desk.” “That man, Mr. Lindall? Lynne’s daddy said he was after Nelson Lord because he’d been foolin’ with ’is wife.” “Yeah, that’s the story. I’ll ask Mose about it. Mom said he got the gun away from Reba; she picked it up and it went off. Sho emptied out th’ café in a hurry.” “That Nelson Lord’s got a reputation for chasin’ anything in a skirt,” Lynne sniffed. “Why does your Mom keep him around?” Jack looked at her as if she’d farted. “‘Keep ’im around?’ You know what’d happen to th’ hotel’s business if Nelson Lord left?” He blew a long Doppler-effect whistle, the still-familiar sound of a falling bomb, extending an arm with a turned-down thumb at its end. “That. Plus, he doesn’t work for the hotel; he works for the café, meaning Reba. Nelson’s not goin’ anywhere, ’less he decides to. And Jus’ Rub On It 277

God help us if he does. Anyway, chasin’ skirts was legal last time I checked.” “Not if they’re married, Mr. Know-it-all,” Lynne responded super- ciliously. “Well, Miss Sure-as-hell-don’t-know-it-all, I never heard of a married skirt gettin’ chased that didn’t wanta get chased. I don’t reckon ole Nels’s gonna get locked up for acceptin’ an invitation.” “No,” said Lynne scornfully, “Just shot.” “Well,” said Jack with a grin, “Just shot at, almost, so far.” Terry reached for Jack’s hand, pulling him none too gently toward the school steps. “That’s not funny, Jack. Nobody’d better be shootin’ at you like that. I just might shoot you myself.” 1830 Tuesday 11 October 1951: The familiar squeal of ’42 Hudson brakes betrayed Serena’s station wagon’s poking its nose under the carport. Moses opened the door to let her in, but she hesitated, looking up at him. “I’d like to talk about what happened yesterday,” she said. “Sure. Come in. Drink?” “Please. Whatever you’re having.” He took a second to note that she was wearing blue jeans for, as far as he knew, the ﬁrst time. They were the same brand, Dickies, that Bisque boys, and a few girls, had been wearing for a while by then, leaving the legs long and turning them up a couple of times to make gray-blue cuffs, local style dictating that they cover the tops of the wearer’s shoes. These, however, betrayed serious alterations that let them encase her hips without a wrinkle; she’d tucked the tails of a man’s pink oxford-cloth shirt inside them, with the top two buttons left open. Filling two squat glasses midway with Scotch, he splashed soda on top and handed one to her. “Confusion to our enemies,” he said, touching her glass with his. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.” “Classics go on forever.” 278 The Rough English Equivalent

“I guess they do. Anyway, I’m here,” she said, “to apologize for what I said to you yesterday.” “Oh. Hell, I knew you were pissed off. You had a right to be.” “Maybe so. But what I said to you was awful. I didn’t mean it, and I had to let you know that.” “Thanks. And I’m sorry too. Sometimes things just get outa hand. Fuckin’ around with Nels and his cronies guarantees trouble.” “That’s for sure. And I’d been furious with you since I heard about you being in a foursome with him and those bimbos. Jesus Christ, I thought you’d drop by when you got horny.” “Like I say, it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Not to be repeated.” She snorted, taking a long swig of her drink. “I’d hardly think so. I don’t want you tied to my apron strings, but Jesus! People around here know what we are to each other, and doing what you did puts me in the same class with those goddamn people. You’d be raisin’ hell with me if I’d done something like that. At least I hope you would.” “Yeah, I would. Because I love you.” She looked at him almost as angrily as she had yesterday. “I love you, too, goddammit. I wish I didn’t, but I do. And there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it.” “Except give me hell,” Moses said with a smile. “That’s about it.” “I can think of something else,” he said. “Oh, no. I thought we’d settled that.” “And I don’t mean gettin’ rid a’that guy you married.” “Hm,” she said, the threat of a smile animating the corners of her mouth. “What, then?” He encouraged her smile with one of his own. “I’d like to see you in just the jeans–with your shirt off.” “Not so fast, buddy. You haven’t seen my surprise.” “Surprise?” “Mm-hmm.” Jus’ Rub On It 279

“What is it?” “Come over here.” She walked over to the kitchen sink and leaned on it, presenting her denim-sheathed butt for his inspection. “Like it?” “Yeah, it’s spectacular. Is that the surprise?” “Give me your hand,” she said, extending her hand behind her. As she pulled his hand to her, a thin streak of white split the denim blue in half. Spreading the heavy fabric with his thumb and forefinger, he touched drenched hair, then the slickness beyond, with the middle one. “Now that’s,” he said, “a surprise.” “Like it?” she asked over her shoulder. “I took the whole seam out.” “Yes I do,” he said, probing deep inside her pussy first with one finger, then two, then finding the clit that still fascinated him with its size and stiffness. “Well fuck me, Chili; I didn’t go to all this trouble for nothing.” “Delighted. But let’s get that shirt off.” “Pull it out, then; but put your dick in first.” He did, moving inside her, impressed as always at the fierceness of her grip on him. “This is a beautiful sight; I wish you could see it. I miss seeing the little dimples at the tops of your cheeks, though.” “Does that fat beautician have any?” “I really don’t remember,” he grunted, thrusting deep to focus her attention. She pitched her voice low, synchronizing her movement with his. “How’d you like to do Cordelia and me sometime?” “Would you like it? You’re the ménage a trois expert.” “I’d love to do her with you–and she’d do it in a minute, particularly since you’re even more notorious, with that supporting role in the shootout yesterday.” “It could’ve been the leadin’ role–he was pissed about her tits bein’ bruised. She was playing with herself in the car and asked me to twist 280 The Rough English Equivalent her tits while she came, so I did. If he’d known that, I’m the one he’da been gunnin’ for.” “Hmm. Mind showing me?” “I’ve gotta go,” she said an hour later. “OK,” he said, sitting up to drain the glass on the bedside table. “I’ll get your things. Hope you won’t feel too much of a draft on the way home.” “Get my bag, too, will you? There’s a pair of blue panties in there that pretty well match the jeans. Hey.” “What?” “How’d you like to take me someplace when I’ve got ’em on and have me sit on your lap?” “Without the matching panties, I presume.” “Damn right without the panties. I’m sitting on your lap, say in the park in Augusta, we’re having a nice little picnic, and you unzip that Crosse & Blackwell and slip it into me while we eat fried chicken.” “Just the two of us at this picnic?” “No, four; you, me and these Technicolor titties.” 0832 Thursday 27 October 1951: It was just after 8:30, 2:30 London time, when Moses turned on the beefy Zenith Transoceanic portable behind his desk to hear what Britons had to say about the Conservative party’s return to power yesterday, Churchill becoming Prime Minister for the second time, just weeks before his 77th birthday. The BBC announcer, much as he might announce a croquet match, observed that his acceptance speech, given to parliament at high noon, had called for a “new Eliz- abethan age,” calling on the British people to “excel as of yore.” God knows they need him, Moses thought, but coming back at this age could kill him. The announcer read off the Conservatives’ list of objectives: Jus’ Rub On It 281

300,000 new houses to be built, mandated wage increases, returning the trucking and steel industries to private ownership. Reinvigo- rating the Empire. The announcer droned on; he might as well, Moses thought, add walkin’ on water to the list. Good luck, you magniﬁcent old bastard. I’ll be watchin’ you. 1735 Friday 30 November 1951: “This just in to the WBQE newsroom–John V. Lindall, found guilty in Superior Court of attempted murder yesterday, has just been sentenced by Judge Rupert Mundy to ﬁve to seven years imprisonment. Lindall, who attacked a local restaurant employee with a shotgun earlier this year, will serve his sentence at Reidsville State Prison.”

chapter 16 s The Rough English Equivalent

“That was Big Joe Turner doin’ Honey Hush; and alla y’all’ll hush up too, or maybe SCREAM YOUR HEADS OFF when you see Gort, Klatu’s giant robot sidekick, in The Day The Earth Stood Still,opening today at the Winston. Ol’ Klatu lands his flyin’ saucer in Washing- ton with an important message for mankind, but he gets shot soon he sets his foot on the ground. Sounds like a Bisque Saturday niit, don’t it? Well, that’s just a little bit of the unearthly goin’s-on in this brand-new science fiction thriller. And wait’ll ya see what ol’ Gort with that fine- lookin’ Patricia Neal! Check it out at the Winston, Bique’s home of fiine motion picture entertainment. See y’all at the movies!” 1320 Sunday 6 April 1952: “And what we’ll be doing this afternoon, boys and girls, will be visiting homes here in Bisque, just saying a neighborly hello and inviting any unchurched people to join us in worship at First Baptist,” Miz Clark told us. She was the WMU lady in charge of getting all of the Sunday school kids out knocking on doors, where it seemed like to me we’d pretty likely be unwelcome. I didn’t even have to go, but since Ricky did and Miz Terrell was acting so happy about us going

- 283 - 284 The Rough English Equivalent together while she fed us way too much Sunday dinner, I figured I’d go along, even if we did have to leave our Sunday clothes on. We started out at the church; everybody had to be there at one-thirty, so the WMU ladies could put us together in teams. There were four kids on each team, and each team had a parent or a WMU lady to drive us out into the neighborhoods so we could start bothering people by 2:00. I guess they were trying to have the same number of girls and boys on each team; anyway, two girls, Virginia James and Bonnie Williams, were on our team. They were in our grade at school, but we didn’t know them all that well. They were both what Ricky called ‘church-birds,’ who showed up at church any time in the doors were open, and if you wanted to be nice, you’d just call them plain. We were going in Mr. James’s car, a ’50 Ford two-door, which seemed to make Virginia think she was in charge of the whole damn thing. Mr. James was a tall, skinny guy with black hair that he combed over the bald spot on top of his head. He seemed like he was used to taking orders from Virginia, and I expect from Mrs. James too. One thing for sure, he wadn’t all that happy about what he was doing that afternoon; I didn’t see him smile once the whole time. He didn’t say much either; just “If any of y’all’re chewing gum, get rid of it before you get in the car. And be careful of the upholstery.” Any- way, Ricky, Bonnie and I got in the back seat; Bonnie ended up in the middle, with one foot on each side of the bump in the floor. She was just about as big as we were, so we were packed pretty tight in there. She and Virginia talked about what they were going to say to the people all the way out to the neighborhood that we were supposed to work in. It was out in east Bisque, and about the only thing you could say was that nobody who lived there was anything like rich. Most of the people who lived in these little houses, jammed together as tight as they could be, worked in the cotton mills. You could see the mill buildings, with their tall checkerboards of glass windows taking up as much of the walls as possible, from anyplace in The Rough English Equivalent 285 the neighborhood. Mr. James stopped the car near the corner of one of the streets, said “OK, kids, do your stuff,” and opened up the fun- nies section of the Sunday paper this week he’d brought along. “We’re leavin’ at four, ready or not,” he said from behind Moon Mul- lins and Maggie and Jiggs, “and you don’t wanta get left.” Bonnie was in such a hurry to get out that she almost flattened my ass in the process. She and Virginia headed across the street, white bibles and chubby asses bouncing up and down, and Ricky and I just watched them for minute, looking at each other and wondering how we got into this. “Well,” Ricky said, “Guess we may as well get this shit over with. Let’s go, buddy.” We walked up to the house closest to the car; a taxi- cab, a pea-green ’49 Chevy with bald tires and a big dent in the trunk lid, was parked in the driveway. The wire-sprung screen door looked like it might fall off if you hit it, so Ricky knocked on the door-facing, just below a vertical “149” of black metal numbers nailed onto it. And even though I hoped it wouldn’t, the door opened almost immediately. A short, stout man in an undershirt looked sleepily through the wavy brown wire at us. “Afternoon, sir,” Ricky said. “We’re from the First Baptist Church of Bisque.” “Oh,” the man said, scratching his bellybutton. “Whacha want?” Ricky thought for a minute, then said, “How about a glass of water?” The man thought for a minute, then said, “Sure. C’mon in.” It was just that easy. We stayed in the living room while the man walked into the kitchen. He’d been watching a baseball game on television; little ballplayers a couple of inches high pranced around the eight- inch screen in a light TV-snow blizzard. We were trying to figure out what teams they were when the man got back with two Bama jelly glasses, with little bits of their labels still stuck on the sides, full of water. “Here ya go, boys,” he said. “Thanks,” I said. “Whatcha watchin?” 286 The Rough English Equivalent

“Dodgers and Giants,” he said. “Exhibition game. Set a spell and watch ’er with me, if ya’ll got time. Name’s Edwards. Rocky Edwards,” he said, extending his hand. “Jack Mason,” I said, shaking it. This is Ricky Terrell.” “Pleaseta meet ch’all. Now whacha say we watch a little baseball?” We sat down on his couch, where we could see the houses across the street as Virginia and Bonnie walked in and out of them, staying five or 10 minutes a house. It was almost four when we saw them rounding the corner down at the far end of the street, still jabbering and waving those Bibles at each other. I poked Ricky and glanced at the window. He nodded and said “Guess we better go, Rocky.” He was payin’ serious attention to the game, and just waved a hand at us without shifting his eyes from the television. We got to the car before the girls did, wakin’ Mr. James from his nap as they walked up. “Ready to go?” he asked. Everyone allowed as how they were, and it was a pretty quiet ride back to church, where the WMU ladies had a big basket of ladyfingers and red punch waiting for us. And I finally found out from their little flag they had hanging up that WMU means Woman’s Missionary Union. The only embarrassing part was when she asked us for the names of the people that we’d seen. “Nobody told us to make any kind of a list,” Ricky said. She rolled her eyes up to heaven, but since it was getting late, that was all we heard about it. Anyway, I wonder what the missionary ladies would’ve said if old Rocky had shown up on the First Baptist steps next Sunday. 1516 Wednesday 9 April 1952: Diana Bishop, the winner of the latest heat in the sisters’ ongoing footrace to the driver’s seat, backed the white car out of its space in the Bisque High parking lot. Pulling the gearshift lever down into low, she headed across the lot and out the East entrance, turning right onto Cypress Street into the cool, rainy afternoon. Bisque’s retail businesses had been closed since noon, as they’d been every The Rough English Equivalent 287

Wednesday afternoon for years. A cannon-shot down the middle of Lee Street on Wednesday at 12:01p.m., it was often said, would never hit a soul. “What’ll we do if he’s already gone?” Diana asked her sister. “Drive out to ’is house, I guess,” said Dolores. “I bet he’ll still be there, though. He’s not like these old guys who run off ﬁshin’ every damn Wednesday of the world. I’d liketa let the air out’ve the tires’ve the next car we see that has one of those damn “God Don’t Deduct Days Spent Fishing From Our Time On Earth” signs on it.” “Well, we’ll know pretty soon, one way or another. D’you still think that this’s a good idea?” “What else can we do? We’ve got about all we can get from this ole car by itself. We can’t go on not knowin’ why he attracts us th’ way he does. If we get the car close to him for awhile, maybe it’ll come.” “We’ll know in a minute,” Diana said as she turned left onto Sev- enth Street. “If his car’s there.” It was. The ’52 Roadmaster wagon, clad in brown wood with blond trim, sat alone in the Hamm County Beverage Company’s parking lot, big bucktoothed grille bars snarling at the empty street. “Drive on past and turn around, Di,” said Dolores. We can sit over there behind that old truck on the other side of the street ’til he comes out.” “Hope he don’t work late. They’ll be wondering what we’re doing if we don’t get home pretty soon after six.” “We miit get sump’m just sittin’ out here. Just cut this motor off.” They sat with the car’s radio off, close behind the old black pickup, watching raindrops hang brieﬂy on the rust-and-silver edges of the Ford stamped into its tailgate. “It’s comin’,” said Dolores. “Mm-mmm…maybe,” said Diana in a low voice. “Siga, Pedrito.” “We’re thinking in Spanish a lot more now,” said Dolores. “Whether it’s about him or not.” “Yep. Spanish class’s almost like cheatin’.” “It’s not like we asked for it. We’ve just got it.” 288 The Rough English Equivalent

“Well, I’d just as soon we didn’t,” said Diana. “I mean it’s fun sometimes, looking back and forth. But it scares most people. Look what happened with Mama.” “Yeah. Seein’-ahead scares me sometimes. Uh-oh; here he is!” Moses tripped boy-like down the building’s front steps. He walked to the left side of the building, unlocked the door to the alarm system’s switch panel, fiddled inside for a few seconds, closed it and sauntered back to his car. Seconds later, a thin cloud of steamy exhaust spewed from the tailpipe. The girls held their breath, waiting to see if he’d turn down Seventh Street toward them. He turned the other way, giving no sign of having noticed his old car. When he turned right at the Academy street stop sign, Diana pulled the white car out of its parking spot. “Don’t get too close, Di; if he turns right on Lee, then he’s probably headed home; we can just lay back and keep ’im in sight.” Moses cruised out Lee Street at a leisurely pace. After a productive afternoon alone in the office, he was looking forward to a workout, a hot bath and an evening’s reading. He was a little over halfway through Atlas Shrugged, and nearly half of the big lasagna that he’d made on Sunday was still in the refrigerator. Life, he reflected, was good. A little strange in spots, but good. The wonder of where he was, and, even more, at the role he’d assumed, was intact. Best of all, there was Jack. The kid now sat squarely at the center of his life. The quickness of his mind was a continuing delight to Moses; he was an excellent flight student, who would, with Ríni’s OK, solo sometime this summer. He’d had his own room at the house for a couple of years, and he and his friends worked out in the gym that Moses had set up in the well-built barn that no quadruped would ever again call home. About time, he thought, I started to feel at home here. The woody rectangle of the wagon’s tailgate was growing bigger at way too fast a rate. “Hey!” Dolores squawked. “Slow down. We’re catchin’ ’im!” “I can’t,” Diana grated. “The gas pedal won’t come up.” The Rough English Equivalent 289

The houses on Lee Street grew in size, then shrunk and strung out over the countryside as Moses drove out of Bisque. He glanced up into his rear-view mirror, then locked his gaze onto the fast-growing image of what was unmistakably his old car, its collapsed left-side springs making it look like an aircraft correcting its landing approach in a crosswind. What the hell, he thought, that thing’s doing seventy anyway. He eased the wagon as far to the right as possible to give this pesky relic of his past as much room as possible to hurtle by him. With no oncoming traffic, it flew by with room to spare. “Hell!” said Diana, her teeth clinched. “It won’t let up. I’m switching it off while we’re on a straight stretch.” “Might as well, while he’s behind us,” said Dolores. “We can flag him down for help. Hey! This way he’ll be closer to the car than we ever hoped!” “We’ll be closer, too,” Diana observed, reaching over to the switch’s key and turning the motor off. Moses, to his surprise, watched the white car slow quickly and turn onto the shoulder. A hand extended from the window of the driver’s door, waving him over in a circular motion. He was almost on top of it as the door opened. One of the Bishop girls, smiling brightly at him, continued to wave, running to the side of the wagon as he stopped ahead of the white car. She was tall, five-eight or so, dark and coltishly pretty as only a young girl can be. “Hi,” she said. “We couldn’t get our motor to slow down, so we just turned it off. Can you give us a hand?” “Sure,” Moses said, getting out. “I know a little about this car. It was mine once.” “We know,” said Dolores. You probably don’t remember us; I’m Dolores Bishop, and this is my sister Diana. We saw Ziggy run into you on his bicycle when you first came to town. You did a little tap- dance to show us you weren’t hurt.” 290 The Rough English Equivalent

“Well I’ll be doggoned. You’re the little girls who hadda jump out of th’ way! Sure, I remember. You thoughcha knew my name. What was it that you called me…?” “We called you Pedro,” said Dolores. “That’s what it was. Who’s Pedro? “We thought you were. Didn’t anybody ever call you Pedro? For a nickname, maybe?” “Nope. And didn’t one of ya’ll say sump’m about me breakin’ my leg?” “Sure enough. You did, didn’t you?” “Yeah, but how’d you know?” “Well, Mr.–is Kabeesky the right way to say it?” “Kubielski, but that’s as close as most people around here ever get.” That’s why they call you Cueball, she thought. “Well, anyway, you just walk like you probly had a bad leg one time, and you still favor it.” “Oh. Well, what about this fine old Buick? Guess we’d better run on out to my place and call somebody to tow it in. You all better call your folks, too. Tell ’em I’ll bring y’all home as soon as we get a tow truck.” “Uh–would you mind just taking us now?” said Diana. “Our daddy’ll have some of the hands to come get the car. That way we won’t be late for dinner. Our folks hate having dinner held up–for anything.” “OK,” said Moses. “Hop in, then.” Moses hadn’t driven out McEver Road in quite some time. “Don’t let me run past your place,” he said as they drove through flat red- dish-brown fields speckled with the bright green of new crops. “Oh, it’s a ways yet,” said Dolores, who sat next to him, her fresh girl-smell teasing his nose. “Just look for the first hill on the left- hand side. You’ll see it way before we get there. Guess it’s pretty much the only hill, out this way.” The Rough English Equivalent 291

“Guess you girls know my friend Jack Mason,” said Moses. “Oh, sure,” said Diana. “We have a couple of classes with Jack. He’s really nice.” “Sure is. He was one of the first people I met when I came here. I lived at th’ hotel for awhile, and he was the first person in Bisque that I got to know. Showed me around town while I was waiting to have my–your–car fixed.” “We had this really funny feeling the first time we sat in that car,” said Diana. “We get feelings about things sometimes. About whoever’s been around whatever it is that gives us the feeling. That time, it felt like the car turned into an airplane.” “An airplane?” “Yep. We were flying it; not both of us in the plane, but we both there, and we both saw everything. We could see out front, and out back, over the sides of the plane; we couldn’t see too much straight up or down because of the wings. And we were going down; the engine wasn’t running any more, and we were headed into a field with some cows in it. We landed OK, but then we hit something that bounced us back into the air. Then we turned over, and we saw the ground coming up again. We hit hard, and things turned black as night. It scared us so bad we couldn’t move for a long time. All we could do was hold ourselves and shake.” Moses, having no idea what else to do, kept his eyes on the road. “Sounds awful. Has anything like that ever happened to you all before?” “Not just liike that,” Diana said,” but we get feelings, liike I told you, from people’s stuff. That’s been happening for a long time, but we’re gettin’ better at it as we get older.” “And the longer sump’m stays around,” said Dolores, pressing her thigh hard against his, “the more we get out of it. We can start puttin’ things together, from one time that we get a feeling to the next time. Like that first time with you, when we saw Ziggy run into you and we got that feelin’ about your broken leg. You had that little limp, of 292 The Rough English Equivalent course, but we definitely got that feeling. We even saw into your leg, where the bones broke. Riitchere,” she said, tapping her right leg just below the knee. Moses laughed, trying in vain to suppress the shiny projectile of panic that was flying back and forth from the pit of his stomach into his throat. What’s next, he thought. “That’s amazing,” he said. “When did y’all realize that you could do stuff like that?” “Way back,” said Diana. “One of the first times I remember was when Daddy bought that bull.” “Oh, yeah,” said Dolores, laughing. “We’d just turned three. Had our birthday party a day or two before. Daddy came drivin’ up by th’ house with this ol’ bull in a trailer. We rode down to the pasture with ’im to see it, and while they were walkin’ ’im in, we went up in the trailer. We’d never seen it before, and just wanted to see what it looked like inside.” “Yeah,” said Diana,”We walked up the ramp into that trailer. Ol’ Stoney–that’s what they called ’im for short–he had one a’ them godawful long-ass names on his papers–he’d gone Number Two in there. It really stunk! And as soon as we smelled it, we knew one thing about Ol’ Stoney.” “And what was that?” Moses asked. “He was through bein’ a daddy. That’s what our daddy told us that he’d bought Ol’ Stoney for; a new daddy for the cows. We didn’t want to tell Daddy, but we knew as soon as we smelled the bullshit; that bull’s daddyin’ days was over.” “And were they?” “Daddy said Ol’ Stoney never hit a lick. He took ’im back to the man he bought ’im from a couple months later. Anyway, that’s the first time I can remember.” “Yep,” said Dolores. “That was the first time. And just liike we didn’t tell Daddy about ’Ol’ Stoney, we’re careful about tellin’ people about th’ stuff that we feel. If what it is won’t make much difference The Rough English Equivalent 293 to ’em, we just let ’em find out in their own time. We don’t wanta be fortune tellers or anything like that.” “There’s our house,” said Diana. Moses slowed to turn onto the gravel driveway, the wagon nosing up as the grade increased. He heard the gravel’s message as it skrunched under his wheels: getemout getemout getemout getemout getemout. As they reached the parking area behind the house, a woman stepped through the back door and onto the porch. “That’s Momma,” said Diana, waving through the window at her. The woman kept coming, heading for the wagon with a big smile. “Hey, Momma; the car broke down.” Diana opened the wagon’s door, got out and hugged her mother. As she did, Dolores hugged Moses. In the instant that it took for him to think about whether or not to hug her back, she’d kissed him, tongue first, and was sliding across the seat. “Get out and say hey to Momma,” she said over her shoulder. Seeing that there was no choice, and wondering if she’d left lipstick on his mouth, he did. “Momma, this’s Mr. Kubielski. He was passing by when the car quit. And guess what? It used to be his car.” The woman smiled, somewhat perplexedly, at him. She seemed somehow to be accustomed to the condition. “Hello, Mr.–” “Kubielski. Moses Kubielski. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Bishop,” said Moses. “You too,” she said, not meaning it. I know exactly who you are, she thought; you’re the yankee bastard that screwed my sister–once. “Thanks for bringin’ these girls home; since they started drivin’,I just can’t keep up with ’em. What happened to the car, sugar?” “It wouldn’t stop; just kept goin’ faster, so we cut it off and pulled off the road. We’d just passed Mr. Kubielski, and he saw that we were havin’ trouble. He pulled over to help, and gave us a ride home. We thought Daddy’d want one of the hands to go get th’ car.” 294 The Rough English Equivalent

“Yes, I guess he will,” said Mrs. Bishop. “Well, thanks again for your help, Mr. Kabeesky. Drop back and see us if ever you’re out this way.” “Yes,” said Dolores. “Please do.” “Be seein’ ya!” said Diana. Jesus Christ, he thought as the wagon hauled him back home, what the hell’s happening? Her kissin’ me like that. Those little witches are scary. They already know too much about me, and they’re probably tellin’ anybody who’ll listen. That “Peter” shit’s gonna be all over high school, and then around town, in no time. May be already. The question is, what do I do about it? If there’s any truth to that business about them getting “feelings” from people’s “stuff,” they’re gonna be gettin’ more about me every time they sit down in that car. Not that anyone who hears what they know so far would be able to make much of it; it sounds like so much bullshit at this point. Maybe the connection between me and the car’ll peter out. Ah, shit. I can’t even say my own name without being worried about what they know, or guess, or whatever the fuck it is they’re doing. Question is, what’m I gonna do? 1615 Wednesday 13 August 1952: “I’m gonna demonstrate a Chandelle to ya now,” said Moses, pushing the J3’s stick forward as he spoke. “That’s French. Far as I know, there’s not even a rough English equivalent; guess that’s why they still say “Chandelle.” Anyway, what it is, is a zoom climb combined with a hundred-eighty-degree turn. You trade some air speed for altitude, and reverse th’ aircraft’s direction. Th’ Chandelle saves ya energy and gains ya altitude. Ya stay in th’ fight an’ keep your eye on th’ target, lookin’ back and down.” As the J3’s airspeed indicator touched 120 he pulled its nose up into a shallow climb. “What you want is a nice coordinated turn, with a little back pressure on the stick, so that you’re gaining altitude throughout the turn. But watch how much The Rough English Equivalent 295 you pull back; you don’t want to lose any more airspeed than you have to.” “Why use a Chandelle?” Jack called back to Moses as they leveled off at six thousand feet. “Why not just do a level turn back the other way?” “Well, it’s kinda like th’ pushups and situps ya do at fuhbawl practice,” said Moses to the back of Jack’s head. “They give you some extra strength that you can call on when you need it. When ya fly, you have to assume that things won’t always go right. When they go wrong, ya need to get th’ airplane out of trouble. You may need to find a place to put it down, or you just may need to get it headed another way, at another altitude, as quick as you can, like in a combat situation. Practicing maneuvers like the Chandelle makes sure that ya have th’ skill and experience to do whatever ya need ta do ta stay alive. Now you try one. Just check around you for traffic with a couple of clearin’ turns; then nose ’er down about twenty degrees ’til ya see 120. Then pull the nose up gradually, and make your turn to th’ right.” They were headed due north. Jack followed Moses’ instructions, watching as the airspeed indicator’s needle approached 120. The late afternoon air had some bumps in it, and the J3’s fabric covering flexed as it absorbed them, making little drumlike thumps as it did. At 120, the thumps came faster and louder as he pulled the stick back and over to the right. “Not too much back stick,” Moses cautioned. “Get your rate of climb to 800 feet a minute, and hold it. You’ll lose too much airspeed if ya pull up too fast.” Jack eased his back pressure on the stick, continuing his turn. As the compass neared the 180- degree mark, he began releasing his sidewise pressure on the stick, settling down on a southerly heading and dropping the nose to level off. “Not bad,” said Moses, gently shaking the stick. “I’ve got it.” They had drifted gradually north and east with the prevailing winds. As they proceeded on the southerly heading back toward Bisque, the Savannah River snaked along their route a few miles to 296 The Rough English Equivalent the left. Just south of the city of Augusta, it ran along the western border of a sprawling open wound of cleared red clay soil and a clutch of large unfinished buildings, most of them only a story or two in height. “That’s the a-bomb plant,” said Moses, banking the plane to the left to get a better look. “They’ve been working on it for awhile now; looks like they’ve still got quite a ways to go.” “Goddamiteydayum, it’s big,” said Jack. “You could put a buncha Bisques in that patch. Let’s get a little closer, can we?” “Nope. I’m not gettin’ my ticket pulled for flying into restricted air space. Hell, they might even shoot at us.” “Guess the rough English equivalent for that’s ‘Keep the hell out,’” Jack laughed. “We must need one helluva lot of bombs.” “Guess so,” said Moses. 2215 Wednesday 13 August 1952: “Jesus, that Marlene,” said Lee Webster, as Moses slid onto a stool, waving a hand at Ribeye in drink alert. “Zo…zuh boss lady uff Rrancho Notorrious vass atrrraktif to you?” said Moses. “Never more so, old as she may be. Fritz Lang got a hell of a performance out of her, stringing those horny young gents along. She’s been down that road before, of course. Remember Destry?” “Yeah, she has. But I liked this one better. Takes a Kraut to get the most out of a Kraut, I guess.” “Don’t tell Hemingway that, or John Wayne either,” Webster said with a grin. According to the columnists, they got quite a bit out of her.” “Here I thought we were gonna have a serious disquisition about art, and you switch right over to screwin’.” “Hell, screwing is art. You can’t wanta debate that.” “No, I guess not,” Moses said, returning the grin. “‘What fools we fuckers be,’ and so forth.” The Rough English Equivalent 297

“Haha. In riposte, here’s my proposal for licentious poetic justice. Henceforth, that’s how I’ll be thinking of that modest little shack of yours.” “How’s that?” “Are you paying attention? Chez Mose is forthwith Rancho Notori- ous, and no place deserves it more.” “Come, come, my boy. Surely my humble little compound deserves better.” “Hm. Maybe I have been remiss. The spread may be notorious, but let’s call de big house Chez Cock, and your liniment-soaked barn Chez Jock.” “You have been here awhile, haven’t you?” “Just long enough,” Webster pronounced, six or seven Red Caps adding to the curious dignity the portly can sometimes assume, “to perceive in sharp clarity the parallels in which life and the cinema are cast. Your quaint little theatre, my boy, is more than a window on civilization. It is a veritable crystal ball. When you sit on the green expanse of Chez Cock, you should indeed feel the pride of a patron of the arts.” “Well, in all candor, I do. Almost as much as I’m sure that my col- league in artistic endeavor, the eminent Buster Redding, feels in his garish mobile sculptures of sheet steel.” “Ah shit. Talk about breakin’ the mood. What’s the huckster of Hudsons doin’ to get you excited? Your lady friend’s the artist in that family.” “Art’s an all-pervasive phenomenon, my boy–you of all people should realize that by now. When you pitched me on sponsoring R&B Lee last year, you must’ve been thinkin’ about what that music means to th’ teenage soul. It might not make Carnegie Hall any time soon, but it moves these kids like nothin’ else, and I’ve got th’ Win- ston ticket sales to prove it. I’m prepared to call it art, just the same as I am to call Buster’s four-wheeled jelly beans art.” “They’ll hafta build bigger galleries, then,” said Lee. 298 The Rough English Equivalent

“Oh, I dunno–You got a gallery; your show. It’s as big as you can make it, within the strength of your transmitter. The movie studios got galleries all over the country, and they move more minds with one big release than Michaelangelo did on his best day. If art’s not about changin’ minds, what th’ hell is it about?” “So you think Buster’s gonna change some minds? Whose? Lint- heads’ and farmers’? Who else gives a shit about cars chasin’ each other around a dirt patch?” “Just about every male child in th’ country over th’ age of eight. All I can tell you is this; all those lintheads and farmers drive cars and buy cars, and th’ banks’re only too fuckin’ happy ta lend ’em money to do it. And by th’ way, what th’ hell else does damn near everybody have in common? Cars! Every time they scratch off at a green light, they’re dreamin’ of race tracks they’ll never run on. Buster may be a little rough around the edges, but he’s got his finger on the pulse of the common man. He’s had a pretty good year so far; a fifth at Lake- wood behind Buck Baker’s nothin’ to sneeze at. If he does anything like that well this year at Darlington, he’ll probably get Pap behind him to run the full Grand National schedule next year, and a first- rate driver. The fat little fucker’s no fool. Know what he said to me the other day? ‘You see a man wearin’ a necktie–besides politicians, who already gave up so much manhood that they don’t count–he’s tellin’ you one thing and one thing only: ‘I ain’t got enough money yet.’” “Not what I’d call the wisdom of the ages,” Lee sniffed. “You determined to miss th’ point? The guy knows what th’ people who’re his customers’re thinkin’, and he uses that knowledge to send ’em a message: ‘Look at this; it’s powerful, it’s pretty, and you can have one just like it!’ Maybe not fine art, but art just th’ same.” “Well, since these damn Hudson suppositories appear to be a growing part of our destiny, I guess the great artiste is doing what he set out to do. Shame he doesn’t give that knockout wife of his the same kind of attention that he does dumb machinery.” The Rough English Equivalent 299

“Yeah,” mused Moses. “That is a shame. Maybe you should picture yourself in a New York bakery.” “And how, pray tell, will that help me?” “Taking a number for faster service. Ask her, in other words.” “Oh,” said Lee, reddening. “You know, that’s not all that bad an idea, since Buster doesn’t appear to be a cuckold-shooter. Maybe this is her month for fat disc jockeys.” “Well,” laughed Moses, getting to his feet, “Tell ’em Groucho sentcha.” 2115 Friday 29 August 1952: Lunchtime at the Bobwhite Café, on Broad Street in downtown Augusta a couple of blocks off the Savannah River, is pretty well over by two. Cleanup and shift change has the dark wood-paneled interior ready for the influx of thirsty patrons that starts a little after four. Regulars maximize their cut-rate cocktail intake before the eight o’clock price change, knowing that the fires of happy hour hooch will be banked by a solid Neapolitan buffet whose inclusion of moussaka and baklava affirms the Bobwhite’s Greek ownership. Having done so, some call it a night, heading home to who-knows- what, while others await the Bobwhite’s nightly juke-joint conver- sion, after which, in the knowledgeable opinion of Nelson Lord, is “th’ best grabass joint in Richmond County.” Some regulars, including Lord, generally limit their patronage to the grabass segment. Moses and Lee Webster walked into the Bobwhite for the first time. They’d met Lord a little after nine, making the short drive from Bisque in separate cars. Lord was received as a regular by the owner, Leonard Metaxas, his barmen and waitresses. Lenny, an ex-army cook, had, for whatever reason, joined the relatively short “love” col- umn of the “Love Lord or Hate ’Im” ledger. He waved when he saw them come in, pointing at an empty table near the edge of the area that had been cleared for dancing. Between words of gracious but perfunctory greeting to Moses and Webster, the Bobwhite’s owner 300 The Rough English Equivalent prevailed on Nels, not for the first time, to take over his kitchen. “Don’t wanna work nights, Greek,” Nelson responded, grinning as he shook his head. Just here for th’ pussy.” “He always tell me dat,” Lenny said to them with a mournful shake of his own head. “Alla my waitresses, dey love him, would marry him in a minute. But all de summonabitch wanna do is fuck my customers.” And the pussy to which Nels refers is there, if you can deal with a certain variance in quality and sobriety. The women who frequent the Bobwhite, usually in twos and threes, tend to be drinkers first, dancers second and lovers later, if at all. At a given point in the evening, Nels said, they make the “fight or fuck decision.” “If it’s ‘fight,’” he said, “you’ll know it right away; they’ll sit there lookin’ snotty ’cause they’ve done brought some kinda shit in with ’em from outside, and now they’re ready to blame yo’ ass for it. Don’t matter how good they look, you got a crazy bitch on your hands. Talk yer damn ear off, maybe take a swing atcha, plus they’ve already poi- soned th’ ones that come with ’em. Definitely no pussy in that picture. Jus’ look fer a knotted-up jaw muscle. You see that lockjaw, jus’ move along, ’cause you will not be havin’ a niice evenin’ wid dat lady.” “Well, Nelson my boy,” said Webster,”You have no peer as a picker of low-hangin’ fruit, and that’s an effective and time-honored strategy. But did you ever wonder what it’d feel like to turn just one a’them crazy bitches around? Redirectin’ all that poison inta passion, from fightin’ to fuckin’? Could be quite an experience.” Lord looked at him with ill-concealed pity. “How many of ’em do you guess’s gonna shit in yer hat while you be ‘redirectin’?’ I don’t want nothin’ ta do with them odds.” “I could stand a little abuse,” Moses observed, “from that little rascal over there.” He indicated a booth on the far side of the room which was occupied by two very different women. The older, a stringy, streaky blonde well into her thirties, was laughing at some- The Rough English Equivalent 301 thing that the other, who was maybe ten years younger and wore her dark hair cut short, had said. “Yeah,” Lord said after a thirty-second appraisal, “she’s riit niice. Th’ beanpole’s OK, too; I seen her around. Jus’ been rode hard ’n put up wet now an’ then. Wanta get ’em over here?” “How about dancin’ with ’em?” asked Moses. The jukebox was playing a succession of songs geared for slow dancing. “That way we can back out if they’ve got th’ lockjaw.” “Well, sure, why doncha daince widdat little black-headed thang? If she goes fer it, I’ll snag th’ beanpole. ’Less you want to,” he said to Lee.” “No, you go ahead,” said Lee. “I’ll check around for other targets.” As he approached, the women looked up at Moses with tentative smiles. “Hi, ladies,” he said, switching his gaze from one to the other. Don’t mean to interrupt, but I thought maybe-” looking this time at the dark-haired one–“you might like to dance.” “Let me finish my drink first,” she said, looking up at him with solemn navy blue eyes, then down at half of an Old Fashioned. “Why don’t you dance with Roberta, and we’ll have the next one.” Roberta dialed her smile up a few candlepower, awaiting developments. “By all means,” he said, extending his hand to the blonde. “Shall we dance, Roberta?” “Sure,” said Roberta. “Why doncha have a seat for a minute and let’s see what th’ next song is? This’n’s about over.” She slid back in the booth to make room for him, keeping him in focus with red- webbed eyes. “Thanks.” He sat down. “My name’s Mose, by the way.” “Hi, Mose. This here’s Dotty.” The girl extended her hand, Moses taking it for a brief shake. “You and yer friends from around here?” “Bisque,” said Moses, as Lord sidled up on her left. “This,” he said, “is Nelson.” “Hi, Nelson,” Dotty said, saying a lot more at the same time as she slid to the inside of the booth. “Won’t you join us?” 302 The Rough English Equivalent

As the juke box launched the sound of Harry James’ trumpet leading his orchestra into Marie, Moses felt Roberta’s elbow in his ribs. “Here we go, sweetie,” she said. Standing and moving aside to let her out of the booth, he saw Nels duplicate his move, slipping his hand around Dotty’s waist. She bumped him lightly with inverted-heart hips as they moved toward the dance floor. “So whattya do ovair in Bisque, Mose?” asked Roberta. “I work for a beer distributor, Roberta; how ’bout you?” “Whiitehed Wholesale; in th’ office,” she said in a stage groan, the sharpness of her pelvis pressing lightly into him. “Dotty used to too, but she’s back in college ny-uh. She’s just home for th’ weekend, so I brought her over here t’niit for a little celebration.” “Whitehead Wholesale; whadda y’all wholesale?” “Growshry iitems. You know; coffee, crackers, canned goods. Stuff liike ’at.” He spun her once as Harry launched into his major solo. “Where’s Dotty goin’ to school?” “Berry College. Up in Rome.” “Hm. Never heard of it.” “I never did either,” she laughed, letting him pull her close, surprising him with breasts like baseballs loosely loaded with buckshot under her loose-fitting blouse. “She went thair before she come t’work at Whitehead; says the school’s got a lotta acreage that th’ students help farm. I kinda wish I could go too.” “Sounds pretty good; why doncha?” Her exasperation was evident as she looked up at him. “First I’d hafta get a high school diploma. Then I’d hafta talk my folks inta lettin’ my daughter live with ’em fer four years. Then I’d hafta be smart enough ta pass th’ work. Then all I’d need is money.” “When you put it that way, guess it wouldn’t be such a good idea. How old’s your daughter?” “Niine. Seems liike just yesterday she’us a baby.” The Rough English Equivalent 303

James finished Marie with his trademark flourish, and the dancers returned to the booth as Hank Williams began a lament about a cheatin’ heart. Before they could sit down, Dotty said “Would it be all right if we sat over there with your friend? He’s all alone over there, and the booth only holds four.” “Sure, honey,” Nels, having neatly slid into the driver’s seat with her, said. “You’ll like Lee. He’s a disc jockey.” “Wait,” said Roberta. “Bisque. WQUE. Izzat R&B Lee?” “None other,” said Moses. “You sound like a fan.” With a dainty snort, she said, “You bet I am; he was playin’ R&B before Gene Nobles and Hoss Allen on WLAC. ’At bawey flat knows th’ blues.” “Hey, Webster,” Lord called as they reached the table. “Here’s a fan a’yours.” Lee, who had been observing their approach, hauled himself to his feet. “Well, well,” he said, “How very nice,” taking Roberta’s outstretched hand.” “It’s mah pleasure,” she said, giving his hand a vigorous shake. “I cain’t believe I’m meetin’ R&B Lee, an’ here of all places. “Thainks fer playin’ all th’ good music.” “The pleasure, I assure you, is mine,” said Lee as he pulled the chair next to him out for her. “Please, sit down.” As he did, Nels pulled out the adjacent chair for Dotty, then sat down on her other side. Smiling mostly to himself, Moses sat down opposite the two happy couples, and waved their waitress over. “Janice, bring us a round, please. The ladies’re havin’ Old Fash- ioneds, and back up my Red Cap with a shot a’ Jack Daniels.” “Green or Black, hon?” “Black, please. Either of you boys wanta join me?” “Sounds pretty good,” said Nels. “This here daincin’ takes th’ edge off a buzz riit quick.” With a nod, Lee made the drink order unani- mous. The group watched with mild interest as the people moving people move back and forth to the dance floor: soldiers from nearby 304 The Rough English Equivalent

Camp Gordon in nondescript mufti, haircuts giving their occupation away as surely as a uniform, fresh-showered bluecollars in sticky white waffle-texture nylon shirts, men from various strata of Augusta’s business community and a sprinkling of their female counterparts. Some would speak or wave at Roberta in passing, eyeing the others with ill-concealed curiosity. “I understand you’re back in college,” Moses said to Dotty, who looked quickly at Roberta, then back at him. “That’s right; shouldn’tve left in the first place, but the money just plain ran out. Took me three years to save what I needed, but I made it back, thank the Lord.” “Well, the best of luck. What’re you studyin’? “I’m a Business major.” “An’ a monkey-business minor?” Nels added, drawing polite laughter from everyone but Dotty. As Janice put the fresh drinks in place, Webster raised his shot- glass of sour mash in a toast. “Here’s to you, Dotty. Hope you make a million.” He drained his glass, as did Moses and Nels, following up with a pull off his Red Cap. “Thanks,” she said. That’s what I’d like to do, if it’s God’s will.” “Coming back here when you finish?” Moses asked. “Nosiree. I wanta go to Atlanta and get a decent job with a future to it, even if I will be an old lady of twenty-six by the time I get there.” “An’ a decent man, riit?” said Nels with what he intended as a winning grin, circling a finger in Janice’s direction for another round. “If that’s His will.” “His will? Whose will?” Nels persisted. “I think she means God, Nels,” said Lee, little puckers at the corners of his mouth hinting at his private enjoyment of the moment as he glanced at Moses. “Yes,” Dotty said, nodding. “That’s who I mean.” The Rough English Equivalent 305

“Well, hell, God,” said Nels as the new drinks arrived, “don’t guess you can miss if you put God on th’ job. He raised his shot-glass; “Here’s to Dotty an’ big doin’s in Atlanta; an’ ta God’s will too, I reckon.” Dotty turned in her chair to face Nels. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t refer to my Lord with disrespect. You may think it’s funny, but I don’t. And why’d you order more drinks? I haven’t even started the last one she brought.” Nels looked back at her for a couple of seconds, then stood up. Picking up whiskey in one hand and Red Cap in the other, he said, “Would ya’ll excuse me?” and headed for the bar, immediately engaging one of the bartenders in conversation. Nels’ move left the table momentarily quiet. Then Lee said, “Don’t be concerned about Nels, Dotty. He’s got the rare habit of saying exactly what he thinks. The problem is, you never know what he’s thinking, and if you did, half the time it’d probably make you sick. But he really doesn’t mean any harm; Mose and I’ve known ’im for years.” “Oh, we ain’t studyin’ him,” said Roberta, reaching over to pat Lee’s knee, leaving her hand there. If he liikes it better at th’ bar, we’ll get along jus’ fine without ’im.” “I’m sorry,” Dotty said, navy eyes still wide-open intense, “if he was offended. But he offended me; he really did.” “When I was a sailor, about a million years ago,” said Moses, “an officer told me that in the wardroom–that’s kind of a clubroom for officers, on every Navy installation–they never discussed three things: religion, politics and sex. Guess they wanted to avoid argu- ments while they were at sea. All we’ve missed so far’s politics.” “Well, hell, le’s don’t git inta that,” laughed Roberta, grabbing Lee by his upper arm. “I ain’t had th’ first chance ta talk to this man about music yet. Jus’ let that lil’ pissaint set over’air all niit if he ownts to.” She picked up her bag, fishing inside. “I need a cigarette.” As she rummaged, a metal-studded beanie fell out onto the table. 306 The Rough English Equivalent

“Hey, where’dja get that?” asked Dotty, picking it up for a closer look. “Aw, at’s Christy’s,” Roberta said, ﬁnding her cigarettes, Lee standing by with his lighter. “It ’us out in th’ yard when I come out ta leave, an’ I jus’ picked it up so some kid or dog wouldn’t. After all th’ damn Kellogg’s Pep I bought so she could get them buttons that come in th’ boxes. I prob’ly got twenny bucks in ’at damn beanie.” “Looky here,” said Dotty, turning the beanie over in her hands. “The buttons have comic characters on ’em.” She looked intently at each button. “Here’s Smilin’ Jack, and Perry Winkle, Lillums, Skeezix, Kayo, Little Moose, Dick Tracy, Tess Truehart, Hans ’n Fritz, th’ Inspector…this is great! Don’t put it up, Robbie, leave it on the table for us to look at, OK?” “Sure, honey, if you like them little rascals. Can’t tell what people’re gonna liike, can ya?” Roberta said with a shake of her head. “Now, Mr. Lee, lemme ask ya–any of yore recordin’ artists ever drop in fer a visit?” “We ain’t that big…yet,” Lee snickered good-humoredly. “I’d love to do some live interviews with th’ big names; up-and-comers, too, before they get too big-” swinging his arm and slapping his Red Cap, sending it spinning off the table–“to monkey around with small- town DJs.” “Jeesus,” yelped Dotty, as the ale sprayed her. “Small-town, but not small-time, honey,” said Roberta, patting his soggy knee and leaving her hand there. “Anybody ’sides Lee ready for another round?” By a little after one, the conversation’s tempo had slowed, but Roberta had kept it focused on the romance of radio rhythm and blues. Nels had been gone for quite awhile, having left with two girls Janice grimly identiﬁed as the Gump sisters. “Who’s that guy that does th’ lead vocal on Sixty Minute Man?” she asked. “He’s great. I know it’s th’ Dominos, but nobody ever says who he is.” The Rough English Equivalent 307

“Billy Ward,” said Lee, squelching a belch. “You like that song, huh?” “Hell, who don’t? I love it; ‘If yo’ man ain’t treatin’ you riit, come up an’ see ole Dan…” she laughed. “I’d luuve to see what that bawey looks liike.” “Maybe we could catch ’im in Atlanta sometime,” said Lee. “Zack Shears…” “Zack Shears! You know Pappy Shears? Blues Train? He’s been on WTGS fa’ever! Wisht he come in clearer over heanh. How come you know ’im?” “Well, I haven’t alwaysh been a small-town jock, honey. I knew Zack when I was at WBS.” “Wow! WBS! When we goin’?” “Oh, most anytime that the Dominos’re in town and our off times match up,” said Lee, the instant impresario. “I’ll give ’im a call.” “Looks like you’ll get to Atlanta before Dotty,” said Moses. “Yeah, but not to stay. But maybe I’ll ﬁgure out a way to do it by the time you’re there, honey.” “I don’t see why not,” said Dotty. “There’s not much holdin’ you here. You’ll never get rich at Whitehead’s,” she giggled. Roberta grinned mirthlessly as she stubbed out her cigarette. “I’ll never get close to rich ’less I get trained ta do sump’m ’sides debits ’n credits.” “There’s all sortsha schools in Atlanta,” observed Lee. All you need to do is decide what you wanta learn; beauty operator, court reporter, hell, even broadcashtin’ school. I’ve known lotsha people who’ve changed jobs after takin’ courses like ’at.” “Yeah, an’ if they’re like th’ ones in N’yoauk, here’s one thing you’ll hear sooner or later.” He picked up the button-studded beanie, now somewhat soggy, and set it on the crown of his head. “Whassat?” asked Roberta. Moses’ voice went up an octave: “Step troo da klessroom doah dere, gif your money to da Jew, an’ heve a zeat.” 308 The Rough English Equivalent

Lee, getting it, commenced wheezing. The wheeze turned into a run of whoops, accompanied by uncertain smiles from the women, Roberta emitting a little bark of laughter as Lee’s whooping subsided into a gasping fit. “Goddam,” he sputtered, “you oughta have an AFTRA card. That was friggin’ perfect!” Dotty’s smile had disappeared almost as soon as she flashed it; she looked at Moses, still wearing the beanie, the way she might look at something that she wished dead. She asked, “Why was that funny?” She turned her head to look at all three of them in turn. Getting no answer, she asked again, “Why was that funny? Is it because you all think Jews are funny?” Moses’ face went flat as he returned her stare. “Shitcheah; they’re human, aren’t they?” “All but one. But that one makes them special. They’re Jesus’s people, and I don’t like it when anybody makes fun of them.” “Well, then, sugar, speakin’ as a Jew–which I am–I can tell ya that yer in for a lot of grief.” “You’re not a Jew,” Dotty proclaimed through a Mount Rush- more-audition face. A Jew wouldn’t say something like that.” “Your friend knows lotsha Jews, does she, honey?” Lee asked, thinking that he was suppressing a grin. “Sure shounds like she does.” “Oh shit, Lee, hush,” gritted Roberta through her teeth. “She taikes all this stuff real serious.” As Moses took a breath to continue the exchange, Nelson Lord sidled up to the table. “Where you been?” Lee asked him. “We heard you left with th’ Gumps.” “Who? Gumps? Aw hell, that’s jus’ what Janice calls them girls. Ther name’s McGinnis. I ran out to ther place fer a lil’ bit, but ther damn dog woke up th’ chickens, an’ ’at woke up ther ol’ man. Shoulda never rode out ’air wid them; hadta haul ass out on foot.” “I need to get on home, Robbie,” said Dotty. The Rough English Equivalent 309

Roberta removed her tongue from Lee’s ear. “You wanta go, honey? OK. Haing on jus’ a minnit.” Returning to Lee’s ear, she whispered, “C’mon’n go with me ta drop her off.” “Sure, baby,” Lee said, starting to move his bulk to a standing position. “Nice to’ve met you, ladies,” said Moses. “Don’t take any wooden Hebrews.” Nels, sprawled in the next chair, his ﬁngers coming close to grazing the ﬂoor, grinned and nodded his head. “Hey Lee.” “What?” barely containing his glee. “You comin’ back?” “We miit be awhile,” said Roberta. Lee bent over close to Moses’ ear. “Thish girl want R&B dick, an’ ol’ Lee gonna let ’er have it. You’n Nels go on.” “OK, pal, if you’re sure. Tally ho.” As the trio moved toward the door, Janice approached the table, eyeing Nels, whose eyes had shut. “‘Scuse me; you probly don’t know it, but Lenny lets ’im sleep here when he gets liike’ is. There’s a cot in th’ back.” 1955 Friday 5 September 1952: The Bisque Bears were on the road, a two-hour school-bus ride away from home for the opening game of the 1952 season. The home team, traditional rival Ledbetter, set the tone for the evening with its opening cheer:

“Miscue high, Miscue low, Miscue got a problem, Ho-ho-ho! Go-o-o-o, Lions!” The cheer, from Bisque’s point of view, had the unfortunate ring of truth; they hadn’t beaten Ledbetter, a perennial state champion of the Georgia High School Association’s Class A division, since before 310 The Rough English Equivalent the war. Bisque’s cheerleaders exhorted a response from the visiting crowd, which responded with: “Leadbelly, Leadbelly, so high-class; tonight you’d better watch your…” The Bisque stands ﬁnished the cheer: “ASS!” With much grinning and nudging, and faculty wincing. The cheerleaders would get hell for doing the unauthorized cheer, but this was war.

“Coach, team, pep, steam; fifteen rahs for the whole dern team! Rah, rah, rah-rah-rah, Rah, rah, rah-rah-rah, Rah, rah, rah-rah-rah, Yeeaa, Bisque!” Everyone on Bisque’s side of the field knew that the cheer was an empty threat; Ledbetter’s line averaged fifteen pounds heavier, most of their backs were seniors, faster and more experienced, and their quarterback, Leonard (Lash) LaRue, had made All-State for the last two years. He was throwing forty and fifty-yard passes during the pre-game warm-up, making it look way too easy. Rocky Whitehead watched his Bears warming up, preparing himself for what he knew would be required of him tonight. First, a rous- ing pre-game harangue before the Lord’s Prayer; then, a “we’gn still get ’em” speech at halftime; and an “I’m proud of ever’body on this bus” benediction after the inevitable loss. Everybody, players, cheerleaders and the team managers, bawling. Christ. All this and three classes of Civics, for four thousand a year and a free suit of clothes from Squires Men’s Clothing. If we win at Homecoming. I was better off getting shot at by the Krauts; at least all the fire was from the front, and all my damn clothes were free.…and no wife. Scratching his crotch, he watched another long Lash LaRue pass fly down the opposite sideline, into the waiting hands of that squatty little halfback, Pierce. And sure as hell, as soon as we drop back to try to defend against that, they’ll run a sweep or some goddam thing. He The Rough English Equivalent 311 swiveled his head back to his team, just as Terrell let a pretty good one go to Mason, who picked it out of the air with those good hands of his. Good average high school players, both of them, but he was putting them in harm’s way tonight. He’d brought them up from the B team last season for the final two games, so they’d had some game time. The ’51 season had been complete crap–2 and 8–so he’d had very little to lose. And they looked good enough then, and in early practice this year, that he was starting them, several other juniors and two sophomores tonight. Whether they’d have the sand to hold up against this buncha crackers, he thought, we’ll soon find out. Just have to hope we don’t get our asses kicked too seriously. Warm-ups completed, the teams clustered on the sidelines, fidgeting, slapping asses and staring across the field at each other as the officials completed their pre-game discussions. “OK, fellas,” White- head said, “If we win the toss, we’ll receive. If they do, they’ll take the ball, and you know what you’ve got to watch out for. You backs and linebackers, don’t let them receivers get behind you. If they beat you by a step, LaRue’s gonna hit ’em every time. Linemen, watch for traps; if you get past your man too easy, you know a trap block’s comin’. Rush hard, we can’t give LaRue time to get set to throw; just be alert to gettin’ past your man too easy. Ends, keep your heads up and eyes open for the run; they’ll send that little number 23, Pierce, takin’ off to the outside on pitchouts if they can turn you inside. OK, get in here and gitchyer prayer.” The team gathered around him in a cloud of sour-smelling nervous sweat, stacking their hands on top of his outstretched one as they chanted the Lord’s Prayer in quicktime. They broke their cluster with “GO, BEARS!” as one of the officials approached to escort senior tackle Chuck Collier, the team captain, to the middle of the field for the coin toss. Jack and Ricky stood together, watching for the referee’s signal for the winner of the toss. Straightening up from his crouch, the official raised both arms and brought them down toward Chuck. Ricky 312 The Rough English Equivalent slapped Jack on the butt, saying,”All right! We’ll run 26 on first down, then I’m hitting your ass in the flat. 63 fly.” “If I don’t run the kickoff all the way back,” said Jack through clenched teeth; he always felt like he had to shit just as the game started. “OK, Bears,” said Whitehead. “Gimme the receivin’ team over here.” The receivers, mostly backs and ends, moved into a tight circle around him. “Nothing fancy on this return; check which side they kick to, probably away from Thomas, get back and form the wedge. And everybody KNOCK SOMEBODY DOWN!” Jack, trotting over to his spot on the far right side of the receiving formation, struggled to control the pre-game butterflies that were more active than usual. They’ll kick to me, he thought, away from Dick Thomas. Coach doesn’t want to chance a fumble, so no handoff to him. I’ve just gotta read my blocking and get to daylight if I can. I wish they’d hurry. The quicker that ball’s in the air, the quicker I’ll stop feeling like I’m going to shit my pants. He watched Ledbetter lining up to kick, the big lineman, 76, squeezing the ball a couple of times before tossing it to the holder. He looks like he could hit the end zone anytime he wants to. Maybe he will this time; I hope not. I want this runback. He glanced over at the line of cheerleaders, clapping staccato just before they’d turn to the crowd to blunt Ledbetter’s kickoff cheer. Terry caught his eye, as though she’d been waiting for him. She raised her clasped hands over her head in a boxer’s self-handshake. He clapped his hands twice in response as they turned away. 76 raised his hand, responding to the ref’s own, indicating that Ledbet- ter was ready. He ran forward at the sound of the official’s whistle; Jack watched the ball as it arced high above them, looking for the first clue to where it was coming. To me, he thought. To me. The ball came to him; it was short of where he’d thought it would come, and he stepped up, catching it in outstretched hands and tucking it away The Rough English Equivalent 313 in the cradle of his right hand and arm. He ran straight ahead, watching his teammates fall back to form the blocking wedge. As they turned to face the oncoming Ledbetter rush, he scanned the colliding bodies for the first clue of an opening. Nothing up the middle; players hit and stuck momentarily in a solid mass. No room to the right; Jack cut left, still looking for daylight. Then the first Led- better player to break through the wedge bore down on him from the right; running at full speed now and using his momentum, Jack head-faked a move to the would-be tackler’s left, running past him as he took the fake. He was close to the left sideline now, the corner of his eye picking up the blur of his teammates’ red-and-white uniforms. Turning upfield near the thirty-five yard line, he picked up two blockers, one slowing the rush of a defender long enough to let him get by, the other putting his man on his back with a well-timed shot as Jack cut toward the middle of the field. He saw daylight again to the left, and planted his right foot to cut back. As he did, a pair of arms from his right side encircled his knees, taking him down in his tracks just short of midfield. Going down, he was hit hard in the ribs from the left, and quickly found himself underneath half a ton of grunting, sweating, cursing young male humanity. “Howya like gittin’ yo’ dick knocked in th’ dirt, 81?” At’s all th’ runnin’ yo ass’s gone be doin’ toniit.” grated a Ledbetter player from somewhere in the pile. “At’s all you’re gonna be seein’ toniit, bub; my ass. Get used to it,” Jack said, as an official approached to spot the ball. Getting up, Jack loped back to the Bears’ huddle. Ricky, already kneeling inside it, glanced up at him. “Way to go, Mason.” He looked out at the Lions’ formation, then back inside. “26,” he said. “On three.” They broke the huddle and moved into their offensive lineup, the newly-adopted T formation. Coach Whitehead’s decision to abandon the single wing wasn’t at all popular with Bisque fans or with Cecil McMillan, the Bisque Gazette’s sports editor. It was an 314 The Rough English Equivalent offense built on passing, and most Bisquites still favored the running game…three yards and a cloud of dust. 26 was a running play over right tackle; Jack, at right end, lined up split right, some ten feet outside the tackle’s spot. His hands between the center’s legs, Ricky looked the defense over, then called “Down! 53; hut-one, hut-two, hut-three-” As the ball was snapped, Jack took one step to the right, then pivoted left and sprinted toward his blocking assignment, the left linebacker in the Lion’s five-three-two-one defensive formation. The linebacker had first taken the fake, moving toward Jack; then, seeing Ricky’s handoff to the Bears’ halfback, he turned back to meet the run. Coming through a large hole in the line, the ballcarrier turned upfield. Allowing for the linebacker’s redirection, Jack ran toward the spot on the field where their combined motion would bring them together. As he reached it, he pushed off the ground with his right foot, launching himself into his target. The linebacker had kept too much of his eye on the runner; by the time he’d switched back to Jack, it was too late. He was hit solidly, just above the belt, and had no place to go but down. The ballcarrier cut to the outside of their tangled arms and legs, gaining momentum and nearly twenty yards from scrimmage before the Lions’ safety man could bring him down. The official spotted the ball five yards into Lion territory. Headed back to the huddle, Ricky gave Junior Jordan, the right tackle, a slap on the butt. “Great block,” he said, grinning broadly. “You too, Jack.” In the huddle, he looked briefly outside at the defense, then at Jack. “63 fly, on two.” As they came to the line and Jack took his same split right position, he avoided looking downfield at his destination, looking instead toward the center before taking a three-point stance. The play called for a fake run over the same spot as 26. Anticipating the “two” count ever so slightly, Jack cut right, then left toward the linebacker for two steps, then back right, sprint- ing past the closest defender for as much distance as possible as he looked back for the ball. Ricky pump-faked once to the left, then let The Rough English Equivalent 315 the ball go in a high trajectory toward Jack. Coming from his left, the Lions’ safety couldn’t reach the ball as it screamed in high to their right. On a dead run, Jack looked over his right shoulder, picking up the ball in flight. Reaching out as far as he could, he watched the ball onto his outstretched fingers, juggling it momentarily, then grasping it and cradling it securely in the crook of his right arm. Instinct had him stop short, causing the charging safety to run a step past him. He cut behind the defender, accelerated again and sprinted across the goal line. Standing in the end zone, he raised the ball over his head as his teammates, with Ricky in the lead, surrounded him, hugging him and pounding his helmet and shoulder pads. Crowell, the Lions’ head coach, gazed down the field at his shellshocked team, his jaw clenched shut. The game clock showed nine minutes and five seconds left to play in the first quarter.

Coach Whitehead sat in the front of the bus, his assistant Roger Price beside him. “I still don’t believe it,” he shouted over the continued uproar behind them. “That’s it; these guys were unbelievable tonight. Could you imagine–holdin’ LaRue to eight completions and 62 yards on the ground? We stayed in their backﬁeld all night long. Them Bishop twins–it was like they knew the play before LaRue ran it.” Price shifted in the seat to talk close to his coach’s ear. “I couldn’t believe it when they started tellin’ me where they’d be coming. At ﬁrst I shooed ’em off, but I saw real quick that they knew what they were talkin’ about. Cheerleaders–that’s damn spooky, ya ask me.” “Them kids’re strange, that’s for sure. And they’gn go on bein’ strange if that’s what it takes. 16 to 7 over the state champs? I can live with all kindsa spookiness for that. Next week we’ll have our hand signals worked out so you can stand closer to ’em and get the play to the defense a little quicker.” 316 The Rough English Equivalent

1555 Saturday 6 September 1952: Lee Webster set a fresh Red Cap down after a long opening swig as Moses pushed through the Bisque Lunch Room’s swinging doors. “Well,” he said, “Jack and the boys wore ’em out last night.” “Yeah,” Moses replied, “I still don’t believe it. I’m sure the boys don’t either. All of a sudden they’re a title contender, after being the joke of the division for so long. Ole Rocky’s got his work cut out for him now.” “Yes he has. You talk to Jack today?” “Few minutes ago. He said a couple of cheerleaders’d ﬁgured out some way to steal Ledbetter’s play calls. Said they knew what they’d do, every time.” “You’re kiddin’!.” “Nope. He said that by the second half, it was like runnin’ a defense drill in practice, when you know where they’re comin’.Said it was drivin’ Ledbetter crazy.” “That’s some story. Wonder what McMillan had to say about it today?” “I saw the paper up at the hotel; shoulda brought it with me. He called ’em ‘the bafﬂing Bishops.’ That’s their name. Anything to take the credit away from his favorite target.” “Yeah, he’s been on Rocky’s butt since before the war.” “Wonder how it started?” “Ahh, McMillan’s a horse’s ass. A horse’s ass whose daddy owns the paper. And Rocky’s an easy mark; just plods along, scrapin’ by the best he can, teachin’ a buncha kids a little solid fuhbawl along the way.” “Speaking of scrapin’; any idea what’s goin’ on over there across the river?” “What river is that?” “The Savannah River, Doctor IQ. That government project that Porter wants us to call the SRP.” The Rough English Equivalent 317

“Shit,” said Webster,”That joint’s shut down tighter’n Eleanor Roosevelt’s Jockey shorts. To hear the public information office tell it, they’re all just gonna be sittin’ over there jugglin’ test tubes for peace. ‘nuclear power research’ is all you’re gonna get outta them, even in th’ face of all th’ bomb scuttlebutt.” “Well, you could make another Rhode Island with the ground that’s bein’ moved around over there. Jack and I flew as close as we could last week without actually getting into the airspace, which I know without checking’s gotta be restricted. They must be plannin’ to blow up a shitloada reds.” 1120 Wednesday 17 December 1952: Ralph rapped twice on Moses’ door as he stuck his head into the office. “Ziggy’s comin’ home,” he said, every tooth in his head visible. Moses returned the grin, pushing the chair back from his desk. “When?” “Friday,” Ralph said, still grinning. “Don’t know what time yet.” “Well, don’t be showin’ up around here at all on Friday–’til you’ve got ’im in th’ car. How long’s he got?” “Thirty days–he’s goin’ to recruitin’ duty in Atlanta. Did I tell ya he made Sergeant?” Moses’ eyebrows jumped a half-inch. “You did not. When?” “Last month. Thought sure I tole ya.” “Hey, that’s fantastic! When’s he due in?” “His plane’s due into th’ Atlanta Naval Air Station around noon Friday. I didn’t get the chance to ask you yet; I need to take Friday off to pick him up.” “Take Thursday too. You’ve got some gettin’ ready to do.” “Thanks, boss. I can use it.” “How long’s he going to be here?” “He’s got thirty days leave, but he’ll be here through Christmas. He’s invited to a New Year’s Eve party in New York.” “Well, I’ll be damned. What’s the deal?” 318 The Rough English Equivalent

“One of the guys in his outfit’s from there. Got the same leave time as Ziggy; they’re gonna see the New Year in on Times Square, like I did in ’45. He’s gonna stay a few days with him and his family, see a little bit of the city, and get back to Atlanta and report for duty.” “Boy, he’ll never forget doing that,” Moses said, smiling. “But we’ll do what we can to compete. Ziggy’s got a lotta friends that’ll wanta see ’im; I’d like to have everybody over to my place one night. Maybe Saturday week. Think he’d like that?” Ralph hesitated for a heartbeat longer than he had to. “Sure. I know he’d love it. What time would you wanta do it?” “How about eight?” “That’ll be great. Thanks, boss.” 1435 Monday 15 December 1952: Jack stopped the wagon in front of the Williams house, just down the dirt road from Hamm Foods. He got out and walked up the two concrete-block steps that preceded the walkway of wobbly concrete- hexagon flagstones to the front door. Before he saw the grasshopper- leg of a crack in the lower left corner of the pane of glass that made up most of the door’s upper third, he knocked on it lightly with the backs of his knuckles. The rattle made him jerk his hand back as though he’d been burned. Shadows moving behind the gauzy curtain that was drawn over the inside of the window preceded the sound of footfalls approaching the door. It was opened by a tall, gaunt Ziggy Williams in Marine dress blues, three gold-on-red buck sergeant’s chevrons dominating each sleeve. The vertical red, white and blue bars of the Silver Star ribbon were joined by two rows of lesser decorations on his left breast, along with the crossed rifles of the Rifle Expert and the Maltese Cross of the Pistol Sharpshooter. He extended his hand across the threshold. “Bwy,” he said in a deeper- than-remembered voice. “Git in dis house.” Jack, for a long moment, couldn’t respond, beyond surrendering himself to Ziggy’s bearhug. Once released, he’d regained his voice. The Rough English Equivalent 319

“Hey, Zig,” he said, feeling his voice pitch a lot higher than he wished. “How you doin’?” “Pretty good, buddy. I glad ta see ya.” “You too. Some duds.” “Well, I gotta get used to ’em; dey tells me recruiters wears dress blues a lot. Whole bunch different than what I been wearin’ las’ coupla years.” He put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Gone take me fo’ a spin ’roun de ole town?” He pushed the curtain aside to look at the wagon. “Dat Mistah K’s cah.” “Sho is. Hey, is your mom here?” Ziggy laughed. “Bwy, you know she workin’ dis timea day. She comin’ to de pahty; you kin see ’er den.” They rolled down the gentle grade, stopping at the intersection where the dirt road dead-ended into the street leading into Bisque’s city park, opposite the lump of bronze-faced granite that memorial- ized the town bigwigs who were in office when it was opened. “Where to first?” asked Jack. “Since we in Mistah K’s cah, le’s go see him first.” “Makes sense.” Jack turned the wheel to the left, heading the car north on the park road, which quickly turned into Ninth Street. Unbuttoning a middle button of his blouse, Ziggy withdrew a flat silver flask. Inclining its neck toward Jack, he asked, “How ’bout it?” Jack thought for a second or two. “Thanks. I better wait ’til we’re gone from here; don’t think I want Mose to smell it on me while I’m drivin’.” Ziggy pondered his reply. Then he opened the glove box and put the flask in. “Thass a good point,” he agreed. “He don’t need to be thinkin’ I’m givin’ you none, either.” Five minutes later they were in the Hamm County Beverage Company’s parking lot. Bev Tyler saw them first. They saw her call in the direction of Moses’ office; he joined her in the lobby before they reached the door. “Ziggy!” he said. He moved toward them, arms wide open, as they walked in. 320 The Rough English Equivalent

“Hey, Mistah K! How you doin’?” “The question’s how’re you doin’, Sarge.” Moses took a step back. “You look damn good. Jack gettin’ you around to see everybody?” “Zig wanted to come here ﬁrst,” Jack told him. “Well, we appreciate that; we sure do. Let’s head back and see the crew.” As they headed out of the parking lot, Jack asked, “Where now?” “Lessee,” Ziggy said as he opened the glove box. “How ’bout de sto’? Mist’ Ahchah ain’ gone notice no likker smell. He got his own bref goin’.”

Evvie Summers, in a departure from her regularly scheduled break from the Winston box office at five o’clock, had taken it today at four. Overcome by a craving for Nelson Lord’s fried chicken livers, she bypassed Lyle’s Rexall Drugs, her usual BLT and large Pepsi for the Bisque Café. Entering by the cash register, she had barely slid into a seat at the counter when she was transfixed by the sight of a black face. Unfamiliar to her at first, sitting as it did under the white halo of a Marine Corps frame cap, she realized within a few seconds that it belonged to Ziggy Williams, and that it had broken into a broad grin that was directed at her, closely followed by a jaunty wave. “Hey, Evvie!” Jack shouted. “It’s Ziggy!” Leaving the kitchen doorway, they walked over to the counter. “Looks a lot different, don’t he?” She looked up at them, absorbing the contrast of the blue/red/yellow/white of Ziggy’s uniform with the deep mahogany of the boy’s face. “Yeah, he sho does. How you doin, Zig?” “Fine, Miss Evvie, jus’ fine,” Ziggy said with a flash of tombstone teeth. Sho’ niice t’see you again.” He looked around the empty café nervously. “We just stopped by to see Miz Reba an’ ev’rybody in th’ kitchen fo’ a minute. Le’s run on now, Jack.” The Rough English Equivalent 321

“I’d like to see anybody givin’ you shit about bein’ in here. You’re a hero, goddammit; Bisque’s only hero of th’ Korean war, at least so far.” “I know. But ain’no use makin’ trouble. Le’s jus’ ride around some more, OK?” “We just came from down at Archer’s,” said Jack. Boy, were they glad to see ’im. He won th’ Silver Star, Evvie!” “I know,” she said. “I seen it in th’ paper. Congratulations, Zig.” She stood up just as Reba emerged from the kitchen. “Com’ere and lemme give ya a hug.” She wrapped her arms around the rail-thin Sergeant, looking up at him. She stepped back. “Yeah, I’d say you feel just like a hero. How long ya gonna be in town? They didn’t letcha out already, did they?” “Nope. I’m jus’ here on leave for a few days; then over to A’lanna fo’ r’cruitn’ duty.” “Really. Thas’ nice. I bet you’ll do jus’ fine, recruitin’, too. You’ll be back home now an’ then, woncha?” “Yeah, sure, I guess so. But we gotta go now,” he said, casting an anxious glance at Reba. “Be seein’ you, Mis Evvie.” “Bye, boys. Y’all be careful out on th’ roads, now, heanh?” As they moved away, Evvie admired the two slim butts’ withdrawal. Well, well, she mused; Atlanta. I’d definitely do him. What’s that old sayin; fuck a nigger, change your luck… 1935 Saturday 20 December 1952: “Better run around and crack a few windows, honey,” said Serena, pulling the last of the Bisque Café’s rectangular food pans from Moses’ oven. It’s already gettin’ stuffy, and there’s gonna be a lot more people in here.” “OK,” Jack said, taking the pan from her. Finding a place for it among the dishes that were arrayed buffet-style on the dining room table, he opened windows on both sides of the room a hand-width or so, then did the same in the living room and the den to get some 322 The Rough English Equivalent air moving through the house, shooting a quick smile in the direction of the guests that stood around the bar opposite the big field- stone fireplace. It could just as easily be an evening in October, he thought, instead of the weekend before Christmas. We sure as hell didn’t need this fire, but Moses had insisted, saying that it wouldn’t be a Christmas party without a fire. He poked at its base, insuring that the three large pieces of split poplar needed no immediate company. “Let that damn fire be, bwy,” said Ricky, who had come in from his lookout’s post outside the house. “If we’re gonna have a fire, it might as well be a good ’un,” said Jack, setting the poker back in its rack. Any sign of Ziggy’n them?” “Nope. It’s early yet. Didja get ole Scotty-” he indicated the stocky, fortyish warehouseman currently tending bar–“ta sneak you a little drink?” “Hell, no. He knows Mose won’t stand for it. We’ll hafta handle that little job ourselves. It’ll be easier after the room fills up.” “Well, nobody oughta hafta be sober at Bisque’s first race-mixin’ shindig,” Ricky said. “Wonder how many just won’t show up.” “I don’t think too many; at least not from work. Everybody likes ol’ Ralph, and Ziggy ain’t just Ziggy any more. He’s the only war hero Bisque’s got, so far, from this war anyway. And Mose didn’t ask anybody else much; just people that he knows like ole Zig.” “Well, I wish they’d get on over here; who all’s comin’ with him?” “Just his mom and Ralph, far’s I know,” said Jack, looking to see who was in the group that had just arrived. “The girls’re takin’ their time; how’re they gettin’ out here?” “Trisha said she was gonna pick Terry up. I better run back out and make sure nobody gets th’ guest’v honor’s parkin’ place.” Ricky had just gotten outside when he saw Ralph’s car at the end of the driveway. He waved them forward to the reserved parking place under the carport. Ziggy was in the driver’s seat. Walking to the passenger’s side of the car, he opened the door and extended his hand to Arabella Williams. She took it and stepped nimbly out of the The Rough English Equivalent 323 car. “Hey there, Ricky”, she said. Looking up at him, she was slender, almost childlike, yet she’d borne these two large sons and two daugh- ters. “Uh, hi, Miz Williams. Hey there, Ralph.” Ralph, sitting in the back seat, grinned hello. “Hey, Ziggy. Welcome back. C’mon in; they’re waitin’ for you.” Indicating the way to Arabella Williams, Ricky reached behind her to shake Ziggy’s hand. “Hey, buddy,” he said, pumping Ziggy’s long, bony hand. “Congratulations on your Silver Star.” Ziggy, natty in the new shirt and slacks that were part of the ward- robe that Moses had him pick out at Larson’s, grinned at him. “Thanks, Ricky. I ’preeshate it.” Serena opened the door for them. “Mrs.Williams. Please, come in. Thank you so much for coming.” “I’m so glad to be here. Thank you for doing this for Reginald.” “For Reginald–oh, yes. Well, it’s a very small thing compared to what he’s done for us. What can I get you to drink?” Most of the men circled around the bar, shooting questions at Ziggy, mostly about the war. He answered five or six as briefly as he could with courtesy, then Lee Webster took the conversation in another direction. “So, are ya lookin’ forward to livin’ in th’ big city?” The smile that he got in response was the brightest imaginable. “Sho am. I rilly lookin’ fo’ward to it.” “How long’s the assignment?” “Two years. Dey tole me it could be fo’ two mo, if I be a good r’crooter. An’ if I ships over.” “Ships over?” said Ricky. “What’s that?” “Reenlist. Give ’em fo’ mo years.” “That’s quite a spell,” said Moses. Think you’ll do it?” “Dawno. I see if I likes bein’ a Marine dat ain’ gittin’ shot at, ’er frozen stiff. Den we see.” “Guess that’s fair. Well, there’s always Bisque.” “Bisque?” said Ziggy. “You mean come home?” 324 The Rough English Equivalent

“Sure,” Moses said. “There’re worse places than here to live, if you decide to get out.” “Das true. But if I gets out, I speck I be stayin’ in A’lanna.” “Well, it’s a big town; plenty of things to do there.” “Sho is. First thing I be doin’ is goin’ ta college.” The room got suddenly quiet. “College,” said Moses. “Good idea. Where?” “Mo’house, I reckon. If I don’ have no problem wif my high school test.” “I doubt you will,” Moses said, looking with what he hoped was veiled amusement around the room. “I expect you’ll do fine.” “I hopes so. I got some books ta help me git ready.” “But Ziggy,” the voice came from the circle’s fringe–“Ya mean ya wouldn’t rether git on back ta Ko-rea an’ shoot some more a’them gewks? They say ’at college shit’s tough. Yew gotta read–an’ everthang.” A forest of heads turned to see who spoke. The source made it easy for them; he spoke again. “Thay teach ya ta read since ya left? Hell, I cain’t b’leeve thay could teach ya ta shoot. Himenny of ’em didja plug in th’ back?” Wash Davis was drunk. He was also short, sandy-haired, and sal- low, with a mouthful of alarmingly bad teeth. No one at the Hamm County Beverage Company knew him that well, aside from his uncle, Pat Greer. Pat, the company’s third most senior employee, had leveraged his longevity to get Wash hired, despite a spotty, but colorful, employment history that included roofing and concrete finishing. Just the man, Pat assured Moses, for the spot on the loading dock that had opened up when Roscoe Jarvis got drafted. Wash, who’d done a hitch in the army, wouldn’t be called. He’d been on the dock since September, having a lot to say and making no friends. Moses put a hand firmly on Ziggy’s arm and looked around for Pat. He wanted Wash out before Ralph Williams could get his hands on him. He caught the uncle’s eye and jerked his head toward Wash, The Rough English Equivalent 325 who flashed his luminous teeth to counter the ill will of those closest to him. Pat made a bee-line for Wash, lifting him almost clear of the floor by his upper arm and frog-marching him through the house and out the door. His parting “Silver Star, mah aiess!” was delivered over his shoulder, punctuated by a glancing blow from the door-facing to his head as Pat shoved him through. Ralph Williams, his face frozen in the smallest of smiles, returned to the room from the kitchen, from where he’d watched Wash being pushed into the cab of Pat’s ’49 Dodge pickup. “Thanks, boss. Guess we should’ve expected sump’m like this. Don’t think my mama heard any of it, up there in th’ livin’ room.” “Jesus, Ralph, I’m sorry.” He looked across the room for Ziggy, who’d moved to the bar as Wash departed and was smiling, fresh drink in hand, at a couple of sober-faced young men, obviously doing what he could to put them at their ease. “Doesn’t look like it bothered Ziggy much.” “No way a little shit like that’s gonna upset ole Zig,” said Ralph, his face relaxing as he felt a new surge of pride for his little brother. “I’ll call Pat at home,” Moses said with a rueful short wag of his head. “I don’t want that sonofabitch around any more. He can take ’im his check Monday after work.” “What can I do to talk you out of that, boss? Ziggy wouldn’t want anybody fired over sump’m like this.” “I know it. But this ain’t his call. We’ve got a small crew, and I mean for us to work happy around there. It’us my mistake lettin’ Pat talk me into takin’ ’im on in th’ first place.” “You’re right, it’s your call. I’ll scare up somebody else quick as I can.” “Fine. Now le’s go see what your brother’s bangin’ on Webster’s ear about.” 326 The Rough English Equivalent

2050 Monday 22 December 1952: “That ’us quite a party you threw ole Ziggy,” said Webster after the first long slug of his latest Red Cap as Moses took his seat in the Bisque Lunch Room. “Thanks. You left sort of early.” “Guess I’m not as young as I used to be. Or maybe I thought I’d be gone if the maniac returned with friends, firearms or both.” “That little asshole? Not likely.” “Don’t be too sure. It’s in his blood.” “Whatchoo talkin’ about? Ole Pat’s a right guy.” “He’s got another uncle, at least one more, that I’m talkin’ about. Doin’ five to seven down at Reidsville, less’n a hundred miles from here.” Moses’ eyebrows twitched. “Lindall?” “Yep. He’s Wash’s uncle on his mother’s side.” “Sorry to hear that. But there’re lots of nasty people in the world. And Lindall’s got about four years left to do, minimum.” “I’m just sayin’ you wanta watch yourself. That little asshole’s the kind who’d lay for you with a shotgun, just the way Lindall did with Precious Lord.” “Thanks, I’ll watch my back.” “Make damn sure you, buddy.” “By the way, Ziggy was givin’ you the gas hot and heavy right before you left. What’d he want?” “The usual. For people movin’ to Atlanta, that is. An introduction to Zack Shears.” “Hm. Did he say why?” “Appears as how he wants to join the herd of would-be singers that want Zack to make ’em famous.” “Well, don’t sell the boy short. He got out of here, and he’ll probably get out of Atlanta when he gets ready.” “He probably will at that,” said Webster. chapter 17 s Little Old New York

1435 Wednesday 18 February 1953: Jack brought the Harley to a halt with a scant screech of rear tire. No longer the “Wincycle,” it was his bike since Moses gave it to him, sidecar and all, for his sixteenth birthday, November first of ’52. He’d left the sidecar on just long enough for his mother to get used to his riding it every day; it became a solo rig way before Christmas, the fat “buddy” seat and its hydraulic plunger giving way to a small dual spring-supported number made by Bates of California. By the following June, Jack having taken his cues from photos in Cycle maga- zine, it was a full-fledged “bob job,” with a new front fender hammered out of the spare tire cover off a ’36 Ford roadster, the old front fender cut down and moved to the back, and with Roy Hartwell’s connivance, a four-speed transmission in place of the old three-forward-plus-reverse. Roy had also heated and bent the end of the exhaust pipe upward to a forty-five degree angle and sent the pipe to Atlanta to be chromed. A matching chromed “reverse cone” megaphone rode at this jaunty angle beside the rear wheel, replacing the bike’s muffler and giving Jack the satisfaction of making more noise than Freddy George could with his new Triumph Thunderbird, which sported its own twin megaphones.

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Moses looked up from his desk at the sound of his knock. “Excuse me, Mose.” “Hey, bud,” Moses said with a grin as he looked at his watch. It was just past one o’clock. “This is a surprise. Whad’ja do, get kicked outa school?” Jack, who had been smiling, stopped. “No, but I’m AWOL. Sump’m happened over there a little while ago that I need to talk to you about.” “Sure. Have a seat. What’s going on?” “They suspended Ricky today; and kicked him off the football team. Trisha McNeil’s dad told the principal that she’s pregnant, and that Ricky did it.” “Oh, no. What does he say?” “He told me they’d been making love since Thanksgiving, and that she didn’t have her period last month or the month before that. She told him when she missed the first one, and they kept on waitin’, thinkin’ it would come. Then the time for her next one came and went. They were just too scared to tell anybody. Finally Ricky told his dad, and he went and told her folks. He said that they could get it fixed; she could get an operation–you know, an abortion. But that made ’em so mad they threw him out. They’re really mad.” “I guess they are. Abortions are illegal, and most of the people who do them aren’t doctors. It’s a very dangerous thing to mess with. Matter of fact, I’m amazed we’re havin’ this conversation. You guys are way too young to be talkin’ about stuff like this, and you–he– damn sure shouldn’t be doin’ it. Where’s Ricky now?” “Home, I guess. He left school during lunch period, as soon as he told me. He’s really confused, and mad, too. I’m goin’ over there, but I wanted to talk to you first.” “I’m glad you did, buddy. Do me a favor, though. I need some time to think this through. Go on back to school before they miss you, and meet me back here when it lets out.” Little Old New York 329

“No, Mose. I can’t. Ricky needs me now. I’m not leavin’ him alone.” “Jack. You came here to talk to me. Did you want me to tell you what I think, or just listen to what you have to say?” Focusing on him, the boy’s eyes widened. “No, Mose, I need your help. Just don’t ask me to go back to that school right now. I can’t.” Moses got up and walked around the desk. Stopping behind Jack’s chair, he put one hand on each of his shoulders. “Mm-mm-mm– fuckin’-mm. OK. Forget about that. Let’s run out to Ricky’s.”

“Hey, Melinda,” Moses said, forcing a smile. “Mose. Jack.” She looked as though she hadn’t slept, and was trying not to cry. “You’ve caught us at a bad time.” “Yes. I’m very sorry. We were hopin’ to help somehow; Jack’s worried about Ricky.” “So are we,” she said. “Richard’s not here right now. Why don’t y’all come on in. Jack, you wanta run on back and see Ricky? He’s in his room.” “Yes ma’am. Thanks.” He looked questioningly at Moses. “Go on, buddy. I’ll sit out here with Miz Terrell.” Jack knocked on the red-and-white steel KEEP OUT sign that Ricky had bolted to his door. It made a boinking sound like the one it had the night that they’d ripped it off the door to the gymnasium’s furnace room. “Rick?” Rick opened the door. His face was almost the same light gray as his sweatshirt. “Hey.” “You OK?” “Shit.” Ricky said. “Shit fuck piss. No, I ain’t.” “Is Trisha home now?” “I dawno.” Have you talked to ’er?” 330 The Rough English Equivalent

“You kiddin’? They won’t let ’er. They’re so pissed off I’ll prob’ly never see ’er again.” “Mose brought me over; I told ’im about it; I think he can help us.” Ricky looked at him for a long thirty seconds. “Maybe so. You did right, buddy. He’s always backed you up, and God knows I need some good ideas about what to do. Daddy’s idea went over like a lead balloon, and now I’m sittin’ here without a clue.” “What wouldja really like to do?” asked Jack. “Right now?” “Yeah.” “I’d sorta like to cut my dick off, if you wanta know the truth. I’ve fucked a buncha people, not just Trisha and me. And you know what? It wasn’t fuckin’ worth it.” “And here I’ve been envying the shit out of you because you were gettin’ steady pussy. Remember that bet we made way back that fourth of July at Pap’s?” “Oh yeah. When Korea’d just started. I won,” Ricky said, smiling at the irony. “Yeah, you were deﬁnitely ﬁrst.” “Wanta swap places?” Jack smiled ruefully. “No thanks. But I still wanta help. Believe me, if I’d had the chance you had, I’da done the same thing. Funny, ain’t it?” “What?” “You say it wasn’t worth it, and I believe you. But most guys want it bad; really bad, I mean. Do most anything to get it, far as I know. That’s what nearly every damn movie’s all about. So if there ain’t much to it, what in the fuck are we gettin’ so shook up about?” “Easy,” said Ricky. “Between times, you forget. All th’ blood that it takes to get a hard-on must drain right outa th’ brain. Remember what Smokey said that time? ‘A stiff dick ain’t got no conscience.’ Little Old New York 331

One thing’s for sure; we ain’t got much control over it, or I wouldn’t be sittin’ here feelin’ like such a fuckin’ idiot.” “You’re no fuckin’ idiot, no more than anybody else with a dick,” said Jack as he stood up, looking at the Lockheed P-80 that hung from the ceiling, its wingspan something over two feet. “No idiot built that,” he said, “and we’re gonna get through this shit together. I made up my mind about sump’m while we were drivin’ out here, by th’ way. “Yeah, what?” “They decided they could do without your services as quarterback; I’m gonna let ’em do without mine, too.” Ricky stood up, spinning Jack around by the arm so that they faced each other. “The fuck you are!” he said, his jaw set. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’, givin’ me one more person to feel guilty about? Goddam it, what’re you thinkin’ about, anyway? You just fuckin’ forget that, pal.” “You forget tellin’ me to forget it, pal,” Jack shot back as he shook Ricky’s arm off and moving his face within a couple of inches of his. “I’m in this with you, just the same way you’d be in it with me. You would be, would’ncha?” Ricky turned away, looking out the window. “Yeah, sure I would,” he said, his voice dropping. “Goddam it, don’t you get it? Nobody can get me outa this, or make it better. But you’re right. I’d try, and I won’t keep you from tryin’. Thanks, buddy.” Jack’s hand reached out to clutch Ricky’s shoulder, just below his neck, and squeezed. “OK. Mose’s gotta get back. I’ll call you in a little bit.” “How’d it go?” asked Moses as they headed back to the ofﬁce. “OK. How was Miz Terrell?” “Not bad, except she’s convinced that they’ll have to leave town. Beats anything I ever saw; most of the people in this fucking town are so full of fear that they’ve forgotten what they’re afraid of.” 332 The Rough English Equivalent

Jack looked at him for a long moment, jaw set, green eyes nearly black. “Yeah. Sump’m like this hurts people like th’ Terrells the most. It’s important to them to do th’ right thing, and when somebody points a ﬁnger at ’em and says they did wrong, it hurts just as much whether they really did it or not. If you play th’ Bisque game, you’re guilty until proven innocent. Somebody like you or Pap or Mom’d just tell ’em to go to hell, but most people just knuckle under. We’ll get ’em through it, though. I’m takin’ the ﬁrst step today. Wouldja drop me off at school?” “Sure. What kinda step you got in mind?” “I’m tellin’ Coach I’m off the team.” Moses kept his eyes on the road. “Sounds like you’ve already thought this though. Any chance you’d like to sleep on it?” “Nossir.” “OK, buddy. Shall I come in?” “No, thanks. I’d like to handle this myself.” Moses turned the car toward the gymnasium. “No,” said Jack, “just drop me at the back door.” He drove into the parking lot, near the cafeteria, and stopped. “Coach’s civics class’ll be out in a few minutes.” He sat looking straight ahead. He pushed the door handle down, then turned to Moses as the door swung open and the bell’s clanging surged into the car. “Hey, beer man.” “Yeah?” “I love you.” He was already out of the car. “I know,” Moses shouted after him. “I love you, too, buddy.” Moses sat smiling in the car, the motor running, watching Jack through a trickle of tears as he walked past the cafeteria toward the door. That kid’s bitten off a very large piece of growing up, he thought; and right this minute I don’t see much that I can do to help him chew it. Little Old New York 333

1255 Tuesday 24 February 1953: Bisque High School’s new building, Serena thought as she walked up the front steps, looks a lot like those long, narrow chicken houses they’re building around here. Even the wire imbedded in the glass of these doors looks like chicken wire. Looking through its hexagons, she saw the familiar figure of Miss Nola Thomas pushing her way through the stream of student traffic. She leaned her weight against the inbound door, calling to the white-haired woman as it hissed open. “Miss Nola!” “Yes? Well, my goodness, Serena,” she said, smiling over her half- glasses in the bemused, inquiring way that took the younger woman back over twenty years, to her desk in Miss Nola’s World History class. Still wearing that green cable-knit sweater that she wore way back then. “How’re you doing?” “Just fine,” said Serena, “Considering.” “I know,” Miss Nola said, “I’ve heard about it. It’s all over school, and I’ll tell you I’m not the least bit surprised at what Jack did. He has a pretty good instinct for justice.” “You can’t know how good that makes me feel,” said Serena. “He hasn’t said all that much to me about it, except that he feels that he has to stand by Ricky, and this is the way he’s chosen to do it.” Miss Nola’s smile faded as she looked past her old student toward the administration office. “It’s been too long since we visited, Serena; would you be free to have a cup of coffee with me after school? I could drop by the hotel around three-thirty.” “That’d be just great. Let’s meet in my apartment, up on the sixth floor, so we won’t be interrupted. Suite 601. I’m really looking forward to catching up.” “So I am I, honey,” said the teacher as she turned to go. “See you this afternoon.” The clock on the office wall behind conceded a single tinny chime as John Martin stepped through the door. The principal extended a long arm toward Serena, offering his hand. “Good afternoon, Mrs. 334 The Rough English Equivalent

Mason,” he said. “Thank you for coming. Please come in.” They walked past the office’s chest-high counter and into Mr. Martin’s office, where Jack and Mr. Whitehead sat, their faces reflecting the walls’ dusty, aging yellow. They stood to greet her. “Of course you know Coach Whitehead,” the principal said as they shook hands. “Shall we sit down?” Serena sat beside Jack on the sofa opposite Mar- tin’s desk. “After Coach Whitehead told me about Jack’s decision to leave the team,” Martin said, “I thought it might be a good idea for us all to get together and talk about what we think the results of that decision might be.” “As far as I can see,” Serena said, “the results are pretty obvious. Unless I’ve missed something.” “In one sense, I suppose, that’s true,” the principal said, shifting in his chair to bring Coach Whitehead, seated at the far corner of the desk, into his field of vision. “Football, like our other sports pro- grams, is an elective activity. So if Jack doesn’t want to play any more, the school respects his decision. I just want to make sure that he, and you, Mrs. Mason, are sure that the decision in his best interest.” “From what Jack’s told me in the last few days,” Serena replied, I believe that it is.” “Yes. Well. I’m sure that he’s told you a great deal by now, and that he feels like he’s done the right thing. He’s standing beside his friend, and that’s very admirable. I’m concerned, though, that in this immediate response to the necessity of suspending Mr. Terrell and removing him from the team, Jack may be overreacting. I’d like to make sure that you folks understand that the school had no discretion in the handling of this matter. Even if we had, I can tell you that would’ve made very little difference in my decision. These children made a very serious mistake, and the school can’t ratify that behavior by ignoring it. I’d just hate to see Jack pay too high a price for this gesture he’s making on behalf of his friend.” Little Old New York 335

“Jack’s the one to tell you how he feels about that,” said Serena, “but as long as I’m here, I’ll tell you how I feel about it. The time for a ‘gesture’–and the action that backs it up–is when a friend needs it.” “Yes. Of course. I know he feels that way…” “You’ve asked him?” “Well, not yet, but…” “Then why don’t you ask him? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To make sure Jack knows what he’s doing?” “It is,” said Coach Whitehead, shifting his bulk on the seat of a chair not designed for it. “Absolutely. But we want him–and you–to be real sure you understand what Jack’s gonna lose by passin’ up his senior year of football.” “OK. And let’s also look at what he stands to gain. That all right with you, son?” asked Serena, smiling as she looked at Jack. Jack, sitting with his back away from the sofa, his hands on his knees, returned her smile. “That’s just ﬁne,” he said. “Well,” Mr. Martin said, “Perhaps we ought to hear what Jack has to say ﬁrst. If that’s all right with everyone.” He paused for a quick glance at the three faces, and continued. “Would you like to tell us why you decided to support your friend in this particular way?” Jack took a moment to look at each of the three, then said, “It’s just like I told Coach. If Ricky’s off the squad, then so am I.” “I think we all understand how you feel, Jack,” said Mr. Martin. “Loyalty’s essential to friendship. Ricky, Patricia and their families have a very serious problem, and so has the school system. Every- one’s going to have to concentrate on dealing with their part of the problem. I can’t understand what you think leaving the team will do to help solve it.” “It’ll solve my problem, sir.” “Your problem? What is your problem?” “My problem’s being sure my friend knows I’m with him–a hundred percent. I think that’ll help him solve his problem.” “Did he ask you to quit?” 336 The Rough English Equivalent

“No sir. Matter of fact, I may have to ﬁght ’im when he hears about it.” A faint smile ﬂickered over Martin’s face for a fraction of a second. Then he said, “That’d be a strange reaction to what you’re doing– strange, at least, for him. Wouldn’t it?” “You wouldn’t think so,” Ricky said, returning the principal’s smile with a shake of his head, “If you knew Ricky.” Coach Whitehead responded to Jack’s headshaking with his own. “You’re sayin’ he wants yuh to play next year?” “Yessir.” “Howyaknow?” “I told you. He’s my friend. I know ’im.” “It seems to me,” said Martin, “that you’d want to respect his wishes.” “I would,” said Jack, “if he was right. He’s not. He’s my friend, but that doesn’t mean he’s always right.” “Are you always right, Jack?” asked Martin. “Nossir. Not by a jugful. But I think I’m right about this.” “Well, here’s the deal, son,” said Coach Whitehead. With you and Terrell, Bisque High looked like it’d repeat as state champion next year. It would’ve been real hard to without Terrell, but it’ll be impossible to do with both of you out. The way I see it, this way we all lose. Terrell loses, the school loses, and so do you. Bein’ all-state last year and a cinch to make it again next year, you could write your own ticket to dern near any school you pleased. You know how many scouts there was around here in th’ post-season last year. I wish there was somethin’ we could do about Terrell, but there idn’t. But it’s within your power to help us overcome losin’ him, and do somethin’ important for your future too. That’s what we’d all liike to see you do, includin’ Terrell.” “Not all of us, Mr. Whitehead,” said Serena. The principal looked over his glasses at her. “What are your feelings in this matter, Mrs. Mason?” he asked. Little Old New York 337

“My feelings are that Jack’s made his decision to support Ricky in the way that he feels that he must. When we ﬁrst sat down, you said that Ricky, Trisha and their families have a very serious problem, and they certainly have. That’s what this meeting should’ve been about; what Jack and his fellow students will learn from what’s happened to Ricky and Trisha. Particularly about whether the school system, and Bisque in general, is right to turn these children into outlaws because they made a mistake. Instead, we’re talking about football. Football, for God’s sake! What can you men be thinking about?” Martin’s poker face said, “What we’re thinking about is the long- term welfare of the children that Bisque families place into our care. That welfare includes reinforcing the values that they learn at home, and at church. It certainly does not include the erosion of those values by allowing behavior such as this to go unpenalized.” “Oh, they’ll be penalized, all right. And plenty,” said Serena, standing up. “In this town, you can be sure of that. And since your options as employees of the system are so severely limited, helping them deal with the penalties looks like it’s going to fall to their friends. Unless you have anything else to add, I think we’ve pretty much covered everything that relates to this situation. And I’m sure Jack needs to get to class.” Everyone else stood up. “Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Mason,” said Martin. “I’m sorry–” Serena held up her hand in the manner of a trafﬁc cop. “You go on, honey. I need just a minute with Mr. Martin. Would you walk out with me, please?” She extended her hand to Coach Whitehead. “Nice to see you, Coach.” “I wanted to ask you something,” she said as they walked down the school’s front steps. “Where did Trisha get pregnant?” Martin stopped short, a step below her, and looked up. “What did you say?” “I said, ‘where did Trisha get pregnant?’” “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Martin. 338 The Rough English Equivalent

“Would you say that it happened here?” “Here? You mean on school property? Certainly not.” “Then on what authority are you suspending Ricky Terrell?” Martin’s mouth opened slowly, soundlessly, and shut. Then he said, “The policy of the school board–” Serena smiled. “I doubt that there is such a thing, other than what’s made up as they go along.” Martin’s poker face returned. “I don’t think I should discuss this situation with you any further outside of–” “No,” Serena said, “You wouldn’t. There’s a little Hitler in the best of us. Well, Mr. Martin, take this back to your precious school board. If I were one of Ricky’s parents, I’d sue everyone in sight. I hope they do. You people’s sanctimoniousness makes me sick. Just one last thing.” “What’s that?” Her eyes were green onyx. “Leave Jack alone.” She turned and strode down the long, wide walk to Main street.

Miss Nola was, as was her habit, on time. “Hi,” Serena said, smiling as she opened the door. “Hi yourself. This is very nice,” she said as she looked around the apartment’s living room. “I knew you lived here, but I really hadn’t thought about what it would be like. Was your apartment in New York like this?” “It was, but bigger. Jack and I get along just ﬁne, though. Please, have a seat on the sofa. Coffee’s almost ready.” “Thanks. I’m glad to hear you like it. I’m sure some people around here think you’d probably rather be in a house, or that Jack would. I think I’d enjoy living here, though.” “Well, we both like it; it’s sort of like keeping the door open to New York. We lived there until Jack was six, you know. He has a lot of memories of the city.” Little Old New York 339

“I understand you all went out to Los Alamos.” Serena looked at her with unconcealed surprise. “You know about Los Alamos. Not a lot of people around here do.” “Oh it’s not quite the secret that it used to be. Even Walter Winch- ell talks about it; he mentioned something about it on television not long ago.” “Well, God knows what the Bisque grapevine’s version is by now, but all I can say is that we were there for awhile, and that Bisque never looked better to me than when we got off the bus. ’Scuse me while I get us some coffee.” “Certainly. Well, we were all real glad to have you back,” she said as Serena disappeared into the kitchen. “And I’ve really enjoyed having Jack in my class this year. I hope this football business blows over in a hurry, so that he can concentrate on his schoolwork.” Serena returned with two cups of coffee and Toll House cookies. “So do I. It’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of. Always has been.” “Now you sound like your Mama. She never put up with this town’s nonsense; not for a minute.” “No,” said Serena, “she didn’t.” “I grew up in her shadow, you know; she was ﬁve years older than I was, which was a lot when you’re a girl, but she was always really nice to me. I went to Agnes Scott because she did. She was a real revolutionary, at least for around here. Silly as it sounds today, we used to say that she had ‘spunk.’ She was so different from Bonnie, it was almost like they weren’t sisters.” “So I’ve heard. She used to say that Aunt Bonnie’d accuse her of wanting to be an only child.” “Rest her soul. She was the oldest, and as soon as Rose got to be school age it seems like she just got left in her dust. Rose should’ve done what you did; I know I wish that I had.” “What’s that?” Serena asked her. 340 The Rough English Equivalent

“Gotten out of this Godforsaken little backwater at the first opportunity.” Serena smiled. “But then who’dve gotten Gene Debs, Buster and me through World History?” “Some other old maid, I suppose. Honey, I told you when you left that you were doing the right thing. And even though you’ve come back, I have the feeling that you won’t be here forever.” “Well, Miss Nola, the war changed a lot of things.” “Which war do you mean, honey? The big one, or yours?” The smile tightened a notch. “Both, I guess, but in any case I have Jack’s welfare to look out for now.” “Yes, indeed. There’s an awful lot of you in him, Serena; Jack’s a really bright young man. Did he inherit your artistic talent? If he did, he doesn’t share it with us at school.” “Not much, at least not drawing, and I guess if he had there’d be some sign of it by now. I was drawing by the time I could talk. He’s got a lot of his father in him, too; he’s had straight A’s in math since first grade, and his vocabulary passed mine up a year or two back.” “Well, I hope you can help him see all this football business for the nonsense it is, and put it behind him for good,” Miss Nola said with an abrupt shake of her head, loosening a long yellow pencil that was lodged, forgotten since school, in the mass of her pinned-up white hair. “I don’t think he’s going to need much help, Miss Nola; I wish you could’ve been in that office today. I’ve always been proud of him, of course, but I saw another side of him today, for the first time. He dealt with them respectfully, but as their equal. He just told them there was nothing they could do to change his mind.” “Good!” she said, relodging the pencil as she picked up her cup. “As far as I’m concerned, football’s gotten to be way too important a part of high school. It’s a dead end, particularly for the smart ones. Takes up way too much of their time, and for what? Cheap heroics, and first dibs on the pretty girls,” she said, her cheeks contracting in Little Old New York 341 a quick wry grin. “Which, now that I think of it, is why we’ll never be rid of it. But you’d think now that people could see how stupid it is, with millions dead in the war. Old men sending young men–no, boys–out to get hurt or killed for what the old men want. I think about it every time I see an injured player being carried off the field. That’s football, as far as I can see it–just a part of the ongoing charade that rationalizes sending the young to war.” “That’s exactly what went on there today, Miss Nola. Two old men clutching to their perches by keeping the flock under control. Oh, I know there’s got to be a strong defense against the tyrants of the world. But we’ve got to look out for who’s doing the leading.” “Yea, verily, child. That’s the job, and it’ll never be easy. Look at what that maniac Hitler was able to put the world through, bending the people of one of the most advanced countries in the world to his will. Well, global madness begins with small acts of madness, and Jack struck a blow for sanity today when he told them no. He’s under an awful lot of pressure.” “And I don’t think it’ll end for awhile. I told Mr. Martin when I left today that I won’t stand for them treating Jack unfairly.” “You know I’ll keep an eye out for that,” Miss Nola said with an abrupt nod of her head. “And they’ll hear from me if I see any of it going on.” She stopped to take a sip from her cup. “There’s another aspect of this situation that I wanted to talk to you about.” “Oh?” said Serena. “What is it?” “You know the Bishop sisters.” “Oh yes. They’re the ones that drive Moses Kubielski’s old white Buick.” “They’re the ones. They’re in my class this year. Cheerleaders; striking young things, and bright. They share a disease–Tourette’s Syndrome–and rumor has it that they’re clairvoyant to some degree.” 342 The Rough English Equivalent

“Yes, Jack’s told me about their telling them what plays the other teams’ll run. Sounds pretty fishy to me. I’m sorry to hear about the Tourette’s, although I don’t know that much about it.” “Yes, it’s tragic,” said Miss Nola. They’re subject to behaving scan- dalously, with no warning at all. Their mother told us that the ten- dencies’re minimized as long as they stay close to each other.” “Hm. Psychic Siamese twins.” Miss Nola paused momentarily to ponder the idea. “Yes, I guess you could characterize it that way. That’s not a bad analogy. Such lovely girls to have something like that to deal with.” She paused again. “This is what I wanted to tell you. They told me that since Jack had refused to play football because of Ricky’s suspension, they were going to drop off the cheerleading squad.” “Really? Well, it’s a nice vote of confidence for Ricky–or Jack, I suppose.” “You could look at it that way–but that’s not really the reason. Dolores told me something else.” “What was that?” “She said that Trisha’s baby isn’t Ricky’s.” Serena looked keenly at her. “Then whose?” “Preston Rogers’.” “Who’s out of the school’s reach, of course. Does she–do they– know this for a fact, or is this something that they just ‘know,’ like the football plays last year?” “The latter, I’m afraid,” said Miss Nola. “But they’re absolutely convinced.” “It may be academic at this point, since Ricky’s admitted responsibility.” Miss Nola’s hand stroked her chin, her head reciprocating in a small arc. “He may have been her lover, but Trisha wouldn’t be the first girl, in Bisque or elsewhere, to have had more than one at a time. That’s one of the oldest stories in the world.” Little Old New York 343

“Even if Ricky’s not the one,” said Serena, “I’m not sure what you and I can–or should–do about it.” “Well, these things tend to take on a life of their own, once they’ve seen the light of day. Remember, ‘the truth will out.’ I just wanted you to know about it, or the possibility of it, since Jack’s involved. He probably knows already. Gossip runs fast over Bisque’s grapevine, but Bisque High’s puts it to shame.” “Well, whatever the truth is, Jack’s motive’s the same,” said Serena. “He stood by his friend.” “Yes. And since Ricky’s suspension isn’t as much for his potential fatherhood out of wedlock as it is for just having sex in the ﬁrst place, the truth, when it emerges, won’t change that. But one thing’s for sure.” “What’s that?” “Both of those boys’ future, and yours, ought to unfold on a bigger stage than Bisque.” “Miss Nola,” said Serena, “You’re preachin’ to the choir.”

An apple-cheeked androgyne in a Coke-cap hat grinned down conspiratorially from the café’s new Pause That Refreshes clock as its hands inched up on six. “Sounds like y’all won,” observed Moses. “Yeah, I guess,” said Jack, twirling an ice fragment in a series of small circles around the table with the end of his straw. “Damn if I don’t believe that grown-ups spend most of their lives just tryin’ to get people to do what they want ’em to do.” “Yeah,” said Moses, “And watch out for the ones who try to get you to want to do what they want you to do.” Ever hear of a guy called Sartre? “Sart? Nope.” “Guess he’d be a little strong for high school anyway. He’s a frog; Frenchman. Wrote a play called No Exit back during the war. There’s a line that people quote from it sometimes; ‘Hell is other people’.” 344 The Rough English Equivalent

Jack laughed. “That’s pretty good. I’d like to read it sometime. Bet it’s not in the library, either.” “I’ll see if I can’t get hold of it. A lot of people think that he’s got the right idea about life as it is today. A philosophy called existential- ism.” “Hm,” said Jack. “What do you think of it?” “I haven’t spent any time with his work, so I don’t have an opinion. Just remembered that line as it applies to your experience over the past few days.” “Falls in there pretty good, I think. This whole damn thing’s screwy. Screwy as hell, you might say. What a pregnant girl and football–or school, either, have to do with each other. Reminds me of a book we’re readin’ now; The Scarlet Letter.” “Oh, yeah. Hawthorne. What timin’. Ambitious, for kids in high school English.” “We’re not doing it in English. Miz Thomas assigned it in History. Said it’d help us understand the Puritans.” “I’ll be durned. Well, how d’ya like it so far?” “Pretty heavy goin’ for me, the way he writes. A lot like Hardy. Remember how I choked on Return of the Native? Maybe it’s just the way I read. But I can see this much; Hester, Dimmesdale, Chilling- worth–they’re fuckin’ hypocrites. What they do in the book’s pretty much the same thing that they did down there in the principal’s ofﬁce today. People who we’re supposed to look up to doin’ stuff that could really hurt other people just so things’ll stay convenient for them. Instead of God, they just substituted fuhbawl, and kept the shunnin’ part.” Moses took a few seconds to absorb Jack’s insight, and a few more to come to grips with the fact that it had come from him. The kid’s growing up in a hurry, he thought. What he said was, “So no spring fuhbawl practice for you guys this year. Whacha gonna do with all this free time, bub?” “Dawno. Whatever it is, Ricky and I’ll be doin’ it together.” Little Old New York 345

“I knew that. I thought maybe if you guys wanted to stay in shape, you might like to spar around a little.” Jack snapped his head up to look Moses in the eye. “Box? I’ve thought about it a time or two since you set the gym up, but I don’t know much about it. Neither does Ricky. Would you have time to coach us some?” “Sure,” said Moses. “Otherwise I wouldn’ta brought it up. Can’t have y’all beatin’ on each other just any ole damn way. Wanta get started right away? Might take Ricky’s mind off his troubles if we did.” “Yeah, let’s do. How ’bout tomorrow afternoon, since it’s Wednes- day?” “You got a deal, shitbird.” “Oh, you know what? His folks might not let ’im outa the house unless you ask ’em. Wouldja mind callin’ Mr. Terrell?” “Not a bit,” said Moses. “Hey.” “What?” “They’ve tried to make you a pariah, the fuckin’ pissants.” “A pariah? What’s that” “It means outcast, and they’re not gonna get away with it.” “Damn straight. How d’ya spell that, anyway?” 1515 Wednesday 25 February 1953: The faint odor of long-gone horse manure still haunted the converted barn, particularly on a rainy day. Jack and Ricky, regarding each other with self-consciousness and suppressed glee, stood with their backs against the ring ropes while Moses, steadying the fat end of one glove at a time against his stomach, tightened their laces and tied them off. Ricky, his gloves complete, moved away from the ropes, shuffling tentatively around a few square feet of the ring as he shifted his protective headgear slightly upward with glove-fattened wrists. Seconds later, Moses stepped back from Jack, who stepped into his own small area of the ring and poked the air with several 346 The Rough English Equivalent tentative jabs. This was the first day of sparring for the boys, who had worked out in the gym for the previous six weeks, concentrating on shadow boxing and hitting the heavy and speed bags under Moses’ close supervision. Calling the boys to center ring, He rechecked their headgear as he briefed them. “We’re gonna alternate offense and defense for a coupla rounds,” he said, “to let you guys see what it’s like to throw the punches that you’ve learned and how to duck or slip ’em. We’ll try three-minute rounds and see how quick you get tired. I’ll be talkin’ to you, so the pace will be pretty slow. Later we’ll go to a coupla 1- minute rounds so you can poke at each other without havin’ to listen to me. Ricky, you’ll be the aggressor in round one. Just start out throwin’ jabs; keep movin’, lookin’ for an opening, but even if you see a chance to throw a right hand, don’t do it. There’ll be plenty of time for that later; what we wanta do right now his get you guys used to movin’ around in the ring and watchin’ your opponent at the same time. Jack, watch Ricky’s eyes; they’ll tell you where he’s goin’ with his punches, and you can pick ’em up out of the of the corner of your eye. You’ve got the option of blockin’ or slippin’ ’em, but don’t throw either hand. Just take it easy, move around, jab, block and slip and let’s see how it goes. Go to your corners.” Moses stepped through the ropes, reaching down for the bell string. Standing at a neutral corner post, he barked, “Ready?” Both headgear bobbed up and down. The bell’s clang echoed off the rafters, and the two friends closed at center ring, Ricky’s left hand darting out swift and straight to open the round. Backpedaling, Jack caught it in the palm of his glove and feinted a jab to counter it. “Don’t counter, Jack,” Moses called out. “Just keep movin’ and save your punches for round two.” Nodding a brief assent, Jack quickly stepped back and to the right, reversing his direction and trying to stay just out of range of Ricky’s jab. Ricky moved to his left, following his target with a series of jabs, the fourth or fifth of which broke through Jack’s defense. The punch glanced off the right side of Jack’s Little Old New York 347 headgear, and Ricky instinctively closed to press his advantage. “Ease up, Ricky,” Moses admonished. “Remember, this ain’t a fight; just keep the punches goin’ and try to get a feel for what Jack’s doin’ to make you miss.” Ricky didn’t land another punch in the round, and both boys stood in their respective corners, breathing hard with their arms looped around the ring’s top rope. “You guys OK? Got any questions?” Moses asked them. Jack took in a deep breath, exhaled, and took in another. “You sure that was just three minutes?” “That’s all; wanna try another one, or cut down the time?” “We better do another three minutes,” Ricky said, “Or Jack’ll never let me hear the end of how he didn’t get equal punchin’ time.” “OK,” Moses said. “Remember, relax, relax; the tighter you stay, the quicker you’ll get winded. Ricky, Jack’s comin’ after you now. Protect yourself and try not to let him get a hand on you. Move in with your jab, Jack; jab, jab ’til you get an openin’. And botha you, keep movin’. Movement’s the key to a good attack and a good defense.” Rick moved to his left as Jack bore in, catching the first flurry of jabs with his gloved palms. “Elbows in, Rick,” he barked. “He won’t do it now, but keep that up and soon he’ll be slippin’ an uppercut up between your hands. Slip th’ punches to th’ side like I showed ya. Move right, now; you can’t keep goin’ left or you’ll get dizzy, and then you’re cold meat.” As Ricky planted his foot to move right, Jack saw his chance, landing a glancing right hand off the side of Ricky’s headgear, scoring in much the same way as Ricky had off him. “Good, Jack! Make your transition fast, Ricky; it’s a lot easier to hit a slow-movin’ target than it is one that’s movin’ fast.” After two more rounds of offense/defense, Moses stepped in to the middle of the ring, motioning to the boys to join him. “How’re y’all feelin’?” “Good!” they echoed in unison, each breathing hard and standing in puddles of sweat. 348 The Rough English Equivalent

“Got enough left for a little real sparrin’?” “Sure!” another echo. “OK. we’ll do a couple of one-minute rounds and see how you’re feelin’ then. Go to your corners and remember, we’re workin’ on technique, not knockouts. Just try to score on your opponent with hits to the head and body. When you hear ‘ding,’ come out of your corners and start sparrin’. When you hear ‘ding-ding-ding,’ stop sparrin’ and return to your corner. Remember, keep movin’, look for openin’s and score points on your opponent.” Impatient to be free of their offense/defense restraints, they rushed out at the bell’s ding, trading exploratory jabs, stirring the air with near-misses and blocks. They’d learned their lessons fairly well, Moses thought as he lived each exchange with them. He could see, as you almost always could very early in a match, the differences in per- sonalities. Jack fought a little more with his head, strategically, trying to play two or three moves ahead. Ricky fought purely with passion, his fakes transparent in that each ended with a punch that was meant to connect. Reading the fakes, Jack was content to backpedal, parry these overt thrusts and counter them, mostly with shots to the body. They went three one-minute rounds before Moses ended the match, calling the boys to center ring. “That’s it for today, gentlemen,” he said as he pulled their headgear strings free of their knots. “Good workout; toward the end you had the pace about right for a ten-rounder.” “Hell,” Ricky wheezed, “we were gettin’ tired. At least I was. How ’bout you, Slugger?” “No shit,” Jack said between breaths. “That’s hard work.” “Like I said, good; for the first time sparring, that is. You’ll get more of your heads into it as we go along. A boxing match is kinda like a chess match; you read your opponent, watch what he does in response to what you do, and do your best to save more of yourself for the endgame than he does. The good openings, most of ’em, Little Old New York 349 come when one guy tires quicker than the other. What you wanta do is be the one that’s not so tired.” 1315 Friday 27 February 1953: “Hey, Jack!” Walt Jefferson trotted up the hill to catch up with him, as Jack slung a leg over the Harley. “Hey, Jefferson. What’s up?” “You’re askin’ me? This whole damn place is up, and you know it. I can’t believe you hab’mnt had two dozen fights by now.” You’re kiddin’. Ain’t nobody much mad at me. Ricky neither. Hop on an’ we’ll run out’n see ’im.” “I bed’ not,” Walt said, fidgeting. “If anybody saw me an’ told my old man, I’d be in deep shit.” “What the hell for? Ridin’ on this? Your brother’s got two of ’em.” “Yeah. And that’s part of th’ reason. I gotta be Sammy Straightar- row because Charlie ain’t.” “Bad deal, man. Don’t put up with that shit.” “Hunh. You dawno my old man.” “That’s true.” And damn glad I don’t, Jack thought. He’s just decided on his own to make you the older brother, whether you’re up to it or not. “Oh, I wanted to ask you sump’m else,” Walt said. “What’s that?” “J’you wanta work in the mill this summer? He said they’d hire a couple of my friends to work with me. Dollar and a quarter an hour.” “Guess not, buddy. I spend August in New York with my dad, you know.” “You could still work June and July. C’mon, it’ll be fun workin’ together.” “Naw, I don’t think so. I’m already workin’ nights at the Winston; sounds like a little too much, even for a stud like me. Didn’t you tell me you were deaf for a couple of hours after you got off every day? 350 The Rough English Equivalent

“Aw, yeah, but that was in the weave room. I’m not workin’ in there again. we can work in th’ spinnin’ room. That’s where the good-lookin’ women are.” “Sounds good, man, but I just can’t make it work.” Jesus Christ, Jack thought, when’s he going to get the message? “Well, OK, but if anything changes–if you don’t go in New York or sump’m, let me know, awright? There’s really not many people I’d wanta take out there. Most all the bastards we know’re fuckin’ lazy. They’d prob’ly get ﬁred and embarrass the hell out of me.” “I will, Jefferson, but there ain’t much chance of it, so don’t count on me.” About the last thing I wanta do, he thought, is learn to be a linthead. 1315 Thursday 5 March 1953: “Hello?” “Serena.” “Yes.” “This is Nola Thomas.” “Oh, hi, Miz Nola.” “I thought you’d like to know that Diana Bishop just told me that they’d met with the Terrell, McNeil and Rogers families today. The twins told him that the baby was Preston’s, and that she’d been seeing him while she and Rick were together. They told them exactly when and where it happened, all the details down to what they both were wearing. Trisha was so shocked by how much they knew that she broke down and admitted it, saying that Preston had told her he wouldn’t marry her because she’d been intimate with Ricky. Mr. Ter- rell told Dr. McNeil he intended to go with him to Principal Martin today and tell him the truth of this matter.” “My God!” said Serena. “That’s wonderful.” “I thought you’d like to know. And I have another small piece of information.” “You have?” Little Old New York 351

“Yes. Apparently Mr. Terrell has some friends who’ve suggested to him that Ricky should apply for admission to Taylor Academy, up in Chattanooga. From what the twins could tell, he’s already done it.” “My goodness; that really is a new development.” “Yes, it is; I wonder if any of these troglodytes’ll learn anything from it. ’Bye, dear.” 1015 Friday 27 March 1953: Sitting sidesaddle on the Harley, Ricky waited for his folks to come out of the house for the trip to Chattanooga. He grinned up at Jack. “I’m gonna miss whippin’ your ass next Wednesday,” he said. “Sheeit. ’At pissy little jab a’yours, you’d be lucky to whip my baby sister’s ass. If I had one, and if she was havin’ a bad day.” You better just get in this damn old Pontiac and go on up there with me. We’d rip their ass a new ’un.” And give up all this free flight time? No thank you,” Jack said. “Maybe I’ll fly up in September to see your opener. “Who’s it with?” “Hell, I dawno. Admiral Semmes’ School for Seasick Sailorboys, or sump’m like that.” He looked up as Mrs. Terrell stepped out onto the stoop. “Guess we’re ’bout ready,” he said as Mr.Terrell’s back appeared in the door, pulling it shut and locking it. Ricky stood up, extending his hand. “See ya in June, Fuckhead.” Shaking hands as he returned the Terrell’s waves, Jack returned Ricky’s grin. “Not if I see you first, Pissaint.” Paying more attention to the Harley’s pre-start procedure than was necessary, he preserved the stoicism that this parting of young men required. 1035 Saturday 21 May 1953: “Good mornin’, Miz Mason; hiya, Jerry,” said Moses as he walked up to the hotel’s front desk. She looked up from the work schedule at which she and Jerry McClain, the assistant manager, had been looking. Jerry nodded and smiled a return greeting. “Mose. Hey. You here to see me?” she asked. 352 The Rough English Equivalent

“None other, my dear, if you have a minute.” “Sure. Just hang on while we finish this one thing.” Moses walked into the café and sat down, making small talk with Reba as she brought coffee. “Miz Mason’ll be here in just a minute,” he said to her. “Might as well bring another cup.” They sat at adjacent sides of the table, Reba pretending not to watch from the counter, betraying her intent with the trace of a benevolent smile. “Hey, sailor. Didn’t expect to see you today,” said Serena. “What’s up?” “Wanted to see if you’d set up Jack’s summer trip to New York,” he said. “Feingold, one of our brewers, is having its annual distributors’ meeting there next month, and I thought maybe he could drive up with me.” “When are you leaving?” “The meeting’s the second week in June. I thought we might leave in time for a nice leisurely trip, a few days before I have to be there.” “So the first week in June, give or take.” “Right.” “Well, you know he’d love it, specially helping you drive. It’s been a hell of a year for him, all things considered.” “Yeah. For all concerned in th’ fuhbawl fiasco. At least that little girl didn’t hafta face bein’ a teen-age mother.” Serena’s face sobered. “What she did have to face was enough. A miscarriage’s a hard thing to go through; I don’t think a man can understand what it does to the mother. It’s not too much different from having a full-term baby die.” She covered his hand with hers, looked up at Reba studiously looking the other way, removed it and said, “I’ll call Larry this afternoon. We’d been thinking about a little later on, but it’s fine with me if it is with him. And I think you’d enjoy meeting him.” “You kiddin’? One of the real heroes of World War II, even if you did find him to be a pain in the ass? I’d love it.” “Well, being a pain in the ass’s one thing you have in common.” Little Old New York 353

“Thanks. He’s never been down here?” She released the ironic version of her down-deep chuckle. “Never. Not that I expected it. He’s got a deep-seated aversion to all things Confederate. He told me before we got married; ‘I’ll do anything for you but set foot in Georgia.’ He wasn’t just being snotty, although he has a talent for it; the thought of it scared the shit out of him.” “And what’d you say to that?” “I thanked him on behalf of all Georgians and said, ‘Just tell your folks, from whom I suppose you inherited your crackerphobia, not to expect us out there at that rock pile of theirs any more.’ That’s how it’s been.” “Rock pile?” “The Mason manse. Out in Oyster Bay.” Moses’ right eyebrow went up momentarily. “Well,” he said, smiling. “Little country girl nailed a patrician!” “If you mean his folks’re cob-up-the-ass Yankees with a buck or two, then give the man a kewpie doll. I laid eyes on ’em a grand total of three times in my life, which puts me three up on Larry in spouse- parental contact.” He shook his head, sadly. “That’s the goddamnedest thing I ever heard. Anybody that’d pass on takin’ a decent part in Jack’s life because of–what? Geography?” “Larry turned his back on what they wanted him to do, which was to marry Miss High School Sweetheart, the daughter of some other Oyster Bay family. It was something boys like him just didn’t do, and it nearly broke his relationship with them, permanently. Jack was almost two before they saw him for the ﬁrst time.” “So how is it now?” “Not so bad. As you said, ‘One of the real heroes of World War II…’ They weren’t about to pass on that reﬂected glory. Larry and Jack usually go out to see ’em when he goes up.” “Some deal,” he said. They don’t deserve him, he thought; no fuckin’ way. 354 The Rough English Equivalent

He rapped on the door to the hotel roof just after dark. “Who is it?” “Mose.” “Hi,” Serena said as she pulled it open. “Push from your side. It’s gotten so it sticks.” He pushed, and the door swung open. “You need a good stout turnbuckle on that thing,” he said as he pushed it shut and dropped the bar in place. “It’s just sagging a little.” “It’s not the only damn thing,” she said through her teeth, intend- ing it to sound funny, he thought, but he felt the thread of sadness, and she knew that he did. “What’s this, some veiled reference to the advancing years? Take it down the street.” “In case you’d forgotten, I’ll be forty next month. While you and Jack’re kicking your heels up in New York, I’ll be stuck here in Bisque, working my ass off.” “Guess it’s out of the question for you to come along.” She turned to look at him, to see if he meant it. “I’ve got a good mind to do it. If it was just a week, I would. I need to get away from this thing-” she jerked a thumb over her shoulder at her current work in progress–“for awhile.” Moses refilled her glass from an almost full bottle of Sancerre and filled a fresh one for himself. He walked over to the workstand; he felt, for a moment, the tangle of shapes moving under his gaze. As he worked to stifle the grin that it kindled inside him, he was absolutely sure of one thing; he’d never seen anything remotely like it. As he looked, the mass devolved into a long snaky penis, looped around a stalk that rose from a watermelon patch (well, there were 2 big watermelons). The head, a crossbreed of pit viper and prepuce, was hooded by the bloom at the stalk’s top. He thought he recognized it; a Venus Flytrap. Little Old New York 355

“Holy shit,” he said with a grin. “Has it got a name yet?” “A working name…Penis Flytrap,” she said. “You’re familiar with the term homage?” “An homage usually honors a particular person, doesn’t it? Who’s the lucky homagee?” “You. This is you, relative to me.” “Should I be flattered?” “Let’s see what the critics have to say, if it survives in this incarna- tion.” “Well, critics be damned, I’m choosin’ to be flattered, ’til you say different. Wish my balls were that pretty.” “Those aren’t your balls. Those are juicy watermelons, full of the promise of your love and the seeds of reality.” “I see. What about the dick part?” She moved next to him, reaching out to take the wedge of the head in her hand. “Oh, you see a dick in there, do you? Can’t fool you for a minute. Tempting little thing, ain’t it? Make a girl lose her way, if she’s not careful.” “Is that what I do to you? Tempt you off the straight and narrow? I must’ve missed something.” “Well, this is a sort of retrospective of temptation. It’s about what I felt when we were first together.” “Hm. So how’s dat ol’ snake today? Lost a little potency, would you say?” “Oh, no,” she protested. “Not the last time I checked. It’s a question of perception. If I were doing this to represent my feelings about you today, I’d probably go with different imagery.” “Like what?” “I’d have to think about it. Smaller, cuter snake, maybe, on a bunch of bananas, floating on a raft. Something like that.” “Sounds friendlier. That’s encouraging.” “May be, but I doubt I’ll ever do it.” “Really?” 356 The Rough English Equivalent

“Think about it for a minute, and look again. Would you rather be this, or ride a bunch of bananas on a gondola to God knows where?” “Since it’s inside your head, I guess I’ll skip the gondola. Rather be ugly than cute.” “Well,” she said, “I’m sorry you think it’s ugly. I’m going for imposing, confounding, tantalizing, threatening. Unique. Ugly doesn’t come into it at all for me. You’ve led me a merry chase, you wildass sonavabitch.” Moses smiled, shaking his head. “Likewise. Well, you know by now what my sense of art’s like. To say nothing of my sense of gratitude. How many people can say they’ve inspired a work of art?” “About as many as can say that they had alfresco sex with the artist, I guess.” “Ours isn’t just alfresco,” he said as he looked out over the street. “It’s alfresco at altitude.” “Jesus. It’s been almost seven years since you came up here that night. Doesn’t seem that long, huh?” “Could be yesterday for me,” Moses said, turning her face to him, kissing her lightly. The green eyes searched his. “Gonna show Jack the sights?” “I thought we’d look around the old town a little, if his Dad’s OK with it.” She blew out her cheeks. “OK with it? He’ll be better than that. From what Jack tells me, I don’t think Larry knows what to do with him. Up to now he seems to fall back on movies and the ritual campus tour.” “Well, maybe we can see some stuff that’ll keep a sixteen-year-old interested,” said Jack. “I’m sure y’all’re gonna have a good time. Now, how about a little inspiration for the struggling artist?” Little Old New York 357

0930 Monday 1 June 1953: Moses was walking down the hall to his office when he saw them coming; he paused to meet them. Dissimilar in height, weight and color, one in a dark blue suit and one in gray, and one sandy blond and one Mediterranean dark. Identical unstylish briefcases of red- dish tan. They came solemnly, deliberately up the steps and through the double glass doors. Mutt ’n Jeff, thought Moses, who spoke first. “Good morning.” “Good Morning,” said the dark one, speaking through his Roman nose in a voice made flat by a multitude of routine interrogations like the one he was about to conduct. “Mr. Kubielski?” “Yes. What can I do for you?” “My name’s Long; this is Franklin.” They held their credentials out to him. They contained their pictures and the words that Long repeated, “U.S. Army Security Agency. We’d like to speak with you in private, sir, for a few minutes.” “All right. Step into my office here and we’ll shut the door. Please, have a seat,” Moses said as he closed the door. “Would you gents care for coffee?” “No, thank you sir.” “Then how can I help you?” “Sheriff McDaniel told us that you were acquainted with a Michael Porter from Spartanburg, South Carolina, Mr. Kubielski. Is that correct?” Long asked as he opened his coat to pull a notebook from an inside pocket. Moses caught a glimpse of shiny, deep brown leather under his left arm. “Mickey Porter? Yes, I know him. “Haven’t seen him for awhile.” “How long have you known him?” “A couple of years, I guess. He’s more an acquaintance than a friend. Drives over to eat at the hotel’s café. Or used to. As I say, I haven’t seen him for quite awhile.” “Has he ever mentioned the kind of work that he did to you?” 358 The Rough English Equivalent

“Yes, in the only conversation that I’ve ever had with him. He’s a mutual acquaintance…” “What did he say he did?” interrupted Franklin. “Said he was in the security force at the Savannah River plant.” “He did. Did he say that he was in the Army?” “Yes.” “Do you know anything about the place that he referred to?” “Some people around here call it ‘the A-bomb factory’.” “They do, do they,” said Long with a quick grimace, the outsize pores in the skin of his nose a miniature moonscape. “Did Mr. Porter refer to it that way?” “No. He said that what was going on there was classiﬁed, but that there were no bombs being made.” “Did he have anything else to say about his Army duty?” Franklin asked. “He said that he’d been at Los Alamos, in the security force there.” The security men exchanged a brief glance. “Did he mention anything unusual that happened to him while was there?” asked Long. Moses was slow to answer; he looked at each of the men in turn. Then he said, “He told me about a man that was killed doing an experiment.” “Did he tell you how he knew about this–accident?” “He said that he was in the room with the man when it happened.” “And did he tell you,” asked Long, “what the man was doing when the accident happened?” “He said that he was stacking bricks around a ball of metal, and that a blue ﬂash bounced off the wall that he was facing. When he turned to look at what happened, the man said ‘It went critical.’” “Did he tell you what he thought that meant?” “No. He just said that when he visited the man in the hospital, he was ‘blown up like a balloon’ and in a lot of pain. And that he died pretty soon after that.” Little Old New York 359

“Did he say what he thought killed the man?” “No. I guess he thought it was obvious.” “Well,” Long said, swiveling his head from side to side, stretching his neck so that his adam’s apple dropped to the top of his shirt collar and against the knot of his tie, “it’s likely that he did. After all, he was there. Even though he left pretty soon after the accident. He was hos- pitalized brieﬂy as a precaution, then transferred from Los Alamos up to Western Defense Command headquarters at The Presidio in San Francisco.” “Yes. He did mention that. Said he got an extra stripe.” “Yes, that’s right. He was promoted to Staff Sergeant. And a short time later he was honorably discharged on medical grounds.” Moses made no effort to hide his surprise. “I thought that he was still in the Army.” “Apparently that’s what he was in the habit of telling people around here. And that he was in the SRP security force. He was discharged in January, 1946. And he’s never had anything, whatever, to do with the Project. Until recently, he lived with his brother in Spar- tanburg.” “Until recently?” Moses said. “He was admitted to the Veterans Administration hospital in Augusta last month. He died a few days ago.” “On May 27th,” said Franklin. “My God,” said Moses. “What did he die of?” “Leukemia,” said Long. “Myelogenous leukemia.” “I’m sorry. I guess the funeral’s already taken place.” “Yes, it has.” “Well, then.” Said Moses. “Uh, yes,” said Long. “Well, we’re charged with following up on all cases like Sergeant Porter’s. As you might imagine, everything about the Los Alamos facility is classiﬁed. When information concerning the facility is imparted to unauthorized persons such as yourself, it’s necessary to secure an oath of secrecy from those persons covering 360 The Rough English Equivalent the subject information. Have you any objection to executing such a document?” “Not in theory,” said Moses. “Naturally, I’d like to look it over. I assume you have it with you.” “Yes sir,” said Long, bending to unlatch his briefcase. 1142 Wednesday 3 June 1953: “This thing really holds the road,” said Jack, smiling down the hood at the Roadmaster Estate Wagon’s hood ornament. I can’t ever look at that thing without rememberin’ that one that Mom snuck onto his old wagon, he thought. Couldn’t stand those shitheads callin’ ’im “Budick” when word got around about what it was. Nobody called ’im that to his face, though. “Yeah, it does OK,” said Moses. “It’ll haul a ton of stuff, too. I’ll admit I was tempted to trade with Buster for a new Twin-H Power Hornet, but it just doesn’t have the class of this ole four-hole Buick. And I like sitting up off the road like this. Just shows you that what makes a good racer doesn’t necessarily make an ideal road car.” “It always gets a second look from people, driving through these little towns. I doubt that they ever saw this much wood on a car before.” “Probably not. Buick really scaled up in size with the ’52 models. That grille looks about eight feet wide; seems like it wants to take a bite out of you. “You getting tired?” “Not at all. I can take it right on into Baltimore; we’re not even two hours out now.” “OK, but don’t try to hang on if you start getting sleepy. Maybe I can get a Baltimore station on the radio. WBAL’s pretty strong.” “You know your way around Baltimore, Mose?” asked Jack. “Yeah; remember, I lived there for awhile during the war. It’s a pretty nice town,” said Moses, as Clyde McPhatter’s tremulous tenor belted Money Honey from the dashboard speaker. “Damn. They’re playing that stuff up here, too.” Little Old New York 361

“You don’t like it?” said Jack, bouncing lightly up and down on the wagon’s upholstery to the music’s beat. “The Drifters are really what’s happenin’. Lee plays ’em all the time now.” “Hell, Webster. He’s nuts anyway. I don’t know when he sleeps, bein’ R&B Lee on top of Sundown Serenade and the news. Who’d you say this is?” “The Drifters. That’s Clyde McPhatter, their lead singer.” “Clyde? Sounds more like a girl. Well, they’ve got some beat, anyway. Seems like all of these bop groups are Negroes.” “Yeah. But it’s rhythm and blues,” said Jack, still bouncing. “R&B. Bop’s something else. Old stuff.” “Well, as the man says, ‘Thass what makes horse racin’. Every generation’s got to have its own music. And I guess this must be music. Must be why the Winston’s R&B Lee’s sole sponsor.”

The next afternoon, they rode majestically up the New Jersey Turnpike, the wagon’s big straight-eight still loafing as Jack let his speed creep up toward seventy-five. Glad to have Baltimore behind them, Moses had lapsed into reverie, not noticing Jack’s ignoring their “keep it under sixty” agreement. They’d be in New York soon. He’d made new arrangements on the phone last night with Larry Mason. He seemed a decent enough sort, as least as far as could be determined from a single phone call. He was looking forward to their meeting, he said, but he was on his way out the door to catch a cab to LaGuardia. He’d left a message for them with the doorman. He said that he’d been called, on a day’s notice, to testify before a congressional subcommittee. He’d be in Washington for at least three days; the university’s legal counsel had advised him to pack for a week. Both Jack and Moses were invited to make themselves at home in his apartment. His housekeeper would see that they’d be comfortable. There’s plenty of room, he said, and they’d have time to visit when he returned. He hoped that would be all right. Moses said 362 The Rough English Equivalent he thought that would be fine, since Jack would be at home, in a way, and Moses could attend his meetings and not be worried about him. Besides, this was a fait accompli. And he and Jack might do a little sightseeing together. He hadn’t yet told Jack about Linda. She was twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven now. And hands down the best part, he thought, of the war years he’d sweated out in Baltimore. Like thousands of other young artists, she’d come to New York looking for God knows what, but she was there, and he meant to see her. It had been almost seven years since he’d talked to Sarah, her mother, and their conversation last week hadn’t been particularly pleasant. She had, true to the cli- ché, remembered nothing and forgotten nothing. As alcoholics often are, she was by turns mean, sad and noncommittal, but she knew that Linda would never have gotten to Johns Hopkins, let alone finished her degree, without his help. So she’d given him Linda’s number in New York, without asking for his in return. The conversation ended lamely, and he thought that it was probably their last. First things first, though; they’d get settled at Mason’s apartment, which was on Manhattan’s upper west side, near Columbia. He thought that he’d keep his room reservation at the Hilton, where the Feingold meetings would be. He’d run down tomorrow, the day before it began, look things over and check the event schedule. Then he’d give her a call. Sarah had said that she was working with photographers, and that she was “…in and out at all hours.” “Mose. Hey, Mose.” Jack’s voice brought him back inside the Buick. “Yeah. What?” “We only have a couple of more exits before the tunnel. You want to take over soon?” “Yeah. Look for a Howard Johnson’s sign. There should be one soon. I could use a cuppa coffee before we hit New York traffic.” Little Old New York 363

“Them towels suit you, Mistah Kabeesky?” asked Marella, Larry Mason’s housekeeper. She was, he guessed, last forties and five-two, her squat frame packed inside a black and white maid’s uniform, its shortness accentuated by the battered house slippers that encased her broad feet. “They’re just fine, Marella, thanks. I think we’re all set here. Hope we haven’t kept you too long.” “Shoot. I’m used to it. Dr. Mason have two-three parties a month. He pay me well to get home late now and then. Anyway, I ain’t hur- ryin’ off when Mistah Jack’s here.” “You’ve been with Dr. Mason for awhile, then?” “Since he come back to Columbia after de waw. Fall terma ’45. And little Jack, he come up for Christmas dat first year. We had a lotta fun; still do, evy time he come. He might as well be one a’ mine.” “Yes, he’s a wonderful kid.” “And he have a wonderful daddy, too. He done tole me about you.” Moses stiffened, just a little. “He did? What did he tell you?” “He say you useta live here, but you went South and got rich.” Smiling, Moses said, “That’s a little strong, Marella. I’ve had some good luck in Bisque, but I’m a long way from rich.” She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Guess dat depen’s on whatcha call rich. All Dr. Mason know is what he hear from Miz Mason. And what he don’ hear. Well, I wawna go visit with Mistah Jack some now while you freshen up. If I be gone ’fo you finish, dinner’s in de oven. Hope you likes po’k roast; dat an’ mash taters be his favorite.” “It sounds mighty fine to me, too. Thanks for everything; see you tomorrow.” 364 The Rough English Equivalent

0930 Friday 5 June 1953: He was on the street at nine-thirty the next morning, leaving Jack asleep and Marella on duty. Moses pulled out of the Park Avenue parking space that they’d been lucky enough to find the day before, drove downtown to 86th Street, turning right and driving across Manhattan to Seventh Avenue. Turning downtown again, he drove down the avenue to 54th Street and turned left. He saw the sign for the Hilton’s parking garage halfway up the block, drove to the entrance and pulled in. Getting a claim check for the car, he rode the elevator up to the lobby and checked in. “Can I get a long-term parking rate for my car?” he asked the desk clerk. “We do have a weekly rate, sir; I see your reservation’s just for five days, though.” “Can you extend the reservation through next weekend?” “Let’s see. Would you want to check out Monday, the fifteenth?” “Yes. That’ll be fine.” “All right, sir. You’re all set, Mr. Kubielski. Enjoy your stay in New York.”

He had the elevator to himself on the ride up to his room on the twenty-eighth floor. It had been years since he’d been here, but the drive downtown had him feeling very much at home again with the city’s noise and frenetic, purposeful confusion. His thoughts drifted to a cold, gray day in December of 1928, thirty-odd blocks downtown, sitting with his mother in their Gramercy Park apartment’s kitchen, the morning after he’d joined the navy. He’d wanted to tell his mother first, after his father had left. Even though New York Uni- versity wasn’t in session, Herr Doktor still went to his office almost every day. Her reaction to his news had been, as he’d imagined, a combination of curiosity and concern. He knew that his father’s would be Little Old New York 365 much different. Her soft brown eyes, set in the heart-shaped face that, at forty-six, was still as smooth as a girl’s, looked steadily across the table at him. “The Navy.” she’d said, her Irish accent deepening, adding a couple of extra a’s to the word. She might as well have said “the circus.” “Of all things, son. Why?” “Well, Mama, NYU’s through with me, and I can’t live here with you and Papa forever. If I stay here, all I’ll want to do is go on fighting, and that’ll just make you and him unhappier with me than you are already.” “But joining the Navy! Just like that, and without a word to your father and me! Where did you get such an idea in the first place?” I met some Navy guys the other day on the ferry. One of ’em was a fighter. He told me about boxing in the navy. They have a championship elimination round every year. So I can go on fightin’ while I’m in, workin’ on my skills, and by the time I get out I’ll probably have fought enough to know if I’m good enough to make it as a pro. Maybe I’ll come out a fleet champion.” “Peter, all I know about boxing is that winning means hurting your opponent more than he hurts you. But even I know that there are many good fighters, but very few who can make a living out of it. What will you do if you turn out to be just another good one?” “I don’t know, Mama. But I do know that I hafta find out one way or the other. At least I can do a four-year navy hitch, learn some stuff I don’t know, go some places I’ve never been and maybe save some money. Then, if fightin’s not in the cards for me, I’ll move on to something else. But I can’t just stay here.” She shook her head slowly, standing up and moving to his side of the table, leaning over to put her arm around him, her mother-smell comforting him in a way words never could. “You are all we have, son, your father and I. We’ve lived for the day that you’d get your degree and go on to graduate school. We came to America in time for you to be born here, so that you might start your life as something that we both had to work hard to become; an American citizen. 366 The Rough English Equivalent

Do you remember going out to the Statue of Liberty when you were three? On your birthday?” “Yeah, a little. Or maybe I just remember talking about it when we went the other times. I still love boatridin’ around Manhattan.” “You were so small then. Like a little Viking, with your blond hair. Papa held you up on the railing at the front of the boat, and you wouldn’t let him put you down. I was so afraid that you’d catch cold. It was a bright sunny morning, and warm for November, and you kept pulling the hood of your jacket off your head, and Papa couldn’t put it back on because he was holding you tight with both hands. I remember the sun shining through your ﬁne yellow hair, and the wind blowing through it, and you pointing at the statue as we came closer and closer. Do you remember what you called her?” “Sure. And I still think it’s the best name for her. “Da Green Queen.” She laughed, hugging him tighter. “That’s right. “Da Green Queen.” The weather turned her copper skin green. And time’s turned your hair brown. I should’ve guessed that you loved the sea even then. Well, I suppose there are worse things you could do than serve this great country while you decide what to make of your life. That’s what we’ll tell your father.” “I wish I could’ve been what you and Papa wanted me to be. I can’t understand why school drives me crazy.” She squeezed both his shoulders, walking over to the stove to stir the oatmeal that she’d kept warm for him. “Maybe it’s Papa and I who’ve been a little crazy, pushing you towards an academic life because of what it’s meant to us. It would’ve been different if you’d had brothers or sisters; as it is, you carry our little family’s destiny on your shoulders. What we seem to have lost sight of is the fact that they’re your shoulders.” Had her back not been to him, she would have seen the ﬂicker of shock pass over his face. Little Old New York 367

He called the bell stand from his room, confirming that the first Feingold function was a cocktail party at five that afternoon. I’ll hit that for an hour or so, he thought, and then take a cab back up to Mason’s. He had insisted that Marella not cook dinner today, wanting to take Jack out to a restaurant and for a look around the neighborhood. That settled, he picked up the telephone and dialed Linda’s number. It rang just a couple of times before she answered, her husky voice wiping out the years since he’d last heard it. “Hello.” “Linda. This is Mose.” “Mose! Where are you?” “Right here in little old New York.” “Mother called me yesterday; said you were coming up on business. When can we get together?” “As soon as you have time. Are you working today?” “Yes, I have a shoot from one to five. Where are you staying?” “The Hilton. On Sixth Avenue.” “That’s on my way to work. If you’re going to be there, why don’t I drop by on my way? I can’t wait to see you.” “Likewise, kid. I’ll be right here. Room 2831.” He placed the receiver back into its cradle, slowly and precisely as if he were testing the fit, as his thoughts eased him back onto the narrow streets of the Baltimore neighborhood that he, she and her mother had shared during the long years of a war that he, though a noncombatant, had taken a hand in winning. His concern, love, for the daughter was far deeper than the gratitude that he felt toward the mother; he’d covered the difference between her Johns Hopkins scholarship and the total of what it had taken to see her through to graduation. Moses answered her knock on the door at a little after eleven. He opened the door to a grown woman whom he’d last seen as a girl. “Mose!” she said, smiling, stretching out her arms as she crossed the 368 The Rough English Equivalent threshold. They hugged each other like long-lost relatives, laughing and patting each other on the back. “How long will you be in town?” she asked as they held each other at arms’ length. As plain as she used to be, he thought, she’s turned out to be damn sexy. And she’s gotta be five-ten. Her dark red hair, at shoulder length, framed the angular face that her mother said had come ‘straight off her father.’ Her tanned skin was in striking contrast with the light gray of her sleeveless shift. “’Til the fifteenth. Monday week.” “Oh, that’s terrific! We’ll have a chance to really catch up. What brings you to town?” “Business, with a personal twist. I’m here for a meetin’,but I drove up with the son of a friend of mine. A boy, sixteen. His dad lives here, and he’s visitin’ him for a few weeks. Since his dad was called out of town unexpectedly for a few days, I’m keepin’ an eye on Jack ’til he gets back.” “So your friend’s his mother.” “Right.” “Sounds familiar. Taking care of your women friends’ kids.” “Only the good ones,” Moses laughed. “You’d like him.” “Jack, huh? Why don’t you bring him over to my place? I live over on the river. On a boat.” “Really! Which river?” “Hudson. At the 79th Street Marina.” “Yeah, I’m sure he’d like that. And you’ll like him.” “How about dinner one night? You guys come over, we’ll have drinks and go someplace. He’d probably like Mama Leone’s.” “OK. What’s a good night for you?” “Tomorrow’s fine, if you guys can make it.” “Don’t see why not. How’s seven?” “Great. The boat’s the Petrel. The cab can bring you most of the way. I’ll put a red flag on the mast truck.” “Where?” Little Old New York 369

“The mast truck. The top of the mast. Just look up at the top of the boats’ masts for a red ﬂag. Petrel’s painted on the stern. You can’t miss it.” “I forgot to ask you; is she yours?” “The Petrel? No. I rent it. From a friend.” “Do you ever take her out?” “Sure. If you guys are up to a little crewing, we could go out on Sunday.”

Their cab dropped them off at the 79th Street Marina a little after seven. “She said to look for a red flag at the top of the mast,” said Moses, as they walked down the ramp to the marina level. “There it is!” said Jack, pointing well down the dock to a mast a couple of dozen boats away. They headed toward the flag past large and very large sail and powerboats until they reached the Petrel,a sloop that Moses estimated to be at least forty feet long. “Ahoy the Petrel!” Moses shouted as they walked along the jetty to the boat’s gangway. “Ahoy yourself,” said Linda, stepping up on deck through the deckhouse hatch. Her white men’s’ oxford cloth dress shirt was tied at the waist above her dungarees, which hugged her hips and legs. The cuffs of the shirt’s rolled-up sleeves contrasted nicely with her tanned forearms. “Come aboard.” She extended her hand to Jack, who had stepped onto the gangway ahead of Moses. “Hi, Jack.” “Hi,” said Jack. If she weren’t so sexy, he thought, she’d be kinda plain. He took the warm brown hand, hanging on to his composure by a thread. “Nice boat.” “Thanks,” she said, “Glad you like it. Hi, Mose.” “Hi yourself. This isn’t a boat, it’s a yacht. How long is it?” “Forty-four feet.” “And you’re checked out to skipper it. That’s terrific.” 370 The Rough English Equivalent

“It didn’t happen overnight,” she said, motioning them to seats on the upholstered benches that ran along the sides of the boat’s cockpit. “Took me almost a year. My friend, the guy I rent from, has taught me a lot, and I’ve taken four Coast Guard courses, including celestial navigation. How about a drink? Coke OK for you, Jack? How about you, Mose? I’ve already got a Scotch working.” “Scotch is fine. So do you take it out often?” “Whenever I can get a crew together, and I crew for the owner when he has guests on board, every couple of months. Be right back.” She went below, returning almost immediately with their drinks. “So. How would you guys feel about a little sail tomorrow? You look like crew material to me.” “Sounds great!” said Jack. “OK, Mose?” “I’d like it as much as you would, Champ, but I think we need an OK from your Dad on this one. Nothing against Linda’s expertise, but my charter’s just to keep an eye on you ’til your Dad gets back.” “Aw, Mose!” Jack said, shaking his head. “Dad wouldn’t care. I’ve never been out on a sailboat before, and I may not have another chance to do it for who knows how long? Couldn’t you call him?” “Yeah, I guess I could, if we can catch him at the hotel. That’s the only number that he left.” “Want to try him now?” asked Linda. “I’ll bring the phone up. Who else needs a drink?” “We can at least try him person-to-person. He’s at the Statler. My drink’s OK.” “I’m fine,” said Jack. Linda brought a telephone up, plugging its cord into a socket on the deckhouse bulkhead. She sat down next to Jack, taking a long pull from her fresh drink, while Moses got the long distance operator on the line and placed the call. After a minute or so, he spoke. “Larry; it’s Mose. Just fine. How’s the hearin’ goin’? You haven’t? And no idea when or if they will, huh? Nothing to do but ride it out, I guess. Yes, Marella’s made us very comfortable. Thanks. Larry, I Little Old New York 371 called to ask you if you’d mind if I took Jack on a little boat ride around Manhattan. No, not a Circle Line; it’s a sailboat, forty-footer that’s skippered by a good friend of mine. First-class craft. Wonder- ful. I’m glad you’re OK with it. Yes, he’s very excited. He’s right here; let me hand him the phone.” He waved Jack over and gave him the handset. “We’re all set, huh?” asked Linda. “Yep,” said Moses. “He’ll be off the phone in a minute, and we can celebrate over dinner. Guess I’m ready for another drink.” “What a coincidence. So am I,” she said. “You’re really ripping through the Scotch; this must’ve been some week for you.” “It has been. I like what I do, but if the photographer or art director you’re working with’s an asshole, the days can get real long.” “Your mother told me you’re a photo stylist. What exactly is that?” “I work with photographers who’re shooting layouts for advertising. I make sure that the models’ clothes fit perfectly and look great. It gets tricky sometimes, and it definitely ain’t that glamorous.” “Sounds like a pressure cooker to me. Don’t count too much on Scotch as your relief valve; it won’t work for all that long.” “Don’t worry about me; this is a celebration, that’s all. Besides, we’re sailing tomorrow.” 1730 Sunday 7 June 1953: True to her word, Moses was happy to see, Linda had had nothing to drink while they were under way. They had sailed down the Hudson past the Statue of Liberty, coming about to head up the East River, passing Welfare and Ward’s islands to starboard, striking sail and using the boat’s engine to take them around Ward’s Island and back south through Hell Gate. Once through, they’d come back to the marina under sail. She was indeed a first-rate skipper. Jack was an apt student, following Linda’s instructions and having a great deal of fun learning some basic seamanship. They were back at the dock by 372 The Rough English Equivalent

ﬁve-thirty, everything secure and, in Linda’s words, ready to “splice the main brace,” the nautical version of cocktail hour. “This has been a great day, Linda.” said Moses. “I always knew that you’d grow up to be a remarkable adult, and it’s a pleasure to see how right I was.” “Aw shucks, Uncle Mose,” she said, “Twern’t nothin.” They both laughed, enjoying their unexpected reunion. “Guess we’d better be getting out of your hair and give you a chance to get ready for Monday,” Moses said. “Don’t hurry on my account,” she said. “I don’t have anything booked for tomorrow. But you have those Feingold meetings to go to all day, right?” “Oh, yeah. Starting with an eight o’clock breakfast.” “Hey. If you don’t have anything to do tomorrow, Jack, would you like to come back and help me do a little touch-up painting? I’ll spring for lunch, and Mose could pick you up when he’s done.” “That’d be great! OK with you, Mose?” “Don’t see why not. Matter of fact, Linda, he’s an old painter from way back. You’re getting experienced help.” “Then I’ll really have to make it worth your while,” she said, smiling. 0725 Monday 8 June 1953: “Don’t suppose your Dad mentioned anything to you about what he expected to be asked at the hearing,” Moses said to Jack as their cab progressed jerkily down Ninth Avenue the next morning. “Not much. He just said that the lawyer told him that they were checkin’ into some things that happened where he was workin’ back durin’ the war.” “Hm. Where was that, anyway?” “Out in New Mexico somewhere. Los Alamos. Mom told me that we were out there with him, but I was so young that I don’t remember much about it.” Little Old New York 373

“Well, I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it when he gets back. Guess he’ll know more about when that’ll be in a day or two.” The cab lurched right on 79th Street, headed toward the marina. “Hope you’ll have a great time today. Watch the sunburn; we got pretty red yesterday.” “Yeah, I’ll keep my shirt on. I’ll have a great time, I’m sure; Linda’s really cool, and I can learn a lot about this boat stuff from her. So you first knew her in Baltimore?” “Yeah. She’s the daughter of a woman I met there. A librarian. I could tell even then that Linda wouldn’t be satisfied with staying there.” The cab pulled into the marina parking lot, and Jack opened the door as it pulled to a stop. “See you this afternoon,” he said. “Right,” said Mose. “About six.” He retraced yesterday’s path to the Petrel, scattering some pigeons that we gathered around an open garbage can. Not seeing Linda, he went on board, calling her name as he hit the deck. Her answer came from the after cabin. “Jack?” “Hi.” “I’m back here. Come on in.” The after cabin was the most spacious of the boat’s three bunking areas. It housed a double bed, a dresser with a large mirror, and a built-in couch with gooseneck-mounted reading lamp. Linda was sitting up in the bed, a sheet covering her legs. She wore a long- sleeved red flannel nightshirt that failed to hide her breasts’ contours, the nipples thrusting out to Jack as he stood at the foot of the bed. His throat tightened a little, making his second “Hi” an octave higher than the first. “Hi.” She responded. “I’m a little slow getting started this morning. You look nice today; that looks too good for a painting shirt.” “Oh, it’s not that good.” His voice stayed at the higher pitch. “Come let me see,” she said, extending her left hand. He moved to his right around the foot of the bed, within her reach. She took the 374 The Rough English Equivalent shirt’s fabric between her thumb and forefinger at a point just above his waist, holding it tightly. “It’s way too nice. I can find something around here for you to wear. Sit down,” she said, pulling him by the shirt, “and I’ll pull it over your head.” “It’s really OK,” he said as he sat, facing her at an angle. She put one hand on either side of his waist and pulled the shirt free of his pants. “Here we go,” she said as she pulled the shirt up and over his head. He put his arms up as she pulled. As the shirt cleared his face, she stopped pulling, leaving his arms pinned above his head in the fabric. “Boo,” she said as their eyes locked. She pulled him to her and kissed him, jetting her tongue deep into his mouth and holding him tightly against her. Jack moaned as her tongue went into his mouth, relaxing and giving her full control of the exchange. Half a minute later, she finished pulling the shirt over his head. “Your turn,” she said, pulling her nightshirt free of her butt and putting her arms up. Jack took the cue, pulling the shirt up and pinning her in the same position as she’d put him. “Oho,” she laughed, as he kissed her. She quickly lay back on the bed, her arms still tangled in red flannel. Jack dropped down and buried his face between her breasts, then sucked on first one nipple, then the other. Her areoles were fully two inches across, and Jack took each of them in turn completely into his mouth, sucking them insistently. Struggling free of the nightshirt, she put her arms around him, one hand cradling his head. “Enjoy, baby; we can paint any time,” she whispered into his ear. When his fervor slacked somewhat, she said, “Let’s get your pants off, sweetie.” Ohmigod, he thought. Wait ’til Terrell hears about this.

He had helped her rig the cockpit awning for shade from the noonday sun. They sat on one of the cockpit benches, holding hands, watching the birds ﬂying over the river trafﬁc and doing their Little Old New York 375 best to act as though nothing unusual had happened. “Will your Dad be home soon?” Linda asked, swirling the ice cubes in her drink. “Yeah, I think so. “He’ll call me tonight; maybe he’ll know for sure by then.” “So he’ll be here for most of your visit.” “Yeah. Hope so, anyway.” “When do you go back home?” “To Bisque, you mean? Sometime next month.” “That long. Really gives you and him time to catch up with each others’ lives.” “Yeah. This year’s going to be different, though. He’s teachin’ a class this term; he’s usually off when I come up in the summer.” “Jack.” “Yeah?” “Are you OK?” “Sure.” “No, really. If you’re upset I need to know. I didn’t mean to shock you or make you feel uncomfortable…” “Linda.” “What?” “Did you like it?” “Did I like it?” “Did you like what we did?” “Well, I…yes. Yes Jack, I did. But I’m-” “I liked it, too. A lot. So don’t worry. It’s just that I never did it before.” “I know, Jack. I should’ve known. I guess I did know. And I shouldn’tve let it happen.” “No. We both wanted it to happen.” “Well, it happened. And I’m sorry that it did and I’m glad that it did. You’re a beautiful young man. What do you want to do about Mose?” “What do you mean?” 376 The Rough English Equivalent

“Do you want to tell him?” “What? That we made love?” “Yes. Would you feel better if we did?” “I’d feel better if we just kept it between us. He’s screwin’ my mother, you know.” “He’s good at that,” said Linda. “Screwed mine, too.” “How about you?” asked Jack. “Not yet; you beat him.” “And I’m not about to stop.” “Oh, Jack. No.” “You mean you don’t want to?” “I mean that we shouldn’t.” “Why? You wanted it, waitin’ there in the bed for me. And as soon as I knew you did, so did I. It was beautiful. And now that the surprise’s out of the way, I want us to do it more. When I can really put my mind on what’s happening, and you can show me what you like.” She laughed, in spite of herself. “As long as you feel that way, I guess I can forget about having shocked you. How about lunch? Then we can paint something so Mose won’t be suspicious.” “Could we go back to bed for awhile? It’s not even eleven o’clock.” 1230 Monday 15 June 1953: “Get you another piecea chicken, Honey,” said Marella, holding the platter at Jack’s elbow. “No thanks. I’m really full, except for the room I saved for lemon pie.” “You useta eat more, when you wudn’t nearly this big,” she said, shaking her head as she walked into the kitchen. Larry Mason, just returned that day, sat at the far end of the long dining table, looking very comfortable in the role of host. He was tall and slim, with thinning dark blond hair combed over a substantial bald spot that extended his forehead by a couple of inches. “How Little Old New York 377 about you, Mose?” he asked. “Anything else before Marella’s famous lemon icebox pie?” “No thanks, Larry. Marella’s a great cook, but pie’s going to do it for me, and then some. Bet you’re glad to get back to home cookin’.” “Yes, I am. To be back here and away from the Congressional hot seat. I hope I never have that dubious pleasure again.” “What was it all about anyway, Dad?” asked Jack. “A former student of mine, Son. He went to work for the Voice of America when he graduated, and this committee–the Senate Perma- nent Investigations Subcommittee–decided to investigate his loyalty when they found out that he’d been a member of the Young Marxists League here at Columbia. Silly damn thing. I blame Dean McNeil; he volunteered the faculty’s cooperation in these investigations.” “From what I hear,” said Moses, “that committee’d just subpoena you if you weren’t cooperating. “It’s McCarthy’s committee, isn’t it?” “Yes, it is.” “What’s your impression of him, having seen him close-up?” “A gorilla. You’ve no doubt seen his picture. It seemed to me that he was half asleep a good part of the time. Asked me no questions whatever.” “So they were investigating this kid’s ‘loyalty.’ Presumably to his country?” “They way they put it to me was ‘Do you have any reason to question his loyalty, and if so why?’ My response was that I didn’t, and that’s when they opened up the subject of the Young Marxist League. When I wasn’t able to shed any light on that, they implied I was covering up for this boy, whom I hardly knew. He wasn’t even a physics major.” “He wasn’t? Then why call you at all?” “That’s easy. Since the Rosenbergs and Klaus Fuchs were caught passing information about the construction of the atomic bomb to the Soviet Union, anyone who was at Los Alamos during the war is a 378 The Rough English Equivalent potential target for these people. Particularly those of us who were, and are, close to Dr. Oppenheimer.” “These people are after Oppenheimer? Hell, he’s a national hero. He’s the father of the bomb.” “Not in the minds of lots of people who’re behind a bigger bomb program. There’s deﬁnitely a movement afoot to advance the views of Dr. Teller, at the expense of Dr. Oppenheimer’s reputation. That effort, I think, is being extended to his supporters. Many of us think that we’ve done enough bomb development already.” Jack’s eyes widened as he listened to his father. “Dad. You helped build the atom bomb? You never told me.” Larry looked solemnly at Jack. “No, son, I haven’t; not until now. I took an oath not to tell anything that I knew about the making of the bomb–they called it the Manhattan Project. The only reason that I feel OK about discussing it at all, even now, is that so much came out in the news about the capture of the atom spies. I still have to be careful about what I say.” “But…you’re a hero. Pap says that the bomb saved thousands of lives.” “I can understand that you’d feel that way, but I don’t feel that heroic, son. Far from it, unfortunately.” “I don’t understand.” “I don’t suppose there’s much reason that you should, without knowing a great deal more about it. We’ll talk more about it while you’re here, if you like.” “Yes sir. I would.” “Well, Mose,” Larry said, “So you’re taking off tomorrow. I hope that keeping track of Jack didn’t keep you from attending to your business.” “No, Larry. Not at all. I hadn’t done one of these brewer meetings before; turns out they’re one percent business and ninety-nine percent monkey business. They could’ve just put the business part of it Little Old New York 379 in the mail. So I didn’t feel at all bad playing hooky. I guess Jack told you I carted him down to Gramercy Park to see where I grew up.” “Yes, he mentioned it. Are your parents still living?” “No. They died back before the war.” “Well, it can be sort of a mixed experience to go back where one grew up, particularly after a long absence. I hope it was enjoyable for you; you enjoyed it, didn’t you, Jack?” “Oh, yeah. And the Staten Island ferry was cool.” “Between the ferry and your sail around the island, this has been a pretty nautical visit for you. I hope I’ll be able to ﬁnd a couple of things for us to do that are as interesting as the things you’ve done with Mose.” “That shouldn’t be too much of a problem,” said Moses. “New York has an incredible amount to offer.” Yes, thought Jack. Yes, it has.

The gangplank’s squeak announced his arrival. “Jack?” Her voice ﬂoated up from somewhere below him. “Hey,” he answered. “I’m in the galley. C’mon down.” Moving to the hatchway, he looked down at her through its narrow opening. She was peering into a drawer underneath the stove, her back to him. Above the bright white of her shorts, three vertebra bisected the golden tan of her back before her faded blue denim shirt took over. The galley’s yellow light highlighted her hair with the sheen of new copper. “Whatcha doin”? “Just getting us a little dinner together. Get your butt down here and give me a kiss.” His breath gave out ﬁrst. “Hi,” he said, looking down into her eyes. “Hi yourself, big boy. What’re you drinking?” “How about a scotch.” 380 The Rough English Equivalent

“Hm. That’s a switch. Didn’t know you liked hard liquor.” “I think it’s time I learned what it’s all about. D’you mind?” “I guess not, if we keep it between us. Water or soda?” “I don’t know. What’re you having?” “Water,” she said, dropping ice into his glass. They sat in the cockpit, she with her legs stretched out along the portside seat, leaning against him. “How long have you known Mose?” she asked him. “Since I was nine. He checked into the hotel when his car broke down.” “You’ve known him longer than I did at your age. I was fourteen when my mom and I met him. At the movie in our neighborhood.” “Did he own it, too?” “No. He was just running the projector when we met him. He took over as manager later on.” “He wasn’t in town a month before he bought the Ritz. He’s a good businessman.” “He’s a good man, Jack. He put me through college.” Jack sat up in surprise. “Really! And you never-” “He’s never asked me, or showed any interest. He was in love with my mom. I think.” He shifted his gaze to the deck’s gray teak planking. “I think he’s in love with mine, too.” It was her turn to sit up. “Are they getting married?” “No. She’s still married to my dad. Besides, she doesn’t want to.” “Why not?” “She wants to come back here and be a big-time artist.” “What does she do?” “Sculpture.” “Any good?” “Yeah, I think so. She just sold a piece for two thousand dollars.” Linda leaned back against the cushions. “Well, at least she’s passing him up for a better reason than my mom did.” Little Old New York 381

“What was her reason?” “Booze.” “Oh.” 1730 Saturday 20 June 1953: His solitary drive back home seemed much longer than the drive up with Jack had been. Moses rolled into Bisque a little after five, in the thick of the town’s Saturday afternoon shopping traffic. He listened to Lee Webster’s version, the latest in a succession of radio accounts that he’d heard that day, of last night’s execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. After two years on death row, they had each sat briefly in Sing Sing’s electric chair, he first, then she. Lee was reading Bob Con- sidine’s eyewitness report of the execution: “‘They died differently, gave off different sounds, different gro- tesque manners. He died quickly, there didn’t seem to be too much life left in him when he entered behind the rabbi. He seemed to be walking in a cadence of steps of just keeping in time with the mutter- ing of the Twenty-third Psalm. Never said a word. Never looked like he wanted to say a word. She died a lot harder. When it appeared that she had received enough electricity to kill an ordinary person and had received the exact amount that had killed her husband, the doctors went over and placed the stethoscope to her and looked at each other rather dumbfounded and seemed surprised that she was not dead. And she was given more electricity which started again the kind of a ghastly plume of smoke that rose from her head. After two more little jolts, Ethel Rosenberg was dead. She has gone to meet her Maker, and she’ll have a lot of explaining to do.’ That’s reporter Bob Considine’s impression, folks; the end of life for two convicted atom spies. This is Lee Webster, and that’s the news on a Saturday afternoon. Hope your weekend’s going well, and that goes double for a certain lady of my acquaintance. See you soon, Robbie.” Moses smiled to himself, thinking of the way things had worked out between Webster and Roberta, but his mind swung back to the 382 The Rough English Equivalent

Rosenbergs. Conspiring with a motley assortment of players to get information on atom bomb construction into Soviet hands, they were the only ones who were sentenced to death. Their two small sons were now orphans. Dying for what you believe in is one thing, he thought, but putting those kids in jeopardy’s something else again. God, when I think of having to leave Jack like that. They’re not that different from me, or lots of others. They pieced together a philosophy from what they heard from people they were around as they grew up. A little here, a little there, along comes some half-baked “opportunity” and before you know it you’re a goddamn spy. A little myopia goes a long way in the making of a spy. Then you slip up, you’re sitting in the hot seat, and your kids pay the tab, for the rest of their lives. He turned left off Main into the alley by the hotel, parking just past the corner of the building. Driving the last couple of hundred miles non-stop had thoroughly kinked up his body. He stood by the car for a minute, arching his back and stretching his hands in front of him, fingers interlocked. Swiveling his head from side to side, he walked around the corner and into the lobby. Jerry McClain, presid- ing over the deserted lobby from the registration desk, greeted him with his usual faint smile, which to Moses always seemed to carry the seeds of a secret embarrassment within it. “Hi, Jerry,” he said. “Miz Mason on board?” “Yes, she is, Mose. Let me call upstairs and tell her you’re here. Just get back?” “Sure did.” Jerry spoke briefly into the phone. “She says come right up,” he said to Mose as he hung up. “Jack doin’ all right?” “Yeah, just fine.” He walked into the elevator, which had been converted to self-service earlier in the year, and pressed the 5 button. He still took great pleasure in not having to look at the back of “Cat” Dander’s dandruff-besieged head as part of the ride. Guess they’ve Little Old New York 383 found enough other things to keep that old bastard busy, he thought. He knocked on the door of Suite 600, which opened immediately. “Hey,” she said, stepping back from the doorway and opening her arms for a hug. Still dressed for business, she wore a sleeveless, burnt orange linen dress that subtlely suggested the tenacious near-perfection of her body. “Hey yourself,” he said, feeling the start of an erection building as he hugged her to him. “How’s my boy?” she asked, smiling at him and her perception of his arousal. “I’m fine,” he said, still holding her close. She laughed as she pushed him back, slapping the front of his shoulder. “Not you, you horny bastard. Jack.” “Oh. He’s fine too. You didn’t talk to him today?” “He called when I was out. I’ll call him back in a little while.” “Say hey for me. I miss the little rascal already.” “I will. To Larry, too, if I talk to him. He thinks you’re OK, you know. Puts you in a rather small fraction of the world’s population. Come sit down,” she said, walking over to the couch. “Want a beer?” “Yeah; thanks. I like him, too; what I saw of him, at least. He’s a pretty good dad to Jack, under the circumstances.” “He is,” she said. “We’re lucky to’ve been able to keep their connection as close as we have while he’s grown up.” “Yeah; you could’ve picked a worse guy to father your child.” “No question about that,” she said, handing him a Red Cap. They clinked frosty bottles in a toast. He’s a good man. Too bad he drove me nuts.” “Funny. That’s what he said.” “Bullshit.” Moses grinned. “Ain’t it? He wadn’t about to talk to me about you.” “…and you probably think that I shouldn’t be talking to you about him.” 384 The Rough English Equivalent

“No. I always wished that you would, but I wadn’t about to ask. See how well I’ve gotten to know you?” “It wouldn’tve made much sense unless you knew him. Now that you have, maybe you can see what I was up against. The nicest man in the world, whose only passion is nuclear physics.” “Yeah. You wouldn’t have any interest in second place.” She looked sharply at him. “And why the hell should I? As I recall, the vow says ‘…forsaking all others.’ That certainly included Robert fucking Oppenheimer, as far as I was concerned.” 1630 Friday 21 August 1953: Contrary to her parents’ oft-repeated instructions, Terry and Jack were in the Marshes’ fallout shelter, “making out” on one of its four Army cots, each covered with identical flowery linen spreads. It was his first day back from New York, and Jack, still assimilating his experiences with Linda, was a little less horny then his girlfriend. Her mother was helping out at the store today, and Terry had obviously spent some time thinking about her strategy; she’d told Jack to park the Harley behind the house, so that any chance visitors would assume that no one was home. Within minutes of closing the shelter’s heavy door, they were both stripped to the waist, kissing and fondling as if the end of the world were actually underway. “I’ve missed you so much, sweetie,” Terry said in a gushing exhale. “You were gone way too long.” “Yes, yes I was, baby,” Jack breathed into her ear, tasting the sour sharpness of its wax as he spoke, the fingers of his left hand working to open the buttons of her shorts, kissing her nonstop as his right hand kneaded the puckered nipple of her right breast. She breathed in and out, sharply, as his hand slipped past the waist of her panties to touch the skin of her belly and graze the fringe of her hair. His middle finger had barely touched labia when she stiffened just slightly, saying “Jack; we said we wouldn’t, remember?” Little Old New York 385

“Yes, baby, I know,” he said, kissing her again and easing his hand away from her crotch and toward his own. “I know we did.” He pulled her toward him with one arm as he used the other to lift her legs onto the cot. He lay down beside her, jade-green eyes looking into hers. He kissed her eyelids, one at a time, relaxing beside her and feeling her relaxation in response. “You feel so good, baby, I get carried away so quick. As much as I’d like to, I know I shouldn’t be inside you. You shouldn’t be havin’ any babies for a long time.” “You know how much I want us to do it, Jackie. But you’re right, it’s just way too risky.” “It is; but this ol’ boy don’t listen.” His pants unbuttoned now, he held his erect dick loosely at the base. Shaking it playfully, he said, “He’s only got one thing on his mind.” “I can see that,” she giggled. “he wants it so bad he’s droolin’.” “He sure is.” He took her hand, bringing her fingertips to the tip. “Feel.” “Eeeewww,” she squealed, but didn’t pull her hand away. “It’s slip’ry.” “It sure is,” he said, moving her fingers back and forth across the tip. “So it’s easy to slide into your sweet little thing. Looks good all shiny like that, dudn’t it?” “Umm-hm.” “This craziness will go away just as soon as I come. You’re always so sweet to help me; how would you feel about doing something new for me as a welcome home present?” “What?” she asked, her voice querulous. “Oh, nothin’ much,” he assured her. “Just give it a little kiss while I play with your sweet titties.” It sure won’t be much, he thought as he remembered Linda taking him to her mouth until he could feel the tip of it deep in her throat. But we’ve gotta start somewhere. “Jack…” she said; the look in her eyes said she’d do it, but needed just a touch more encouragement. He took a drop of the juice on his forefinger, smiling as he twirled it in midair, and put it on her nipple. 386 The Rough English Equivalent

He rubbed it in with his thumb and forefinger as he turned on the bed to reduce the distance she’d have to cover to reach the swollen red penis. She covered it quickly, kissed and pulled back with an involuntary flick of her tongue over her lips as she sat up. “Oh, baby; again. Please.” 2130 Saturday 22 August 1953: “Well,” Terry said as she adjusted the speaker’s volume knob in mild exasperation, “at least this one works.” They had tried two other spaces in the Osiris Drive-In Theatre’s gravel-surfaced lot before finding one that did. “Leave that window down as far as you can,” said Jack. “Maybe a breeze’ll come up.” “You wanta sit on this side?” she asked him. They were in the Marsh’s newish ’53 Mercury Monterey hardtop, a minor miracle in itself as it was Mr. Marsh’s pride and joy. He had been, however, in the generous mood that Gilbey’s gin and tonic visited on him from time to time, and offered the Monterey, fake hood scoop and all, as an alternative ride to the “movie”. Her parents assumed that their destination was the Winston, where the current attraction, Lone Hand, starred one of jeweler Marsh’s personal favorites, Joel McCrea. Neither Terry nor Jack corrected the assumption. “No, thanks. I kinda like this side for a change. Hope your dad likes drivin’ the rod.” “Jack! He was just bein’ niice, sayin’ all those things about that ol’ Ford. He wouldn’t be seen in that noisy ol’ thing if his liife depended on it.” “Yeah, maybe he asked me for th’ keys just so he could move it if ya’ll’s house caught on fire. You saw ’im lookin’ at that engine. He’d never seen one with three carburetors on it before, I know that. Hell, neither had I ’til Smoky told me about Skeeter pullin’ this manifold off a wreck. Anyway, it’s all right with me, ’cause this front seat’s way better than mine for th’ drive-in. Slide on over here, why doncha?” Little Old New York 387

“OK, but no more New York funny stuff, mister. I wanta see this movie. Mama wouldn’t let me go when it ﬁrst came out. Said I was too young. But Tyrone Power was my favorite way back then. And I can’t stand that stiff ol’ Joel McCrea.” “Nightmare Alley. I don’t remember it at all. What’s it about?” He draped an arm casually about her shoulders, his mind going back to New York in spite of Terry’s sweet-smelling proximity. It served primarily to call Linda’s breath to mind; almost always with an under- tone of Scotch, mixed with the gamy overtone of his juice. She’d only sucked him twice, but if twice could breed a habit, he thought, by God I’ve got one. “They’re all in this carnival, doin’ wild things; sump’m about mind-readin’. I really didn’t remember from before, and that’s about all you can tell from th’ ad in th’ Bugle; I just know I liike ’at Tyrone.” “Well, play like I’m ol’ Ty for a minute before I go get us some popcorn,” he said, putting two ﬁngers under her chin to turn her face up to him. Temporarily, the fresh taste of teenage tonsils banished Linda from his conscious mind. They kissed for a long minute. “Mm-mm,” he said, “that’s good.” “It must feel real good. Look what happened,” Terry giggled. Your thing’s about to poke riit through those Palm Beach pants.” “I know.” “Well, you can’t go get popcorn lookin’ liike that. You be sweet-” southern girls have a special way of saying it–“bay swaight-” when they were fending off passion–“and let’s watch these previews ’til you simmer down.” “OK, but I can’t promise anything, bein’ away from you all this tiime. Specially after yesterday.” He sat back, his arms draped along the back of the seat, his dick creating an eggshell-colored wigwam in the middle of Palm Beach. He watched its effect on Terry, feigning interest in the coming attractions while he willed the wigwam to stand tall. 388 The Rough English Equivalent

“Good gracious, that thing’s not goin’ down,” Terry said, her eyes riveted on the cone of fabric.” “I told you, baby; I really missed you.” “I missed you too, honey.” She leaned over the wigwam to kiss him.” “Ooh, you know what I wish?” “Yes, I think so. Too bad it can’t happen ’til we’re married.” “Oh, no, sweetie, I know we agreed on that. We don’t want you gettin’ pregnant. What I was gonna say was I wish I could put it between your sweet little titties, and you kiss it for me again.” “Jack!” “I just said ‘I wish.’” “You go off to New York and come back with ideas like that, you just better stay up there,” she said, her tone far too gentle to match the verbal rejection. She laid her hand ever so lightly on the wigwam’s apex. “Bad boy.” She kissed him again, leaving her hand there. “Ooh, baby. I’m gonna make a mess in a minute.” “No! Not in this car. Can’t you make it to the bathroom?” “You know I can’t. It’s still stickin’ out a mile.” “What can we do?” she asked, solemn as Circe on Sunday. “I’ll get in th’ back seat and let it go in my handkerchief.” Opening the door, he slid onto the back seat as he withdrew his handkerchief from his hip pocket. “I’m not lookin!” Terry called, facing front with an eye on the rear-view mirror. The meat cooled a few degrees as it hit the open air, giving Jack a little breathing time as he’d anticipated. “It’s OK to look if you want to. Might as well enjoy what we can’t help.” He gripped his dick, ﬁrmly but gently, and lay back, his handerchief spread over his lap. “See?” She turned to look at him. “It’s pretty big.” “Yeah.” He moved his hand up and down, squeezing it to show the head to its best advantage. “Hey Terry.” Little Old New York 389

“What?” “Why doncha come on back and help me?” “No! Yesterday was enough for awhile. You just go on and take care of that,” she said, not taking her eyes off the slick, thrusting head as Jack continued to stroke the shaft. “And don’t get any on the seat.” “You touched it when it was inside my pants. Doncha want to feel it again?” She pondered the possibility, then said, “I’ll jus’ reach over from here.” Very tentatively, she extended a finger to within half an inch of the tip. Very slowly, she closed the remaining distance, touching, drawing back, and touching again, this time extending her thumb as well, gently pinching the flesh. “It’s so slip’ry. When’s it going off?” “Any time now. If you come on back here, you can see it. The handerchief’ll be in th’ way if you stay there.” “Oh, all right.” She opened the door, looked around at the sur- rounding cars for a moment, then slid in beside him.” “Ooh, I’m sooo close. Touch it again.” She repeated the pinching move, leaving her grip in place. “Come hold it with me,” he breathed, putting his hand over hers, arranging her fingers around the shaft, then closing his hand over them. “Now. Heeere we go, baby.” Six, seven reciprocations and it was done, the pale string of ejaculate hitting the handkerchief near dead center. “Aaaah! Don’t move yet. Please don’t move yet. Leave it there; please kiss it for me, baby.” And she did, this time letting her lips slip down the shaft just a millimeter, lingering for an instant to take in a little of his ejaculate. “Jackie, you felt so strong. That was amazin’.” “J’you enjoy it, sweetie?” “Yeah. Loook, the little man’s shrinkin’. Gimme that handkerchief for a minute.”

chapter 18 s Hoochie Coochie Man

“Well you know I’m the hoochie coochie man Everybody knows I’m him” —Muddy Waters, Hoochie Coochie Man 1805 Friday 12 February 1954: The white car’s cheese-slicer grille grinned at him as he topped the hill, boosting his blood pressure a quick twenty points or so. Shit, he thought, rapidly reviewing his options, what now? He was tired, too tired even to have made the ritual stop at Ribeye’s, and his reﬂexes deserted him. He turned into his driveway and stopped to get out and open the gate, having answered the girls’ cheery gesticulations with a matter-of-fact ﬂick of his hand, much as if he’d seen them parked downtown somewhere. Even as he did, he knew that he wasn’t likely to escape that easily. Three quick beeps of the limo’s horn bore him out; the girls had pulled in behind him; the twin in the driver’s seat–he still couldn’t tell one from the other–stuck her head out of the window. “Hay-eey!” Her jauntiness made him grin in spite of himself. “Hey yourself. “What’re y’all doin’?”

- 391 - 392 The Rough English Equivalent

“D’liverin’ Valentiines,” she said, her grin eclipsing his. “Can we come in for a minute?” “Sure,” he said, wanting to take it back as soon as he had. “Mind closin’ the gate behind you?” He lit the firewood he’d laid in the den’s stone fireplace that morning and headed for the kitchen. “Would y’all like a drink or anything?” he asked over his shoulder. “If you’ve got Co’colas. You really have a niice place, Petey,” said Diana. He knew she was Diana since she’d just called the other one Dolores. He was surprised to see how tall they’d grown, to five-ten or so; reminiscent, he thought, of Jean Peters when she did Viva Zapata, but more athletic. “Thanks,” he said, letting the “Petey” apellation go uncontested, the better, he hoped, to defuse it. “Glad ya like it. Y’all’ll have to excuse me, though. I had a long day, and I’m tired like you’ll never understand ’til you’re this old yourself. So-” Dolores, approaching from behind, put her hands on either side of his neck and squeezed with surprising strength before he could resist. He felt the resistance that he would’ve exercised leave his body through his feet, much as if he were an upended tube of Ipana. He exhaled and said nothing. “How’s that?” she asked as her thumbs dug into the long muscles on either side of his spine. “Good,” he said. “Very good. But-” “Just sit down here for a minute,” she said, pulling him back toward the edge of the ottoman that sat in front of his Eames chair. “Let me get that tension out while we give you your Valentine. Then we’ll run along and let you get over–uh, relax.” “OK,” he said, unable, unwilling, to stop the molten flow that oscillated from his heels to his head. “Let’s slide you back just a little,” Diana said. They helped him ease back on the ottoman. Dolores sat down on the front edge of the chair, her fingers continuing their magic, and Diana began removing his shoes. Hoochie Coochie Man 393

“Wait,” he said. And that was all he said, as Diana’s ﬁngers dupli- cated the dexterity of her sister’s. He quickly gave up both the soles of his feet and any idea of holding out against the girls’ ministra- tions. They continued for twenty minutes or so, ending with his being seated in the Eames chair, his feet on the ottoman, sipping his neglected Red Cap. “Feel better?” Dolores asked him. “You bet,” he said. “That was some Valentine. I didn’t even know I was on your list.” “You’ve been on our list,” she said, “ever since we sat down in your old car for the ﬁrst time. There’s a lotta magic in there. But this lil’ole massage isn’t your Valentine.” “It isn’t?” “No. We really want to exchange Valentines.” “Hm. Nice idea, but I didn’t expect-” Diana interrupted him. “Don’t worry. You already have ours; you just didn’t know we wanted it.” Being of sound mind, Moses could see this one coming. “Hey, girls-” This time Dolores interrupted. “It ain’t sex, Petey, if that’s what you’re thinking. Not just sex, anyway.” “We got the idea from Evvie,” said Diana. “We were talkin’ about men one time, like girls do, and she said that she wished you could’ve busted her cherry.” Too relaxed to jump to his feet, Moses settled for a groan of pro- test. “Evvie? I never-” “We said ‘wished’,” said Dolores. “It’s too late for Evvie, but not for us. And we went to a lot of trouble to make it special. Show ’im, Di.” Diana dropped her jeans around her ankles, revealing rock-hard, milk–glass cheeks, freckled with tiny red hearts. “Oh, God,” he breathed. Tattoos?” 394 The Rough English Equivalent

“Nah. Ball-point pen,” Diana laughed, stepping clear of her jeans. “See?” she said, backing up to put the tropical heat of her labia six inches from his nose. Dolores, standing behind him, continued squeezing Moses’ trape- zius. Shifting her left hand to the front of his shirt, she deftly undid the top button and slipped the palm of her right hand against his chest. “Isn’t she pretty?” she said, catching his nipple between her middle and ring fingers. Moses leaned forward, lining up the right cheek, and sunk his teeth in it, easing off just short of drawing blood. Diana’s scream broke the mood; jerking her hands away from him, Dolores moved to embrace her sister, who had whirled to face him, both hands on the offended area. “You bit me! Motherfucking cocksucker, you bit me! That hurt, you fucking sonofabitch,” she screeched, tears coursing down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” Moses said, getting to his feet. “But you shocked me. Guess I made a mistake. I thought y’all were serious about getting your cherries busted.” “We were!” sniffled Diana, pulling up her jeans. “-ah, I mean, we are…” “But didn’t you know it’d hurt? More than that little love nip, anyway.” “It would?” said Dolores. “Damn right. Why do you think they call it ’bustin’? It’s not something you just go out and do, like gettin’ a haircut. For your first time, you’ve gotta want it so much that you don’t care if it hurts. And your lover’s gotta want it that way too, otherwise he’ll stop when you say stop, and you just have to start over.” “Evvie didn’t…” “Tell you it’d hurt? Well, I guess it’s been long enough ago that she’s forgotten. I appreciate the compliments, both yours and hers, Hoochie Coochie Man 395 but doin’ one of you girls under these circumstances would be almost impossible for me, let alone both.” “You don’t understand,” said Dolores. “We have to be together when it happens.” “You do? Well, let me ask you this. Are you girls in love with anyone?” “Yes,” said Diana, “with you.” “Really? With me? What did I do to be so lucky?” “It’s just who you are,” said Dolores. “You’re an adventurer. And you helped win th’ war.” Moses’ guts turned icy. “I wasn’t in the war.” “Maybe not; we’re not sure. What we do know is you saved the President’s life, and Mr. Churchill’s too.” Struggling to regain control of himself, Moses aimed a very spotty grin at the girls. “Me? An adventurer? Well, that’s certainly a nice way to be thought of, for sure. But if that’s what you want, I think you should look around some more. I’m just a small-town merchant, and pretty near three times your age.” “No,” said Diana. “You’re not. That’s just what you’re doin’ right now. You’ve got some swashbucklin’ days behind you, and more to come.” “And we love you, so get used to it,” said Dolores. “Even if you won’t bust our cherries.” “Well,” said Moses, “Maybe later. Say when y’all’re twenty-one. How about for your birthday?” “Twenty-one?” they bleated. “What’s th’ hurry? Didn’t Evvie tell you that you could have fun without gettin’ your cherries busted?” Diana drained her bottle of Coca-Cola. “We better go now,” she said. “Would you like to have some fun like that with us some time?” “We’ll see,” said Moses, his arms around their waists as he ushered them to the door. “Now y’all scoot, and I’ll see ya later.” 396 The Rough English Equivalent

As the white car backed down the driveway, Moses leaned heavily against the door, trying to get hold of the implications of what had just happened. How the hell, he thought, do I put some distance between those little maniacs and me without risking their blabbing whatever other shit they think they know? Maybe I can sic Nelson on ’em; if he hasn’t been there already. Damn!–those cheeks… 1610 Wednesday 5 May 1954: Three thoughtful souls sat on Gene Debs’ porch, speculating on the chances of a spot of clear sky sufﬁcient for Jack and Moses to go ﬂy- ing. If they got airborne, Jack, who’d gotten his private pilot’s license on his birthday last year, would pass the hundred-hour mark in J3 pilot time today. Now he’d start to work on his instrument rating. He could only get so far with the work in the sparsely-instrumented J3, but he’d do as much as possible, while logging hours that were virtually free. “’J’all see God last night?” asked Jack as he watched the clouds’ shades of gray lighten, then go darker again. “I wadn’t ’at drunk,” said Gene Debs. Flying done for the day, he sipped from a jelly-glassful of Jack Daniels. Lifting his hip slightly off his rocking chair’s oak-slatted seat, he released a long, relatively silent jet of sulfur dioxide into the humid air. “An’ I hope you wadn’t, either. Where was God s’posed ta be hangin’ out last night?” “On You Bet Your Life. It ’us just a gag, but I think the ole boy that was supposed to be God really thought he was.” “How much did he win?” Moses asked. “Not much. Of course nobody wins a lot of money on that show.” “That the one with Groucho Marx?” “Yep. Pretty funny, in a square sorta way, the way that Finami- namin kisses ’is butt non-stop. And th’ duck, of course.” “He’s been funnier, but it takes th’ whole brother act to do it,” said Moses. “Remember Duck Soup?” he looked at Gene Debs as he said this. Hoochie Coochie Man 397

Gene Debs thought for a minute, then smiled and said “Hail Freedonia! “That’s the one,” Moses said with a snicker. “A little before your time, Bub; came out in 1933. The best one the brothers ever did, far as I’m concerned. We showed it, Monkey Business and Horse Feath- ers, all of ’em made in the early thirties, in a Mark Brothers Week at the theatre I managed in Baltimore. It’us a satirical slap at Germany, just after Hitler took over. There was this guy, Rufus T. Fireﬂy, played by Groucho, who this rich woman, Mrs. Teasdale, helps become dictator of Freedonia. The country next door, Sylvania, wants to take it over, and sends Harpo and Chico into Freedonia as spies. It’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.” “The thing I’ll never forget,” laughed Gene Debs, “is the mirror business. Remember? That damn Harpo dressed up like Groucho, broke a mirror and when Groucho came in he got on the other side of th’ mirror frame and did everything that he did.” “Oh, yeah,” said Moses, “and th’ hat routine, where they drive ol’ Edgar Kennedy nuts? Oh, man!” They shook the porch’s rattly planks laughing. “You know,” said Gene Debs, “all their stuff’s based on Jewish humor, straight outa that Yiddish burlesque that ’us big in New York, and I guess in some other big northern cities. Them boys never did try ta cover up their Jewishness, like a lot of ’em do now.” “Yeah, to be so Jewish, the movie business makes a lotta overnight Goyim, like Danny Kaye and Kirk Douglas. But if ya don’t look Goyim, ya can’t carry that trick off too well.” “What’s Goyim?” asked Jack. “Gentiles,” said Moses. “Th’ people who buy th’ tickets.” “Well, hell, if the boys’re that good, I need to see ’em, and so does the rest of Bisque. How ’bout another Marx Brothers Week?” “You know, that ain’t a bad idea,” Moses mused. “We’ll do it, soon as you’re back from New York. Be a good kickoff to Fall, get ’em into 398 The Rough English Equivalent th’ house with a big promotion. Hell, we could even do some kinda tie-in with Bowman’s; give away a DeSoto or sump’m.” “Tell ’em Groucho sentcha!” laughed Jack. “Hell,” Gene Debs guffawed, “Tell ’em God and Groucho sentcha, but don’t get a Firedome V8 up your ass!” 2010 Wednesday 9 June 1954: “Let us not assassinate this lad further, senator. You’ve done enough. Have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last?” Facing the swinging doors, his arm stretched wide, hand on the bar, Webster extended the mood of his address to a ponderous side-to-side shake of his large head. Then he swiveled it toward Moses with a grimace. “Jesus. Welch truly put old Joe away today, didn’t he?” “So I hear,” said Moses. “I didn’t catch it. Had to go put out a ﬁre at a customer’s. If his delivery was as spellbindin’ as yours, the poor bastard didn’t have a chance. Tailgunner Joe’s own tail’s probably still smokin’.” “Yeah, union bigwigs, state department fags and Hollywood reds can breathe easy when they put McCarthy away; Bob Taft must be rollin’ over in his grave. Somebody’d better pick up the torch in a hurry, somebody who’ll go on gettin’ after ’em the way ol’ Joe did. Otherwise, we’ll be livin’ in a far different world pretty soon.” “Some people would say ‘with all deliberate speed,’” Moses said with a faint smile. Webster took a bite from the pickled egg that was soaking a bar napkin alongside an iridescent Polish sausage. “Oh, Christ. Don’t remind me. These fuckin’ Democrats’ll have us up to our necks in coons and commies if we don’t send a bunch of ’em home in November.” “Now, now,” said Moses, suppressing an urge to grin. “Don’t be too hard on your former associates. Whatta they call ’em these days? ‘Fellow travelers?’” Hoochie Coochie Man 399

“‘Now, now,’ my ass. Don’t you be gettin’ on your high-horse just because you saw th’ light a year or two before I did. There were damn few people around here who weren’t Roosevelt Democrats when you came to town. And I bet you voted for Truman in ’48.” Moses inspected the polish sausage and glanced at the gallon jug that held its siblings with a near-imperceptible shiver. “Who in hell would admit to votin’ for Dewey?” “I not only admit it,” said Webster, “I’ll say it on the air.” Looking quickly over his shoulder, he said, “but not in here. Most of these citizens still think Roosevelt’s comin’ back.” “I can remember when you’d laugh if you heard hysterics like Ol’ Joe’s, regardless of which side of the aisle they were comin’ from. Now you sound like the Walter Winchell of Bisque.” “Sneer if you must. But I don’t want my kids goin’ to school with reds or rugheads. If Congress doesn’t turn this Supreme Court decision around with some ironclad law, our schools won’t be worth th’ powder it’d take to blow ’em to hell.” “Wait a minute,” said Moses, poking Webster’s puffy deltoid. “‘My kids?’ What kids’re we talkin’ about?” “The kids I’ll be havin’ with Robbie. I forgot to tell you; we’re gettin’ married next week.” “What??” “I said we’re gettin’ married next week. And unless you have some objection, you’ll be there as best man.” Moses looked at him as though Webster had just announced his imminent hanging. “And where will these nuptials be conducted?” “Augusta. Saturday at 12. The Second Baptist Church.” He seemed to have caught the mood of execution. “What, was the ﬁrst one booked?” “How the hell do I know? All I’m doin’ is showin’ up. With you, now. Mind drivin’ me over?” “Sure.” 400 The Rough English Equivalent

“I don’t wanta show up in my rattly-ass Allstate Henry J. She just bought a friggin’ new Dodge Coronet ragtop, Red Ram V8 and all. We’re goin’ on th’ honeymoon in it.” “Sounds good.” “Paid cash for th’ goddamn thing.” “Sounds better. Where y’all goin’?” “Daytona. Think Bisque can do without R&B Lee for a week?” “I think so. Anybody else comin’ from Bisque?” “Nobody, as far as I know. This’s Robbie’s show.” “None of your relatives?” “No. There’re not any close enough, physically or, I guess you’d say, spiritually. I’m an only child with two dead parents.” Moses sat his Red Cap on the bar. “How is it,” he said, as if he’d received private notice that Webster’s execution had been stayed, “that of all of th’ shit we’ve talked about since 1946 hasn’t included that fact?” “Most of th’ shit we’ve talked about since 1946 hasn’t been that personal, which is to say none of it has. I took my cue from you on that. Know what I know about you? You’re a New York Jew pro- moter, come here by way of Baltimore. And you didn’t tell me any of that.” Moses cocked his head over slightly, picked up his Red Cap and considered Webster’s statement. “Guess we’ve just had too much else to talk about. But here’s the thing; I’m an only child with two dead parents myself.” “’Zat right? How ’bout that? We’ve been havin’ our own widders’ and orphans’ society meetin’s all these years. And now you’re gonna ease my way outa the hellish loneliness of my existence up to this very moment. That’s damn white a’ you, Mose. Now I’ll tell you sump’m.” “What’s that?” “Remember Dotty? Robbie’s friend?” “Oh…yeah. The Bible school girl.” Hoochie Coochie Man 401

“She’s th’ maid of honor. An’ she’s lookin’ forward to seein’ yo’ yankee ass.”

The Roadmaster wagon was, as usual, the first car into the Hamm County Beverage Company’s lot. Moses was earlier than normal this morning, having slept fitfully and finally giving up the effort around four. Jack had been in New York since last Saturday. I miss that little shitbird, he thought. And soon as he’s back he’ll be gettin’ set to move to Athens. Joe College. Seems like about day before yesterday when he had to sit on two cushions to see out of the sidecar. Wait’ll he sees my surprise. He walked to the left side of the building, unlocked the small steel door covering the alarm panel, and used another key to disarm the system. Returning to the front door, he unlocked it and went to the main lighting switch panel on the hall’s right wall, flipping switches that brought fluorescent lights winking on throughout the building. He got the coffee started and sat down in the office, looking out the window toward the garage doors that extended in a right angle from the main building. He thought for a couple of minutes about the day’s schedule before drifting back to the weekend in Atlanta. Jack had asked to fly to New York this trip, and his parents had agreed. It would be a graduation present, Serena had said. He’d put the fuhbawl horseshit behind him and was an honor graduate of Bisque High, headed for the University of Georgia in the fall, and riding a Eastern Air Lines DC-6 to New York was, she thought, a fitting reward. “If you’re not busy Saturday, wanta drive us over to the airport?” she’d asked. “If you’re feelin’ sporty, we could have a night out in Atlanta.” The Atlanta airport terminal was the largest collection of Quonset huts Moses had ever seen, its rattly corrugated steel surface mottled by years of weathering and broken up by various add-on structures of glass, steel and concrete, one of which was the observation deck 402 The Rough English Equivalent on which they stood. They watched Jack walk nonchalantly to his flight’s boarding stairway, a couple of hundred feet away; he stopped at its base and turned toward them with a wave. Then he was up the stairs and inside the plane, unaware that Serena was still waving, a tear squiggling down her cheek. Moses had put his arm around her waist, hugging her to him as she peered at the DC-6’s windows, looking for his face in one of them. They stood like that while the crew started the aircraft’s engines and taxied away from them, a mini-hurricane climbing up onto the deck to test their grips on the grabrail. They stayed on the platform, waiting for the takeoff. “Well, he looked pretty grown up down there,” she said, “but he’s still my baby.” “That he’ll always be,” said Moses. “whatever the world has in store for him.” In a few minutes, the plane taxied onto the end of the runway and began its takeoff roll. She squeezed his hand hard as it broke ground and climbed gracefully, deliberately away. “Let’s go to town, sailor,” she said. “I could definitely use a drink.” They’d gotten one of the Henry Grady Hotel’s best rooms, on the north side of the twelfth floor. They were high enough that they could see the tops of an almost unbroken sweep of trees that stretched to the horizon, on which, to the far right, sat a cool, smoky-blue lump that Serena identified as Stone Mountain. This town, Moses thought, has a lot of room to grow. The room service cart held the remains of a jar of caviar and a bottle of Mumm’s Cor- don Rouge. She lay facing him, along his right side, his arm circling her, as they lingered in the afterglow of the first sex they’d had in nearly a year. “What time is it?” she asked him. “Four thirty-five.” “Oh, good. Nothing to do but you ’til dinner. Have I ever told you how much I love the way you suck my tits?” “Umm-hm. But tell me again.” “I mean it. The way you take your time with with each one, concentrating so much that it almost seems like you’re a blind man, try- Hoochie Coochie Man 403 ing to memorize every square inch. The way you make that ring with your thumbs and forefingers, and squeeze so the nipple skin gets tight as a drum. The way you lick and bite. That’s what I think of when I’m doing myself.” “You have been paying attention.” “You inspire me, Chili; I’m about to return the favor, assuming that sucking your dick’ll do it.” “Easy, missy. Between that and those nice little cunt-hugs, you’ll wreck my health.” “Bullshit. You’ll be around when we’re all dead.” “Won’t be any fun without you.” “Hm. Well, we haven’t had all that much fun lately.” “I know,” he said. “Well, we’ve both been busy.” “Yeah. Both of us stay busy. And you’re gettin’ rich, and I’m not.” “It’ll be a long time before I’m rich. Your daddy’s rich.” “And my mama used to be good-lookin’,” she said, green eyes misting over. “Long time ago.” “And you’re the finest thing I ever saw. And a great artiste.” “Time will tell. At least Hap’s getting a fair price for my work.” “Jack and I went by the gallery last year. Madison Avenue, in the seventies; high cotton, as Webster would say. We got there too early; they were closed, and we never made it back. He told me that he and Larry went back later, though. He was really excited to see the piece of yours that was in the window, on display in that high-art settin’.” “I know. The one I call Foundation. It was probably the first time that he realized how serious I am about my art.” “Yeah. Up to now, you’ve been just Mom. And a pretty damn good one at that. But he’s old enough now to start to see you as a whole person.” “I hope so, that sweet thing. He’s such a beautiful kid. He’s worked under a terrible handicap for all this time; Larry knocked me up, and we were nowhere near ready for Jack when he showed up. It seems that neither of us meant to let parenthood change us and our ambi- 404 The Rough English Equivalent tions. I think Larry still feels that way; he’s seen as little as he con- scionably could of Jack as he’s grown up. That wasn’t an option for me, and a damn good thing, too. I did grow up, to a degree, and one thing’s for sure; I’m prouder of Jack than I’ll ever be of anything else I do.” “And I’m proud of you. And not nearly as puzzled as I used to be, although I’ve never known a woman anything like you. No small part of why I love you, I guess.” “Do you think I ever knew anybody remotely like you?” she asked. “The way you accepted my reasons for not marrying you, even if you didn’t really understand them, isn’t something many men would be up to. What we have is as unlikely a thing as I could imagine.” She cradled his balls gently her hand, hefting their weight as she encircled the base of his cock with her thumb and forefinger. “But that sucker does have a firm foundation.”

“Mornin’,” Beverly Tyler’s voice echoed down the hall as she stepped through the door, bringing Moses back to the reality of Tuesday morning in the office. He looked at his watch; seven fifty- five. We’re off and running, he thought, his mood lightened as always by her brisk, cheerful air. He found it hard to imagine staying on top of this business without Beverly. She hadn’t been all that interested in staying after Fulford sold out, but Moses hadn’t wanted to lose any experienced help until he learned what selling beer was all about. An immediate hundred and fifty a month raise helped to convince her, and Moses could look back on that decision as the best investment he’d made in the business so far. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that Beverly, given the chance, could run Hamm County Beverage Company with very little help. “Hiya, Bev,” he responded as her short, trim frame appeared in the office doorway. She shot him a lopsided grin. “What’d you do, sleep here?” Hoochie Coochie Man 405

“Probably should’ve; I might have gotten a little work done, instead of tossin’ and turnin’ all night.” “Well, boss, it ain’t up to me to tell you your business, but I’ll just remind you of what Satchell Paige said one time.” “What’s that?” “The social ramble ain’t restful.” Moses leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands at the back of his head. “Social ramble? Me?” “I don’t know what else you’d call hangin’ out with the likes of Lee Webster and Nelson Lord.” “So I like creative types. Who would you suggest that I ‘hang out’ with?” “I told you, it’s none of my business. I figured you were already makin’ some new friends, like Mr. Browne, when you and him were in here for so long the other day.” Moses chuckled. “No, that was just business. Monkey business. He was here to get my support–meaning money–for his city council campaign.” “Is that right? I don’t even know who’s running.” “Well, you’ve got plenty of time to find out; the election’s not ’til November. Since Browne won the Democratic primary, he’s as good as elected anyway.” “Then why’s he need money?” “To pay off his primary campaign. Remember? We gave him some money for that; now he wants more, to clear up his debts.” “Oh. Yeah. That ‘Committee for Good Government?’ Back in Feb- ruary. That’s his outfit?” “Yep. And the two grand we gave him wasn’t enough. I don’t know how good an idea it was for me to join the committee, but I didn’t care much for Browne’s opponent. Still don’t.” “Who was it, anyway?” “Edwards. Barry Edwards.” “Oh, yeah. The Hopkins Mills Edwards?” 406 The Rough English Equivalent

“Right.” “Well, I don’t know much about any of those silk-stocking folks. Why don’t you like him?” “You pretty much put your finger on it. ‘silk stocking’ is a good term for people who think that they’re better than other people. I’m afraid I just made my decision out of personal bias. Just don’t like the ‘cut of his jib.’” “So are we kickin’ in again for Mr. Browne?” “Yep. Sorry I hadn’t mentioned it to you before. Another two thousand.” “OK. This can’t be just because you don’t care for Mr. Edwards, since Mr. Browne already beat ’im.” “No, no. Remember what business we’re in. We want friends on the council, on the county commission, at the Capitol–anywhere we can make ’em.” “Yeah. For a minute I forgot,” she said, flashing the lopsided grin and turning to go. “Beer’s as much about politics as it is about business.” She’d known that a long time, she thought, as she walked down the hall to her office. That was one thing that Mr. Fulford had always done–“kept his fences mended,” as he put it. Because Mose was so much more of a businessman, it was easy to forget that by now he also understood the politics of selling beer inside out. She hadn’t been optimistic when Mr. Fulford told her that he would be retiring and selling the business. And to a Yankee at that! The one thing that had encouraged her was that Mr. Redding was his partner. He hadn’t made too many mistakes in business, as far as she knew, so she’d decided to give the man who was known around town as “Cueball” the benefit of the doubt. It had, she now knew, been a very good decision. At the time, all she had to go on was Mr. Red- ding’s involvement–and a hundred and fifty dollar raise. It didn’t take Mose long to convince her that things would not only be different, but better. He spent more time with her that first month of the new ownership than Harvey Fulford did in a year. Dur- Hoochie Coochie Man 407 ing their talks, she now realized, he had been learning the beer business. He asked a lot of questions. After all the questions were asked and answered, they didn’t meet for a few days. The next time they did, Mose showed her what he called “the blueprint.” It was his plan for making Hamm County Beverage Company the county’s number one distributor. “Acme Brands is three times our size, Bev. How do you suppose that happened?” “Easy. They’ve got the most popular brands. And they’ve got Zenith behind them.” “The best brands and lots of money. That’s a tough parlay to beat.” “Who wants to beat ’em? Mr. Harvey never did. I don’t see how we could.” “I guess Mr. Harvey was satisfied with second place. I’m not. Wouldn’t it be great to be top dog?” “I don’t know. Would it make that much difference?” “It would make the biggest difference you can imagine. It would change what we do here every day from work to a life-size game. Instead of just coming in here and going through the motions of beer-in, beer-out, pay-the-bills-and-bank-what’s-left, we’d have an objective to get excited about. To kick Acme’s ass, every chance we get, until Schlitz and Anheuser-Busch take notice and come knocking on our door.” “You make it sound like fun. OK, let’s say that playing this game excites me. I’ve been in this business a long time, and I’d like for us to be number one. But that’s me. If this is going to have half a chance of working, seems to me that everybody here’s going to have to bust their butts. Do you think we can get the guys out there, in the warehouse and on the trucks, to work a lot harder just so we can kick Acme’s ass?” “Yes, I do. You said that I made it sound like fun. If it sounds like fun to you, the only woman in the business, it’ll sound even more 408 The Rough English Equivalent like fun to those guys. Here’s a question for you; back in the warehouse, what will most of the talk be about today?” “Easy. Fuhbawl.” “Right. The BHS game on Friday, and Georgia and Georgia Tech on Saturday. And it’s only Tuesday. What if they could get half that excited about the Beer Game? Hell, they’re players in this game, not just spectators. If they stop thinking about just comin’ to work and start thinkin’ about being part of the team that’s kicking Acme’s ass, then all we’ll have to do is tell ’em how they’re doing and stay out of the way.” “Like I said, it sounds exciting, and you must’ve thought about how to get everybody thinking that way. What’s the plan?” “Glad you asked. Since I learned all I know about the beer business from you, I want to tell ya how I think it can work. Then you poke whatever holes you can in my ideas, and we’ll fix ’em.” What Mose had thought of was to put a very simple plan in place, and make sure that everybody in the company understood both the plan and the part that they’d play in making it work. “It’s simple, Bev. We’re going to sell more because people are going to want more of what we’re sellin’. Then we’re gonna make sure that customers get what they need when they need it, and make sure that they understand that we’re here to help them make money. And that we’re damned happy to be doing it, because it’s our job and because we all share a big fat bonus pool.” That was almost four years ago. Like most plans, it wasn’t perfect, but it had worked. HCBC’s revenue was up almost twenty percent that year, and twenty-four the year after that. The company was able to get their brewers to contribute the majority of the costs of much larger advertising campaigns, and they had worked. HCBC’s brands started selling better almost immediately, and finally an Acme brand–Schlitz–switched to HCBC in January of this year. It was, she thought as she poured a cup of coffee, a lot more fun to work here than it used to be. Hoochie Coochie Man 409

1547 Wednesday 4 August 1954: Jack banked into the parking lot, braking to a stop just a couple of steps from the front door of the Hamm County Beverage Company. He kicked the Harley’s stand out as he flipped the ignition switch to the OFF position and dismounted. As was his habit, he stepped back a few feet to admire the old warrior before trotting up the stairs. Moses had just hung up his phone as Jack walked into the office. “Hiya, kid,” he said, getting up as he spoke. “How was New York?” he asked as they hugged hello. “Just fine,” Jack grinned. “’Ja call Linda?” “Yeah.” I sure did, he thought, as a vision of the taut brown body moving over and under him slid through his mind. “She doin’ OK?” “Sounded just fine. Said she was workin’ too hard.” “Aren’t we all. Glad you’re back, anyway. I called this afternoon ’cause I wanted to show ya something. C’mon out back.” He hurried past Jack, down the hall to the warehouse door. Jack stayed close behind as they went through the door, taking a right turn toward the loading dock. Then he saw it. Sitting there on its center stand, just inside the dock’s sliding door, was a luminous two-wheeled black and silver bullet. A Vincent. “Hey,” Jack said. “Who belongs to that?” “Yer humble servant,” said Moses, grinning broadly. “I decided you and George were havin’ too damn much fun without me.” “Damn,” said Jack, walking around it, his gaze jumping from one shiny compound curve to the next, from the polished aluminum front fender to the huge black speedometer and sensuously-flowing gas tank to the sculpted dual seat. “Damn damn damn. Seein’ ’em in th’ magazines doesn’t getcha ready for this. He focused on the black- enameled crankcases. It’s a Black Shadow, right?” “Right,” said Moses. “The guy says they guarantee it’ll top out at a hundred and twenty-five.” 410 The Rough English Equivalent

“Jeeezus. What a scooter. When’dja get it?” “Couple weeks ago. Just trucked it over from Atlanta and stuck it in here ’til you got back. Figured you wouldn’t want half the town tellin’ ya the news.” “You’re right, I do appreciate that. But I don’t see how you stayed off of it for two weeks.” “Hell, I didn’t. I’m out here sittin’ on it six times a day. All these guys’ve gotta be relieved that they don’t hafta keep the secret any longer.” “Well, hell; let’s go ride.” Moses rolled the Shadow, which is what they’d call it from then on, onto one of the trucks’ lift gates, which eased it down to ground level. Moses straddled it, pulling the clutch lever in. He ran the kick- starter through a couple of times to free the clutch plates, released it, set the ignition advance to full retard, closed the choke lever, eased the throttle twistgrip open a crack, and kicked. Once. Twice. Three times and BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM, the Shadow’s sixty-one cubic inches of v-twin leapt to life, drawing applause from the HCBC employees, Beverly Tyler among them, that had gathered on the dock. Her applause was an ironic headwag and an unavoidable small smile. Still grinning, Moses toed the gearshift up into ﬁrst, eased out the clutch and was off with a backward wave. Jack ran around to the front of the building, cranked the Harley and took off out Seventh Street in pursuit of the shrinking Shadow.

As she pulled the old Hudson wagon up to the hotel alley’s intersection with Main street, Serena’s scan of the trafﬁc also picked up the Reverend Osborne Abercrombie on his way to the cafe. Giving him a hasty wave and a hey-preacher smile, she turned right and disappeared behind a following semi-trailer rig. Jesus, she thought, you could land a plane on that forehead. Hoochie Coochie Man 411

At that moment, the Reverend concluded that he’d had enough. Enough of politely passing the time of day, day after day, with that auburn-haired vixen. Enough of her saucy, green-eyed smiling responses. Enough of her, the daughter of one of the town’s most important men (and a deacon!), keeping the church (and him!) at arm’s length. And enough, in particular, of the unbidden, unrequited tendency toward erection of the pastoral penis. The situation simply had to change. She was available. He was available. He had buried his wife Ellen more than two years ago. And even if he weren’t power- fully attracted to Serena Mason, various of his parishioners had for months been giving him not-so-subtle hints that it was time for the church to be led, once again, by a married man. It wasn’t that he didn’t have things to offer her. The First Baptist Church was Bisque’s largest, and the majority of its socially prominent citizens could be seen there on Sunday mornings. As pastor, he defaulted to the upper levels of the town’s pecking order. And, he thought, I don’t look bad for forty-two. Wish I had more hair, but I’m not upset by what I see in the mirror. Even features, prominent forehead, honest brown eyes. My suits fit well; Hart, Schaffner & Marx, Palm Beach; serge, glen plaid, covert; maybe not tailor-made, but the worthy members whose stores provide them make sure that their wares are shown to the best possible advantage in the pulpit. And God knows I’m well-spoken. These things alone, he knew, weren’t enough to bring Serena to him. Even after eighteen years of marriage, he still had no idea about how women make up their minds about men. As an experienced observer of humanity, however, he had come to some conclusions about her likes and dislikes. His only source of information, Reba Turnipseed, had provided him with a few insights about this remarkable woman. With the Lord’s help, they’d be enough to give him the basis for a successful campaign for her hand. First among these insights that Reba had provided him was her impression of the relationship, if it could be called that, between Ser- 412 The Rough English Equivalent ena and the beer baron Kubielski. While Reba has a very good opinion of him as a person, she says, she doesn’t believe that they’re “good for each other,” and that, being Jewish, he doesn’t present serious potential as a husband. At least not in Bisque. But she’s been back here for ten years; if a husband’s what she wants, maybe my timing’s pretty good. The second insight, while less encouraging, must be confronted. It is that, despite her deep roots in Bisque, she’s here only because of the boy, and that her residence here will end contemporaneous with his departure for college. She is, Reba says, an artist; she sculpts. And, even though no one save Baron Kubielski is admitted to her rooftop studio, there seems to be a market, hitherto solely in New York, for what she sculpts. The only evidence reputed to be her work that’s ever been available to Bisque’s eyes was the effigy of the Baron’s organ behind which he shamelessly drove around some years back. Third, and perhaps most troubling, is Reba’s opinion that, although sporadic, Serena and the Baron have maintained an eight- year sexual liaison that appears to be mutually satisfactory. Although her facts concerning this licentious union are necessarily sketchy, she is firm, as only she can be, in her conviction that it’s alive and well today. Given these insights, the pastor mused, what’s my strategy? As much as I fear doing it, I’m forced to base what I do on an assumption, that assumption being that Serena doesn’t want to do anything forever, which both frightens and comforts me. She’s an artist. Is her art truly appreciated by Baron Kubielski, or is this the fatal niche in their accommodation? Everything that I know about the man suggests to me that this is the relationship’s Achilles heel. It could be the gap into which I can insert the cold chisel of God’s love, followed by a warmer insertion of my own. As opposed to what seems to be the Baron’s cavalier notice of her art, I shall prove my love for Serena through an understanding of what she does. I shall give her as many opportunities as I can to Hoochie Coochie Man 413 appreciate what I know about her art. I must begin to see her socially, in a series of gatherings that are stacked–how can a man of God conceive of this duplicity, yet I do, and happily–in my favor. Perhaps, as a start, a simple party given by some church member with whom she’s friendly. In the meantime, I shall do what I can to make sure that she hears more good things from me about art in general, and ultimately her art, in the next few weeks than she’s heard from the Baron since they met. Once we’re friends, anything can happen. 1631 Wednesday 11 August 1954: “Go ahead and get the sandwiches out of the ’frigerator, will ya, honey?” shouted Jolene Marsh, chairwoman for Bisque’s Salvation Army Funding Plans Committee. She was determined, under any circumstances, to be an effective chairwoman, and if all that it took was shanghaiing Serena Mason, well that was easily done. She knew that the appreciation of her efforts would begin with Reverend Aber- crombie’s, who knew where it would end? The Reverend’s influence was far-reaching in Bisque, and readily usable for lots of purposes, religious or sectarian. And if what he had in mind in getting Serena to show up was what she thought it was, well, his gratitude would be considerable if she reciprocates his interest. “Where’dya want this bowl of blackberries?” asked Terry, struggling a bit as she slid the three-tiered silver tray onto the table beside them. “Don’t they have sump’m that goes with ’em?” “Yep. There’s a dish of hard sauce that goes over ’em; probably right behind where the sandwiches were. You sure you wanta stay for this thing, baby? It’s bound to be dull as dishwater.” “It won’t be if Jack’s mom’s coming. Do you really think she’ll show up?” “If she doesn’t, she’s no friend of mine. And she is my good friend.” 414 The Rough English Equivalent

“But why’s she coming? This isn’t something she’d be interested in. She doesn’t even go to church.” “This isn’t about church. It’s about helping people who aren’t as fortunate as we are. We’re going to help the Salvation Army raise the money they need to do that for the poor people of Bisque. This gathering’s mostly about getting businesses to give us things that we can raffle off to make money, and Miz Mason’s a pretty good business woman. I think she’ll have some good suggestions.” And possibly boost old Abercrombie’s self-image right through the roof, she thought. It’s about time old Cueball had some competition; foolin’ around with Ríni for all these years, and not marryin’ her. Not that I think she’d ever be a preacher’s wife, but who knows? The guy obviously believes in miracles; guess you could say he practices what he preaches. By five-fifteen, the Marsh living room was full of well-behaved Christian housewives, an artist and a preacher. Jolene, fulfilling her implied bargain with the holy man, had handed Serena over to him upon arrival. “You know Reverend Abercrombie, of course,” she’d said, and Serena had allowed as how she did. “Daddy says you’re some sermonizer,” she said as Jolene ushered a lady in a hat toward the tier of little sandwiches. “Well,” he said, modifying Preacher Professional Post-Sermon Smile for the occasion, “that’s high praise indeed, coming from Dea- con Redding. Maybe you should join us some Sunday and decide for yourself.” “I have a hard time sitting down for that long, I’m afraid,” she said. “Guess Daddy’ll have to go on representing us.” “Hm. Well, I hope you’ll change your mind some day and join him.” “They say anything’s possible, but I wouldn’t bet on it. But you don’t bet, do you? How about a sandwich?” They hovered briefly over the buffet table before Abercrombie was called away for protocol with the Salvation Army’s Major Murphy. Hoochie Coochie Man 415

By the time he could get back to her, the business of the gathering had been done and people were gabbling the appropriate goodbyes to friends, acquaintances and holy folk. The Reverend pounced as she was escaping Jolene’s hug. “Mrs. Mason…” She turned to him, unable to avoid a look up at the expanse of brow. “Call me Ríni, why don’t you? After all, we’re neighbors.” “Why–thank you, ah–Reenie. I wondered if I might ask a favor.” “Shoot.” He’d begun to understand that it was going to take everything he had to deal with this directness. “Well. I understand that you sculpt, and I wondered if I might see some of your work.” “Word gets around, doesn’t it?” she said, smiling. Goddamn that Reba anyway. “What kind of sculpture do you like?” “I can more easily tell you what kind I don’t like. None. Sculp- ture’s a miraculous gift. How people shape beautiful things from ordinary materials is absolutely beyond me.” A spark of insight momentarily dimmed Serena’s just-for-polite- society smile. “Wish more people felt that way,” she said, looking at him squarely for the ﬁrst time. “It’s not a common attitude, as far as I know. Stop by tomorrow, if you like. Around six? My studio’s on the hotel roof.” There’s some recycled Reba-news for you, she thought. “The desk clerk’ll tell you how to ﬁnd the door to the roof. You’ve gotta knock hard.” 1750 Thursday 12 August 1954: The reverend was early, but she’d anticipated it. Good thing Snare, alias Penis Flytrap, has gone to New York, she thought as the Rever- end’s thumping resumed within seconds after it had stopped. This alabaster version of Cordelia’s bust’ll be about all he can take. Haul- ing the door open, and now more or less prepared for a top view of the expanse of ecclesiastical headskin, she greeted him. “Howdy, preacher.” 416 The Rough English Equivalent

“Good afternoon.” Clearing the last step, he looked around the rooftop. “What a wonderful place to work. I can see how inspiration would come to you quite easily.” “It’s not bad, once you get used to the weather and the trucks. I can’t understand why trucks can’t have mufflers that’d make them as quiet as cars. Their engines can’t be that much bigger.” “That’s a question that I have absolutely no qualification to address,” he said, smiling. Have you asked your brother? The car dealer, I mean.” “No, I haven’t; too obvious, I guess. But you didn’t come up here to discuss trucks. Come on over here and I’ll show you what I’m working on.” As they approached her workstand, she said, “I generally have a glass or two of wine while I work, but I can offer you water or a Coke instead-” “Oh, nothing for me right now, thanks,” he said, his eyes fixed on the bust, a two-foot-high piece of pink-veined white stone that stood on the workstand, embedded in sand. In spite of a quickly-drying throat, he managed to say, “I’d just like to look at this marvelous thing right now.” “I hope it’ll be at least mildly marvelous when I’ve finished. Still lots of polishing to do.” He’d recovered enough from the sight of Cordelia’s alabaster breasts to ask, “What kind of stone is it?” “Alabaster. This is the first piece of stone that I’ve carved since I was in school, more than ten years ago. It’s a lot easier to work than marble or granite.” Now he was back on his feet. “Those pink striations running through it create a really nice effect. Where did you get it?” “From a sculpture supply house in New York. It was quarried in Colorado.” “I think I know who it is.” “You can guess if you want to, but my models’ identities’re confidential.” Hoochie Coochie Man 417

“Well, she’s a very striking woman, for Bisque anyway.” “I’ll say she is; for Bisque or anywhere else. I’m lucky she’ll model for me.” “When this is done, I’m sure she’ll say that she’s the lucky one. I’m in absolute awe of your talent. How many women sculptors do you suppose there are?” “Not that many, relative to men, as far as I know. And thank you for not saying ‘sculptress’. There’ve always been a few, though. Ever heard of Camille Claudell?” “No,” he said, wrinkling the massive brow. “Who is she?” “She was a student–and mistress–of Rodin. Probably the best- known woman in sculpture. Died in pursuit of her art–and Rodin.” “Really. When did she die?” “Back during the war, ’43-’44, I think. She’d been in an asylum for many years.” “My goodness. Rodin was no help to her?” “Far from it. Ibsen wrote a play about them. When We Dead Awaken. He abandoned her at the point where she could’ve become well-known for her work. As Ibsen would have it, he just wasn’t interested in having an artistic competitor in his bed.” “That’s a very sad story. A slow death at the hands of love and art.” She looked at him, not disguising her surprise. “That’s it, in a nutshell. She was destined to be lonely, because she wanted to do something with her life that society decreed women shouldn’t do. She chose to live and love like a man, and to be an artist. But she wasn’t a man, and she pursued her desires, even after pursuing them drove her crazy.” “I must read that play. Do you have it?” “No. I left a lot of books behind when we left New York. And a lot else besides,” she mused. Seeing sadness come over her, he sensed opportunity. “Do you know anything about Stone Mountain?” 418 The Rough English Equivalent

“Not much,” she said, startled at the change of subject and remembering the only time she’d seen it, from a room in the Henry Grady Hotel back in June. “beyond the fact that it’s in Atlanta.” “It has Lee’s head sculpted out of one side. I was reading in the Atlanta paper the other day that some people are trying to get work started on the original design, the one done by the fellow–Borglum, I think that’s right–the one that did the presidents’ heads on Mount Rushmore?” “Yes,” Serena said, “Gutzon Borglum.” “The paper said that Lee’s head is seventy feet high. Ever since I read about it, I’ve wanted to see it. Would you like to drive over there one day and take a look?” The surprise returned to her eyes as she looked at him, appraising this unexpected ploy. “Sure,” she said after some seconds of silence. “When?” It was the Reverend’s turn to be surprised. “Well,” he said, looking skyward as he came to grips with the unexpected ease of victory. “How would one day early next week, or the week after, be? Wednes- day’s prayer meeting, and I begin working on my sermon on Thurs- days. Say Monday or Tuesday? If we leave early, we could be back by five or six, I would think.” “Yes, it’s quite a drive. We’d better say week after next. I’ll need to make sure my desk clerk’s ready to work straight through whatever day we choose. Can I let you know tomorrow?” 1130 Thursday 19 August 1954: A welcome, if unusual, breeze ruffled Cordelia’s glossy hair and the tops of the massive oak trees across the street as she looked down on the flow of main street traffic. “When am I leavin’ for New York?” Cordelia asked. “I’m lookin’ pretty damn smooth.” “Yes you are. I swear, I know your nipples now better than I know mine. Maybe next week,” Serena said as she rubbed the alabaster bust with a cloth and jewelers’ rouge. “After the polishing’s done. I’ve got Hoochie Coochie Man 419 several coats of wax to put on and rub out. Then we’ll crate these cute little tits up and ship ’em to the gallery.” “Well, they look damn good. Be sure you crate ’em up good so I won’t break.” “You can count on it. But you know, if all I wanted to do was sell it I probably wouldn’t have to ship it.” “Really? Who could you sell it to?” “A most unlikely, and hitherto unknown, art enthusiast. Only he wouldn’t be able to display it at home.” “Why not?” “Because preachers just don’t have nude sculpture. Not Baptist preachers, anyway.” “Ríni!” Cordelia shrieked. “You showed my tits to Abercrombie? No!” Serena stopped polishing and turned to look at her. “I’m afraid I did, sugar. Since I didn’t tell him you were the model, I didn’t think you’d mind.” “Well you were wrong! Anybody with one eye’d know it’s me. When you told me that you wanted to do me in marble, and I sat again for you for weeks with my tits hangin’ out, the only people I thought would see it would be Yankee strangers and family. I don’t want Pap to see this!” “I don’t want him to, either. And I’m sorry I showed you to the preacher. It just sort of happened.” “But what was he doin’ up here in the first place? You don’t let people up here all that much. But a friggin’ preacher?” “I’m sorry this has upset you, sweetie. I guess you better hear the rest of it so you’ll know how upset to get.” Cordelia shook her head slowly from side to side. “You got any wine up here?” “It’s a little early, but I’ll go get us some if you feel the need. Mat- ter of fact, I’m startin’ to feel the need myself. Let’s go downstairs.” 420 The Rough English Equivalent

They sat in the living room with glasses from a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse for which Serena felt she’d overpaid, but now was glad she’d bought it. “You know where I was day before yesterday?” she asked the still-ﬂustered Cordelia. “Where?” “In Atlanta; well, Stone Mountain actually, lookin’up at a seventy- foot head of Robert E. Lee with th’ preacher.” “Damn! Donchoo lie ta me! “No really. We drove over there, six hours over and six hours back, to get a look at it. And I’ll tell you, it’s amazing.” “Damn! I didn’t think that anything you had to say about this could possibly surprise me, after what you told me upstairs. Howja get involved with that giiy, of all people?” “I got to talking with him at a Salvation Army deal that Jolene Marsh dragged me into a couple of weeks ago. Turns out he’s a lover of sculpture.” “Sounds more like a lover of sculptors to me. Does he really know anything about it?” “Not much. But his heart seems to be in the right place. He’s fascinated by what it takes to create sculpture. How well do you have to know something to love it?” Cordelia sipped her wine before answering. “I think you’re about to ﬁnd out. How the hell you got from th’ Salvation Army to Stone Mountain and General Lee in two weeks just beats th’ hell outa me. T’say nothin’ of why.” Serena’s smile held a tinge of the rueful. “I’m askin’ myself the same question. I’d hate to think that I’m shallow enough to just get a kick out of having somebody like that admire me and tell me that what I’m doing’s important. And at the same time wanta get in my pants, even if he doesn’t really know much about how to do it.” “Hell,” Cordelia said with a grin, “If that’s shallow call me knee- deep.” Hoochie Coochie Man 421

Serena observed her model’s change of mood with relief. “Yeah, you can’t really say there’s a lot wrong with that, except that it’s comin’ from such a strange source. You just figure that a guy like that’s blood’s not all that red, and that he’s gonna be throwin’ Jesus at you every chance he gets.” “And does he?” “Not at all, at least so far. Well, once. We put in a pretty long day in that Dodge of his, just gettin’ there and back. All he wanted to talk about was what I was doin’–and what I’d done.” “I know you didn’t let ’im get away with that.” “I didn’t wanta get into some kinda conversational tennis match with ’im. I found out a few things about him, but to tell th’ truth it was more restful just talkin’ about art–and me.” Cordelia started to reply directly to that, but instead said: “D’you think he really wants to ‘court’”–she made quotation marks in the air–“you? How the hell can a Baptist preacher go out with a–what? Atheist? Agnostic? I know you ain’t sittin’ around waitin’ for th’ second comin’. Those goddam Baptists’ll throw his ass out if he’s not careful.” “I know it; and I guess he must know it. He seems to be a pretty bright guy, about most things. He did let those proselytizing pants of his down pretty far one time, and I’m not sure he meant to, or even noticed that he had.” “Really. Whad’d he say?” “It was while we were standing under the sculpture, right after we got there. I said sump’m about how it would’ve inspired the people of the Confederacy if they could’ve seen it. He said ‘Inspiration is everything.’ I said, ‘It certainly is in my work.’ And he said, ‘It is in mine, too. Take faith. You know, it’s not as important that we be completely certain that God exists, as long as we behave as though He does.” “Whoa! Honey! He better not be droppin’ that bomb on anybody else in town. He wouldn’ta said it to you, but he knows that if y’all’re 422 The Rough English Equivalent gonna get together, he’s gotta be gettin’ yo’ ass inta that big ole Bap- tist church, one way or another. Either that or he’s tireda makin’ his livin’ thataway.” “Yeah. I started to tell ’im that his church-birds might as well have good times in Heaven to look forward to, because they ain’t likely to have many down here. And that if God was really on the job, shit wouldn’t stink and cum’d taste like tapioca. But I didn’t. I don’t know what the ole boy has in mind, but I’m sure I will before long. He’s gotta be lonesome for female companionship, with Celeste Abercrombie dead these two years.” “Hm,” Cordelia said, “I forgot that was her name. She wadn’t that much to look at. They didn’t have any kids, so she might notta been that much fun nekkid–if Baptists actually get nekkid. Maybe you’ll find out. You could make room for one more on your dance card these days, I ’magine.” “More than that, if I had a mind to, which I don’t,” Serena said between sips of wine. That ole rascal Cueball still does it right well for me.” And for some others, too, Cordelia thought, as she said “Don’t seem like you see ’im as much as you used to. I’m glad y’all still please each other after this long. M’self, I just gotta have a lil’ variety now an’ then.” Serena ignored the last part of what she’d said. “It seems like it’s hard to find the time, as busy as we both are. He’s not somebody you satisfy in an hour or so. It takes about a half a day to haul that boy’s ashes. If you can’t take that long, you’re just askin’ for frustration.” Cordelia pondered that thought for a minute. “Maybe it’ll be easier for ya’ll with Jack off at school.” “Could be. His being gone’s gonna make a big hole in both of our lives for awhile, I’m sure of that. And you know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if his hole turns out to be a little bigger than mine.” “Yeah, he and Jack seem more like kin than Jack and either one of his real uncles. All that flyin’ and everythang. But it’s time for him to Hoochie Coochie Man 423 get out in th’ world, and y’all’ve got him as ready as anybody can be to do that. If his goin’ to school don’t get you and Mose closer together, well, some art appreciation from th’ preacher miit do it. Dawno whatsa bad about religion, anyway.” “You mean aside from its being the sworn enemy of free thought?” “Oh, that.” Cordelia moved to sit beside Serena. “I gotta go. I still wish you hadn’t shown th’ preacher my tits, but it’s done an’ I forgive you. Besides, if y’all ever got down to bidness, he’d forget about ’em in a heartbeat soon as he gets a loada that sweet clit a’yours. Assumin’ he knows what one is.” “He can’t be that ignorant,” Serena said as they moved toward the door. “Well, honey, you showed me where mine was.” “Yeah, but you were thirteen. Shouldn’t hafta do show and tell for a grown man.” 1950 Friday 13 August 1954: The parking spot just outside the door to the Bisque Lunch Room was vacant, so the bright mass of the white car’s right side filled the doorway as Lee Webster walked in. Its horn tooted a triple as it went by. “Hey, bub,” he said, squinting into the shade at Moses. “See what celebrity’ll buy you in this town?” Moses grunted as he kicked the adjoining barstool around to receive the oncoming burden. “Those goddam girls. Don’t they do anything but drive?” “I’m sure they do,” said Webster. “They had the curtains drawn.” “Jesus. You know, I sorta liked that heap for as long as I had it. It’d top eighty in second gear if you had enough road to let it wind out. Then I trade it in, old Bishop buys it, it looks like for life, and those girls start drivin’ it around. Now they’re usin’ the goddam thing to haunt me. Every other time I look up, that damn old white Buick’s lookin’ at me.” 424 The Rough English Equivalent

“Still lookin’ pretty good, too,” said Webster. “That’s the hell of it! The goddam thing looks better’n it did when I bought it! They’re hauntin’ my ass with that big white fuckin’ zom- bie!” “Webster shifted on his stool to look squarely at his friend. “Wait a minute, pal. I’d be ﬂattered if those little Boobsie Twins’d pay me some attention. Besides, you know teenagers. Idiot savants or not, you let ’em know they’re gettin’ your goat, they’ll just keep it up.” Moses returned Webster’s gaze for a moment, then glanced down the bar at Ribeye, whose interest in their dialogue had picked up as it got louder. “More like clitiot savants, if you ask me. Got time to take a little drive with me?

“There’s Lee Webster,” said Dolores, tapping the horn in greeting. “Bet he’s meetin’ Mose in there,” said Jack from the back seat. Diana sat between him and Ricky, facing a galvanized gray tub of ice and beer on the floor in front of them. “Well, he had ’is chance,” said Diana, pulling Jack’s head over and catching his earlobe between her teeth. “Now ya’ll get to have all th’ fun.” “Y’all asked Mose first? Be still my heart,” chuckled Ricky, resting the base of his can of Budweiser on bare tanned thigh, just below the hem of her cutoff jeans. He was rewarded with an ecstatic shriek and a backhand to the chest. “Qweeeut!” she said, laughing. “That’s cold!” “Y’all don’t be messin’ with her ’til we get where we’re goin’,” Dolores shouted from up front. “We’re sharin’ y’all!” They’d driven north of town to a small Negro-owned grocery store for the beer, where there’d be no quibbling about how old the buyer happened to be. The Bisque Lunch Room was on the way to their destination, a fished-out pond east of town. “Then get this Hoochie Coochie Man 425 damn boat movin’,” shouted Ricky, draining his beer, chucking the can into the tub and grabbing another. “Where’s ’at church key?” The pond was the better part of five miles out of town, where Main Street turns south and changes back into U.S. 1. Pine thickets dominated both sides of the road. “There it is,” Ricky exclaimed. Dolores turned the white car off the highway to the right, jouncing onto twin ruts that led through a scrubby meadow and into the trees. “Dammit, what the hell’ve y’all got us into? This looks liike a friggin’ jungle.” “Ya want privacy, doncha?” Jack said, gripping Diana’s other thigh, which felt the way he imagined the mid-section of a ten-foot python would, but hot. “This is really niice a’ y’all,” she said. “It just wouldn’t do for us to go over to Georgia this Fall and still have our cherries.” “We ’preeshate it,” said Ricky. “But you know what? You never told us why you decided you wanted us to help you out.” “Well,” said Diana, smiling lazily as she rested her hands on top of the boys’, “We liike y’all, an’ we know y’all’ve got experience.” “Experience?” Jack said in surprise. “In cherry-bustin’? Where’d you get that from?” Dolores parked the car behind a clump of brush that obscured it from sight. She opened the white car’s back door just as Jack spoke. “Ah, we didn’t care about that. Tell th’ truth, ain’t much cherry left ta bust. Somebody told us it was gonna hurt, so we just started playin’ with ourselves ’til we could get a couple fingers in. Wudn’t nothin’ to it.” She cracked a fresh beer, took a large swig and slung an arm around Ricky’s neck. “Hay-eey,” she said, darting her tongue between his lips. “We didn’t wanchall worryin’ about hurtin’ us,” said Diana. “What we wanchall to do is get us past this damn cherry shit and give us a good solid screwin’.” She unbuttoned her cutoffs and hooked her thumbs over the waist. “C’mon, les’ get nekkid!” 426 The Rough English Equivalent

“Last Valentine’s Day,” said Moses as they drove out Main Street, “those darlin’ little Bishop twins paid me a visit. I don’t know if they told anyone about it; I sure as hell didn’t, until right now. I’m tellin’ you because I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m nuts, and I know it must’ve sounded like it back there. Somebody besides me has to know what these maniacs have been doin’ to me ever since I first laid eyes on ’em. I’ve kept it to myself until now; people around here’d want me locked up, either as a rapist or just plain fuckin’ crazy.” “Well,” said Webster, “I can tell this is gonna be way off the record. What the hell’s going on?” “Like I told you. Those girls’re not just a little ‘touched;’ they’re the weirdest human beings I’ve ever run across in my life. Remember back in ’52, when Bisque beat Ledbetter, and there was a lotta talk about them tellin’ old Rocky Whitehead what plays Ledbetter’d run, before they ran ’em? “Oh yeah. McMillan had a lot to say about that in th’ paper. Need- lin’ Rocky and givin’ two cheerleaders th’ credit for th’ biggest football win this town ever had. Called ’em ‘the baffling Bishops.’” “Ríni told me a while back that they’ve got that, that…” “That what?” Webster asked him when the pause had gone on for half a minute or so. “Waita minute. I almost had it. Oh. Tourette’s.” “Tour-ets?” “Yeah. Makes ’em act wild. Cuss like sailors, only worse. Screamin’, fightin; and the farther they’e apart from each other, the worse it gets.” “Damn. When’d their folks find out they had it?” “Quite awhile back, I guess,” said Moses. “When they were nine, ten, I guess, from what I remember. And sex’s a big part of it” “Sex?” Hoochie Coochie Man 427

“Yeah, sex. Because that’s what’s botherin’ me about them. Listen. This goes back before what I was startin’ to tell you. Before th’ Led- better game. I was goin’ home one evenin’, and they passed me up in my old car. A little farther down th’ road, they pulled up. Said the car quit on ’em. Well, I couldn’t get it started, so I put ’em in my car and took ’em home. We got out there, and when they got out, one of ’em–the one sittin’ next to me–kissed me, real quick, tongue and all, with their mama standin’ right there.” “Jee-sus.” “I don’t think she–mama–saw it. Looked like the other one was blockin’ her view, tellin’ her what had happened to th’ car. But it sure as hell surprised me.” “Yeah, I guess,” said Webster, rubbing his temples with both hands. “Since then, seemed like every time I turned around I’d see my old car. Parked somewhere close to wherever I was at the time, drivin’ by th’ warehouse, my place–all th’ fuckin’ time. Like they were followin’ me.” “J’you ever say anything to ’em?” “Hell, no,” said Moses, looking over at Webster as he stopped at a trafﬁc light. “What the hell was I gonna say? And what would they say? They were in a public thoroughfare, completely within their rights. I sure as hell didn’t want them tellin’ their folks that I’d come anywhere near ’em. I’ve had all the woman trouble I want from this town without messin’ with jailbait. But they kept messin’ with me, and still are, just like today. That drivin’ by Ribeye’s’s happened before, right down to th’ horn-toot.” “Hm. So what happened on Valentine’s Day?” Moses recapped the twins’ visit to his house, leaving out the “hero” reference. “Holy shit!” breathed Webster, ﬁngers to his temples again. Those little bitches’re sicker’n I thought. “That’s a fuckin’ time bomb. If they told somebody, anybody…” 428 The Rough English Equivalent

“Bingo! Now, see why I go a nuts every time I see that damn Buick?” “You shoulda come to town in a Ford or a Chevrolet,” Webster mused. “How’s that?” “You reckon ole Big Boy woulda bought sump’m like that? No Big Boy, no Boobsie twins drivin’ a car with Kubielski-spoor.” “Yeah, but if I’d just ﬂushed that Buick’s coolin’ system before I left Baltimore, I’da never been made an honorary redneck.” “Whadja do,” Webster asked, “Elect yo’sef?” “As long as you got locals that fart ‘shave and a haircut, two bits’,” said Moses, I’d say there’s room for a new kinda redneck or two.” chapter 19 s Roll Out the Barrel

0520 Saturday 9 April 1955: “Mose.” It was Gene Debs, calling, as he would, at the crack of dawn. “What?” “J’you ever see a Grumman F3F?” “A what?” “A Grumman F3F. I flew ’em in th’ fleet, back in the thirties. A fighter. Biplane.” “What time is it?” “What?” “I said, what time is it?” “Five-twenty. Why?” “Because it’s FIVE FUCKING TWENTY! Why’re you calling me at five fucking twenty to ask me about some goddamn airplane?” “Did I wake you up? I thought you got up with the fuckin’ chickens.” “Not on Saturday. But I’m awake now. What’s the deal?” “This here’s th’ deal. I got a call last night from a guy I know out in Waco. He works at the airport where the crop dustin’ school is. There’s an F3F out there for sale. A two-seater! They just made a few

- 429 - 430 The Rough English Equivalent two-seaters. The guy says the owner’ll take eight grand for it. I thought you might like a half interest.” Moses said nothing for a few seconds. Then he said, “What’d you say it was?” “An F3F. Grumman. You know the Wildcat, the carrier-based fighter that we had in th’ war before th’ Hellcat?” “Yeah.” “Well, think of a Wildcat with two wings. That’s an F3F.” “Oh. Is that a FiFi? We had a few of them come through Gitmo.” “These came after the FFs. Much hotter bird.” “And you flew ’em.” “Yeah. Back in ’38, ’39. Great-flyin’ aircraft. Fast. 190-knot cruise.” “Any idea of what kinda shape it’s in?” “The guy says it’s beautiful. About 75 hours on the engine since overhaul. This ain’t a Navy bird; Grumman built the 2-place version, the G-32, for demonstrators and executive taxis. They put the Navy paint job on ’em, which this one still has; yellow wings, red cowling and tail, gray fuselage. Of course, we need to fly it before we make th’ deal. Wanta take a run out to Waco?” 1738 Sunday 10 April 1955: The Stearman got them to Waco in a shade over seven hours, with 2 gas stops. They approached the field at dusk, turning on final over Lake Waco, touching down with Gene Debs’ usual smoothness. Turning off the runway, they taxied past the control tower and down the ramp to the third hangar. The G32, looking combat-ready, crouched in front of it. “Lookin’ tough, babes,” shouted Gene Debs through the Gosport tube. “If that ole barrel ain’t ready to go I’m a broke-dick dog!” Somehow you just had to use its Navy nomenclature. The F3F looked a lot like a barrel, scarlet cowling contrasting sharply with Navy gray, stuck between two stubby wings, the upper wing’s top surface bright yellow, its tail the same scorching scarlet as the cowl- Roll Out the Barrel 431 ing. It sat low between the outsize wheels of its retractable landing gear. The big nine-cylinder Wright Cyclone engine lurked behind the broad paddles of its three-bladed propeller, compelling evidence of the performance Gene Debs had talked about. It has to be a barrel, Moses thought, to hold that engine and those big-ass wheels. That’s some linkage that gets them up in there; hard to imagine all those tubes and bars fitting up inside the fuselage. But they obviously do. Parking the Stearman in front of the hangar, they headed straight for the F3F to get a closer look. The closer they got, the bigger it looked; they stood in its shade, inches away from the prop, looking up at its hub and the massive engine behind it. “Eighteen hundred and twenty cubic inches,” said Gene Debs. “And pretty close to a thousand horsepower. We can kick some ass with this.” “If we don’t go broke buying gas,” said Mose. “How’s it do on fuel consumption?” “Not too bad; ’bout thirty gallons an hour.” A slight, sandy-haired man of about forty approached them, pushing his Stetson back on his forehead. “Mr. Redding?” he said, looking from one to the other. “I’m Redding,” Gene Debs said, extending his hand. “This’s Mose Kubielski. You must be Mr. Young.” “Randy,” he said, shaking with both men. “How’us your flight?” “Fine; looking forward to gettin’ in this bird, though.” “Well, she’ll be topped up and ready bright and early in the mornin’. I got you a couple of rooms at a decent place just up the highway.” “Appreciate that. How’s th’ weather look for tomorrow?” “Hot ’n dusty, so far. Oughta be a nice ride.”

They were back at the field shortly before seven the next morning. “I ain’t got much in the way of manuals on this ole bird,” said Young. “What I’ve learned about her I got firsthand. I don’t expect you’ll see 432 The Rough English Equivalent much difference between this ’un and the single-seaters.” He led them through a detailed pre-flight inspection, pointing out things that had been done to maintain the ship’s airworthiness. “Habm’ had to do nothin’ major to her; Grumman built these thangs strong as new rope, and there’s just a little over a thousand hours on the airframe.” “It’s comin’ back to me–like it was yesterday,” said Gene Debs. “Well then, let’s take a spin if you’re ready. You and me can take a short hop to let you get the feel of her, then you and Mose can take ’er back out for as long as you wanta.” “It must be hard for you to turn ’er loose,” said Moses.” “It is,” Randy said, “but I got my eye on a li’l ole Mustang that’ll do a heap to ease my grief. You’d think a man of my age would know better than to screw around with air racin’, wouldn’cha? “Hell,” said Gene Debs, “this ain’t got nuthin’ to do with good sense.” Gene Debs horsed the F3F’s inertial starter’s short port-side crank around, building its momentum as Randy sat in the aft cockpit flipping switches. Seconds later, the starter’s whine gave way to the Cyclone’s lumpy gargle, even louder than Moses had imagined it would be. As they rolled, he walked to the far side of the taxiway, watching the rotund old warrior make its way deliberately down to the runup area. Eight hundred yards away, the engine, climbing the scale to a brawny tenor as Randy ran it up, still rattled Moses’ insides. The runup check complete, he throttled back and released the brakes, adding power back to taxi into takeoff position. The F3F responded quickly to takeoff power, getting its tail up within the first couple of hundred feet of runway. Gaining speed quickly, it lost every trace of earthbound clumsiness as it broke ground, climbing fast, its big wheels creeping into their retracted position in the fuselage. Leveling off at about a thousand feet, it flew a mile or so straight ahead, then turned back toward the field, shed- ding altitude for speed. Randy brought it straight back down the Roll Out the Barrel 433 runway at no more than two hundred feet, at what looked to Moses like well over two hundred miles an hour. Nearing the runway’s end, he pulled it up in a near-vertical climb, the shrieking engine’s pitch running downscale as the plane soared. They leveled off at around five thousand and headed east, a rapidly diminishing gray spot in the sky. “Just slide right in there, Mose,” shouted Randy over the engine’s idling thunder. Gene Debs had switched to the rear cockpit, and Moses slid carefully into the snug confines of the front seat. He pulled on the cloth aviator’s helmet that Randy handed him, and connected the gosport tube, through which he and Gene Debs would communicate during their flight. “Just sit tight for a little bit, par- dner,” Randy said. “It’s a lot cooler if you just leave th’ canopy open ’til you get out to the run-up area. You’ll still be able to hear each other through the gosport. I’m gonna run up to the tower and see if I can talk ’em into lettin’ you boys buzz th’ field one more time before traffic picks up.” Fastening his seatbelt and shoulder harness, Moses began looking around the cockpit. The fat stick between his legs was topped by a large black pistol grip incorporating a gun trigger. The throttle and fuel mixture controls were on his left, pivoting on a common shaft. The engine and flight instruments, centered around a large radio directional compass, stared back at him from the panel. A set of trim tab control wheels protruded from a box-like housing on the left side of the cockpit floor. The radio panel sat in the same location on his right side. Looking straight ahead over the aircraft’s dashboard, he saw through the top wing’s struts a narrow strip of blue sky over a stretch of gray fuselage that ended abruptly with the engine’s giant cylinders. Taxiing this thing can’t be that easy, he thought. “Hey, Mose!” Gene Debs’ voice came over the gosport. “Wait’ll you feel this thing climb. It’s gotta be as fast as an F6 up to seven or eight thousand feet. Ready ta taxi?” “Yep. Can you see well enough to get us off the ground?” 434 The Rough English Equivalent

“Oh yeah. The view’s a lot better back here. A little s-turnin’s all it takes. You get used to it. See that crank down on your right?” “Yeah.” “That retracts th’ landing gear. Thirty-two cranks, by my count. Start crankin’ as soon as we’re off the deck. Here we go.” Waco tower cleared them to taxi, and Gene Debs goosed the throttle to get the plane moving. As they reached the run-up area, Moses reached over his head and pulled the canopy shut. Gene Debs expedited the run- up, and they were quickly cleared for takeoff. “Watch this!” he shouted over the gosport. Moses both felt and saw the power building; Gene Debs advanced the throttle, and the manifold pressure gauge climbed quickly through thirty-five, forty, then forty-five inches of mercury. The F3F hit takeoff speed in just a few seconds, but Gene Debs held it on the runway with forward pressure on the stick until the airspeed indicator showed 120 knots. Then he released the forward pressure and pulled back on the stick, popping the aircraft off the runway as he maintained takeoff power. Getting his excitement over the plane’s raw power under control, Moses checked the altimeter as he cranked up the gear; they were roaring through two thousand feet, still picking up airspeed. “Yeeee- haah!” He bellowed into the gosport. “What the fuck’re the pore people doin’?” “So you think we ought to keep this ole bird?” asked Gene Debs as he dropped the nose and leveled off at five thousand feet, easing the throttle back as the airspeed hit 210. “Bet your ass. Go on and get your showin’ off out of the way so you can check me out.” “If you insist.” As he spoke, Gene Debs pushed over into a shallow dive, picked up another twenty knots of airspeed, then pulled the nose up to just past level flight attitude as he brought the stick sharply over to the left, holding it there as the plane corkscrewed through one, then another aileron roll. Dropping the nose again as they resumed level flight, he pulled straight up into the start of a Roll Out the Barrel 435 loop, rolling a hundred eighty degrees as they dropped onto the loop’s back side, completing a half Cuban eight and diving for speed again. “Still alive up there, sailor?” he asked. “And kickin’. When you gonna to do sump’m remarkable?” “Hang on.” They were approaching the field again. “Waco tower, Grumman 44932.” “Grumman 44932, Waco tower.” “Requesting a final low pass down runway 9.” “Roger. 932 cleared for a final, repeat final, low pass down runway niner. Observe a minimum altitude of three hundred feet.” “932. Wilco.” Gene Debs nosed over in a shallow dive toward the field. The airspeed indicator eased past two hundred knots as he lined up with the runway, heading east. The wind sang a frantic soprano through the struts and wires, harmonizing with the engine’s howl. They crossed the airfield’s boundary at three hundred feet and two hundred twenty knots. The runway’s concrete passed under them, coming suddenly closer as the plane rolled inverted. He checked the altimeter, steady at two hundred fifty feet. “I’m back in the saddle again,” Gene Debs sang through the gosport. “Out where a friend is a friend, where the longhorn cattle feed on the lowly Jim- son weed, back in the saddle again.” Rolling the plane upright as the opposite end of the runway approached, he added power and pulled the F3F up into a steep climb. “Well, sir;” he asked. “Would that possibly fit your definition of remarkable?” “With a capital R,” said Moses. “Goddamiteydayum! Let’s take this rascal on home.” They kept each other in sight on the flight back to Bisque, gaudy naval veterans, colors intact, the lean yellow dragonfly hustling to keep pace with the fat variegated bumblebee.

“Well, my boy,” queried Lee Webster, answering Moses’ greeting as he pushed open the door to the Bisque Lunch Room that chilly Tues- 436 The Rough English Equivalent day afternoon, “where the fuck’ve you been? All Bev would say was ‘He’s on a little business trip.’ “Hell, Webster, I’ve been to heaven. And I can take you there.” Ribeye set a Red Cap on the bar in front of him, and stayed to listen. “No thanks. I was there last night. Not that it put the look in my eye that’s in yours right now. It’s got to be airplanes. What the hell have you been up to?” Moses told them. “Holy shit. And now you’re gonna be ﬂyin’ it?” “Bet your ass, mister; every chance I get. I can take you guys up in two-three weeks, as soon as Redding checks me out. It’s a hell of a ride.” “Not nunna me,” vowed Ribeye. I ain’t gettin in nunna ’em thangs.” “Aw shit, Rib, c’mon,” said Moses, laughing. “You know I’m a good pilot. What the hell’s gonna happen?” “Who th’ hell knows? You ever see a goddam airy-o-fuckin-plane widda bent fender? You’re already th’ biggest fuckin’ cuckleburr this town’s ever had under its goddam saddle; I ain’t about to git kilt hep- pin’ you drive ’at sucker deeper.” 1850 Friday 16 December 1955: “Motor…motorhead baby…she wanta riide all night long…if ya don’ have transportation, then she treat ya wrong. She’ll ride in a Cadillac…oh, yea…in a Buick wid a smile…take a Fohd or a Shebalay, mus’ be a ’52 style…” Jack had parked in the remotest corner of the parking lot at Don’s Dog House, where they sat with freshly-cracked Black Labels, having waved off the carhops’ attentions, listening absently to Johnny “Gui- tar” Watson’s radio plaint. It had been colder than usual for Decem- ber the past week. The old Ford’s heater collaborated with their breathing in rapidly fogging its windows. “So how they treatin’ you in th’ big city?” Jack asked Ricky over the idling V8’s rumble. Roll Out the Barrel 437

“Not too bad; had an OK season; I’ve just about learned your old position.” I always knew you could run, but since QB’s don’t have to do it that much, I thought maybe you’d forgotten how to.” “Bullshit. You get a coupla 250-pound linemen chasin’ you around th’ backﬁeld and see how fast you’ll run. Woke my ass up in a hurry; I’m damn glad to be catchin’ now, or tryin’ to, ‘steada tossin’.” “Yeah, well,” said Jack, “it’s th’ part that comes after th’ catchin’ that smarts.” “Ah, shit. Th’ hurtin’ goes away, and all you remember is th’ crowd hollerin’ at what a good catch you made. And at your fuck-ups, too, of course.” He smiled for a second at his own joke. “You oughta come over and work out with us at spring practice. I feel pretty good about makin’ th’ team, but you could probably get my job if you ’us to get back in shape.” “All I’d do,” Jack said, “is get Coach Dodd in hot water with the Conference, for harborin’ some walk-on from Athens. It’s all behind me, Terrell; I just don’t want it any more.” A patina of sadness tinged the smile that returned to Ricky’s face. “Funny how things work out. Couple years back, nobody coulda convinced me that we wouldn’t be someplace in the SEC playin’ together. If I’da been throwin’ to you in ’53 and ’54, we’da had numbers that woulda let us write our own ticket. Hell, we mighta gone to Oklahoma or somewhere.” The smile faded as he said, “I blame myself for you gettin’ outa fuhbawl. If Trisha and I-” Jack interrupted him. “All you and Trisha’s deal did to me was good. It got me to thinkin’ about what I really wanted to do, and to realize that fuhbawl was just a side issue for me. I had th’ chance to show old Martin an’ them that they couldn’t just shit on people and get away with it. If I’da gone back to th’ team after that, it’da taken alla th’ sting out of th’ message. This way, every time they saw me was a reminder that they better think twice before they tried sump’m like that again.” 438 The Rough English Equivalent

“Hell, you coulda just come on up to Taylor with me.” “I know I could’ve. But I wouldn’t’a been able to get my flyin’ time in, and that was important to me. Still is. Sorry you had to go up there by yourself, though.” “Turned out all right. Anyway, Smilin’ Jack, I was up thataway for homecomin’, and I got hold of a little sump’m that I been savin’ for th’ holidays.” He grinned as he reached into his navy pea jacket’s deep side pocket. “Whacha got there?” Brandishing a clear, flat pint bottle, Ricky switched to hillbilly dialect. “Peach brandy, straight offa ol’ Rocky Top.” He unscrewed the top and handed it to Jack, who sniffed it warily before taking a sip. “Whoa! That shit’ll setcha free,” Jack muttered after he’d caught his breath. Glad we got a chaser.” He took a quick gulp of Black Label. “I’ll say Rocky Top. With a coupla boulders thrown in.” “It’s smooth when you get used to it. It’s double-run; probly around 140 proof. Look.” He put his thumb over the bottle’s open mouth and shook it; the bubbles inside were slow to disappear. “See that bead?” There’s this one bootlegger, ol’ Red Dog, comes right through th’ dorms, sellin’ these for five bucks. Ol’ boy I ran into while I’us up there had an extra one, and I thought you’d probly enjoy a little sip ’er two.” He took a large swallow and handed the bottle back to Jack, who followed suit. “You sure we ain’t gonna go blind drinkin’ this shit?” “Hell, yeah. Red Dog don’t use no old radiators in that still a’his.” “Well, one more an’ I’m done. I still gotta drive, an’ I can feel it gettin’ ahold of me already. And you got a brand new date, so don’t be scarin’ ’er ass off before y’all have a chance to check each other out.” “Ooh no,” Ricky assured him. “It’s been too long since I had even a sniff a’any decent pussy. An’ this ol’ girl don’t sound too bad.” “She’s not. One a’them Long Tall Sally types, and smart. Terry said that she brought the Zetas up half a grade point when she pledged.” Roll Out the Barrel 439

“Well, just get outa th’ way and I’ll charm the shit riit outa her ass, buddy. A smart girl’ll be a welcome change. You’d think I’da run across one or two in Atlanta by now, but no such luck. And it’s a stone fact that smart girls screw th’ best.” “Maybe you’ll be able to test that theory, if Terry’s folks’ll stay out late enough.” “So you and her still gettin’ along all right?” “Reckon so. Sometimes I think I’m missin’ sump’m by goin’ steady; God knows UGA’s full of fine, fine women. But it’s a full time job keepin’ th’ grades up, and she’s just about stopped givin’ me shit about not doin’ th’ fraternity bit. And th’ sex part’s about as good as I could expect with anybody else. At Georgia, I mean.” “The New York lady’s in a different league, huh?” “You bet,” Jack said. “Don’t know how many there are out there like her, but I’m glad I found out that there are some, at least. She can’t be the only one. I hope.” “Well, that answers my other question before I ask it. Y’all ain’t thinkin’ about gettin’ married any time soon.” “Hell no, not as far as I’m concerned. Gettin’ married ain’t sump’m I’m sure I ever wanta do, but I sure as hell don’t want to for a long time. And I mean a long time.” “That’s for damn sure,” grunted Ricky. “This here sex drive’s a pis- ser, ain’t it? Ever think how much simpler life’d be if yer dick didn’t throb thirty times a day?” “How the hell else’re they gonna fill up alla these lil’ ol’ houses? People wouldn’t dive into a life sentence like that in their right mind. They gotta have a little help from a hard-on.” “Yeah, and I’m livin’proof a’that. Came within a gnat’s ass of one a’them little houses.” Ricky took another pull off the peach brandy as he pondered his escape. “Within a gnat’s fuckin’ ass a’never gettin’ outa here, with Trisha and her goddam folks on my fuckin’ back for life. Tell me I was lookin’ past th’ enda my dick.” 440 The Rough English Equivalent

“I ain’t gonna tell you that,” laughed Jack as he reached for the bottle. “I ’magine it seemed like far enough at th’ time. How far d’you reckon you’re lookin’ right now?” He drank, handed it back to Ricky and pulled the Ford’s gearshift lever down into low. “Le’s get on over there so you can charm th’ shit outa th’ quiz kid.” “She won’t know what hit ’er,” laughed Ricky.

Jack gave the hot rod its head as Fifth Street turned into Poplar Drive. The Marsh’s house, a couple of miles south of town on the right side of the road, sat well back in a vast front yard, bounded on both sides by tall pecan trees. The trees had served as yard markers during countless Sundays of touch football over the years of the boys’ growing up. “Whaddja say th’ stringbean’s name is?” Ricky asked him. “Maybelle; Maybelle Wright.” “Where’s she from?” “Some little shithole way on down th’ road; Baxley, Hazlehurst, someplace like that.” Ricky grinned as they turned into the driveway. “Reckon she’d feel more at home if we took off our shoes?” “Suit yourself. Terry says she’s quick as a highland moccasin, so I ’magine she’ll handle your usual howdy-do, whatever that might be these days.” Ricky elbowed Jack as they rolled to a stop behind the red deck lid of a sports car. Silver script in the lid’s right bottom corner said AustinHealey. “If that’s hers, I guess her daddy owns a good piece of th’ shithole, wherever it is.” “Damn,” said Jack, “an Austin-Healey. Be nice to ’er, buddy, or I’ll have to. I wanta drive that gentleman!” An inch-thick stack of 45’s waited their turn to slip down the fat spindle of Terry’s changer as the Charms belted out Hearts of Stone loud enough for them to hear it on the porch. A dark-skinned bru- Roll Out the Barrel 441 nette close to six feet tall opened the Marsh’s front door. “Hi,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Maybelle.” Good God, thought Jack, what a grip; a little on the plain side, but she looks like she’s up to handling pretty much anything, or anyone. I’d think twice before I let that mitt get a grip on my dick. Wonder if she wrestles alligators down home. “pleased to meet you, Maybelle,” he said. “This is Ricky Terrell.” “Hello, Ricky,” she said, as they looked each other up and down. “You’re th’ ballplayer, riit?” He turned his smile wattage up to full bright. “Bingo, Maybelle. How you doin’?” “Great. How ’bout a beer?” “Y’all come on in th’ kitchen,” Terry said to Jack as she took him by the hand. “Help us get this pizza dough together, OK?” “Didja get th’ anchovies?” Jack asked her as he decapped four Budweisers. “Yes, I did. But nobody wants ’em but you, so just put ’em on one side of one of th’ pizzass.” “Anchovies? I like ’em just ﬁne, m’self,” said Maybelle. “Mind if we do a whole one with them little rascals?” “Not a’tall, if you want ’em; I just thought ol’ New York Jack ’us the only one that’d eat those little hairy things. You really like ’em?” “Oh, yeah. You need to drink beer with anchovy pizza, though, and luckily, we do have beer. They’re salty, but not bad!” “Well, hell, I’ll try a piece myself,” said Ricky. “Can’t be too bad if they’re salty. Hey.” Taking Maybelle’s arm above the elbow, he pulled her toward the door to the dining room. They’gn get th’ dough goin’; comeer n’have a lil’ taste a’what I brought to th’ party.” “What is it?” she asked, planting her feet to prevent his succeeding any further at pulling her toward the dining room. “Sump’m just this side of spectacular that we can chase with this here beer; peach brandy, born on a mountaintop in Tennessee. Left it in my coat outcheer.” 442 The Rough English Equivalent

“Why doncha just bring it on in here, Davy? Somebody else might want a ‘l’il taste,’” she said, raising her hands above her head and making quotation marks as she spoke. “But no coonskin caps ’til we’re drunk, if ya don’t miind.” Ricky looked at her for a second or two, realizing that he was going to have to give this heifer a little rope. Dialing his smile down to lower wattage, he rotated his head left to right in a single long-suf- fering shake, rear-marching into the dining room to retrieve the unopened twin to the pint bottle from which he and Jack had been drinking from the pea jacket’s other pocket. “All right,” he said, flick- ing the bottle back and forth in a short arc with a twist of his wrist, “This is sippin’ whisky for sure. Y’all want glasses, or shall we just pass this little jug from hand to hand?” “Daddy’s got some shot glasses in that cabinet over there; top shelf,” said Terry. Beers in one hand, brandy in the other, they toasted each other with the small glasses and drank as Chuck Willis crooned Don’t Deceive Me in the den. “That your red car?” Ricky asked Maybelle. “I wish. My daddy let me have it while he and my mama’re travelin’.” “Looks fast.” “It is,” said Terry. She like to scared me to death drivin’ down here.” She set the brandy down with a thump and tipped her Bud- weiser up for a long swallow before she spoke. “Shit! ‘Peach brandy’? That ain’t nothin’ but ’shine likker! It’s hot!” “Gotta take it real slow at first,” said Jack. It’s OK when you get used to it.” “It is right peachy,” said Maybelle. “Ice water’d be a better chaser than beer; anybody else wanta switch?” “I don’t want any more,” said Terry, picking up her beer and returning to the pizzas-in-progress. “Y’all go ahead.” “Might as well finish these beers, since they’re open,” said Ricky. “Glad you like my little holiday treat, Maybelle. Here, I’ll top us up.” Roll Out the Barrel 443

“Y’all go on in there and daince ’er sump’m,” said Jack. “I’ll give Terry a hand with th’ anchovies.” The den was large enough so that no furniture had to be moved to make room for dancing. Maybelle had pulled the 45 spindle off the turntable. “Wanta hear anything special, Davy?” Maybelle asked him, mischievous mahogany eyes accentuating an I-dare-you smile. “You look like a slow daincer to me. How ’bout Nat King Cole?” “Sounds fine to me, Sugar,” said Ricky, taking a drink from each end of his two-fisted cocktail. Maybelle matched his drink as the music started, setting her glass of “brandy” on the mantelpiece and turning to him as The Sand and the Sea poured out of the speakers. Their eyes were level as she looked at him. “Taste how good it is without that beer chaser,” she said, extending her arms. “Lessee,” said Ricky, putting his nose to her full plum-tinted lips, then kissing her as they swayed to Cole’s baritone. She kissed back to devastating effect, sucking his tongue inside her mouth and letting it linger there for a long moment. Ricky responded with a rocky banana that rose to fill the hollow of her crotch. She pulled her head back, took a breath and smiled at him. “Easy, Davy. We just met. Wait’ll we break out th’coonskin caps.” He leaned back from the waist, not breaking eye or pelvic contact, his hands slipping easily, smoothly from her waist to take a light grip on the cheeks of her butt as they danced in place. “If you’re gonna keep on callin’ me Davy, you need to remember somethin’ else in that Davy Crockett song.” “Oh yeah?” she said, moving her hands to his cheeks, drawing his erection into her, smiling at her perception of controlling him. “What?” Ricky returned her smile with an even lazier one. “Davy killed him a bear when he was only three, so he ain’t gonna lose much sleep over a beaver more or less. So just toss me the ol’ coonskin whenever you take a notion.” 444 The Rough English Equivalent

She pulled him to her again, kissed him lightly, then broke away. “Buy me a drink, Davy. Let th’ goddam animal kingdom take care of itself for awhile.” Retrieving her glass, she held it out to him as Jack and Terry walked in. “Y’all havin’ fun?” Terry asked as she saw Ricky gesture toward Jack with the still-open bottle. Eeeww, quit drinkin’ that ’shine. Y’all’ a’gonna throw up.” “I wouldn’t think of disgracin’ Zetas by lettin’ a–what fraternity are you, Davy?” “Pi KA.” “-by lettin’ a Tech Pike get me to throw up on th’ ﬁrst date. This is our ﬁrst date, ain’t it, Davy?” “Reckon so, Maybelline.” “How fast is that Healey, Maybelle?” Jack asked her as they ate pizza in the den. “I know it’ll do over a hundred; it’s got th’ LeMans kit,” she said, chewing. I got it up that fast a time or two drivin’ down here, but I never did get it wide open.” “It’s a sharp-lookin’ thing, that’s for sure.” “Wait’ll you see it with th’ top and th’ windshield down.” “Th’ windshield goes down? Damn! You gotta take me to ride tomorrow, Maybelline,” said Ricky. “Trade ya for a bowl ticket,” she said. “Where is it y’all’re playin?” “Sugar,” said Ricky. “But since I got red-shirted, I’ll be in th’ stands.” “Ooh, N’Yawlins. Take me to th’ game. Mama and Daddy won’t be back ’til th’ tenth; we can drive down in my car. I bet we could have some fun in th’ French Quarter, Davy. Who’re y’all playin’?” “Pittsburgh.” “Y’all kicked our butts this year,” she said, “and we ain’t been to a bowl since ’49. Th’ least you can do is take me to the Sugar Bowl.” “You’re on,” said Ricky, “Le’s drink to it.” He raised his glass. “To Tech, th’ Sugar Bowl and th’ French Quarter. Beat Pitt.” Roll Out the Barrel 445

“Y’all could go with us,” said Maybelle, “but th’ car’s not big enough.” “Well, I sure wouldn’t trust my car to make it down to New Orleans and back,” said Jack. “Y’all’ll just have to tell us about it when you get back.” “We’ll certainly do that,” Ricky said with a laugh. “Might even tell th’ truth, but it’ll be a good story anyway.” They necked for a while in front of the televised grotesquerie of giant elves on a contrasty Kinescope recording of Wrestling From Hollywood, the comedy intensified by Dick Lane’s blow-by-blow and the officiating of an obviously inebriated Pappy Boyington. “Ricky,” said Jack. “Yo.” “We’ll be back in a little bit. Keep an eye out for Terry’s folks, willya?” “Sure.” He’d felt pretty experienced for his age, but he’d never been aroused the way he was by this long drink of water. She kissed him like she wanted to suck the life out of him, and made no move to stop him as he pulled the Villager shirt out of her jeans and cupped one of her own rock-like tits in his hand. Nor did she object when he squeezed her Maidenform’s clasp, letting her tits hang free, never moving his mouth from hers. Taking a deep breath as he rolled a nipple between his fingers she groaned, “Davy.” “Yes, baby.” “Night-night.” And she was out. There was nothing for him to do but to but take her upstairs and put her to bed. Well, he thought, take her upstairs anyway. Straightening her out on the couch, he braced his feet at its edge and lifted her in a fireman’s carry. Grunting under her weight, he headed for the stairs and the Marshes’ guest bedroom, expecting to hear the Mercury pulling in at any moment. He paused at the top of the stairs, getting his bearings in the dim light and hoping his first guess would be right as he counted the 446 The Rough English Equivalent doors running down the left side of the hall. Not the first one, on the left side; that would be Terry’s folks’, in the corner of the house. The next door was shut tight; that was obviously Terry’s, she and Jack busily fornicating behind it. The next doorway was narrow; he looked in and saw a bathroom sink shining in the moonlight. Two to go; another narrow one, probably a linen closet. He was at the end of the hall. Reaching inside the door, he flipped the light switch and to his reflief saw Maybelle’s bag sitting on a cedar chest against the wall. Bending over the bed, he dropped her on it as gently as he could and stood up, straightening his aching back. He turned the bedside lamp on and the overhead light off, pausing to look at the supine Maybelle while he considered his options. His watch said ten thirty-five. Without knowing where the Marshes had gone, he had no idea when they might be back; somewhere, he knew, between right now and midnight at the latest. Well, he thought, no gentleman would leave a girl passed out in her clothes, would he? I’ll get them off and see if that wakes her up. Pulling her jeans down over her ankles, he was surprised at the contrast of her tan with the bright white of the band of skin that peeked out under her light blue panties. Removing them, he felt his erection returning; by the time he’d removed her shirt and dangling bra, there was no turning back. Just a quickie, he thought; I’ll chance it for that long. Rolling her to one side of the bed, he pulled its satin coverlet, blanket and top sheet down, then rolled her back onto the sheet. Covering her, he went to the other side of the bed and got quickly out of his clothes, extracted a Trojan from his wallet, and before getting into bed went quickly to the bedside lamp and turned it off. Returning to the window on the opposite wall, he pulled the venetian blind all the way up, giving him a view of the road from that end of the house and, he hoped, some warning of the Marshes’ return. Slipping into bed, he turned her head to him and kissed her, receiving a drowsy moan in response. He put a hand on her crotch Roll Out the Barrel 447 and was rewarded with another moan, this one having, he thought, a more erotic tone. He unrolled the Trojan over his now-throbbing erection and returned to fondle Maybelle’s pussy, which he found lurking adrool behind its thick black bush. Trisha having spent a lot of time showing him where her clitoris was and how she liked it mas- saged, he was able to revive Maybelle rather quickly to the point of a sleep-fucking response to his stroking. Ricky played patiently with her, putting his finger inside while continuing the rhythmic rubbing of her clit. As she awoke further, she moved in time to Ricky. Unable to wait any longer, Ricky parted her legs, pushing past the girl’s slick lips and in and out of her depths. As he’d expected, a dozen or so thrusts was all it took. Maybelle, for her part, had gone back to sleep. On his way past Terry’s door, he tapped on it. “Jack.” “What?” “It’s after eleven.” “Oh, shit. We went to sleep. Are they here?” “No sign of ’em. Better hurry, though.” “OK. See ya downstairs.” He was down in a few minutes. “Where’s Maybelle?” “Out like a light. Le’s scoot ’fore th’ old folks get back.”

They were back at the Dog House before midnight, having a nightcap in the back room. Don let certain of his friends hang around after closing, and was pleased to sample Ricky’s peach brandy. While he was in the kitchen, Jack said, “So Maybelle letcha have a little. How was it?” Ricky’s head dropped, rebounding when his chin hit his chest. “What?” “How was that ole gal? Look like she miit break your back if she got excited.” 448 The Rough English Equivalent

Ricky rotated his head in a large arc, first left, then right, in the manner of pre-game stretches. “You know what they say–the worst I ever had was wunnerful. She ’us pretty well out of it.” “No doubt, the way she gargled th’ peach brandy. The shit does grow on ya, don’t it?” “It do,” Ricky agreed, nodding solemnly. “Well, you’ll have a time down in N’yawlins, that’s for sure. Wish it was me; she’s a sexy bitch, and so’s her car.” “Whachoo figure thass gonna cost me? I ain’t got a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of.” “You got th’ tickets, doncha?” He leaned back, caught himself as he almost fell backward as he held up four fingers. “S’poza be pretty good seats.” “Are your folks goin’?” “Nope. They not that inner’std since I’m not dressin’ out.” “Well, hell, sell two. Hey, maybe we could auction ’em off.” “Oh no; they kick my ass off th’ team if I sell ’em. They tol’ us ’at when we got ’em.” “But relatives can use ’em, can’t they?” Ricky nodded, failing to catch his head before it found his chest again. “Well, just tell whoever wins ’em that they have to be your uncle or somethin’.” “Can’t trust ’em to do that. “Tech’d pull my scholarship if ’ey caught ’em.” “What if we auctioned ’em off down at the warehouse? Any of those guys’d say they’re your uncle.” “Where?” “Mose’s place. Hell, he might buy ’em himself.” “Ud’ju ask ’im?” “Shitcheah! Soon as we get up in th’ mornin’. Wait’ll he hears what you need th’ money for.” Roll Out the Barrel 449

“Yeah, he’s a spo’t, awriit.” This being Ricky’s ﬁnal pronounce- ment before lurching to his feet and heading for the Dog House’s back door at a dead run. Jack waited a decent interval before joining Ricky outside, by which time he had moved from what Jack, fresh from French 101, thought the Frogs would call his endroit de vomi to a seat on the curb, arms clasped around his knees for a headrest. Jack sat down beside him, an arm around his shoulder. “How you doin’, bubba?” “OK,” Ricky grunted, spitting ﬂecks of undigested pizza on the pavement. “Want a drinka water?” “Notchet.” They sat for a minute or two, saying nothing. “You know the hell of it…” “What’s that?” “The hell of it is,” Ricky said, “that I wish I could take Trisha to N’Yawlin’s.” “Y’all still in touch, huh?” “Yeah, every now an’ then. She came up to Taylor a coupla times. An’ now she’s at Scott, which you’gn throw a rock an’ hit from Tech.” “Hm. Sounds like you put what she did behind you.” “Whaddya mean?” “I mean it’d still be botherin’ me, if I was you, that she got my ass in hot water when she didn’t have to.” “Ah, shit, she ’us scared t’death an’ mad as hell, at Preston, for sure, and prob’ly at me, too, even though we were always real careful. She feels really bad about how she handled it, an’ I quit bein’ mad at her a long time ago. But her folks’re dead set against her havin’ anything to do with either one of us, which means all we can do is sneak around like we been doin’ in Atlanta.” “You still love ’er, doncha?” Jack asked him. “Yeah, I do, buddy; got a great way of showin’ it, don’t I?” 450 The Rough English Equivalent

Jack acted like he hadn’t noticed the tears running down Ricky’s cheeks. “C’mon, man; let’s get on out to Mose’s and sack out ’fore I get too sleepy ta drive.”

They were throwing Terry’s brother’s football around the following afternoon, while the girls, who had slept late, were still getting themselves ready for a ride around town. The boys were pleased to have the time to themselves to just throw, catch and kick, movement that might take their minds off the effects of what Jack, fresh from his toe-in-the-water with le Français, would remember as la nuit de l’eau-de-vie fine de pêche. In the house, Jolene Marsh readied toast, scrambled eggs and orange juice for the girls, as Fred, reminded of his own much-earlier breakfast by the occasional sulfurous burp, gloomily anticipated a weekend of television without football. Amahl and the Night-Fuck- ing-Visitors indeed, he thought; and no chance of getting romantic with Jolene this morning, not with Terry home and a fresh hair-do, even if there’s still a little whiff of pussy floatin’ around here from last night. Boy, would I love a shot at that big ol’ Maybelle; I’ll be thinkin’ about you, honey; the closest thing to sex for me today’s gonna be beatin’ my meat in the fallout shelter before I head out to the store… “J’you sleep all right?” asked Terry as she and Maybelle decided which of each other’s clothes they’d wear. “Just fine; oof,” grunted Maybelle as she closed her jeans’ top snap. “Think I got a little last night, but I mighta dreamed it.” “Maybelle!” Terry said with a mischievous smile. “Ain’t no way you’re gonna get laid’n sleep through it. Come on. Whatchoo doin’ lettin’ Ricky in your pants on th’ first date?” “Hey, Missy! You didn’t have enougha that peach brandy to make any difference. That shit knocked me out; last thing I remember was neckin’ with ’im downstairs, but this mornin’ my pussy felt like it’d had sump’m in it. Hate not rememberin’ a good time, though.” Roll Out the Barrel 451

“Well, just be sure you don’t count on Ricky for too much. He’s cute, a lot of fun and a jock and everything, but he’gn be trouble. If there’s anybody within a hundred miles of here that’s hornier than Jack, it’s Ricky. He’ll do whatever he has to do, tell you whatever you want to hear, to get in your pants.” “Oh hell, honey, if that’s all he wants, we’ll get along fine. Anyway, I’m bettin’ he’s been there already.” “Well you be careful, and I don’t mean just makin’ him use pro- tection. He’s got a way of gettin’ under a girl’s skin. That girl Trisha that I told you about when we were drivin’ down here? He was snakin’ her before he could get a learner’s license, and her durn near two years older than him. Then when her regular boyfriend got her pregnant and wouldn’t do right about it, she almost got away with namin’ Ricky th’ father ’cause she’d been screwin’ him, too, all along. He got suspended and kicked off th’ football team.” “How’d he end up playin’ for Tech, then?” “Transferred up to Taylor Academy in Chattanooga. He could’ve stayed in Bisque, really; the real father finally owned up to it, but the school people had been so shitty about throwin’ Ricky off th’ team that Jack quit too, and neither one of ’em’d go back and play.” “Jack! I didn’t even know he played ball.” “He doesn’t any more. Like to tore the whole town up, losin’ both of ’em off th’ team. Woulda been the first decent season th’ Bears’d had in a long time, and both of ’em woulda probly been All-State their last two years. Ricky did anyway, up there in Tennessee.” “But Jack just stayed here, and didn’t play?” “Yep. They wanted him at Taylor too, but he wouldn’t go.” “Why not, for God’s sake?” “Wanted to stay here and–how’s he say it? ‘Build flight time.’ This guy, his mom’s boyfriend, taught him to fly, and doin’ that was more important than football to ’im. And once he’d quit, he wad’nt about to ask Bisque High t’take ’im back.” 452 The Rough English Equivalent

“That’s th’ durndest thing I ever heard of,” said Maybelle. He was a star; I just can’t understand why he’d throw all that away, just to get back at th’ stupid school people.” “Well,” said Terry, “you don’t know Jack. Once he makes up ’is mind, that’s it.” “Honey, nothin’ personal, but I’ll take th’ jock. Warts n’all.” “OK, honey, but try to remember, warts’re catchin’.” Jack was putting the football back in the garage as the girls stepped through the kitchen door and down the four steps to join them, Maybelle in the lead. The red of her London Fog windbreaker very nearly matched that of the car. “Hey, Davy,” she said, her smile alternately conspiratorial and accusing, as he stood, arms akimbo, on the far side of the car, its top already stowed under a snap-down cover. “Mornin’, Maybelline. Ready to roll?” “Ready as I’ll ever be, you scamp. Feedin’ me that ’shine.” “Please. Peach Brandy. You said you liiked it last night.” “Yeah, I guess I did,” she said, opening the driver’s door. “Gimme a hand with this so-called windscreen, an’ le’s get it down to th’ racin’ po-sition.” Following her lead, he took hold of a knurled black wheel at the base of the windshield and turned it, his other hand on the windshield frame. “That’s it,” she said as the supports slid down and hit their stops. “Now jus’ screw it down tiit.” She looked over at him from under a still-lowered brow. “You know how ta do that, doncha?” “Yes, ma’am.” “I thought so,” she said as she slipped into the bucket seat and swung her legs under the wheel. “It occurred to me this mornin’, when I ﬁgured out you took me upstairs and screwed me while I was passed out.” “You think I’d do that?” Ricky said as he slid into the passenger’s seat. “You really think I’d do that?” “Sure. But it’s OK. Try to catch me awake toniit, though.” Roll Out the Barrel 453

“Be glad to, but aren’t the old folks gonna be here toniit?” “They are. Don’t you liike a little challenge, Davy-boy?” She turned the ignition key, producing a series of thumps behind his back. “What’s that?” “Jus’ th’ fuel pump, sugar. It’s electric. Guess we’re gonna follow them, huh?” They rolled onto the road under a high overcast sky, the black hot rod’s flared fenders and boxy cockpit a stark contrast to the slippery scarlet roadster. Their lightly-muffled exhausts swept backward in a booming syncopated wake over the suburban blacktop. The first leg of Jack’s guided tour would be the south end of a stretch of arrow-straight macadam well known to Hamm County’s habitual speeders, Speckle Bird Road. “Do we have to do this?” asked Terry. “That damn Maybelle ain’t gonna let up, y’know.” “We’re not racin’, baby; just givin’ th’ cars a little exercise. I’m not gonna try to outrun ’er. I just wanta see exactly what that l’il ol’ limey car’s got.” Once they’d turned right on the nameless graded dirt road that crossed Poplar a couple of miles south of the Marsh’s, they were just minutes away. Turning right again at the first pavement, he stopped, rolled down his window and beckoned to May- belle to pull up beside them. “It’s dead-straight for a mile and a half,” he said to the two grinning faces. “Pull up and take th’ right lane. If we get any oncomin’ traffic, I’ll move over. Ready when you are.” He was rolling his window closed as Maybelle, instead of pulling into the right lane and waiting as Jack had expected, dropped the roadster’s clutch and moved out at full throttle, taking a lead of several car-lengths before he realized what she’d done. “Goddam sneaky bitch,” he grunted, flooring his accelerator and giving chase out of a small blue cloud of wheelspin. Weighing about the same as the roadster, but putting an extra seventy-five or eighty horsepower on the ground, the old coupe quickly closed the gap, pulling even with Maybelle as Jack slapped his shift lever down into high gear at just under seventy-five. The cars ran neck-and-neck for a very few sec- 454 The Rough English Equivalent onds before the roadster’s red side began sliding away at a slowly but steadily increasing rate. Maybelle glanced at her speedometer; its needle would touch its hundred mark in seconds. Reaching forward to a dash-mounted tog- gle switch, she flipped it. “What’s that?” asked Ricky. “Overdrive,” Maybelle said with a broad smile. The car surged forward, the needle moving through a hundred and five, then a hundred ten. “Jack!” Terry shouted. “Watch that car!” An old Packard had pulled out onto the road, its massive grille quickly growing larger as the Ford approached. “Got it,” Jack replied. The roadster had pulled far enough ahead for him to pull in behind without lifting his foot. The needle of the Stewart-Warner speedometer strapped atop the car’s steering col- umn reached for 120 as the wheel’s high-frequency vibration worked its way up to his shoulders. Seeing the straightaway coming to an end, he backed off in anticipation of Maybelle’s doing the same. She didn’t. The roadster swept through the gentle left turn in the road, still running what looked to Jack like a hundred or better. “God- damiteydayum!,” he said, “look at that!” They caught up with Maybelle and Ricky at the dead-end intersection with Lee Street Extension, the red car idling in the shadow of the stop sign. “Tell ’em to follow us,” Jack said as he pulled up on their left. Terry wiggled a beckoning finger as Jack turned right, passing an airplane hangar on the left and turning left into the road that led into Bisque’s municipal airport. They parked the cars at the side of the office building. Getting out, Jack walked quickly around the back of the Ford, opening Terry’s door as a speed-flushed Maybelle smiled up at them. “How much?” he asked her. “122,” she said, “before we ran outa road. It’s good for 125 anyway.” “I wouldn’t doubt it a bit. How ’bout a Coke before we move on?” Roll Out the Barrel 455

“I could use one. That run dried me out; on top’a shine-drinkin,” she said, shooting a playful elbow into Ricky’s ribs. “This where your plane is?” “Wish I had a plane. The ones that I get to ﬂy’re at my uncle’s strip, further outa town a ways. We’ll make that th’ last stop on th’ tour.” Ricky drove the Ford out of the airport after Jack’s wheedling pried Maybelle out of the roadster’s pilot seat. “You can drive it, since you put me on to that niice piecea road,” she said, but be careful.” “Done deal; wanta take a look at th’ park?” He knew that appearances at the park and the Dog House would maximize the Austin- Healey’s exposure to jealous male Bisquites. Driving con brio through a series of neighborhoods and through the Hamm County Hospital parking lot, Jack had them at the park entrance in minutes. “Love the four-speed,” he said. “This is one handlin’ scoundrel.” Approaching the tennis courts, Jack saw Preston Rogers’ car parked next to the fence. Preston was in the far court, volleying with a girl Jack didn’t recognize. “Speakin’ of scoundrels,” he said as he gave them the ﬁnger, “there’s th’ guy that got Ricky thrown off the Bisque football team.” “How’d he do that?” Maybelle asked, craning to get a better look. “Knocked his girlfriend up and got her to blame Ricky. Terry didn’t tell you?” “Nope. Anyway, they couldn’t just throw ’im off without provin’ it.” “Didn’t have to,” Jack said as he shot a return wave to the golfers on the clubhouse porch. He admitted it.” Maybelle sat up straight. “They were both screwin’ her?” “Well, Ricky and th’ girl were next-door neighbors. And she’s a year older. I guess she just thought it was th’ neighborly thing to do.” “Hm. How long’d this go on?” “Quite awhile; three years anyway.” 456 The Rough English Equivalent

“That little fucker,” she said with a tight smile and a shake of her head. When he saw to whom Jack’s ﬁnger was extended, Ricky repeated the gesture, adding a jaunty ﬂip of the wrist. “D’you ever see Trisha anymore?” Terry asked him. “Not for quite awhile. You?” “Back during th’ summer, but not to talk to. Idn’t she goin’ to Agnes Scott?” “Hab’mp heard that. Makes sense, though, since she went to Decatur. Guess I’ll see ’er sometime over th’ holiday; hard to miss somebody when they live next door.” “J’you and Maybelle have fun last night?” “Sure did. J’you an’ Jack?” “It’s not th’ same thing, and you know it. Jack and I’re serious.” “Oh. Well, I’gn be pretty serious when I put m’mind to it.” “She probly didn’t tell you, but Maybelle’s serious with somebody at Georgia.” “Zat right?” “That’s right. And she loves ’im. He’s from Claxton, too; he’s real niice. Not wild like Maybelle.” “Wild? Maybelline?” “You know damn riit well she is, Ricky. It’d be a shame if you got her pregnant.” “Sure would. That’s why I won’t be doin’ it,” he said, grinning as he shifted into second for the climb up past the golf course’s eighth. They all wave at the foursome on the green, leaving the men to stare after them as they began to speculate on where that goddam traitor- ous Jack Mason gets cars and girls like that. chapter 20 s Standing as We Sing

“Standing as we sing, without the book, the song we know and love so well…” —The Reverend Osborne Abercrombie 1045 Friday 13 January 1956: The late morning sun angled sharply through the cafe’s windows, spraying a shadow alphabet of rainbow neon shadows across the tables and ﬂoor. Pap Redding, seated at his usual table, glanced up with a smile when he heard the throb of the Vincent’s engine. Moses parked on the sidewalk, just on the other side of the glass from him. He walked through the hotel lobby into the café, gloves in one hand, unbuckling his helmet strap with the other. “Mornin’, Mose.” “Hey, Pap. Nice Day, huh?” “Not bad, as long as I don’t think about what’s going to happen to my sinuses after this January thaw’s over.” “Another good reason,” Moses said as he sat down opposite the older man, “to live life one day at a time.”

- 457 - 458 The Rough English Equivalent

“Good advice,” said Pap, smiling up at Reba says she put a cup in front of Moses and topped them both up with coffee, “particularly for a man of my age.” “You look like a pretty solid citizen to me this mornin’; must be sump’m about sharin’ your birthday with Cupid.” “Well, today I’m feelin’ a little more like St. Valentine, however th’ hell old he’d be by now,” Pap said after a sip of hot coffee. “That’s probably just because it’s Friday the thirteenth; of course I know you set no store in such superstitions.” “No, I don’t, but I am mindful of this birthday. It’s why I wanted to have coffee with you this mornin’.” “What is this for you, anyway?” Moses asked him. “Seventy-eight; eight years beyond my biblical allotment. And time for us to talk about gettin’ me out of the beer business.” Moses took a long drink of coffee before he answered. “You want to execute the buyout agreement?” “I think it’s time,” Pap said. “Part of a general simplification of my affairs. You’ll probably feel like doin’ the same thing when you’re my age.” “Better let me get there first,” Moses said, smiling. “I wish you well on that; and I want to thank you for the wonderful job you’ve done makin’ that business grow. Pretty much tripled our volume in seven years.” “Seven years at the ides of March,” said Moses. “The date boded a lot better for us than it did for Julius Caesar.” “Frankly, I wasn’t sure at first; gettin’ into any new venture involves some degree of risk, but I figured we’d do all right, considering how you turned the movie house around. I sure as hell didn’t count on anything close to what you’ve done for us.” Pap looked levelly across the table at Moses, an unasked question lurking behind his eyes. “You’re either just a natural businessman, or there’s a hell of a lot more to the theatre business than I ever imagined.” Standing as We Sing 459

“Well Pap, I guess we’re alike in at least one way; we’re both hard workers.” True, but that’s not it, Pap thought, but he decided to leave it at that. “Would closing me out on March fifteenth be convenient for you? Not that I’m in any particular hurry, but havin’ exactly seven years of successful partnership with you sort of appeals to me.” “Oh, sure. All we need’s an audit, and that shouldn’t take more than two, three weeks at the outside.” “Good. In this world of sloppiness and imperfection, it’ll be nice to look back on something as nice and neat as this’s been.” “Thanks, Pap; that goes double for me.” “It’s my hope, of course, that all you’ve done for Jack’ll help to make his life sump’m that we’ll look back on with way more pride than we have in how much beer we sold,” Pap said. “I love my kids, but I think this grandson of mine’ll live a life that’ll make any of theirs pale by comparison, and I have you to thank for that.” The old man extended his hand; Moses shook it, and was happy that the state of his health, if his grip was any indication, was pretty damn good. 1015 Thursday 22 March 1956: As Serena and the Reverend Osborne Abercrombie sat drinking coffee in the Bisque Café, Oz, as she’d come to call him, glanced up and over her shoulder into the lobby, then back at Serena with a look so disconcerted it struck her as hilarious. It reminded her of the first time she’d unzipped his pants. She sensed someone approaching them as the look metamorphosed into one of forced good will. His chair scraped bumpily across the tile floor as he stood up, the good will congealing into a Sunday smile. His “Good morning, Reverend,” squawked out an octave higher than normal. “Good morning to you, Reverend,” a rich baritone over her shoulder responded, its source moving into view on her left side. She turned, looking above the men’s clasped hands to the underside of the prominent, freshly-shaved jawline of a very tall man. 460 The Rough English Equivalent

“Serena Mason, the Reverend Sheppard Peters,” said Oz, still higher than usual. “Mrs. Mason’s the hotel manager.” “Really,” said the Reverend, turning the notable shit-eatin’ grin her way as he took her proffered hand. The eyes conﬁrmed the striking shade of blue of the giant pair on the poster. “It’s certainly a pleasure to meet our host…ah, hostess. Your people have made us feel very much at home here in the hotel.” “I’m certainly glad to know that,” said Serena, returning his smile. “Won’t you sit down, Reverend?” “Yes,” Oz said, his voice moving back toward its normal pitch, “please do.” “Well, just for a moment.” The voice’s timbre, polished from long use, retained no more than a trace of southern accent. “Brother Pulaski’ll be picking me up soon, but that coffee looks mighty good.” “And here’s yours, right on cue,” said Serena as Reba approached the table with a coffee pot and fresh cup. “Oh, thank you so much,” with no warning, the baritone lasso had looped out and snagged a beaming Reba. “You’re so welcome,” she said, retiring demurely to the kitchen to savor her blessing and adjust her undergarments. “Is everything on schedule for tomorrow, Reverend?” asked Aber- crombie. “Seems to be; I’m blessed with not only a good staff, but with cooperation from the good people of Bisque such as we’ve rarely seen before. I have you and your fellow clergy to thank for that.” “Well, the Council’s determined to give you everything you need to help you bring our people before the Lord. You’ve set yourself an ambitious goal; saving ten thousand souls will take everything we’ve got.” “It won’t be easy,” said Sheppard, the set of his jaw tightening the skin over his high cheekbones to a pink sheen. “It never is.” As he raised his cup to drink, Serena noticed the way his hand dwarfed it, making it look like one from a child’s play set. That hand’s no Standing as We Sing 461 stranger to hard work, she thought. His left hand rested momentarily on the edge of the table within inches of Oz’s right hand, and she was struck by the involuntary response that this juxtaposition of physical strength and weakness raised in her. Good thing there’ll be no soul-savin’ shootout between these two, she thought. 1720 Friday 23 March 1956: Moses, Jack and Serena sat at the Bisque Café table nearest the door to the hotel. So what’s the story on this revival?” Jack asked, stirring sugar into his coffee. “That’s some big-ass sign out there on the highway.” “It’s not the only one, either,” said Moses. There’s six of ’em–one on every road into and outta here.” “Damn. Pretty fancy for a few days worth of preachin’. Why all the noise?” “Oz’d probably say that it’s a joyful noise,” said Serena, “if you caught him at the right moment.” “When’s it start?” “This time next week. Friday night. For ten days, through Easter.” “Where’re they doing it–the auditorium?” “Yes. For an agnostic, honey, you’re awfully curious about this. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going.” “No, I’m just curious about how it works. And what somebody that looks as goofy as that guy on the sign could possibly have to say that’s any different from what the Bisque parsons put out, seein’ as how they all work off the same script.” “Well, that’s a question I can’t answer for you. This whole revival thing’s always seemed a little strange to me, even when it’s just one church doing it. According to Oz, the idea of a citywide revival going on over two weekends, instead of one, was sold to Bisque church leaders by that “goofy” guy on the billboard. His name’s Sheppard Peters.” “‘Oz’ bein’ the Reverend Abercrombie?” 462 The Rough English Equivalent

Serena’s color rose a little. “Oh. Yes. I guess you’ve never heard me refer to him that way. I just can’t call him ‘Osborne’ with a straight face.” “Well, there’s never enough laughter in the world,” Moses deadpanned. “Anyway,” she said with a steely glance at him, “He says that Peters is a really powerful speaker. His presentation back in December just bowled the council members over. He said they’d save 10,000 souls in a ten-day revival.” “That’s a bunch of souls,” opined Moses, “There aren’t 30,000 people in the county, most of whom will tell you right quick that their souls’re already saved, and have been for years. Maybe he’s throwin’ in livestock.” “They’re saying that people from the other counties around here will come.” she said. “They have success stories all up and down the eastern seaboard, and from cities a lot bigger than Bisque, like Char- lotte and Jacksonville.” “Well, Bisque could do with a metaphysical emetic, not that I think this is it; maybe all those hot sweaty bodies jammed up together’ll produce the desired effect. Fear and fat both spread better in a liquid state.” Jack suppressed a laugh reflex to ask, “What’s this council you’re talking about, anyway?” “The Bisque Council of Churches,” said Ríni. “Most of the pastors of Bisque churches belong to it. They started it a couple of years ago.” “What do they do?” “Beyond congratulating each other and setting up these revivals, I’m not sure.” “It’s beyond me,” said Jack, “why people buy into this shell game. As one of the ultimate minority, i.e. one of the few who’ll say flat-out that the God thing’s nothing but a human-conceived, worn-out shuck, I wanta know what the hell sense it makes to try to live ratio- nally in a society that’s governed by a fairy tale? A circle-jerk whose Standing as We Sing 463 dialogue is ‘I bleeve it, don’t you? Uh-huh, uh-huh.’ I haven’t heard much about the ‘afterlife’ that makes it sound as good as a nice long nap when you’re done living.” “Jack! That’s awful!” Serena objected. You can’t believe that this life’s all there is.” “Don’t see why not. Whose word do we have to the contrary?” “Well, I’m not the person to tell you what you need to hear about that. Why don’t you…” “Miz Mason,” Jerry McClain called from the door to the hotel. “Yes, Jerry-” “Telephone for you. It’s your dad.” “Y’all excuse me a minute. He’s probably just checking to see if you’re here, Jack.” “Well, say ‘hey’ for me, and tell him I’ll be by to see ’im tomorrow.” As she disappeared around the corner, Jack turned his gaze to Moses, saying in a low voice, “How’s he doing, anyway? Mom seems to think he’s faded a lot in the last year.” “Well, he’s 78; you can’t expect him to go ten rounds before breakfast. But he seems pretty much himself to me; we just went through the process of me buyin’ him out of the beer business, and from what I could see he hasn’t lost his eye for business details.” “Pretty old, though. I guess I’d better be checkin’ in with him a little more often. I’d hate for him to be dying and say to himself, ‘That fuckin’ kid was never around.’” “Being the only grandchild has its disadvantages,” said Moses. “Maybe one of these days Cordelia’ll slip up and present Buster with an heir and you’ll be off the hook.” “But then there’d be the question of who it was that she’d collaborated with. Anyway, there’s about as much chance of that as there is of you and me bein’ in the front row of this goddam revival on opening night. Can you believe that they still do this crap every year? And 464 The Rough English Equivalent now with some bunch of people from out of town? Is life that friggin’ dull around here?” “Sure it is. For most everbody in Bisque, anyway. It’s a little matter of imagination.” “Well, that’s sump’m you’ve never been short on,” said Jack. “But you’re still here. I know why you stayed in the first place, but you and Mom haven’t seen much of each other for a long time now. Seri- ously; you havin’ any fun these days?” “Not as much as I’d like, ol’ buddy. There’s always flyin’, of course, but you can’t stay airborne forever, and Bisque’s still Bisque when you land. And runnin’ whores in Augusta ain’t that excitin’ anymore. Once you left for school, a lot of air just bled outta this little burg. For me, anyway. Guess I’d be better off if things like this revival did rev me up.” Jack laughed. “I’ve got a life-size picture of that. Well, at least you bought Pap out in time to cash in on the new business from the Savannah River plant. Has that started to amount to anything yet?” “We’ve done pretty well, with all the construction people that live on th’ Georgia side of the state line; the crews stay thirsty, and that’s been very good for business. But it’s really hypo’d the housing market. I’ve had a couple of good offers on my place. Now that they’ve had the official opening and construction’s easin’ off, I wouldn’t be surprised if business dropped off a little.” “So what’s next? Ever think about stock car racing? Buster’s had good luck with his Hornet, but I’m sure he’d be a lot better off if he had the advantage of your brains–and your money. You know Pap won’t touch it.” “Yeah, I could get interested in that, but I’ll pass on bein’ in business with Buster. I’m in good health, and I want to stay that way.” Jack laughed. “Yeah, I guess that would be courtin’ cardiac arrest. Remember when those goddam little Hudson Jets came out and he strapped up the axle on a demonstrator so he could drive it around with a back wheel off?” Standing as We Sing 465

“That’s Buster in a nutshell. No trouble gettin’ noticed, but handlin’ bein’ noticed ain’t what he does best.” “Yeah. Makes you wonder if he didn’t marry Cordelia just to get noticed.” “Dammit, son! When’d you get so smart? I better be watchin’ what I say to you, or you’ll be analyzin’ me.” “Hey, boss,” said Jack with a grin. “I been doin’ that for years.” Serena reappeared as Moses digested that remark. “Jack,” she said, sitting down. “Pap thought you were going to come see him today. He sounded kind of disappointed. You know how he is. He’d never say so, but he has a way of letting you know how he feels.” “Yes, ma’am, I do. Do you guess that he ﬁgures I’ll be over there before sundown?” “Well, I…” “Just kiddin’; I’ll drop in on the ole boy. Soon as I check in with Terr y.” “Yes, you’d better do that,” Serena said. “She doesn’t particularly care for being second in line with you.” “Yeah. Trouble is, neither does Terrell. I’m just too much in demand,” Jack sighed, sliding his chair back. “Catch you two later.” “Want to have dinner here, or go out somewhere?” “Can we just leave it open? I might just catch a sandwich with Ter- rell, if that’s OK with you.” “I guess so. It’s not like you’re leaving tomorrow.” “Awright, den. See y’all in a l’il bit.”

Standing on the Terrell’s stoop, he glanced over at the McNeil’s, but saw no one. A smiling Melinda Terrell opened the door. “Hi, Jack. Come in.” “Hi, Miz Terrell. How’re you doin’?” 466 The Rough English Equivalent

“Just fine, thank you, Jackie” she said. “Go this way; Ricky’s in the back.” She waved him through the living room, toward the kitchen door. “Thank you ma’am. Whattd’ya do, put ’im to work?” “Just burnin’ hamburgers. You’re gonna stay and help us eat ’em, I hope.” “Suits me. Lemme get on out there ’fo he gets ’em all well done.” Ricky was in the back yard, shuffling blackened meat around the grill as Jack walked out on the porch to yell at him. “Easy on that meat, son!” “You jus’ let me worry about th’ meat, bwy,” Ricky said over his shoulder, “an’ tell me whachu brung to th’ party.” “It’s out in th’ car, iiced down. Seriously, leave me a couple with some blood in’em.” “Heathen bastard. God don’t wawnchoo eatin’ no blood.” “That’s not what she told me. She said it’d make my steeter pick out.” “Well, if ya want any ’at raw damn onion on ’at raw damn meat, and I know ya do, better get in there an’ sliice some; I ain’t gettin’ near it.” They sat in the den, working off TV tray tables full of burgers, chips, pickles, potato salad and see-through long-neck bottles of Miller High Life. Richard Terrell, arriving late, greeted his fellow diners as he sat a tray down beside his Barcalounger. “Sorry to make it at the eleventh hour. Had an agent to let go, and he was one of the few in recent memory that didn’t agree that he’d had enough of the insurance business.” “I suppose you mean Lon Bradley,” said Melinda. “None other. Now I’ve got a nice big open debit to deal with until I get somebody, but even that’ll be a relief. He shook his head vio- lently from side to side while intoning “Bluh-bluh-bluh-bluh-bluh- bluh-bluh.” That done, he said “How’s it going, Jackie boy?” “Great, Mr. T. Sounds like things’re fine with you, too.” Standing as We Sing 467

Terrell laughed, hard, the whoops subsiding in a wheeze. “You could always crack me up, Jackie. How’s school?” “Not bad; just strokin’ along, UGA-style; booze, broads and uhh…oh yeah, books.” “That’s not what I hear down at the café. Reba says you’ve been dean’s list for three quarters runnin’.” “Just a rumor I planted to reassure th’ home front. I’m hangin’ on for dear life, just like most everybody else.” “Donchoo bullshit a bullshitter, son.” “Richard!!” “What? Oh, sorry, honey. My brain’s still in the ofﬁce. Well, congratulations anyway, ol’ sport. You’ll be back here runnin’ th’ place before we know it.” “Thanks, but I doubt a B.A. in history’s gonna qualify me for runnin’ a whole lot.” “Speaking of runnin’, Ricky’s got some news, too. Seems the coaches thought he had a pretty good spring practice.” “Yeah, we were talkin’ about it while he was burnin’ these burgers. Good thing I taught ’im everything I knew fo’ I hung it up.” “Yeah, you guys woulda made Coach Dodd a great pair of receivers. Guess it’s up to Ricky to make Bisque famous on the gridiron, and for you to do it the way that suits you. I know you will, too.” “Maybe I’ll come work for you and get rich,” Ricky said with a grin. Terrell gulped theatrically and said in a loud whisper, “Bite your tongue; I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” He turned to look at the boys. “This business has been good to me, but I’da never come near it if I’da gotten my degree, and I sure as hell don’t ever want to see either one of your asses collectin’ a debit.” “Richard!!” 468 The Rough English Equivalent

The evening was cool for late March, but clear; they sat under a rising new moon on folding chairs, jackets zipped, a few feet from the edge of Moses’ pond. They’d brought out Moses’ Transoceanic, hoping its battery would hold out for the entire two hours of Gene Nobles’ Randy’s Record Corner on WLAC. It sat on the ground between them next to a now-half-full cooler of Carling Black Label. “Whachall doin’ tomorrow?” Ricky asked as he punched a hole in a fresh can. “Nothin’ special, far as I know; watch TV somewhere, I guess. Gotta run my car by Bo’s to get my tailpipe ﬁxed.” “Reeazoyal-Creeazown-Heeazair-Dreeazessin!” declaimed Gene, rolling easily from his pomade pitch into one more spin of Heart- break Hotel. Ricky stood up to pull his jeans out of his crack. “What th’ hell’s he sayin?” “He’s talkin’ that zz-talk. Puts ’at ‘eazz’ between th’ syllables. He’s sellin’ fuckin’ Royal Crown to th’ boogies.” “Royal Crown Cola?” “No, man. Hair shit. Royal Crown Hair Dressin’.” “Oh. Like Silky Straight.” “You means ‘Silky Skrate,’ bwy. Buchoo knows what th’ boss nigga use.” “What dat, bwy?” “White Rose, White Rose, White Rooose…Petroleum Jelleee,” Jack crooned, mimicking the radio commercial. “If you’ll jus’ try White Rose, den you will buy White Rose…” “Goddam! Pass th’ goosegrease an’ call me Slick. They got some damn hair, don’t they?” “Sho do. If it was me, I’d shave my damn head, like Otha used to, an’ be done wid it.” Standing as We Sing 469

Ricky flopped back down in his chair. “So Terry didn’t line up a buncha shit to keep you busy?” “She’s only gonna keep me busy’s I wanta be kept,” Jack said as he looked out over the moonlit water. “Said she’d see if anybody was partyin’ anywhere tomorrow niit. We could get some lunch and come on back here and fish awhile after I drop my car off; Bo can’t start on it ’til after noon.” “Fishin’ sounds damn good. Just sittin’ out here’s great, after bein’ in Atlanta for so long. I’d do it without bait.” “And without women,” grunted Jack. “You miit not say that s’quick if you wadn’t gettin’ steady pussy,” observed Ricky. Jack chuckled. “Maybe. But there’s this about steady pussy. Sump’m happens after awhile where it starts to seem almost like a job. Major, major difference from situations like that one with you and Maybelle last year; just pure mutual lust; quick, violent couplin’. Hey, how d’ya liike ’at? ‘Quick, violent couplin’.’ We could just call it ‘QVC’ from now on.” “That’s about all it was with ol’ Maybelline, all right; QVC all th’ way,” laughed Ricky. “At least you had that big weekend in N’yawlins.” “Yessirree.” “And never got with ‘er ass again.” “I toleya about that, didn’t I? Not a fuckin’ sniff. She started turnin’ off on th’ drive back; wouldn’t even drive my ass back to Atlanta. And a bus ride outa Claxton aino way t’wind up a weekend.” Jack shifted in his chair, beer flatulence whooshing silently downwind. “Terry said she was back in Clarence from Claxton’s lap like nothing’d ever happened, which, as far as he’us concerned, hadn’t. The reason she wadn’t with ’im over Christmas was his folks took ’im someplace with them. Told ’im she was at Terry’s th’ whole time.” “Some little bitch; er, big bitch. But it ’us money well spent. Reg’lar little sexual Swiss Army knife; couldn’t get enough while we 470 The Rough English Equivalent

’us down there. I gotta thank Mose again for buyin’ my tickets, and then not even showin’ up. My invisible uncle. That’s a buddy for ya.” “Yeah, he’s a piecea work. Nobody understands like ol’ Mose.” “Still gettin’ a lotta flight time?” “You bet. Matter of fact, I chalked up a pretty big number coupla weeks ago. 300 hours.” “Damn! Congratulations, son!” “And now that they’ve got th’ big plane, I can start serious work on an instrument ticket.” “You flyin’ that big ol’ biplane? I’m impressed. You made a damn good decision stayin’ here, buddy. I know you took a lotta shit for not goin’ back on th’ team.” “Not from anybody I gave a shit about. I enjoyed havin’ the time free, to tell th’ truth.” “Goddamn, I know that’s so! It’s gonna be a bitch for me from now on, keepin’ my grades up durin’ th’ season. I’m probly gonna be wishin’ I could walk away from playin’ ball before it’s over.” “It won’t be easy, but you’ll do it. At least you won’t be gettin’ pounded like th’ QB’s will, or have ta call th’ plays.” “Yeah, but you know what?” Ricky said, leaning back in his chair. “If I was a QB, I wouldn’t give a shit. With football, there’s QB’s and there’s everybody else.” “Well, you’re done red-shirtin’, anyway.” “Yeah, and my 40-yard time’s down under 4.7. I think I can beat that by th’ end of spring practice.” “You might get a chance yet; just keep that arm in shape.” “Nah, they’ve made their decision about me. Only way I’d get another shot would be for three or four quarterbacks to break a leg. Best thing for me to do is try ta get playin’ time at flanker. At least they’ll call my name when I catch th’ ball, an’ they got a coupla end- around’s in th’ playbook.” “And Trisha in th’ stands to cheer you on.” Standing as We Sing 471

“Yeah, hope so. I hate us bein’ next door to each other th’ way we’ll be over this vacation, and her folks actin’ like such asses, tellin’ ’er she can’t see me. They still won’t speak to my folks, and it’s been three years.” “What a mess. Just be glad she’s goin’ to Scott. They can’t keep very close tabs on ’er from a hundred miles away.” “Yeah, but you know she acts like they can. When we’re together, I mean. There still ain’t no sex; she says she just don’t feel riit about it yet.” “Mmm-mm-mm. That’s too bad, buddy. Well, I guess you’ll just have to make some other arrangements until she gets over whatever kinda mo-jo it is that they laid on her. Not seein’ anybody else, is she?” “Not as far as I know, and I think I would know it. And you know what? I really ain’t that interested in ‘other arrangements,’ at least not ’til I get t’drinkin’.” “And speakin’ a that,” Jack said, “are you ready, Hezzie?” punctur- ing cans as he spoke. “Bring it on, hotshot. An’ I’ll tellya sump’m else.” “What dat, bwy?” “Don’t much matter who it is, soon as we’re done screwin’ I wish they’d turn into you an’ a six-pack.” Waves of laughter rolled across the pond and back into their laps. “Now I’ll tell you sump’m,” Jack said after he’d caught his breath. “It don’t look to me like it gets any easier as you get older. Just look at how it is with Mose and my mom.” “What? They havin’ trouble?” “Oh, I Guess not, ’less you call how they been carryin’ on for th’ last ten years trouble. He wants ’er to divorce my dad and marry him, at least he used to, and she won’t, but she gets mad as all hell at him when he gets after other women. But she won’t break up with ’im; they just go on, ﬁne one day and bullshit th’ next, from one year 472 The Rough English Equivalent to th’ next, with her always talkin’ about movin’ back to New York. Damndest thing I ever saw.” “Yeah. Well, lookaheanh, buddy; I do’wanna be getttin’ inta any kinda shit you don’ feel liike gettin’ into, but ain’ nobody can make too much sense outa what people do to each other in th’ name a’love. Yo’ mama an’ Mose, eh’bidy knows how they been, you know, t’gether all this time, an’ anybidy wid a licka sense respects ’em, and their feelins’ for each other. Both of ’em smarter than niiny-niine p’centa th’ people in Bisque, an’ people’a pretty much quit tryin’ ta shove ’em inta them lil’ol’ Bisque pigeonholes.” “It’s a shame, ain’t it?” Jack said, getting up out of his chair and stretching his arms above his head. “All th’ time we spend just tryin’ t’stay straight with women? I ain’t heard much from Terry lately but ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doin’, not pledgin’ a fraternity? J’you think I came up here to Athens just t’keep my nose in a buncha books? Th’ Greek system’s th’ heart of partyin’ at Georgia, and that’s all there is to it.’ She’s some piecea work herself; gave me what she’d probably call an ultimatum, even though she sucked my dick ﬁrst, while we ’us drivin’ down here yesterday. Guess what it was.” “Join a frat, or I will.” Jack guffawed mirthlessly. “Bingo! Bing-fuckin’-go! She was diplomatic about it, of course, which I guess you hafta be with cum in your throat, but yeah, that’s about it. ‘I’ve been hopin’ you’d see what it means to me,’ and so forth, and ‘if we just don’t have that much in common anymore,’ and so forth. Puttin’ a gun ta my head liike ’at, after I told ’er b’fore we ever went up there that I’d never do it. ‘Pledge!’ this, an’ ‘Pledge!’ that. S’most childish fuckin’ thing I ever saw.” “Well, holdin’ onta pussy’s no reason ta do anything,” said Ricky, crushing his empty Black Label can and dropping it on the grass. “It boils down to this, buddy; I need my privacy, and she just can’t see that.” “So how is apartment livin’ up there, anyway?” Standing as We Sing 473

“OK; it’s a garage apartment, and I got the garage too. Owner’s this widow lady, Miz Stevens; lives in th’ big house with ’er aunt; out Baxter Street a ways. Even got a sleeper sofa in th’ livin’ room, if you ever gitcher ass over ta see me.” “I’ll be there, buddy. So ya got th’ academic part under control?.” “Yeah, pretty much. Wish ole Reba’d keep ’er mouth shut about th’ dean’s list bullshit. I’m workin’ my ass off, but it could just as easy be th’ dean’s shit list next quarter. I’m goin’to summer school, just for insurance. Hey! You got a job or anything goin’ for th’ summer? You could come up an’ stay with me, and we’ll troll for new, nasty wim- min.” “I ’preeshate it, buddy, but I’m thinkin’ I’ll take a course r’two myself this summer. See if I can get this sitchashun with Trisha straightened out.” “You’re serious.” “Yeah, I am. How many times do I hafta tellya? I love Trisha. Have since sixth grade. Cain’t stop jus’ cause I’d liike to. Her folks hate me, an’ tryin’ to make her hate me. They just miit do it, too, if I don’t hang in there. Hell,” he said, as a tear rolled down each cheek. “They will do it. But she’s gotta tell me it’s over before I believe it.” “Well, if that’s what it’s gonna take. Remember ol’ Jim Reynolds from your Sunday school class? Gave up a shot at th’ majors for one with Miz Bateman. Seemed pretty happy about it back then. Wonder if he still feels that way.” “Oh, man,” Ricky slapped his leg. “Sunday school. That was some feelin’, gettin’ th’ Word from ol’ Jim Reynolds, wadn’t it? Made it easy to believe, comin’ from the guy who beat Billy Bruton in a footrace from center ﬁeld to home plate.” “Oh, yeah. Didn’t mean that much to us then, did it? An’ now Bruton’s led th’ National League in stolen bases for th’ last three years.” “That’us some feelin’ in there, wadn’t it? Th’ whole Sunday school thing, I mean. Hokey as hell, but there was a safeness about it. Every- 474 The Rough English Equivalent body feelin’ good’n safe, there in God’s house.” Ricky shook his head slowly, as if he was trying to clear it, while two more large tears caught the moonlight as they dripped, glimmering, off his chin. “Hey!” Jack said, reaching over to clap Ricky on the shoulder. “It’s comin’ to me. We doin’ it all for pussy, same as Reynolds did. An’ that ain’ gonna change no tiime soon. We oughta jus’ go ahead an’ admit it an’ start our own church, th’ Church ’a th’ Big Pussy. Aaw- wlll ’ese little pussies,” he wailed to the crescent moon, they aawwlll in th’ image ’a th’ Biiig Pussy!” He began to sing to the tune of Heart- break Hotel:

“Evabidy need dat pussy, It make-a yo’ peter swell, Gotta be gettin’ it it all th’ time” “Don’ care how ba-hada it smell,” Ricky joined in to complete the verse, and they swung conﬁdently into the inevitable chorus:

“’Cause it make us so hawny, baby It make us so hawny It make us so hawny we could die” “Awriit now, hold it a minnit,” said Jack. After a pause, he sang:

“Pussy don’ keep all that good Be needin’ it fresh evry day Big slimy, slick-lipped pussy baitin’ Th’ hook to make us play” “’Cause it make us so hawny, baby It make us so hawny It make us so hawny we could die” They applauded each other lavishly before cracking the last two Black Labels. “Not bad for a coupla drunks; that long-haired fucker’d looove ta have them lyrics,” said Ricky. “Damn riit he would. Gotta share th’ credit wid Mose, though.” Standing as We Sing 475

“How come?” “Last time I was home we ’us talkin’ about different stuff, includin’ women, an’ he said sump’m ’bout pussy bein’ perishable, an’ it stuck wid me. Sump’m liike this: ‘Domesticated men–uh–generally discover too late that sex’s a very perishable commodity, unless dis- pensed by a rare and inspired donor. It’s society’s addictive dry-fly, nailing the horny fish, consigning him to the aquarium, and reduc- ing him to subsistence.’” “Thass pretty good,” said Ricky, shifting from one foot to the other in pre-stagger, “Pussy an’ fish kinda go together.” “He ’us jus’ tryin’ t’tell me t’watch my ass wid Terry, so I don’t get stuck liike you almost did.” “Now that is a very good buddy indeed. Wish my daddy’d tole me that.” “Well, ta be fair, I think talkin’ ’bout shit liike at’s a little easier for buddies than it is for daddies,” said Jack. “C’mon, buddy, le’s grab some shuteye.” Gathering up chairs and dead soldiers, they carried the load up the hill to the house.

chapter 21 s Kamerad

1950 Saturday 24 March 1956: “Mr. K.” “Yes?” “Could you get someone to sit here for just a couple of minutes? I rilly need to go to the bathroom.” He looked at his watch; 7:50. The feature would start at 8:05, and most of the audience was already seated or at the candy counter. “Go ahead, Evvie; I’ll take it.” He slipped into the box office chair; Evvie-borne scents of bubble gum and “toilet water” remained. He was smiling to himself at the absurdity of the name as three men approached. The first of them, a tall, smiling dark-haired man in his thirties, pushed a five-dollar bill across the counter. “Good evening,” he said. “Three, please.” “Good evening,” said Moses, holding the ticket dispenser’s key down for three adult tickets. As he pushed the change back over the counter, his smiling glance at the trio froze on the face of the last man, who stared back at him. It was Dieter Brück. Older, thinner and silver-haired at the fringes, but unquestionably Brück. A long moment later, they entered the lobby. Mose’s quick look back

- 477 - 478 The Rough English Equivalent through the box ofﬁce door followed them past the candy counter and through the theatre’s left aisle entrance. “Thanks, Mr. K,” said Evvie, squeezing past Moses into the box ofﬁce. “Sure,” he responded absently, still looking at the left aisle door.

“Excuse me, please,” said the tall thin man. “Yes sir. Popcorn?” “No. Thank you. The man who was in the box office a few minutes ago–is he the manager?” “Mr. K? He’s the owner.” “Oh. Is he still here? “He’s upstairs.” “Upstairs?” “In the office. Did you want to see him?” “Yes, just for a minute.” “I’ll go up and tell him,” said the girl. “Does he know you?” “No. I wanted to ask him about renting the theatre. I’m with the revival team; Jehovah’s Tabernacle.” “OK. Just a minute.” “He says come on up,” she said, hurrying past him to the candy counter. Moses was just inside the office door. He caught Brück by his forearm, pulling him into the room, simultaneously reaching behind him to close the door. He looked into the man’s light blue eyes, smiling. “Dieter. Vas tun sie hier?” He mirrored Moses’ smile. “To save your soul, Peter.” They embraced, laughing. “Shit, I need it. You took ten years off my life.” “And you mine. Now that we know, I must get back to the others. When will you be alone here?” Kamerad 479

“Come back at midnight. Everyone’ll be gone by 11:30. You gotta car?” “Yes.” “What kind?” “Studebaker. ’53. A green coupe.” “Park on the other side of the street. I’ll watch for you through the box ofﬁce.”

They sat together on the office sofa, a bottle of Cognac between them, filling in the twenty-year gap in their friendship. “My cover name is Paul Pulaski,” he said. “I’m Jehovah’s Tabernacle’s music man.” “And I’m Moses Kubielski. I went to ground right after Pearl Har- bor, and sat out the war in Baltimore. Two skis,” he laughed. “When I heard that you’d been assigned to Barbarossa in ’41, I thought you’d probably died on the eastern front,” said Moses. “Staying alive was very much a day-to-day thing. The Russians captured my unit near Kursk in September of ’43. I never spent a day in a prison camp. They were NKVD troops, 70th Army. They took me to a rear area, where I was interrogated. Ernst Wollweber, who’d been a German Communist since the twenties, was attached to the unit. I wasted no time in convincing him that I was worth saving. He convinced the commander to take me in. We were one of the first units into Berlin in ’45.” “And you’re still on the payroll.” “Yes. First as an NKVD informant, then as an agent of its successor, the KGB. I was attached to the Stasi, the East German intelligence service, for a while in the fifties.” “And you trust me with that information.” “Why lie? You’d never believe it. And now my question to you; for whom are you working?” 480 The Rough English Equivalent

“Myself.” “And does that mean that you sell movie tickets, or something else?” “It means movie tickets. And beer.” “Beer?” “Beer. I’m a distributor. Wholesaler.” He laughed, slapping his knees. “You! A village burgher! That’s priceless! How long have you been here?” “It’ll soon be ten years. And I’m not not just any burgher. This is Hamm County, ya know. I’m a Hamm-burgher!” Brück laughed. “I’d give a lot to be you. If I had a lot. You must tell me the whole story. But tell me this first; are you aware of the Savan- nah River Project?” “Sure,” Moses deadpanned. “Big government operation, just across the river from Augusta, in South Carolina. Scuttlebutt says it’s a uranium plant, like Oak Ridge. Been under construction for quite awhile. A couple of people from around here work construction jobs up there. FBI was around a couple of years ago, doing security checks on ’em.” “Oh, yes, it’s big,” he said with a smile. “Damn near the size of Los Angeles. It’ll produce the majority of the United States’ plutonium and tritium when it’s running at 100%.” “For A-bombs.” “They’re ‘H-bombs’ now. Hydrogen bombs. Weapons that are based on nuclear fusion, instead of the a-bombs’ nuclear fission. They build them out of tritium and deuterium–heavy hydrogen–and plutonium 239. The first reactor went critical last year. They’ve been shipping plutonium for several months.” “And that’s why you’re here.” “Yes. Since our own successful test of a thermonuclear device last year, it’s become a top priority to get an agent network in place. My assignment could easily eclipse all other KGB initiatives.” Kamerad 481

“You’re obviously askin’ for a boatloada trouble, considering what happened to the Rosenbergs after Los Alamos. Any more of your people here?” “No. But there will be, from time to time.” “No doubt,” said Moses. “The Tabernacle, huh? That’s funny. And you’re the music man.” “Minister of Music. You never knew of my musical side.” “Well, there was all that singing in the Berlin bars, but I never thought of you as a musician.” “I am. Somewhat. Loyola, remember? I took a minor in music.” “Yes, of course. New Orleans.” “Yes. So it wasn’t hard to get into the Tabernacle’s routine. I’d heard all the songs, time and again.” “How’d you get the job?” “My predecessor went away. Came into some money.” “Well, ’most everyone has his price, hm? When did you sign on with these birds?” “Almost six months ago. Joined them in Fairburn, a little town west of Atlanta. I’d seen a writeup on them in the Atlanta paper during the operation’s research phase.” “So when does the show start?” “Wednesday. Guess we’ll be cutting into your business.” “Maybe the movies. But I’m sure to sell more beer.” The blond man laughed again. “How the hell did you ﬁnd this place?” “My car broke down on my way to Cuba, and I had to wait on a new radiator. This theater was for sale, and I bought it. Always loved the movies.” “And what else?” “A woman. A beauty. And, believe it or not, her son.” “Ah, yes. Are you married?” 482 The Rough English Equivalent

“No. She wouldn’t. Obsessed with her art–she’s a scupltress. Now we’re beyond thinking of it. But she’s my dearest friend–and–how does it go?–severest critic.” “But you’ve obviously made this place your home.” “Until now,” said Moses, his gaze leveled at the blond man. “Yes. It would be foolish to assume that you’d feel otherwise, but you’re in no danger, believe me. I only wish I was in your shoes. What can I do to convince you that my being here’s no threat to you?” “Nothing. This is no one’s fault, Dieter; I can’t believe I haven’t seen it coming. Even after ten years, I’m still an outsider here. From what you say, the goddam Savannah River thing’s too big, and too close. AEC and FBI agents are in and outa here all the time, and God knows who’ll be here next week. Whether you’d showed up here or not, they’ll get around to looking at me. And if they look back beyond Baltimore, they won’t like what they’ll ﬁnd. Aside from bein’ glad to see you, I’m lucky that you showed up. Otherwise, I might’ve just sat here, fat, dumb and happy, and let the past catch up with me.” Brück smiled. “Peter. Moses. This has been a shock, an unbelievable shock, to us both. This is too incredible; it’s like a dream.” “Yes,” said Moses, “It is. We gotta make sure that it doesn’t turn into a nightmare.”

The sun had been up less than half an hour when he pulled open the F3F’s dew-covered canopy. He hadn’t slept that much; he and Dieter Brück had talked all night. He woke Gene Debs from a sound sleep to stand by while he started the engine. The only way I can start making sense out of this, he thought, is to go bore a few holes in the sky. He’d logged three hundred and twenty hours in the F3F since they bought it, and much of that time, thanks to Gene Debs, was spent getting to know what it could do aerobatically. Flying at what Kamerad 483

Gene Debs called “the outside of the envelope,” using as near 100% of its capabilities as possible, had become Moses’ preferred way of depressurizing. He left the engine at takeoff power, trimming the aircraft for maximum rate of climb and spinning the landing gear crank the thirty- two turns necessary to pull the bird’s wheels into its belly. He ret- rimmed as he cranked, countering the nose’s tendency to rise as the wheels’ drag was eliminated. The clean airframe let him ease the throttle back slightly and maintain his rate of climb. He turned slowly, right to left and back again, looking for other aircraft above, below and on either side of the plane’s raised nose, which blocked direct forward vision in climb attitude. Looking into the rapidly brightening morning sky, he basked in the roar that washed over the cockpit from the engine’s nine flaming exhaust ports, feeling what a thousand horsepower could do to erase the frustrations of life on the ground. He looked with satisfaction from one set of dove-gray wingtips to the other, and between them at the flowing green and red-brown checkerboard of Hamm County. Level at ten thousand feet, he brought the throttle back slightly as his airspeed touched 210. He rolled left into a ninety-degree bank, pulling back hard on the stick as the wings went perpendicular to the ground, countering the nose’s dropping down as the wings’ lift was neutralized with steady pressure on the right rudder pedal. In seconds he rolled back level, the aircraft picking up speed as it lost altitude. For a little over half an hour, he rolled and looped the stubby fighter over miles of rural Georgia, his mind focused tightly on the maneuver he was performing, and shifting quickly to the next, and the next, and the next. As he rolled off the runway and taxied back to the F3F’s parking spot near the house, Moses felt as though he’d cleared a large enough space in his mind to come to terms with the implications of Dieter Brück’s reentry into his life. Now, instead of cotton and pimiento peppers, neutrons in untold trillions would surge from the bowels of 484 The Rough English Equivalent this land of Creeks, farmers and slavers, he thought as the engine’s noise disappeared and he sat in the cockpit’s deep silence. All of a sudden, I’ve got more water in the boat than I can bail. So I need a bigger fuckin’ bucket… chapter 22 s Hip–Deep in Sheep-Dip

0905 Monday 26 March 1956: Moses sat in the wagon, halfway up the block north of the hotel on Lee, looking at the green Studebaker’s projectile silhouette. The stores wouldn’t open for another hour, and traffic was still thin. Dieter would be out sooner or later. It turned out to be sooner, and as he’d hoped, alone. He walked to the car, backed it out into Main street and headed west. Moses had already gotten the wagon moving down Lee, just catching the traffic light and pulling behind the car behind the Studebaker. The car between them went straight when Dieter turned right. It would, Moses knew, be only a matter of time before Dieter made him in the mirror. When he did, he pulled over to let the wagon go by, then pulled out behind it. They drove around the block, then South on Lee, past pool halls, cafes and stores that got progressively less seedy the closer that they got to Main. Turning left on Main, they drove several blocks east; Moses eased the wagon off the road and stopped it in front of the Bethel Baptist Church. He got out, opened the Studebaker’s door and slid in beside Brück. “How much time have ya got?” “I should get over to the auditorium before long,” Bruck said as he pulled out onto the road again. “My first rehearsal’s this afternoon,

- 485 - 486 The Rough English Equivalent and I need to unpack some stuff before the choir members start showing up.” “I know you gotta stay on schedule,” Moses said, looking out at the colorful sprinkling of flowers on the graves in the cemetary sliding by on his side of the car, “but I’ve been thinking about something since we talked the other night.” The blond man glanced sharply at him. “What’s that?” “How would you like to walk away from the KGB–just disappear, with no trace whatever, and start a new life?” His face took on the weariest of smiles. “If you knew how impossible what you just said would be to do, my friend, you’d never have said it. Let’s don’t spend the little time we have together talking about something so ridiculous. The only way I’ll leave the service will be as a corpse.” “I’d be surprised if you felt any different without hearing my idea,” said Moses, “and after you do, we won’t speak of it again if you choose not to. But in the name of our friendship, assume for the moment that you could walk away. Would you?” He said nothing until he’d turned off the road and headed the car back toward Bisque. “Yes,” he said, sad eyes focused on the increasing flow of traffic into town. “In the name of our friendship, yes, I would, of course. But unless you’re proposing that I change sides, you have no idea of just how impossible it would be. They’d find me. Sooner or later, they’d find me.” “Changing sides is no answer,” said Moses as Pulaski stopped the car in front of the church. “You’d just have a new master. I need more time to tell you what I’ve got in mind, but I’ll tell you this before you go. We’d both leave here, soon, and, as far as the world could determine, we’d be dead.” “You can’t be serious.” “Oh yes. I’m deadly serious. I know you’ve got to go now, so here’s what I propose. We need to have some justification for being Hip–Deep in Sheep-Dip 487 together. I thought that it could be motorcycles. Know anything about them?” “A little,” said Pulaski, “but I haven’t ridden in a long time. A friend of mine down in New Orleans had an Indian; a Scout. I bor- rowed it from him now and then.” “Perfect. How about if I meet you at the café in the morning? I’ll ride over on one of my bikes, a Vincent. I’ll park it where you can see it when you come down to the lobby. You can ask somebody whose it is, and we’re off.” “OK,” he said, looking out at the traffic. “A Vincent? What’s it look like?” “A black vee-twin with gold pinstriping. British. Fast as stink. Anyone who likes bikes’d notice it right away. We’ll talk about it, and I’ll invite you out to look at my little collection.” “Collection? How many do you have?” “Just four. We’ll ride them later; I can’t think of a better way to justify getting friendly in a hurry. Bike nuts do that.” “What else do you have?” “An Indian 4-cylinder,” Moses said, opening the door. “A Sun- beam shaft-drive and a new single-cylinder BMW. A two-fifty. You might like to start out with it.” “OK. We can talk about this, I guess. Meantime, I’ve got a revival to get off the ground.” “Good. I’ll see you at the café about eight tomorrow. Got a warm jacket?” 0750 Tuesday 27 March 1956: “Excuse me, Miss…” “My name’s Reba, Mr.–” “Pulaski. Paul Pulaski.” “Aw, yeah,” she said, her eyes lighting up. Such a fine-lookin’ boy, she thought. Looks like that feller that played Ashley Wilkes. “You’re with th’ r’viv’l folks.” 488 The Rough English Equivalent

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “Hope to see you there this Friday.” “Oh yes sir. I wouldn’t miss it.” “Good, good.” He gestured toward the window. “I wanted to ask you; do you know whose motorcycle that is?” “Law, yeah; it’s Mose’s–uh, Mr. Kublesky’s. That’s him sittin’ right over yonder.” He looked in the direction that she’d inclined her head. “Oh, yes! The movie man; I met him on Saturday. I must ask him about the motorcycle; I’ve never seen one like it.” Reba moved to let him pass. “I dunno what y’all men see in ’im thangs; they skeer me t’death. He’s got two’r three of ’em,” she said, disapproving with a small shake of her head. “Yes, well, I think you either have the disease or you don’t,” he said, smiling as he moved past her. “Thank you so much, Reba.” He approached Moses, who was reading yesterday’s Bugle. “Good morning, sir.” Moses looked up at him. “Good morning.” “You may remember our conversation of the other evening, at the theater. I’m Paul Pulaski. Jehovah’s Tabernacle.” “Oh yes, of course. How’re you this morning? Please sit down.” “Very well, thanks,” he said as he pulled a chair away from the table, “and very curious about your motorcycle. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one like it before.” “Well, you don’t see ’em every day, at least not around here. It’s a Vincent. Are you a rider, Mr. Pulaski?” “Yes, but not for a year or two. We travel so much.” “Would you like to have a look at her?” “Oh yes. Very much.” Moses paid his check and beckoned to Pulaski. They walked to the Vincent, parked on the sidewalk out of earshot of the café’s few patrons. “Let’s look her over for a couple of minutes,” said Moses, “while you get really excited about the bike. Then I’ll offer you a ride, and we’ll shoot out to my place.” Hip–Deep in Sheep-Dip 489

“I won’t have to fake it,” said Pulaski as he looked at the Black Shadow’s massive v-twin engine, its twin-drum front brakes and aluminum alloy fenders. This is one beautiful machine.” “Yeah, I think you’ll enjoy the ride. The back wheel’s got hydraulic suspension, same as the front, and that saddle’s got a spot for both of us.” “You said something about offering me a ride, I believe.” “That I did. Shall we go?” Moses slung his leg over the bike and reached down to flip the kickstart lever out to the kicking position. He opened the gas tank’s tap and briefly touched both carburetors’ priming buttons. One kick with the ignition switched off; the engine answered the second kick with a bass burble, quickly changing to a roar as he blipped the throttle. He motioned to Pulaski to get aboard; his passenger’s feet secure on their footrests, Moses bumped the bike over the curb, checking traffic and moving onto the street, the Vin- cent exhaust’s impatient staccato boom rattling the café’s plate glass. Turning right on Lee Street, they picked up speed at a rate that amazed Pulaski, the lawns of stately houses merging into a green river roaring past his ears. He looked over Moses’ shoulder at the bike’s alarm-clock-sized speedometer in time to see its needle pass eighty. He chose to put the chattering of his teeth down to the chill blast of morning air that was bringing tears to his eyes. They turned off the road soon, Pulaski’s amazement carrying over to his first look at Moses’ house and grounds. As they drew to a stop on the driveway and the engine’s beat subsided, he spoke. “Incredi- ble. Absolutely incredible. How can you possibly think of leaving this behind?” “Oh, it’ll be in good hands,” said Moses. “Come on in and warm up; I’ll give ya the nickel tour later.” They entered the house through the garage. “Coffee’s ready; had any grits lately?” They ate and talked about the essentials of disappearing. “What we do,” said Moses as he refilled their cups, “is convince everyone that we died accidentally, with no bodies to confirm it.” 490 The Rough English Equivalent

“Neat trick,” said Pulaski. “What do you propose?” “A plane crash–at sea.” “Trust you for a spectaular solution. I’m listening.” “Theoretically, it’s simple. We ﬂy my plane out to deep water in the Atlantic, rendezvous with a boat, ditch the plane, climb in the boat and set course for Savannah while the plane blows up. Pick up the Inland Waterway to Miami, then cross to Cuba.” “I see. Who’s handling the boat?” “I’ve got someone in mind. A qualiﬁed skipper. One of four people who’ll know that Pulaski and Kubielski aren’t dead. She’d be going with us.” “She?” “She.” He told Pulaski about Linda, Jack and the F3F. “So. When would we do this?” “As soon as we can. It’ll take a few weeks to get it set up.” “How do we make a living in Cuba?” “Won’t be necessary. We’re retiring.” “This is surreal. How can you conceive of doing all this? There can’t be that much money in movies and beer.” “Believe me, money’s not an issue. We can do this, Dieter. I’m just so damn happy that now I can repay you for what you did for me. If you hadn’t gotten me out of that Heinkel, I wouldn’t be here at all. So please trust me on the details. I’ll tell you about them as I get them in place.” “It seems that the point on which I must most seriously trust you, Peter, is on just that; on what you’re telling me isn’t an issue. You seem to have, or have access to, quite a lot of money. And I’ve learned that the more money a situation involves, the greater the number of people there are involved in the situation. I don’t see how you can expect me to make a move that amounts to stepping off a cliff with a set of wings that my friend assures me will turn me into a bird, but won’t tell me who made them, what they cost, or why he thinks they’ll work.” Hip–Deep in Sheep-Dip 491

“Well, I’ve already told you that there’ll be two others that know we aren’t dead. No scheme’s perfect, but this one involves my ass to the same degree that it does yours, the single difference bein’ that I’m footin’ th’ bill. The money’s mine, and I’m very happy to share it with you. I’m going to anyway, whether you decide to join me in this operation or not. But for the moment, please just keep an open mind.” “Fair enough. I hope that you understand how much the idea appeals to me, but this would an incredible undertaking, just on the face of it. I need to know that there are no surprises that you haven’t told me about.” OK. When this revival’s over, we’ll talk about what else you need from me to make your decision.” “Done. Let’s have a look at those bikes.” 1945 Friday 30 March 1956 (Good Friday): I resisted the attempt of a local lady, one of the many volunteer workers recruited for this sort of thing, and her “Aren’t-we-having- fun-doing-the-Lord’s-work” look, to seat me “right down front.” My adult-sized rump joined those of hundreds of male Bisquites, young and old, prodded into place for the most part by their females, squeezed into the auditorium’s student-sized seats, awaiting the arrival of the apostle. I sat in the auditorium’s last row, set for an immediate getaway in case events brought up my gorge. Curiousity continues to force me into situations that I ought to leave alone. The station brass, knowing that I’ll probe for soft tissue, would never send me into a spot like this on assignment. So here I sit, self- assigned, wondering who snuck out the death-dealing fart, as Mose’s new pal, the Polack, steps out, stage left, for the kickoff. “Good evening, and thanks for coming. We’re all so grateful to God to be here with you tonight. I wonder if any of you might know this little song?” Moving to center stage, dragging the mike cord 492 The Rough English Equivalent behind him, he unleashed a pretty fair tenor as selected members of the Bisque High band struck up the tune:

“Send a great revival to my soul Send a great revival to my soul Let the Holy Spirit come and take control… And send a great revival to my soul!” “Sing it with me!” Primed to get on with the hysteria, the sweaty congregation picked up the tune with vigor; and two beats into it, in prances– there’s no other word for it–Sheppard Peters, stage right, a spotlight intensifyng the sky-blue of what I must say was a nicely-ﬁtted Palm Beach suit.

“Send a great revival to my soul Send a great revival to my soul Let the Holy Spirit come and take control… And send a great revival to my soul!” Thrusting his right hand over his head, head bowed, Peters posed for a dramatic five-second delay. Then the fun began: “‘Come to me all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give ye rest.’ That’s his promise to us. It comes to us, across the centuries and across the seas, as shining and strong today as when he shared it with the multi- tudes by the Sea of Galilee. Welcome. Welcome to this revival, and to life everlasting. I am Brother Sheppard Peters. I’m blessed to lead Jehovah’s Tabernacle. You’ve just seen our Minister of Music, Brother Paul Pulaski, whose life story is one of triumph over incredible chal- lenges, and I’m sure that some of you have noticed the presence of Brother Ted Bell among you during the past few weeks. Ted is what we call the Tabernacle’s advance man; he’s the first to arrive at our revival locations, and is our liaison with host groups such as the Bisque Council of Churches. But there’s much more to Ted’s story as well, and you’ll hear more about this amazing man of God as the Hip–Deep in Sheep-Dip 493 revival progresses. But, on the eve of the anniversary of the triumph of our Lord over the grave, let us raise a prayer of thanks to God for sending his Son to lead us to our individual victories over the nightmare of eternal damnation–of death without salvation.” Peters has the gift of all really good orators–even though I know the trick, it’s easy to catch myself feeling that he’s talking directly to me, telling me the old, old story for the first time, reminding me how much I don’t want to die, how all of us poor bastards have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, Romans 3:23, how I can’t earn my way to heaven and don’t really deserve to go, but since God is so good, I get to go anyway, Romans 6:23, but that the soul who sins shall die, Ezekiel 18:4, and I must confess my sins, for God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life, John 3:16, and that if I’ll just say to him Lord Jesus, I know I’m a sinner and I don’t deserve eternal life. But I believe You died and rose from the grave to make a place in heaven just for me. Come into my life, Lord Jesus, forgive my sins, and save me. Take control of my life;, I trust my salvation to You alone. What a deal, huh? Everybody, as far as I could tell, went for it on the spot. It caught them off guard, I guess, because orthodox Bisque soul-saving awaited the invitation hymn, a wheezy “Just As I Am” or the like, after the parson had carried on for half an hour, or, on a good day, considerably more. Well, if that was all, could we just sing the damn song and get our soggy Heaven-bound butts the hell out of this sweatbox? Back in ’54 the station, in a rare burst of enlightened capitalism that involved actually spending some money, sent me to Atlanta for a crash course in salesmanship. Out of the two days of that secular revival of back- slidden bullshitters, One thing stayed with me: don’t sell past the close. When they’ve said yes, in other words, shut up and show ’em where to sign. It looked like that was what old Sky-blue was about to do. Which tells you how much I know about soul-saving writ large. 494 The Rough English Equivalent

Sheppard Peters had a great deal left to do tonight. Now that they were yet once again gathered into the flock, the woollies were to be congratulated on coming quietly. Not like the miscreants who would now stand before them on the stage’s slick-varnished yellow pine. He stood center stage, gazing out over the multitude, bible at the ready, and waited for silence. “Reading from the Gospel of Mark; ‘So they came to the other side of the lake, into the country of the Gera- senes. As he stepped ashore, a man possessed by an unclean spirit came up to him from among the tombs where he had his dwelling. He could no longer be controlled; even chains were useless; he had often been fettered and chained up, but he had snapped the chains and broken the fetters. No one was strong enough to master him. And so, unceasingly, day and night, he would cry aloud among the tombs and on the hill-sides and cut himself with stones. When he saw Jesus in the distance, he ran and flung himself down before him, shouting loudly, ‘What do you want with me, Jesus, son of the Most High God? In God’s name do not torment me. (For Jesus was already saying to him, “Out, unclean spirit, come out of this man!”)’ Jesus asked him, ‘What is your name?’ ‘My name is Legion,’ he said, ‘there are so many of us.’ And he begged hard that Jesus would not send them out of the country. Now there happened to be a large herd of pigs feeding on the hill-side, and the spirits begged him, ‘Send us among the pigs and let us go into them.’ He gave them leave; and the unclean spirits came out and went into the pigs; and the herd, of about two thousand, rushed over the edge into the lake and were drowned.” “Before I knew the Lord,” he said, “my name was Lustrum Grainger. I grew up in Harlan County, Kentucky, coal country, and I was able to throw anything, my friends, farther and harder than anyone else in that little town. Fuhbawl, baseball, discus–God gave me that incredible gift, and it took me to college–I’m sure most of you know Farmun University, the Baptist school just a ways up the road in South Carolina–and out of it, so fast it seemed like the blink of an Hip–Deep in Sheep-Dip 495 eye. There’s a good man here tonight that did everything that he could to keep me at Farmun, but when a couple of scouts from professional baseball showed up, it would’ve taken the Heavenly Host and the Lord himself to make me stay. Like the Gadarene swine, I had begun my personal stampede into the lake–the lake of fire. “My first stop was a Class D farm team, probably a lot like the one that I understand you had here until just a few years ago–the Bisque Bullets–I won’t say where it was–but I will say that I had some growing up to do when I got there, and I did it as fast as I could. I didn’t know much about women and girls–I didn’t have any sisters–and what women in a small town will do when there’s a ballplayer involved would no doubt surprise you; some of the things they did certainly surprised me. I was only a boy myself. My manager–I’ll just call him Ray–tried to keep me out of trouble, but it was hard for him because half the time he was in some kind of trouble of his own. In a small town, not nearly the size that Bisque is today, with very little money, there wasn’t much to do but play ball and get in trouble. “Like I said, I was young, and feeling much farther away from home than I ever did at Farmun. As excited at I was to be on the field, I was sick with loneliness the rest of the time. Some of you who’ve been in situations like that probably know what it was that I did to try to lose that awful feeling, don’t you? I see some heads nodding out there, and you’re right. I learned what whiskey could give me in the way of a little dose of courage. I’d watched my teammates, none of ’em much older than me, pass the Mason jar around the locker room after games, and it seemed like they were having such a good time gettin’ likkered up that it didn’t take me long to join in. “I hated it at first; most of you’ve probably never drunk moon- shine whiskey, but that’s all there was in that little dry county in the backwoods. I’ll tell you what it tasted like to me when I first tried it. Can you imagine gasoline and Seven-Up together? That’s what it tasted like to me, but you know what? After it got down in my stomach, I didn’t care. No. I did not care what it tasted like, because it 496 The Rough English Equivalent made me feel so free and easy that it could’ve been straight gasoline. It put me on top of the world for awhile, and even though it made my head hurt in the morning, it ran that old being-by-myself demon off for hours at a time. I liked it. I mean I really liked it. A lot. “Well,” he said, “A baby-faced pitcher on a four-day rotation had lots of time on his hands back then. I guess they still do. As I said, I could throw real hard, and with pretty fair control, and I went fifteen and two that season, half-drunk most of the time. I was a big part of the club’s winning the pennant that year, and pretty soon I never had to buy a drink or–and I’m ashamed to say it–look for females that fancied being with a ballplayer. And I thought I was on top of the world. So I rode that hoss, as they say, and I rode it hard–hard enough so that, for my third season, I was sent to Triple-A. Again, I’m not sayin’ where–any fan could look it up, I guess, but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that, by then, I was on a real short fuse. Triple-A’s right next to the big leagues, and big-leaguers who fall off the pace get sent down there all the time, either to get their stuff back or to get off the bus for good. They started hitting me my first time on the mound, and they never stopped. I’d gotten as far as I could go on a fast ball that wasn’t all that fast to these batters, and my other stuff–curve, slider, change-up–wasn’t much. I’d just made it up as I went along, because I could win–up to then–just by smokin’ a fast one by ’em. “By then, I’d gotten used to a better grade of liquor, and was drinking more of it than ever. And the girls were better looking than ever, more ready than ever to give their all for a night with a ballplayer. But those Triple-A batters kept on knocking me out of the box, and I drank even more and the girls thinned out. To make a long story short, I was sent down, way down–to Class B, so the Club–the major league team where I thought I’d be in 1942–could see if they could get me straightened out. But they didn’t get the chance. My draft board back there in Harlan County took me off their hands. In as much time as it takes to tell it, I was through basic Hip–Deep in Sheep-Dip 497 training and behind the wheel of an Army truck–they called it a six- by-six, the motor drivin’ all six wheels–in Fort Ord, California. “By now I’d drink the best part of a fifth of something a day whenever I could get it–and I could usually get it. But I was still playing baseball–one thing about the army, wartime or not, there’ll always be sports–so I stopped by Special Services one day, and the next day I was pitching for the post team. We played military teams from up and down the Pacific coast, and even though there was a sprinkling of ex-pros like me scattered through the league, I could get most of those guys out on the worst day I ever had. So I had friends, sort of, in high places, like the Post Commander, the Major who managed Special Services and the team manager, a Captain who was also the Prostesant chaplain and known, inevitably, as Charlie. “None of that impressed the Staff Sergeant who ran the motor pool at all, because I was still on his roster as a driver until a slot in Special Services opened up. A private, more or less coming and going as I pleased, was the way I guess he saw me. And like some of the other ‘lifers’–career soldiers–I’d seen, he was there because it was the absolute best he could do, and he was proud–way too proud–of the job he had. One fine Monday morning after muster, I was sitting in the motor pool with a head as big as a basketball. The Sergeant walked into the room, saw me sitting there and started in on me in the way only Sergeants can do. I’ll spare you the language, because it was barracks blasphemy of the worst kind. But he wouldn’t let it go at that. He walked over to where I was sitting, leaning against the wall on the two back legs of a chair, kicked it from under me, and kicked me as I hit the floor. “Well, things just sort of went black. I woke up in the stockade to find that I was charged with manslaughter. The court-martial found me guilty, and sentenced me to ten years at hard labor in the military prison at Leavenworth, out on wasteland of the Kansas prairie, and a dishonorable discharge. I hope that none of you have ever been in prison, or ever go, because it’s hell on earth, and doubly so when the 498 The Rough English Equivalent guards remind you many times a day that you’re alive while better men die in battle in your place. But it led me to the gates of Heaven. I’d been there for a little over a year, trying every day to stop seeing the face of the man I’d killed.”

Yes, and I see the face of a girl whose life I changed forever, whose life will never be what it could’ve been, because I spewed new life into her before she was ready for it to be there. And then I turned my back on her, and on all of Bisque.

“One morning I woke up before sunrise. I thought I’d heard my cellmate call my name, except it was my ﬁrst name. You only hear your last name in prison, so I thought I’d just been dreaming. Then I heard it again. ‘Lustrum.’ “‘Who is it?’ I said. “I’ll never forget what I heard then if I live a thousand years. ‘I am Alpha and Omega,’ the voice said. It was the sweetest, and yet the strongest, voice I’d ever heard. And all of a sudden, there was light all around me, and I felt like I was ﬂoating. ‘I am the Lord your God.’”

Where are you, Lord? Speak to ME now. Oh, please speak to me now.

He paused. “I hadn’t had a drink in over a year, yet the walls spun slowly around me, the way they did sometimes late at night. I was still within the conﬁnes of a prison cell, but yet I knew that I was alone with the Creator. All that I could say was, ‘Yes, Lord?’ “And he answered me. ‘You bear a heavy cross, but not in my name. Put Satan behind you and it shall be lifted from you.’ “‘I don’t know, how, Lord,’ I said. I’d never felt so alone.

As alone as I feel right now? Has anybody felt as alone as I do right now? Hip–Deep in Sheep-Dip 499

“‘Say it and it shall be,’ said the Lord. And that’s what I did. I emptied my heart of all of the hate and the hurt that had been there for so long. And from that day, my life’s been his, to do with as he sees ﬁt. And the Lord smiled upon me.”

I’m sayin’ it, Lord. I’m sayin’ it now. Smile on me Lord, and take this pain away.

“Soon after the war was over, I was paroled. I went back to Far- mun, a place I thought I’d never see again, thanks to Brother Ted Bell, who’d been my coach there. By the time he found me, through my folks, he’d been made Athletic Director. At ﬁrst they wouldn’t tell him where I was, they were so ashamed, but he prevailed and worked his own miracle with the War Department. I had to have a job to be paroled, so I returned to my old school, where I’d once been something of a hero, as someone far different. I went to work for the college’s custodial department. That’s right. The game-winner of ’38 was the ﬂoor-sweeper of ’46. And very happy to be there, too.”

I’ll sweep ﬂoors, Lord, or whatever else you’d have me do. Give me the work that’ll give me peace.

“And Brother Ted worked another miracle for me; after I’d been back for a few months, he got me readmitted to Farmun. I’d given him my witness while I was still in prison, and he promised me that he’d do everything he could to convince the administration to take me back. He’d said to me the day I walked out of Leavenworth, ‘Lus- trum, the Lord has plans for you boy, but you must meet ’im halfway. I hope that you’re ready to do that.’

I’m ready, Lord. Show me your plan for my life.

“‘Yes, I am, Coach,’ which was what I still called him back then. ‘And if it’s his will that the school takes me back, I want to be a divin- ity student.’ So when things worked out for me to be readmitted, 500 The Rough English Equivalent that’s what I became. I won’t tell you that it was easy; I wasn’t the world’s best student when I’d been there before, and studying still didn’t come naturally to me. I was up nights stoking furnaces to make up for the time I spent in class, but it was a glorious time in my life. I’d already made the decision to preach the gospel, and was preaching a guest sermon now and then around Greenville. Right after Christmas in 1949 I got the chance to preach regularly on Sun- day nights at a little country church outside Spartanburg, and on a bright day in June of 1951, Dr. Brooks, Farmun’s president, handed me my sheepskin. I was thirty-three years old. And then I had a decision to make. What kind of a preacher was I going to be? If I was going to be more than a lay preacher, I’d need to go to Seminary. That meant another three years of study, and I looked to the Lord for a sign, because I knew I couldn’t get through that much more school without a lot of help. I went on preaching on Sunday nights, and working at Farmun, until God gave me what I asked for. “It was a Saturday in the middle of October. Brother Ted had driven me into Greenville to buy some groceries, and we were on our way back to Farmun when we saw a bus parked in front of the courthouse. Painted on its side, in flaming red letters a foot high, was Apostles of Redemption. Several people, one a deputy sheriff, stood at the bus’s open door. One of them was shouting at the deputy, waving his arms wildly above his head. Just then another deputy came out of the sheriff’s office and walked over to the group. He said something to the first deputy, and they took the man, still shouting, by the arms to take him inside. Then tried to break away, and the first deputy put him in a hammerlock and walked him, standing on his toes, inside the office. ‘We better find out what’s goin’ on,’ said Brother Ted, and he drove around the block so we could park in the lot beside the courthouse. “We went inside the office, stopping at the desk just inside the door. ‘What’s going on, Larry?’ Brother Ted said to the deputy Hip–Deep in Sheep-Dip 501 behind the desk. The man who’d been doing the waving now sat quietly on a bench across from the desk, one hand covering the side of his face. ‘Aw, this buncha nuts’re tryin’ to get their boss outa jail,’ the deputy said, ‘and they’re about ta all get locked up.’ ‘Who is this boss?’ Brother Ted asked him. “The deputy snickered. ‘Calls hisself ‘Joshua of Nazareth.’ They’s a fraud warrant out for him from up in Tennessee.’ ‘Could we see him?’ ‘Gee,’ the deputy said, ‘I dawno. Lemme ask th’ sheriff.’ ‘Wait,’ Brother Ted said. ‘Sheriff Curtis’s in his office? Just let me go in for a minute.’ “Well, Sheriff Curtis was one of Brother Ted’s many good friends around the county, and he let us go back into the jail where the man was. And we were by no means prepared for what we saw. I remembered a picture I’d seen of John Brown, the abolitionist from back before the Civil War. This man Joshua looked like that picture come to life. Wild-eyed, wild-haired and raging at everything in sight. ‘Good day, sir,’ said Brother Ted. ‘It is not a good day, sir,’ said Joshua. ‘It is a disastrous day.’ ‘You are, it seems, a man of God,’ said Brother Ted. ‘Is there anything to this charge that’s put you here?’ “‘I am God’s servant, sir,’ he said. ‘Are you?’ “‘Yes,’ Brother Ted told him. ‘Yes, we are.’ “‘Then, in his name, help us. We are, as you can see, in dire need.’ “‘What can we do?’ Brother Ted asked him. ‘Has bail been set for you?’ “‘No, and I doubt that any will be,’ he said, and for the first time the inferno behind his eyes became less furious. ‘They apparently intend to take me back to Cleveland. My concern is twofold; first for my people, and second for the commitment that we have made to the good people of the Second Baptist Church of Columbia. Our revival must begin there next Friday.’ 502 The Rough English Equivalent

“‘You haven’t told us,’ Brother Ted reminded him, ‘Why you were arrested.’ “‘The landowner on whose lot our Tabernacle was erected,’ Joshua said, ‘broke faith with us. After shaking hands on the agreement to rent the lot for a twenty percent share of the revival’s love offering, he produced a document that set forth a rent of ﬁfteen hundred dollars.’ “‘But surely you hadn’t signed it,’ said Brother Ted. “‘No. But my Mr. Quarles, my associate, appears to have done so. He has an unfortunate way with business details. In any case, I cast six hundred and ten dollars, the amount of our actual agreement, on the ground before the brigand and we put Cleveland behind us.’ “‘Well,’ Brother Ted asked him again, ‘What can we do?’ “‘Whatever you can to help my people get to Columbia,’ Joshua said, his eyes blazing again. ‘At least they can begin preparations for the revival. If they are here for much longer, I fear that some attach- ment will be placed on our property. You appear to possess the quality of leadership. Please help me convince Mr. Quarles to get our caravan on the road to Columbia once again.’ “Well, that’s exactly what he did. Mr. Quarles turned out to be the excitable man with the freshly bruised head. A quick and urgent dis- cussion with him put the Apostles of Redemption back on the road to Columbia, with an additional passenger; Lustrum Grainger. As we walked out of the court house, Brother Ted said to me, ‘Lustrum, I feel that you oughta go with these people. I’ll see about the situation in Cleveland, but unless I miss my guess old Joshua in there won’t make it to Columbia in time to start the revival, and it looks to me like they’ll be needin’ a preacher. I’ll explain your absence to the folks here. Just go, son; I have a feelin’ that’s the Lord’s will.’ “I did preach that revival in Columbia, and to this day it’s a regular engagement that the Tabernacle is honored to perform. Many things have changed since then; I was anointed with the new name of Sheppard Peters, the Reverend Joshua now lives in retirement in Hip–Deep in Sheep-Dip 503

Nazareth, Pennsylvania, and Brother Ted retired early from Farmun to become a key man in our organization. All of which brings us to this place at this time, to consider not where I’ve been, not the stampede into the lake of ﬁre, but where we all, in our hearts, want so deeply to go; into the presence of our Heavenly Father…”

And now I’ll go with you, Sheppard Peters–to Columbia, or to the ends of the earth, to spread the good news about what Jesus helped you do for me tonight.

The show went on from there to a fairly predictable finish, with renewed promises of peace in the valley in exchange for “…letting the Holy Spirit come and take control,” and sending a great revival to our souls. I headed for the door as the aisles filled with people headed the other way toward redemption, as delivered by Peters and company. Among those shuffling toward salvation that I recognized was Jack Mason’s pal, Terrell, having a serious conversation with himself. 1410 Saturday 31 March 1956: The overcast afternoon’s gray light leaked stingily through the bar- room windows. “Hey, Webster,” Moses said as the flap-flapping of swinging doors subsided. “Hey yourself,” said Webster, squinting in the early dimness. “Did you make good on your threat?” “Threat?” “The revival. You went?” “Oh. Did I ever.” “Funny, you don’t look saved. How’d it go?” “See it to believe it,” Webster said, nodding thanks to Ribeye as he picked the cold Red Cap off the bar. “A guilt Guignol and old-time medicine show rolled into one. Ol’ Peters laid ’em in the aisles. You shoulda been there; it needed someone of the Jewish persuasion.” 504 The Rough English Equivalent

“You’d do well to keep in mind that not absolutely all Jews are masochists. They probably wouldn’tve let me outa there ’til I converted.” “S’possible. Lotsa emotion bottled up in there last night. They mighta worked up a little ‘Christ-killer’ scenario for you.” “Ah, emotion. Thought with no basis in fact. Essential for love, sex and art, and a pain in the ass damn near anyplace else.” “You really wanta reconcile pussy-fixation and martyrdom today? We shoulda gotten an earlier start.” “Ah, hell,” Ribeye interjected, “You know how them preachers are. They don’t think they’ve done their job ’til they got you rollin’ around in th’ aisles, scared shitless about goin’ to hell or sump’m. I ever tell you the one about th’ preacher that ’us finishin’ up a sermon, and looked out over the congregation and said ‘Who’s ready to go to Heaven? Everybody that’s ready, raise their hands.’ Well, hands started goin’ up all over the room. Pretty soon everybody’s hand was up, except for this one ol’ snaggle-tooth boy, riit in th’ middle of the third row. He just sat there in ‘is Sunday overhalls with his hair slicked down, lookin’ back up at th’ preacher. Well, th’ preacher couldn’t stand that, so he pointed a finger down at ’im. ‘You, sir; you habm’t raised your hand. Don’t you want to go to heaven?’ Well, th’ old boy looked up at him and said, ‘Sho do; I reckon ever’body wants to go to heaven.’ ‘Well, then,’ the preacher said, why ain’t you raisin’ your hand?’ and the old boy looked up at him and said, ‘Oh, I thought you ’us gettin’ up a load today.’” “Looks like it’s gonna be a longer week than most around here,” said Moses, grinning ruefully at the joke as he shook his head. “God save us from the newly-saved. They jump you, fresh from th’ spiri- tual retread, when ya least expect it.” Webster laughed. “Well, when you consider that mosta these good folks are pretty damn ill-informed about anything that takes place more’n a hundred miles from here…” Hip–Deep in Sheep-Dip 505

“Yep,” Moses grinned as he waggled his empty Red Cap in the air at Ribeye in request for renewal. “With a horizon like that, sump’m like eternal life could look pretty plausible, couldn’t it?” “Um-hm, ’long as it’s backed up with good theatre. That music man whipped a pretty decent choir together outa Baptists, Method- ists, Presbyterians et cetera. Reba was sayin’ you gave ’im a ride on that widowmaker of yours the other day.” “Yeah; he walked up to me at the café and asked me about it. Turns out he’s had a bike or two, so I ran ’im out to th’ house to show off my little collection.” “A bible-thumpin’ biker. Quite a combination.” “Yeah, he’s a pretty decent guy. And damn glad to be over here.” “No doubt. That’s some story he tells. Stowin’ away not once, but twice, to get here from Latvia, wherever that is,” Webster said, stiﬂing a belch. “He told you that?” asked Moses. “He told everybody that. At the revival.” “Oh. Well, you’re right, it’s quite a story, and there’s got to be a lot more to it. Too bad we can’t sit ’im down in here and hear the uncut version.” “Yeah, preachers and bar rooms don’t mix, at least in Bisque. Even though he’s not exactly a preacher.” “Close enough. Maybe I’ll get ’im out to the house after the soul- savin’s subsided. How’d you like that?” “Sure. Never had a bad time at Rancho Notorious.” “In the meantime, you can get some pagan relief down at your favorite salon of th’ silver screen.” “Oh, yeah? What’s playin’?” “A 1942 revival, brought back by unpopular demand–White Cargo.” A single word parted Lee Webster’s lips. “Tondelayo.” “Yes, my boy, Tondelayo–Hedy Lamarr with th’ deepest tan you’ll ever see on a white girl. You remember.” 506 The Rough English Equivalent

“Who could forget? The whites of her eyes…and teeth. Seems like they’re glowin’ in the dark. And that whip work; she even makes a human being outa Walter Pidgeon. How long’s it gonna run?” “Right through the weekend. Don’t you read your own commercial copy?” “Tondelayo make time stand still.” “Oughta take some of th’ revival chill off, anyway. Give th’ non- believers and fence-straddlers a little sump’m to take their minds off all the new-found sanctiﬁcation.” “Yes, indeed,” said Webster, “hard to tolerate much sanctiﬁcation in th’ presence of a hard-on.” chapter 23 s Go Down, Moses

0935 Monday 2 April 1956: Guess it’s revival hangover, Moses thought as he walked into an almost-deserted Bisque Café. He’d driven downtown with the windows down, the damp morning sweeping gently over his face, having left the Hamm County Beverage Company anchored in a most unnatural Monday morning calm. The mood here appeared to be the same. Even Reba’s perpetual perkiness was somehow attenuated, as though she were projecting it through gauze. Like film of a past- her-prime actress shot through scrim, but for emotional effect instead of softening the striations of survival. She, like the rest of his fellow Bisquites whom he’d seen so far this morning, seemed to be moving around smoothly, quietly at about three-quarter speed. “Good mornin’, Mose,” she said as she filled his cup. “Mornin’, Reba. Not much traffic today.” “No. Habm’ been much atall. Guess a lot of people are keepin’ to themselves this mornin’, digestin’ what th’ revival’s meant to ’em. Don’t guess I’d mind doin’ that myself, if it ’us so that I could.” “Yeah, I imagine so. Taking a good look at yourself’s a strenuous thing to do. Any sign of the revivaleers this mornin’?”

- 507 - 508 The Rough English Equivalent

“They’re gone,” she said, unable to keep a plaintive note out of the words. “They’us checked out by eight. Brother Ted said they’d be leavin’ as soon as their meetin’ with th’ Council was over.” “That’s a hard-working bunch. Did he say where they were going next?” “Florence. First meetin’s Friday week.” “All the way across South Carolina,” said Moses. “Well, they won’t be forgotten around here for quite awhile, or I’ll miss my guess.” “No, sir,” Reba said, glancing across the street at the church. “That’s for sure. Well, lemme see what’s goin’ on in th’ back. You waitin’ on anybody?” “Nope. Just thought I’d stop in for coffee and see who’us around.” “Well, if you’re gonna be here for a little while, I’d ’preeshate it if you’d keep an eye on things for me for just a coupla minutes.” “Sure.” He’d asked Dieter to plan on pointing the green Studebaker’s bullet nose back to Bisque after the Tabernacle’s next engagement. That, he figured, would give him time to work out a rationale for the soon- to-be ex-Minister of Music’s becoming a Bisquite. He hadn’t gone much beyond the idea that his post-revival popularity and ecclesiastical cover would let him say something on the order of “I felt called” to return. His visits to the town’s churches would then be likely to produce some kind of job offer, Bisque being Bisque, making his pre- departure sojourn as uneventful as possible. The details underlying that master view, however, were still to be worked out. He’d start with their already-established mutual love for motorcycles and work things out from there. Another immediate question is when, and how much, of this new development Dieter will figure’s necessary to share with his KGB masters, in the interest of forestalling an untimely “field inspection.” At that point, Jack broke in on his cogi- tation. “Good morning, sir.” Go Down, Moses 509

Startled, Moses looked up at him. “Hey, shitbird. Thought you’d be on the road by now.” Then, as he focused on the boy’s face, he asked “You all right?” “Yeah, but I didn’t get much sleep. Stayed up most of th’ night talkin’–or listenin’–to Ricky.” “What now?” “I’m glad you’re sittin’ down. He called me after the revival closed last night. He’s joinin’ up with ’em.” Moses swung his head up to look at the ceiling in resignation. All he said was “Mmnh, mmnh, mmnh, mmnh, mmnh.” “And that ain’t all.” Moses looked over at him morosely. “What more could there be?” “Diana and Dolores’re goin’ too.” Moses, who had bowed his head slightly, now raised it to look once again at Jack. “Let me ask you one thing.” “What?” “Are they takin’ that fuckin’ car with ’em?” Jack looked at him for a split second before breaking up; in another they were both laughing maniacally. Reba looked around the kitchen doorway in time to see the two of them convulsed, Jack’s head on the table and Moses holding on to its edges as though he were trying to keep it from ﬂying away. She started to say something, thought better of it, and withdrew, shaking her head. 1205 Monday 2 April 1956: Barry Edwards sat alone at a table in the Elks Club bar as Moses walked in, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. He stood, portly and immaculate in gray seersucker slacks, short-sleeve Gant oxford cloth shirt and blue-red-yellow Paisley tie, waving a hand. He extended it as Moses reached the table. “Mr. Kubielski.” he said with a broad smile. “Thanks for accepting my invitation.” “I was too intrigued not to,” Moses said as they shook hands. “Well, Mr. Edwards; it’s been a while.” 510 The Rough English Equivalent

“Yes it has. I still remember the day that Bruce Goode brought you here for lunch not long after you moved here.” “About ten years ago,” said Moses. “Hab’mnt set foot in here since. Not much has changed, near as I can tell.” “No, not much; I guess that’s the way most of us prefer it. You haven’t changed much, either; wish I could say the same. A congressional campaign’s no way to lose weight.” “No, I guess not.” Nor keep your hair, either, Moses thought as he looked at Edwards’ widening expanse of scalp. “How ’bout some lunch?” Asked Edwards, beckoning to a waiter as he pushed his chair back. “How’s it goin’,anyway?” Moses asked as they sat down in the dining room. “Uphill, as you might guess. I bit off a hell of a chunk, switching to the Republican party and taking on somebody with a statewide identity. Secretary of State may not be a glamorous job, but old Clark’s used it to make a lot of friends. And one of ’em’s a friend of yours.” “Who’s that?” “Pap Redding. Shall we order?” “I remember that the special was good the last time I was here,” said Moses, looking up at the waiter. “Whatever it is, I’ll go with it again.” “Make it two,” Edwards said, returning to his subject. “There’s a handful of people in the Tenth District whose opinions’re greatly respected. Pap’s one of those people. So are you. People tell me that he respects your opinion above anyone else’s.” “Well, I’m fortunate to have him as a friend and business partner, but I’ve learned a great deal more from him than he’s ever likely to learn from me.” “Based on what I’ve heard, I’d say you were a very modest man. I certainly admire that. But you managed to see that I got my ass kicked in a couple of commission campaigns. And based on what I Go Down, Moses 511 know about the way you do business, I’d guess that your politics weren’t exactly in what we might call the mainstream around here.” “I’m not sure that I follow you,” said Moses. “I mean,” said Edwards, “putting a nigra into a management job.” “That’s not politics. You used the word yourself; it’s management. Ralph Williams is a hell of an asset to my business, and if he weren’t he’d still be loading trucks.” “I understand that; anybody who runs a business should. But as I said, it doesn’t exactly reﬂect mainstream thought in the Tenth Dis- trict, or Georgia in general for that matter. But things’re changing, and that’s why I wanted to talk to you, one on one, without any campaign staff looking over my shoulder.” “Go on.” “What I came here to do today,” Edwards said, his gaze one of gravitas, “is to invite you to join us.” Moses smiled. “By ‘us,’ you mean the Republicans.” “Yes, I do. The Democrats’ve had it their way in the South for far too long. It’s time for a change, and I’m asking you to join with us to bring that change about.” “You mentioned Pap Redding a minute ago. I assume your invitation extends to him, too.” “Of course. If you think he’d consider it.” “Of course. And you think that he might, if I asked him to.” “I think that it’s probably the only way that he would,” Edwards said, goosing the gravitas to a maximum. “So you’re running for Congress,” Moses said, poker-faced, “to change things. What things j’you have in mind?” He watched Edwards’ heavy features relax several percent as he shifted into campaign mode. “Georgia’s grown fast since the war–I mean World War Two–but’s it’s going to grow even faster in the years ahead. It’s the largest state east of the Mississippi, and it needs leaders with vision to link its Confederate past with its manifest destiny as a leading state of the union. Reveille’s been sounded; it was the 512 The Rough English Equivalent

Supreme Court’s decision in Brown versus Board of Education. As long as our lawmakers insist, as they did when they adopted the new state ﬂag this February, on reﬁghting the War Between the States every chance they get, the rest of the country’s gonna go on lookin’ at Georgia and its people as God’s-Little-fuckin-Acre come to life. Georgia needs new leadership, in Washington, in Atlanta, all over the damn state; people who’ll think more of the future than of the past. Segregation’s the past; one-crop cotton farming’s the past; new industries, nuclear energy–that big-ass monster over there, the Savannah River Project–are the future. And Georgia’s future can best be served by the Republican party.” “Even if you and I agree on alla that,” said Moses, “Gettin’ Georgia people to vote for the party of Lincoln’s gonna take some doin’. I’d say they’d be a lot more likely to object to the Democrats’ way of doin’ things by votin’ for a states’ rights candidate, the way they did across the river in ’48 for Thurmond.” “You bring up an interesting point,” Edwards said, pausing as the waiter set bowls of vegetable soup in front of them. “Strom sure as hell didn’t think he’d win the presidency in ’48; his objective was to be recognized as the leader of the country’s states’ rights movement. And he succeeded, at least to the point of being elected to the Senate by write-in votes. And he’s very likely to be reelected this year. But even though he went against the national party in ’48, he’s still a Democrat.” “That’s my point,” said Moses. “All that happened right across the Savannah River. “What makes you think Georgia voters’ll tolerate a Republican?” “They’ll not only tolerate Republicans, they’ll do it for the same reason that they tolerated Strom boltin’ the party in ’48. They’ll do it because the Democrats in Washington’re taking away their rights. And if they don’t do it in this election, they’ll do it in the next, or the one after that.” “You’re willing to wait that process out?” Go Down, Moses 513

“Strom was,” said Edwards. “And I’ll tell you something else.” “What’s that?” “He’ll be a Republican, himself, before it’s over.” “That’ll be the day,” said Moses, popping the last crispy-soft bite of pan-fried catfish into his mouth. “In the meantime, we’re building the Republican Party of Geor- gia, and we’d like your help,” Edwards persisted. “What can I do to make that happen?” “Convince me that you mean it. Not that I know how you can. I wouldn’t even mention it to Pap otherwise.” “I knew you’d be a tough customer when I called you. But if I can convince you, then I’ll know I’m on the right track. Maybe I oughta start with a question; what do you get out of being part of the status quo?” “If you assume that I want something ‘out of being part of the status quo,’” said Moses, “then my answer would have to be ‘not a whole lot.’ I’m no politician, or any kinda kingmaker, either.” Nailing Edwards with a steel gaze the man hadn’t seen before, he asked him, “You wanta know why I backed Browne in the commission elec- tions?” Edwards did what he could to keep his eyebrows from climbing up his commodious forehead as he returned the gaze. “Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “I do.” “I just didn’t like you, or the crowd you run with, all that much.” Edwards’ forcible exhalation produced a gentle flapping of cheeks. “Well, that’s straight enough. And honestly, you’ve never been exactly my cup of tea either, so I don’t guess it should surprise me. We don’t have all that much in common.” “We’ve got Bisque in common,” Moses said, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. “I think we just handle livin’ here in different ways.” Edwards regarded the twitch with a seconds-long blank look. Then laughter kicked in, a gentle shaking in his chest that worked its 514 The Rough English Equivalent way into his shoulders, oscillating his head side-to-side in a short arc. Slapping the white tablecloth, he went on laughing as he waved a hand for the check, then looked back at Moses. “Le’s have coffee in the bar–Irish coffee, OK?” “It’s a little hot, to me, for Irish coffee,” Moses said as they stepped up to the bar. “How about a Stinger instead?” “What’s that?” asked Edwards. “Brandy and white crème de menthe, shaken. This time of day, they should probably be on the rocks.” “Make it two, George,” Edwards said to the waiting bartender. They carried the drinks to the same table in the corner that they’d left earlier. “That’s pretty good,” Edwards said after his first sip. He quickly took another, then said, “I hear tell you’re quite a pilot.” “I better be,” said Moses, taking the abrupt change of course in stride. “Gene Debs’n I bought us a fairly hot bird last year. It’ll be my ass if I ever let it get aheada me.” “You had a pretty good instructor, of course.” “None better.” “Think he’d take me on as a student?” It was Moses’ eyebrows’ turn to climb toward his scalp. “Hard to say. Gene Debs’ business is crop dustin’, y’know.” “If he would,” Edwards said, gravitas returning momentarily, “how d’you think I’d do?” “Even harder to say. But I hear tell you were a pretty good ballplayer a while back. Where was that, anyway?” “Georgia, then Chicago, ’til my knees gave out.” “Well, I’d guess that you probably have the reflexes and coordina- tion to fly. It takes a lot of time, though; I mean you couldn’t just fly once or twice a month and make any progress.” “I wouldn’t expect so; I couldn’t do it during this campaign, or if I’m in Congress. But if I’m not in Congress, I’m gonna want something to take my mind off th’ fact that I’m not there. Go Down, Moses 515

“Ever thought about motorcycles? A bike’ll give you a lot of the same kind of exhilaration, with a lot less demand on your time–and your money.” Edwards’ grimace was slight but unmistakable. “No. Doesn’t have the same appeal to me at all. Besides, the town’d be scandalized. To say nothin’ of my wife.” “Oh, well,” Moses’ grin was openly derisive, “If it’s appearances you’re worried about…” “I hafta be concerned about appearances,” Edwards interrupted, signaling George for another round of drinks as he did. “No offense, but that’s probably the main thing that puts people off about you, Mose–you mind if we make it Mose and Barry? You just don’t seem to give a shit what people think.” “I don’t care, Barry,” Moses said, straight-faced. “About people who think that they should, or can, change the way I choose to live. Fuck ’em.” “I honestly don’t understand how you can say that. You must’ve known what living in a town like this is like, particularly for busi- nessmen, when you decided to live here. Certain things’re expected of all of us.” “Well, as far as I’ve been able to determine, most of history involves unmet expectations. Not many people around here expected that you’d turn Republican, did they?” Edwards, exasperated, shook his head. “It’s not the same thing, and I think you know it. Making certain kinds of changes’s OK, because they have the potential of making things better for lots of people. Others aren’t OK, because…” “Because they just make things better for a few?” asked Moses. “Yes. Like your motorcycles. They…” “Actually, I was thinkin’ about the industry you’re a part of. Where management and stockholders live high on the hog, and the lintheads skin by at a dollar an hour.” 516 The Rough English Equivalent

“Hopkins Mills pays an average of a dollar sixty-five,” objected Edwards, draining his glass. “If you can keep them comin’ to work for that, more power to you,” said Moses, catching George’s eye and circling a finger above his head. “But you’re in deep water when you tell me that I should let the opinions of people like you affect how I live.” “Oh, no, that’s not what I mean at all,” Edwards backpedaled. “I’m just saying that, long term…” “Long term,” observed Moses, “we’re all dead; and you and I are better than halfway there. Have you had much fun, Barry?” Edwards looked at him for a long moment. “Fun?” he said finally, the word coming out as a bitter chuckle as George set fresh drinks in front of them. “Fun?” he said again as the Negro withdrew. “You come from the place that I do, fun’s the last damn thing you think about.” His words stretched out as his below-the-Fall-Line dialect surfaced. “You know what you thank about first?” He drank half of the fresh drink in one gulp. “Survivin’. Survivin’, and puttin’ as much distance as possible between yo’sef and a South Georgia mule’s aiess. I ran away from that sitchashun as fast as I could, carryin’ a fuhbawl, straight outa high school, runnin’ as hard as I possibly could, first fuh one coach, then fuh ’nother. Coach Thomas, Coach Butts, Coach Halas–each one of ’em helped me get a little farther away from ever havin’ t’look that mule in th’ aiess again. Cost me my knees, but fuck it. I’m an All-American, even if it was second team, an’ I can’t eb’m remember what a mule’s aiess looks liike.” “It’s quite a ways,” said Moses, “from there to here, sure enough. Don’t sound like much fun to me, though.” “Fun’s for kids, if they’re lucky. You ever hear that scripture, ‘When I became a man, I put away chiildish things?’” “Seems to me I have. But if you put fun in the category of ‘childish things,’ you make a serious mistake. Could it be that, since Consoli- dated bought y’all out, you’ve conceded what a bore life in this little burg really is, and that succeedin’ somewhere besides the mill culture Go Down, Moses 517 you married into’d be fun? What the hell’s the good of life if there’s no fun in it?” “My candidacy’s got nothin’ to with fun,” said Edwards as he set his empty glass on the table, “fuh me fun, if that’s whatcha wanta call it, ‘s’in watchin’ my kids growin’ up, makin’ sure they have ev’ythang they need, and bein’ a granddad one day. You got any chillun?” “That hasn’t been my good fortune, at least not yet.” “Best get about it, boy; you ain’t gettin’ any younger. Ginny–my wiife–said her friends’s givin’ long odds you an’ Pap’s daughter’d get married, back when y’all bought Harvey Fulford out.” “Hope they didn’t get too many takers,” said Moses. “Miz Mason and I’re just friends. I think a whole lot of her boy, too. Wouldn’tve minded bein’ his daddy, not one little bit.” “No, I reckon not; he’s a smart young man. Set out to be a helluva ballplayer, too. That bidness with th’ Terrell kid—” “Was very unfortunate for th’ Bisque Bears and their fans,” Moses interrupted, but otherwise of very little consequence to th’ fate of th’ world. I’m sorry th’ kids had to live through it, and that th’ adults involved handled it th’ way they did, but Tech signed Terrell outa Taylor just the way they would’ve outa Bisque. And it was a real growin’-up experience for Jack.” “You pissin’ on my laig ’n callin’ it rain? Fuck Tech,” grated Edwards, his fury sudden and intense. And fuck Taylor, fer that matter. ‘At’sa pretty damn hifalutin’ school for a fuckin’ insurance agent’s kid. Buncha Chattanooga pantywaists. “That kid oughta be at Geor- gia. And would be, if he’da kept ’is dick in ’is pants.” “There’s plenty’a blame to spread around, far as that’s concerned,” Moses observed. “Anyway, he’s all set to tear ’em up this year.” “No doubt,” said Edwards, “but he shoulda tore ’em up for th’ Bears. This town’s had one chance in th’ last twenny years t’win a state championship, an’ we went from that t’nuthin overniit, thanks t’some faist movin’ on th’ part of people around Terrell t’get ’im up ’air t’Taylor s’goddam faist.” 518 The Rough English Equivalent

“Had to be there in time for spring practice,” smiled Moses. “An’ now I hear he’s doin’ a little preachin’ on th’side. Well, hangin’ out with Jack Mason, he’ll probly get some more hifalutin ideas– waay more than a kid from aroun’ here’s got enny bidness with.” “‘Hifalutin’? You fucking peckerwood. You better be glad he didn’t go to Taylor himself, and take half the team with ’im. And by the way, that ‘kid’ would kick your fat ass pretty handily, in any kinda fight you can imagine.” “More bullshit. You start lis’nin ta people like you and that Mammy ’a his, ya miit forget about who th’ fuck calls th’ shots in this here town.” “This is,” said Moses, “a piss-poor way to get into Pap’s good graces. To say nothing of mine.” He stood up. “Thanks for lunch, Edwards.” “Where the hell d’you think you’re goin’, Jew-boy?” said Edwards, sneering up at him. “This shit ain’t settled yet.” “Believe me, it’s settled. Be seein’ ya.” Moses was a few steps away when he heard Edwards stand up. By the time he’d turned around, the candidate for Congress had gained a good head of steam and was lumbering in his direction, his head sunk between his shoulders. Moses head-faked to the left, then stuck out his left foot. Edwards went down in a heap, the breath knocked out of him. He rolled over on his back, unable yet to gasp for breath. “Just stay there ’til I’m gone,” said Moses. “I’ve never killed anybody, but a sorry sonofabitch like you could screw up my record.” 1805 Friday 6 April 1956: Shifting on his stool, one eye out for Jack, Moses reflected on the uniqueness of this Friday afternoon at Ribeye’s. Although the legal drinking age in Georgia was eighteen, today would be the first time that he and Jack had drunk together in public. He hoped, not at all logically, that they wouldn’t have a lot of company this first time. He was still hoping when Jack burst through the swinging doors in ten- Go Down, Moses 519 nis whites, which Moses had never seen him in before. “Hey, beer man,” he said, grinning broadly and sliding onto the stool on Moses’ right. “Hey yourself, Jack Kramer. Didn’t know you did that. And so natty.” “Shit. Terry got these for me. I woulda changed, but I ran outa time. Think we’ll get outa here alive?” “Long as we leave early; otherwise we’d better see Ribeye about a coupla pistols. What’ll ya have?” “One a’those’ll be fine. Been here long?” “Nah. Glad I got here before you did, anyway. Never can tell when one pissant linthead or another’ll have enough to drink to get up on his hind legs, temporary though the condition may be.” “Yeah. There’s only one letter between pissant ’n puissant.” “And only one between en passant and en pissant, for that matter.” “Touché. And it’s been way too long since we broke out the chess- board. But enough about this pussy outfit.” “Done. Whaddya hear from Ricky?” “Called this morning. He’s headed back to Atlanta.” “Damn. Short career in th’ ministry. What’d he do, sober up?” “Guess so. But leavin’ wasn’t his idea. Ol’ Shep run ’im off.” Moses’ eyebrows elevated slightly. “That right?” “Mm-hmm. Said he didn’t believe Ricky had ‘th’ callin’,’ and gave ’im bus fare back to school.” “Well, the guy ain’t all bad then. Bus fare. I take it, then, that th’ twins do have ‘th’ callin’.” “Well, they certainly have sump’m. And I ’magine it’s a damn sight more persuasive than th’ fuckin’ ‘callin’’ “Shit, bawey. I can’t teach you nothin.’”

“Did j’all have a nice cocktail hour?” Serena asked him, running her hand inside his shirt and up and down his back in lazy swipes. 520 The Rough English Equivalent

He’d locked the gate to eliminate drop-in company. “It was a lotta fun. He showed up dressed like Don Budge.” “My god. In th’ Bisque Lunch Room? You must love the boy if you’d see him through that.” “Well, yeah, I do, now that you mention it. You and Herr Doktor put a pretty good human together.” “I can do nothing less than agree–up to a point. But with respect to who he is now, we had a major partner.” “If you mean me…” “No. I mean Philip Marlowe. Of course I mean you. If it bothers you, we can change the subject. Pass th’ Crosse & Blackwell.” She milked his dick like the extension of an outsize udder, complete with the little twist at the end. He lay back on the bed. She leaned over him on her left elbow, loosening his belt and the button at the top of his pants. “Ooh, baby, look at that,” she breathed as clear liquid drooled from his dick. Cir- cling it just below the head with her thumb and forefinger, she caught the stream as it poured down the sides. She brought the snug surcingle of her fingers first up over the head, then down to the base, spreading the slickness over the thick cylinder’s full length. “It always surprises me how much of that stuff you put out.” She kissed the tip, pulling back momentarily to look at it, a wiry translucent thread connecting it to her lips. Returning, she teased the top of the glans with scores of little tongue-tip licks, making the veins swell under the skin so they felt like strands of steel cable. Moses groaned. “Just stay where you are, baby,” she told him. “This is gonna take a while.” She lay alongside him, face on his chest, one leg between his. They’d dozed briefly, having exhausted each other as thoroughly as they had ever done. Dusk had slipped into dark as early spring crickets scraped in time to their breathing. The thought that this could be their last time sent a shudder through him. “You cold?” she asked. “A little. Don’t think I turned up the thermostat when we came in.” Go Down, Moses 521

“Well, you can be a single-minded sonofabitch sometimes. Thank God.” “This from the mouth of one who gives up everything for art.” “You’ve never thought that was much of a deal, have you?” “No. But it wasn’t my deal. It was yours. How’re you feelin’ about it these days, anyway?” “Same as I did the day Jack and I left Los Alamos. Hurtin’ but determined.” “That could be a Kitty Wells song.” “Yeah, but it’s mine. I’m starting to feel like this century’s Camille Claudel, sans Rodin.” “From what you told me about how that story ended, I’d say you’re lucky. Did she have any children?” “No.” “Well, there you go. As determined as you are to leave some big footprints in the art world, you’ll never create anything as fine as Jack.” “You’re right. And I know that you think I’m a selfish, ambitious bitch to have raised him the way I have.” “No. You did what you had to do. That much I know. I wasn’t real happy about the place that left in your life for me, but I came to grips with that quite a while back.” “I know. I wish you’d think about going back to New York with me. Maybe be my business manager…” He cut her off. “New York’s the past for me, sweetie. I’ve told you that often enough. I’ll come see you now and then, of course.” “You better.” “Where do you think Jack’ll go when he finishes school?” “I’d hope New York, too, or somewhere up east, but he hasn’t said much one way or the other. I sure don’t want him coming back here for any length of time. Not to be cheek-by-jowl with that misbegot- ten asshole of God across the river. Call it the instrument of Arma- geddon or the secular equivalent, you can bet the Red’sve already got 522 The Rough English Equivalent it targeted, for sure. His grandfather’d give ’im the moon to sign on as his understudy, of course, and screw the end of the world.” “No, he’d never be satisfied here, Armageddon or no Armaged- don.” She snuggled close to him, pulling the covers up around them. “Bisque’s not the place to come for satisfaction, let alone happiness. I guess that’s the lot of small towns, at least the ones I know about. Instead of happiness, the town skypilots’ll be happy to pursue ‘joy’ with you, as long as you let them define it. Even then, you’ll do a lot more pursuing than you’ll do catching.” “And how’d your little skypilot handle the pursuit of joy?” “About like you’d expect. Made ’im talk dirty while I jacked ’im off; haven’t seen much of ’im lately.” “You are an evil bitch. Makin’ me buttfuck you on th’ first date.” “That was no date,” she laughed. “Anyway, you better not stop buttfuckin’ me.” “Well, you found out what a hard time I have seein’ past the end of my dick as soon as you introduced the concept to my unschooled libido.” “Well,” she said, “if it’s any consolation, some people would call that a fairly long way. You’re a quick study, young man, and I’ll miss you when I’m gone.” “When’s that gonna be, d’you think?” “October first at the latest. Already signed a lease; 153 East 57th St., apartment 5B.” Moses smiled as his eyebrows went up. “Nice neighborhood. That’s a little quicker than I’d thought.” “To quote Snuffy Smith, “‘Time’s a-wastin.’” “There’s some truth in that. Well, be thinkin’ about what you want for a goin’-away present.” “I’ll tell you right now,” she said. “What?” “You in New York for New Year’s, and about a week thereafter.” Go Down, Moses 523

He reached out to cup the back of her head in his hand, turning her face so that they were eye to eye. “Done deal,” he said.

chapter 24 s Cuba Libre

My Sunday woman bring the Daily News By Monday woman buy me stockin’ and shoes Bed’ not let my good gal catch you heanh Ain’ no tellin’ what po’ lil’ Lucy Mae do She left one Christmas day Comin’ back that afternoon Next time I seen ’er boy It wa’ da nineteen ’ a June Bed’ not let my good gal catch you heanh Ain’ no Tellin’ What po’ lil’ Lucy Mae do —Freddie Lee Sims, Lucy Mae Blues 0810 Wednesday 30 May 1956: “Hiya, Kid,” said Moses, waving Jack through the front door. “C’mon in. Hope I didn’t wake you up too early.” “Nah. Not if I get breakfast out of th’ deal, anyway.”

- 525 - 526 The Rough English Equivalent

“Grits’ll be ready in a couple of minutes, and the bacon’s done. Want some eggs?” “Maybe, but let’s have the grits first. Might just fill up on them,” Jack said, grinning. “What’s so funny?” “Nothing. I was just remembering the first time you saw grits, in the cafe. You weren’t too excited about eatin’ ’em that day, and now you’re fixin’ ’em yourself.” “Hell, I had no idea what I was missin’. You know, it’s a pretty damn fine world when a nickel’s wortha food can make you feel so good. Let’s sit out back while they finish cookin’; grab some coffee on your way.” They sat on the terrace, looking down the slope of dewy, fresh cut lawn to the pond. “I appreciate you comin’ out early on your first day home, Buddy, because I need to tell you about some stuff, and this way we won’t be interrupted. Nobody’s business but ours, and it’ll take a little time. I’ve been sittin’ on it for quite awhile, but now I need to tell you about it.” Jack shifted in his chair to look squarely at Moses. “Sounds important.” “Yes, it does,” Flx, perched on the driveway lamp post just behind them, agreed. “It is. And not that easy to tell. You’ll want to ask me some questions, so let me just start and we’ll see how it goes. I’ll move along as fast as I can, but it won’t make much sense if you don’t have some background. Let’s start with New York. I told you about wantin’ to get out of there, and joinin’ the Navy as a way to get out.” “Yeah.” “And how I ended up in Cuba.” “Yeah. What was that place? ‘Getmore?’” “‘Gitmo.’ Guantánamo Bay. Way the hell out on the east end of the island. The hottest, buggiest place I’d ever been. I’ve told you Cuba Libre 527 about that part, and I’ve told you about going back to New York after my hitch was up, but I left some things out.” “Like what?” “Like lettin’ what happened to me down there sour me on the whole idea of being an American.” “What happened to you? What was it?” “I fell in love. With somebody’s wife, unfortunately. And even more unfortunately, she was the wife of the guy that I worked for, a Chief Petty Officer by the name of Tanner. Lídia. A beautiful woman, Cuban, who’d made an awful mistake marryin’ this guy. But it wouldn’tve made any difference; I couldn’tve stayed away from her if she’d been married to the CO.” “And she felt the same way?” “Yes. We were as much in love as two people that young could be. She was twenty-three, twelve years younger than Tanner. I was twenty, and not as grown up as I thought I was. He was a big, red- headed, loudmouthed boozer, and she was miserable with him. But we woulda fallen in love whether she’d been with ’im or not.” “What did she look like?” “Oh, she was small, five-two, very slim, and dark. Deep blue eyes. Very Spanish; Basque, actually. High cheekbones. Her family’s been in Cuba for a long time. Sometimes I’d see a Basque woman in Spain, just a few years later, that would have me livin’ the thing all over again. But I’m gettin’ ahead of myself. “Another thing I haven’t told you–my name then was Wessel. Peter Wessel. I’ve told you I went to college–New York University, where my father taught philosophy, to please him and my mom. They met while he was in Ireland, at University College in Dublin. She was Jewish-Irish, and even more determined than he was to get me educated. Trouble was, my heart wasn’t in it. Life’ll put you in a slot if you let it; remember that if you forget everything else that I tell you. The slot life, and my folks, had in mind for me was definitely not the one that I had in mind for myself. I’d started boxing in 528 The Rough English Equivalent

Golden Gloves matches when I was fourteen, and my heart was definitely in that. I’d won some fights–twelve–by the time I was eighteen, and I had it in my mind to turn pro when I was twenty-one. I never told my folks that, but my grades were going to hell because I was spending too much time in the gym. Ridgewood Grove, way the hell over in Queens. I’d spar whenever I could, picking up pointers on style, plus a little spare change. I was a middleweight then–just under the 160-pound weight limit, and I was starting to make some friends and get some attention when all the class-skippin’ caught up with me. “They’dve just notified most students by mail, but since my dad was on the faculty they let him know immediately that I’d been thrown out. Anyone in that position would’ve been embarrassed, but with Papa it was a complete tragedy. He was waitin’ for me when I got home that night, with no idea that I’d been given th’ gate. I’ll never forget the sadness in his face. He was sitting in the living room, a stack of papers beside him, when I walked through the front door. He just looked at me, saying nothing, with that incredible sadness in his face. ‘Hello, Papa,’ I said to him. ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘As of today, Peter,’ he said after looking at me over the top of his glasses for what seemed like five minutes, ‘you are no longer a student at New York University.’ ‘What?’ I said. ‘It can’t be that much of a surprise. You were warned repeatedly that you were in danger of being terminated. And now it’s happened. The question is, what will you do now?’ “As you might imagine, I had no answer to that question. After a couple weeks that were miserable for all of us, I decided to ride over to Staten Island and back on the ferry. It was Friday afternoon, the day after Thanksgiving. I saw a buncha sailors standin’ at the rail, kiddin’ around and lookin’ like they were havin’ a lot of fun. I got to talkin’ to ’em; their ship, a cruiser, had just come back from the Car- ibbean. The more I heard, the more I thought that the Navy might be Cuba Libre 529 a good idea for me. Three weeks later, I was in boot camp at Great Lakes, Michigan. “After boot camp, I went to Aviation Machinist school. When I finished, I got orders to Gitmo, in June of 1929. As a Seaman, Sec- ond-class, Aviation Machinist’s Mate ‘striker’, I was assigned to the aviation maintenance department, down on th’ salt flats at Hicacal Beach. There wasn’t much down there; a pier, machine shop, barracks and married quarters, and a seaplane ramp. I went right to work on the line; it was hot work, but we had a lot of off-duty time, and booze was cheap. I got to know the guys in the shop, and made some friends. All ‘non-rated,’ like me; Seamen, Seaman Apprentices. The rated guys, petty officers, stayed pretty much to themselves. Gitmo was a big base, and we could play baseball and fish and get just as drunk for less money on base than you could outside the gate. The only difference was gettin’ laid. Sometimes we’d go on liberty off base, and ride the bus to a couple of the towns that were close by, checkin’ out the women and drinkin’ Cuba Libres–rum and Coke with lime. Cuba’s a beautiful place, but none of us spoke Spanish, and there wasn’t much goin’ on. “I first met Lídia at an all-hands party the Saturday after Thanks- giving. She was with Chief Tanner, of course. There weren’t that many wives around; most of them stayed in the States. The only reason she was there was that Tanner had married her while being stationed at Gitmo. So she and a couple of the other wives were sitting at a table with the wife of Captain Harris, the station CO, looking very bored while their husbands either played baseball or stood around shootin’ the shit with each other and gettin’ drunk. She sat quietly, makin’ the best of it, her tan skin lookin’ so good against the white of her dress. “I had seen her a few times before, and knew who she was. You don’t just see a woman like Lídia and go on your way without finding out who she is. But this was the first time I’d seen her close-up, and 530 The Rough English Equivalent in a situation where I could make up some reason to speak to her. I knew I had to; I might not get another chance for months. “What’d you do?” “We were watchin’ the baseball game. I waited until Tanner’s team was in the field. He was pitchin’,so he couldn’t keep an eye on her the way he did when he was waitin’ to bat, or even while he was on base. Then I dragged my pal Douglas over to the wives’ table with me. ‘Please excuse us, ladies,’ I said. “‘Yes, what is it?’ said Mrs. Harris. They all looked up at us in mild amazement, her most of all. A CO’s wife naturally wouldn’t expect to be approached by enlisted men, particularly seamen. Not unless they’d been mustered for some work detail. “‘This won’t take a minute, ma’am,’ I said, ‘I’m Seaman Wessel, and this is Seaman Douglas. He and I are tryin’ to learn a little Span- ish, so we can represent the Navy and our country the best way we can when we’re on liberty. He and I disagree on the way somethin’ should be said, and we were told that Mrs. Tanner is Cuban. We wanted to ask her who’s right.’” “‘Well, I imagine she could tell you,’ she said, glad to see that we were there on a diplomatic mission. ‘Would you mind settling these sailors’ question for them, Lídia?’” “‘Not at all,’ she said. She had this lovely, musical soprano voice; she looked up at us with her dark blue eyes, smilin’. ‘What do you want to say?’ I was sure that she saw right through my little smoke- screen. “‘Thank you ma’am,’ I said, ‘when you order in a cantina, should you say ‘Da me so-and-so, por favor’ or ‘De me?’ “She laughed, showin’ perfect, small white teeth. ‘De me’ is the right way to say it, but most people say ‘Da me.’ I don’t know why. You might also want to try ‘Traígame so-and-so.’ Just for a change. It means ‘Bring me.’ “‘I see,’ I said, ‘Traígame. Thank you ma’am. Grácias.’ “‘De nada, Seaman…will you say your name again for me?’ Cuba Libre 531

“‘Wessel, ma’am.’ I said. ‘It’s German.’ “‘Yes, well, thank you for helping them, Lídia,’ Mrs. Harris said. That was her way of sayin’ that this little conversation was over. ‘It’s good to see you men taking such initiative in meeting our Cuban hosts.’” “‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said, tryin’ not to look at Lídia, but doin’ it anyway. ‘Thank you very much.’ And that was it. She was lookin’ at me, too, and the thing between us started right there.” “When did you see her again?” “Not for a couple of weeks. Even though she and Tanner lived aboard the station, it was a hell of a big place. You didn’t just bump into people outside your unit that much every day. If she hadn’t been as interested in me as I was in her–which, of course, I didn’t know at the time–we probably wouldn’t have ever gotten together. Anyway, I was walkin’ out of the Base Exchange one day and I heard her voice behind me. I turned around at the bottom of the steps; she was sayin’ goodbye to another woman, who was headin’ the other way. So I spoke to her, just as she turned to walk down.” “‘Good mornin’, Mrs. Tanner.’” “‘Oh. Hello,’ she said. ‘How are you, Seaman?’ She was wearin’ one of those peasant blouses, and a full skirt; she looked even younger than when I’d seen her at the beach. Those incredibly dark blue eyes; the small mouth with perfect lips, her arms that lovely tan, a little very ﬁne black hair on the forearms. She put her two shoppin’ bags down and put out her hand. “‘Wessel,’ I said. I shook her hand, wantin’ to kiss it.” “‘Yes. I remember. How’re you doing with your Spanish?’” “‘OK, I guess; haven’t been outside the gate since I saw you last.’” “‘Where do you usually go when you’re on liberty?’” “‘Oh, different places. Mostly San Antonio.’” “‘It’s nice there. My family lives in Baracoa, up on the north coast.’” “‘I’ve never been there.’” 532 The Rough English Equivalent

“‘It’s really lovely. I don’t go as often as I’d like to; my husband doesn’t like leaving the base that much. Sometimes I get so lonesome for my family, I just go by myself.’” “‘Maybe I’ll see you there sometime.’” “‘Maybe so,’ she said. She looked up at me for a few seconds, sayin’ nothin’. ‘I’d better get going,’ she said. ‘Are you headed back to the hangar?’” “‘Not for awhile. I had the duty last night.’” “‘Oh. Well, can I drop you off someplace?’” “Instead of sayin’ what I wanted to say, I said ‘No, thanks. I was just headin’ back to the barracks. Let me help you with your bags.’” “I picked up her two bags; we walked across the street to where her car, an old Model T 2-door, was parked. She opened the driver’s- side door and pushed the back of the seat forward for me to drop the bags in. ‘Thanks,’ she said. We stood there by the car, the door open, not wantin’ it to be over. ‘Don’t forget about Baracoa. You’ll like it.’” “‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘Will you be goin’ there anytime soon?’” “She looked up at me, again in that very still, quiet way. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I will.’” “No sense draggin’ it out. We became lovers, and the longer we were together the surer it was that sump’m bad had to happen. We thought we’d be safe in Índio, but we found out there’s no keepin’ a love affair secret.” “So her husband–Tanner?–found out.” “Yes, he did. We didn’t know that he had until I was arrested, over a year later. February the third, 1931. The barracks Master-at-Arms woke me up early one mornin’. There were two guys in Shore Patrol gear with him. They put me under arrest and in the brig. The charge was larceny. It didn’t take me long to ﬁgure out that Tanner was behind it. He got a guy from the shop, Rogers, a Third Class Petty Ofﬁcer, to say that he thought I’d stolen his money, over three hundred dollars, from him. They’d found it that afternoon, taped under the bottom of my locker.” Cuba Libre 533

“And they believed ’im.” “You bet they did. And the charge was serious enough that I stayed in th’ brig until they set up my court-martial. About six weeks. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be locked up like that until it happens to ya. It was like I wasn’t human any more. And the brig was run by the Marines. Bastards. I still don’t want to be in the same room with one. Glad Ziggy’s outa there. Anyway, they told me that I was gettin’ a special court-martial, which is one step below a general court-martial and one above a summary. The regulations said that they had to give me a real lawyer as my defense counsel, and it was my good luck to get a guy that not only knew what he was doin’, but gave a shit. Lieutenant Charles Davis. “He didn’t have to spend much time with me to be convinced that I wasn’t guilty. He asked me if I could think of anybody who’d want to get me in such serious trouble. I could only think of one person: Tanner. I told him about Lídia and me, and while he didn’t congrat- ulate me on my morals, he was real happy to have the circumstances to use in the trial testimony. “The day of the court-martial finally came. I was scared shitless. Davis had told me that I could get as much as five years’ hard labor if they found me guilty. That was enough, but the whole process is so deadly serious that it puts the fear of God into you. A Captain, a Commander and what looked like the oldest Chief Petty Officer in the Navy sittin’ as the court. Not Davis, though. Once he found out, which he did, that Tanner knew about Lídia and me, he put a defense together that the prosecution couldn’t shake. He called Tanner as a witness. A character witness, for me! There wasn’t much that he could say except good things; my work was good, I’d never missed duty, and so forth. He had old Rogers scared that the whole plan to get me was goin’ to come out, so his testimony against me wasn’t too believable. “When Davis made his closin’ argument, he told the court that there was no real evidence against me, and that the entire question of 534 The Rough English Equivalent the evidence, of its discovery, and Rogers’ reason for suspectin’ me were suggestive of a plot to exact revenge on me for sump’m I’d done. I think Tanner and Rogers thought that the other one was goin’ to break and admit that there’d been a plot, but Davis was smart enough to avoid goin’ too far into that part of it. That way, since the court didn’t press him to probe further, Lídia’s and my affair didn’t come out. At least, not in court. They found me not guilty in about an hour. Enough people knew the truth, though, that it was impossible for us to see each other again. Within a month, I was transferred to the Naval Station in Jacksonville, Florida, and finished my hitch there.” “What happened to Lídia?” “She left Tanner. She wrote me a letter that reached me a couple of months after I got to Jacksonville, tellin’ me that three days after she’d moved back to Baracoa, Tanner, who had moved into the Chiefs’ quarters in the barracks, was found dead in his bunk. He’d slit his own throat.” “My God.” “Yeah. It was one of those things that, lookin’ back on it, you could see might be comin’, but it was a hell of a shock, to both of us. And we both felt guilty about it. It really made it impossible for us to get together again, at least for a long time. We fell completely out of touch durin’ the war. You remember when I first came to Bisque? I was on my way to Cuba, after all that time, to find her again.” “But you stayed.” “Yes, I did. And you know why.” “Mom.” “Yes sir. Your mother pole-axed me. Nothin’ I ever felt for any woman, Lídia included, compares to what I felt for your mother. But we’re jumpin’ ahead again. By the time my enlistment was up in 1933, I was sick of the Navy and, fool that I was, of the country too. I was bitter about bein’ court-martialed, about bein’ transferred from Gitmo even after I’d been found not guilty, and from what I’d seen of Cuba Libre 535 the effect U.S. businesses like United Fruit had had on the lives of the Cuban people, in Baracoa and, as far as I knew, all over Cuba. I was back at my parents’ place by June, and there didn’t seem to be any more there for me then than when I’d left four years before. By Sep- tember, I was on a ship to Germany.” “No kidding.” “Nope. Since my father was still a citizen of Germany when I was born in New York, I had dual citizenship. My father’s brother lived in Berlin, and he agreed to let me live with him and his family. He owned a large tailor shop, and he thought that he might find a job for me through some of his customers. Sounded pretty good to me at the time.” “I guess it did.” “So I had a lot to get used to in a hurry. Like the language. I grew up hearin’ my parents speak German, and I spoke it with them as a child, but the important thing for me to be was American, and so as soon as I went to first grade I used it very little. My uncle’s family helped me out, and in a couple of months, workin’ in the shop, I was comfortable again in a German-speakin’ world. And Berlin was a pretty hot town; I was gettin’ to know how to get around, and havin’ a pretty good time forgettin’ Lídia. “One day my uncle called me over to meet someone, who was just finishin’ up with a fitting. He was in the Luftwaffe, the German air force; a Captain–Hauptmann–named von Durant. ‘I understand that you know something about aircraft,’ he said, after we were introduced. “‘Yes; I was an aviation mechanic in the Navy,’ I said. “‘The United States Navy.’ “‘Yes.’ “‘But your uncle tells me that you are a citizen of the Reich.’ “‘Yes.’ 536 The Rough English Equivalent

“‘The Luftwaffe needs pilots; many pilots. We need people who love the Fatherland and who’d like to fly for it. Would that interest you?’ “‘Yes,’ I said. ‘it would.’ “Turns out that this Hauptmann von Durant,” said Moses, “was an aide to General Milch, the head of the new civil airline, Lufthansa. I didn’t know a lot about it at the time, but the National Socialists– the Nazis–were in the process of takin’ Germany over. Adolf Hitler had been named Chancellor, and would soon get rid of von Hinden- burg, the President, namin’ himself Füehrer. Everyone in Germany was pretty pissed over th’ Treaty of Versailles, that was signed to end World War I. The Nazis had played on the anger to get into power. The country had been pretty much bled dry by th’ war, and then th’ treaty, and Hitler had promised to make Germany a world power again. “To make good on that, he needed a war machine. Since the treaty limited German rearmament to a very small force, they were beginnin’ to rebuild secretly. Part of that rebuildin’ was the air force, ‘the Black Luftwaffe.’ It was buried inside Lufthansa. That’s where I went to work, on the books as a mechanic. But I was really a student pilot. I went into a “ground school” class with about fifteen other guys at Werneuchen, a base just outside Berlin. About halfway into ground school, we started flyin’, as new members of Lufthansa’s Aero Club. I loved it from the first time my butt hit the seat of that little HE 18, the two-seater Heinkel biplane that they used as a trainer. We soloed in the 18, and then learned some basic maneuverin’ and aerobatics in the HE 21, a more powerful version of the 18. I may not have been th’ best, but I turned out to be a pretty damn good pilot. “A couple of months later, we took a long train ride into Russia, to the secret Luftwaffe trainin’ base at Lipetsk, in the Caucasus. We flew th’ HE 45 there, as much as th’ weather would let us durin’ the winter and spring of 1933. When we weren’t flyin’, there was always more ground school, and nights ridin’ around half-drunk on the squad- Cuba Libre 537 ron’s motorcycle/sidecar outfits. I’ve loved sidecars ever since, because you can ride ’em, drunk or sober, in any kind of weather. In May, we got three new Heinkel 51s, and we spent our last few weeks at Lipetsk transitionin’ to them, includin’ gunnery flights. They’d be the same aircraft that we’d fly later in combat. The 51 was a big, beautiful single-seater, good for well over 325 kilometers an hour in a dive. That’s over 200 miles an hour, which was pretty hot stuff for that time.” He paused, getting up from his chair. “How ’bout a grits break?” They returned to the terrace with bowls of grits and a plate of bacon, which Moses put on the glass-topped table between them. “We weren’t back in Werneuchen for long before we were in uniform, but it wasn’t a German one. In July, they gave us 300 Marks advance pay and put us on another train, this time to Italy. When we were across the border, we were issued uniforms of the South Tyrolean army, and stayed on th’ train as Italian soldiers until we got to a town called Asolo. Trucks with ‘Regia Aeronautica’ stencilled on th’ doors met us there, and we rode out of town for about an hour to what looked like a pretty good-sized airfield. As we rode down a street that ran along th’ edge of th’ hangar area, we saw several Hei- nkel 51s, all with Italian markin’s. “When we got out of th’ trucks, a man in th’ uniform of an Italian Air Force colonel, but who spoke to us in German, identified himself as Oberst Wenckmann, a Luftwaffe colonel. He told us that we were there to train for combat in th’ Heinkels, but as Italian Air Force Officers. Those who successfully completed th’ trainin’, he said, would return to Germany as Luftwaffe Flight Officers. Don’t think that didn’t excite me; it hadn’t been four years since I’d been an American navy swab jockey, gettin’ kicked in th’ ass by fuckin’ marines. “Wenckmann and his instructors all had flown in World War I, and they put us through th’ wringer, simulatin’ war conditions as closely as possible. We worked at altitude, dogfightin’ in th’ mornin’, 538 The Rough English Equivalent and down low in th’ afternoons, strafin’ trenches full of Italian infantry with live ammunition. They kept their heads down, wavin’ balloons on sticks for us to break. That meant gettin’ really low, to get a good angle on th’ balloons, gettin’ bounced around as th’ hot air rose up off th’ ground. It definitely felt like a real-life experience of what war in th’ air was all about, and not everyone could handle it. By th’ end of th’ course thirty-one of us were left, a bunch bein’ sent back alive and three dead. If we hadn’t realized what a dead-serious business we’d gotten into when we started, we had no illusions left by th’ time we got back to Germany. We were now Luftwaffe officers, sworn to personal loyalty to th’ Fuëhrer, and we were rarin’ to go, even though we had no idea where it would be.” “How old were you then?” Jack asked. “Twenty-six. Along with several others, I was assigned to Group II of Jagdgeschwader Manfred von Richthofen, based at Juterborg- Damm, 80 kilometers or so due south of Berlin. We stayed busy trainin’ throughout 1935, and got a little operational experience when Germany took back th’ Rhineland in March of ’36. It wasn’t much, but it was welcome after over a year of trainin’. It was a clear sign that Germany would soon be in a real war, somewhere in Europe, in th’ very near future. But when war came, it wasn’t where any of us expected. “While I was in th’ Rhineland, I got a message from my uncle in Berlin. My mom and dad had been killed in an auto accident out on Long Island. March 8th, 1936. They were cremated, accordin’ to their wills, and th’ ashes were bein’ held at th’ undertaker’s. There’d been no question of my bein’ given leave at that point. I didn’t get back to New York ’til May. My folks didn’t have a lot; they’d left me everything, a little over six thousand dollars and their personal effects. I scattered their ashes into th’ sea from th’ fantail of th’ ship that took me back to Germany. “In July, our commander told us that we were to be part of a ‘volunteer’ group that was bein’ created to support th’ Spanish National- Cuba Libre 539 ists, who had revolted against th’ Spanish government. France and Russia were sendin’ volunteers, supplies and weapons to th’ government, and Hitler had decided to join th’ Italian dictator, Mussolini, in sendin’ aid to th’ Nationalists. It began with th’ secret movement of us and our equipment to Spain. We first went to Berlin, where they gave us some ratty civilian clothes and 500 Spanish Pesetas each. We were told that we would be posin’ as tourists headin’ for Italy, takin’ part in a Nazi civilian program called Kraft durch Freude; strength through joy. Our mail would be forwarded to us through a blind address, ‘c/o Max Winkler, Berlin, S.W. 68.’ “Then, with our uniforms and flight gear stowed in our luggage, we took a train to Hamburg, where we boarded a ship, th’ S.S. Usar- amo. There were large pieces of equipment on deck, lashed down under tarps. When we got closer to them we realized that they were our aircraft, disassembled to travel with us. Whatever was goin’ on in Spain, th’ plan seemed to be to get us into it as soon as possible.”

chapter 25 s Tradecraft

1120 Wednesday 30 May 1956: “Instead of Naples, our ship’s declared destination, we docked at Cádiz, on Spain’s southern Atlantic coast, on August th’ fifth, a Wednesday. We went from there by truck to an airbase near Seville. Once you were off th’ coast, it was hot and humid, a lot like Cuba. We drove through miles of marshland, with feedin’ cattle wadin’ from one patch of long grass to th’ next. Th’ marshes began to run out as we saw Seville in th’ distance, th’ land grassy but much drier, and still hot. “Officers’ quarters were in one of a bunch of newly built, raw-pine barracks on th’ west side of th’ field. ‘Legion Kondor’ was stencilled in big black letters on th’ front door. There were already quite a few Luftwaffe people there. “Our Squadron Leader, Hauptmann Linder, and another officer, Leutnant Brück, briefed us on our mission; escortin’ Junkers 52 tran- ports that were bringin’ General Franco’s troops from Morocco, due south across th’ Mediterranean in North Africa, to Seville. You’ve seen pictures of Ford trimotors; pretty much th’ same thing, but bigger. Republican aircraft were operatin’ off th’ coast, and we were there to make sure that th’ transports were safe from attack. Th’

- 541 - 542 The Rough English Equivalent

flight times would be two to three hours, dependin’ on which airfield was involved. Our aircraft, th’ six that came with us, would be ready to test-fly on Sunday. Th’ rest would arrive durin’ th’ followin’ week. We were to be ready for full flight operations, with eighteen aircraft, by 1 September. “Brück, a tall, skinny blond about my age, was from th’ intelligence service. He summarized th’ general military situation. Seville and th’ surroundin’ area were secure in Nationalist hands; th’ Repub- licans controlled th’ capital, Madrid, and pretty much everything to th’ north and east. After landin’ in Seville, General Franco’s troops would proceed toward Madrid, where they would link up with Nationalist forces in th’ northwest for an assault on th’ capital. After all th’ troops were brought from Morocco, our squadron would support th’ Nationalist advance to th’ north.” “What was th’ war about, anyway?” asked Jack. “A lot of Spaniards were unhappy about Spain’s changin’ from a monarchy to a republic. Most of those people supported th’ Nation- alists. And a lot of others wanted to get rid of th’ Catholic church in Spain, and give land that was owned by th’ church and th’ aristocrats back to th’ common people. Most of those were for th’ Republic. There was more to it than that, but that’s it in a nutshell.” “I’ve never learned anything at all about it in school.” “Yeah. It really got buried within th’ bigger picture of World War II. But it was a three year rehearsal for th’ main event. And after all’s said and done, I don’t see that Spain’s any better off, even though Franco did keep them out of th’ big war. They just killed each other instead. Anyway, our aircraft were ready on Sunday, and after a final preflight briefin’ on th’ local area, we began test-flyin’. I was scheduled for takeoff at 10:00 that morning. “Corporal Schmidt, th’ mechanic assigned to my aircraft, stood beside it, waitin’ to help me get aboard. ‘How’s she feel, corporal?’ I asked him, shoutin’ over th’ idlin’ engine. Th’ maintenance crews Tradecraft 543 had worked day and night to get six aircraft put together and flyable in three days. “‘She’s all right, Herr Leutnant, but she doesn’t like this Spanish petrol so much; she’ll be a little down on power. You’ll probably feel the difference. They say that we’ll have more fuel from the Father- land in a few days.’ “Th’ engine sounded just fine, and seemed responsive enough as I gunned it to get rollin’ and taxi into takeoff position, headed east. It didn’t want to take throttle quite as quickly as I was used to. I released th’ back pressure on th’ stick to let th’ tail come up, gradually goin’ to slight forward stick. Thinkin’ of what Schmidt had said, I held her on th’ runway a little longer than usual to build up a little extra speed. As I released th’ forward pressure, she broke ground immediately, takin’ us to about five hundred feet in a hurry. As I rolled into a shallow left turn, th’ engine coughed. I leveled th’ wings and reduced power, droppin’ th’ nose. She coughed again, then quit. I was droppin’ back through five hundred feet, nose slightly down to maintain flight speed, and lookin’ for an open spot to put her in. At that altitude, I knew I’d never get her back to th’ field. “I saw what I was lookin’ for, a pretty good-sized pasture, off th’ nose about thirty degrees to my right. I turned toward it as gently as I could, tryin’ to hold onto as much altitude as possible. As I lined up with th’ pasture, I could see that I had enough left to make it in a power-off glide. I touched down less than a minute later, stallin’ her a couple of feet off th’ ground to shorten th’ landin’ roll. Then my luck ran out. My left wheel hit sump’m. It turned out to be a large rock, which I couldn’t see from th’ plane’s nose-high landin’ attitude. Th’ impact sent me back into th’ air, right wing down, just enough to let th’ nose drop through. I saw th’ ground comin’ up again, this time over my head. I released th’ controls and grabbed th’ cockpit rail with both hands, bracin’ for th’ impact. “Th’ aircraft hit hard, knockin’ th’ wind out of me, but my lap belt held. Th’ tail had collapsed, leavin’ my head inches from th’ ground. 544 The Rough English Equivalent

I hurt all over; I didn’t know then, but both th’ bones in my lower right leg were broken. As I struggled to release th’ lap belt, afraid to imagine how long I had before th’ aircraft would begin burnin’, I felt myself bein’ raised up. ‘Can you hear me?’ someone shouted. “‘Yes,’ I said. “‘We’ll have you out soon,’ th’ voice said. And they did. Th’ voice was Leutnant Brück’s; he had been returnin’ from Cádiz with a workin’ party, and had seen my approach to th’ pasture. If there hadn’t been enough of them to lift th’ aircraft, I would’ve been barbeque. I lost consciousness as they were pullin’ me out, but he told me later that th’ plane blew up a couple of minutes after they’d gotten me to their truck.” “Well,” said Jack, “Your luck may have run out on you in the air, but it held up on the ground. What if Brück hadn’t seen you?” “Then I guess we wouldn’t be sittin’ here today. Well. They took me to an army hospital in Seville to set my leg. Both bones broken, about this far below th’ knee. They brought me back to th’ airfield infirmary th’ next day in a cast. I was sore all over, and just lay around for th’ next couple of days, listenin’ to th’ aircraft takin’ off and landin’ and readin’ Hitler’s book, Mein Kampf, which struck me as bein’ pretty crazy. One of th’ staff officers left it for me th’ first day I got back. “Wednesday afternoon, Hauptmann Linder came to see me. He said that he was sendin’ me back to Germany on th’ doctors’ advice. ‘You’re an excellent aviator, Wessel,’ he said, ‘and the Fatherland will have much greater need for your services in the future than it does today. But your leg must have expert attention for a full recovery, and that attention can best be given in Germany. The group staff will have you scheduled on a flight within a day or two.’ “I wasn’t happy. Th’ gas that went into my aircraft, and several others, had been dirtier than anyone knew. Fortunately, we only lost one aircraft–mine. Fuel line clogged completely shut. Goin’ back to Germany without flyin’ a single mission depressed me, and I was Tradecraft 545 also concerned about my leg. That evenin’, Leutnant Brück walked in. ‘Excuse me, Wessel,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.’ “‘You can interrupt whatever you like,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t be here except for you. Thank you for givin’ me the opportunity to thank you before they ship me out.’ “‘Yes, I heard. And you’re welcome; you’d have done the same for me. I also heard that you’re going to Berlin.’ “‘Yes. They say my leg’s in too many pieces to be fixed here.’ “‘Well, you’ll be back in one piece before you know it. Listen, would you mind if we spoke English? I like to knock off the rough edges whenever I can.’ “‘Sure, go ahead. I enjoy it, too. You know that I grew up in th’ States.’ “‘Yes. Hauptmann Linder told me. Born there, he said. Where’s home?’ “‘New York. Know where that is?’ “‘Yes. The Bronx is up and the Battery’s down.’ “‘So you’ve been to th’ States?’ “‘Yes. I went to school there. Loyola, in New Orleans.’ “‘An odd place for a German to choose.’ “Well, I guess it would’ve been, except that I already lived there. My father worked for Deutschesbank. He ran the New Orleans office.’ “So you came back to Germany after school.’ “Yes. My family left soon after the U.S. stock market crash in 1929. They allowed me to stay to finish work on my degree, and I came back the next year.’ “‘Now I’m hearin’ a little New Orleans. When you say yee-ah for year.’ “He laughed. ‘Yes. Once my family was gone, my English got much more colloquial. Well, I should go and get packed. I’ll look forward to more English on the trip back.’ 546 The Rough English Equivalent

“‘Th’ trip back?’ “‘Yes. I’m going back to Germany. Meant to tell you when I first came in. We’re on the same flight.’ “‘Damn. I came all this way, and now I’m goin’ back; without ever gettin’ th’ chance to see anything of th’ country. How long have you been here?’ “‘Since February. And it’s unfortunate that you won’t have a chance to see some of Spain. It’s very different from Germany and the States. From what I’ve seen, the Spanish people will make it impossible for their country to succeed as a modern state.’ “‘How’s that?’ “‘Too individualistic. They seem to be very difficult, if not impossible, to govern. Almost from the first day that I spent here, I heard a phrase that sums th’ individual Spaniard up perfectly–Viva Yo.’ “‘Viva Yo? What’s it mean?’ “‘Literally, Long live me; symbolically, fuck you.’ “I laughed. ‘Yeah, I can see where we Germans would find that to be a frustratin’ attitude.’ “By th’ time we got to Berlin, Dieter–that was his first name–and I knew each other pretty well. He was returnin’ to duty at th’ headquarters of th’ intelligence service–th’ Abwehr–and said he’d visit me at th’ hospital. He came th’ next week, on th’ day th’ doctors gave me th’ bad news. I had lost enough bone in my leg that resettin’ it had resulted in its bein’ slightly shorter than th’ other one. It meant that I’d be medically disqualified as an aviator, besides walkin’ funny for th’ rest of my life. “‘Well, congratulations to you on your new rank anyway, Herr Hauptmann,’ I said, notin’ th’ change in his uniform. ‘We must celebrate that, anyway.’ “‘Yes, we must. And I thought you might like to meet some friends of mine, Abwehr comrades. We meet sometimes in the evening at a little cafe, Marta’s, that’s not too far from here.’ Tradecraft 547

“‘I could use a little fun for a change,’ I said. ‘And I’m gettin’ pretty good on these crutches.’ “‘Spoken like a true Kondor!’ laughed Dieter. ‘I’ll pick you up this Friday at six. Do you have any civilian clothes?’ “‘I shall by Friday,’ I told him. ‘My uncle, the tailor, will see to it.’ “Marta’s was a short drive from th’ hospital in Dieter’s car, a large Mercedes, driven by a soldier. ‘I see you’ve already spent your pay raise,’ I said. “‘I couldn’t buy this wagon with my next two raises,’ he laughed. ‘This is an Abwehr car.’ We turned off th’ Kurfurstendamm and onto a narrow side street, stoppin’ in front of Marta’s. Th’ sergeant driver helped me out with my crutches. “‘I could need a little more help by th’ time we leave,’ I said. “Dieter laughed again. ‘Don’t worry, we always return heroes of the Reich in one piece.’ They walked on either side of me, down the several steps to the cafe. “‘Good evening, Herr Hauptmann Brück,’ said the hostess. ‘Your friends are already here.’ “We made our way to a table at th’ far end of th’ cafe, where three men stood up in unison when they saw us approachin’. ‘Peter Wes- sel,’ Brück said, ‘may I present Franz Kreigmann, Josef Lauer and Herr Doktor Oberst Lizst.’ “Kreigmann and Lauer were about th’ same age as Dieter and me; th’ Oberst–German for colonel–was a man a little taller than me, in his early forties, his hair already goin’ gray, but obviously very fit. He spoke first, as th’ waiter brought glasses for us. “‘Good evening, Herr Leutnant. Please accept our thanks for your valiant service in Spain.’ “‘Thank you, Herr Oberst. The valor was Hauptmann Brück’s; it’s because of him that I’m here today.’ “‘Yes, much valor has been shown in Spain, and there will be much more. Dieter behaved in the best traditon of the Wehrmacht. It isn’t often that an Abwehr officer can be publicly recognized for 548 The Rough English Equivalent heroic behavior.’ He raised his glass, which like the others had been filled by the waiter from the bottle of Martell’s Cognac that sat on the table. ‘Sieg heil!’ “We all responded, ‘Sieg heil!’ “We talked and drank for about an hour, mostly about how th’ war was goin’. Then Kreigmann and Lauer left, with much hand- shakin’ and smilin’, leavin’ Oberst Lizst, Brück and me to ourselves. As soon as they were gone, Lizst asked Brück to have th’ car, which turned out to be his, brought up. He and I sat side by side headin’ back to th’ hospital, with Brück sittin’ facin’ us in one of th’ jump seats. He wasted no time gettin’ to th’ point. ‘I’m sure you were surprised,’ he said, ‘to have met me under these circumstances. Again, Dieter is responsible. He told me about you and the unfortunate circumstances that have brought you back to Germany. You’ve given much to the Fatherland, and now I must ask you to consider giving even more.’ “He wasn’t kiddin’. Turns out he was th’ Abwehr’s deputy director. Brück had told him my story, and he immediately ordered him to arrange our meetin’. He wanted to send me back to th’ States as a spy. ‘One of our best agents, operating in New York,’ he said, ‘has urgently requested a qualified agent to assist him. He has been very successful in obtaining information on the Americans’ war produc- tion capabilities, particularly the aviation industry. I would like to send you to help him in this vital mission.’ “Lizst said that my American passport, fluent American English and aviation experience made me perfect for this job. These quali- ties, he said, outweighed my total lack of experience in intelligence. ‘We can teach you tradecraft a hell of a lot faster than we can find someone else who knows what you know,’ he said. ‘I hope I have convinced you; if not, maybe I should add that an immediate promotion to Hauptmann will be yours if you accept.’ He explained that th’ Abwehr would handle th’ mechanics of my transfer. Tradecraft 549

“Of course, I accepted on th’ spot. Where else could I make a more important contribution to th’ glory of th’ Fatherland? And there might be another quick promotion down th’ line. Besides, it promised to be very interestin’, and more than a little dangerous. I saw myself, not yet thirty years old, becomin’ a much bigger fish in world politics than I’d ever dreamed. By th’ time we got to th’ hospital, they had laid out th’ early stages of th’ process of turnin’ me into a spy. Th’ man whom I was to assist, Major Emil Kramer, was part of th’ Abwehr’s Bremen operation. As soon as I was released from th’ hospital, I’d be transferred there for several weeks of trainin’ in what th’ Oberst had called ‘tradecraft.’ “I reported to my new boss, Commander Braun, at th’ Abwehr’s Bremen office at 0700 on Monday mornin’, November 15. Complete with my new boots that had th’ right sole built up to compensate for my short leg. I had expected a typical old-school naval officer; I was, to say th’ least, surprised. He was short, fat and wore his uniform like a storekeeper. He was also one of th’ best intelligence officers in th’ Reich. ‘So, Wessel,’ he said, ‘I see you grew up in a port city. You should feel at home in Bremen.’ “‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘And my father is from Danzig. I always feel better when I can smell the sea.’ “‘That makes two of us,’ he said, smilin’. ‘Do you hear from your parents often?’ “‘No, sir. They’ve passed away.’ “‘Oh. I’m sorry. Well. My orders are to have you aboard the steamer Altona on 3 December. We’ve no time to lose.’ “From then until I boarded th’ ship, I wondered why Commander Braun gave any thought to how I’d like Bremen, because I saw damn little of it. Th’ Abwehr, typical of a German organization, was thorough. Its boss, Admiral Canaris, had decreed that Abwehr agents be ready for anything, and Braun’s office took him at his word. Th’ term ‘tradecraft,’ I soon realized, covered a lot of ground, and I spent all day, every day, gettin’ my arms around it. Codes, microphotography, 550 The Rough English Equivalent invisible inks, agent contact, everything you ever read about spyin’. These guys had it down in black and white, along with instructors who took it personally when you didn’t spit it back to ’em verbatim. “By th’ time th’ Altona weighed anchor, I probably knew as much about intelligence work as anyone who’d never actually done any. Th’ ship wasn’t th’ fastest craft in th’ Hapag-Lloyd registry, so I had a few days to get it all settled down in my head. I also had time to catch up on my leg exercises, which hurt like hell, and it helped a lot to do them out on th’ Altona’s boat deck, sniffin’ th’ sea air while my eyes watered. I was determined to get my leg back, at least as much as I possibly could, before startin’ to work. “My cover story was that I had been injured in a car accident in Berlin while workin’ for Lufthansa, and had come back to New York lookin’ for work. I was to be th’ ‘office manager’ for th’ Kramer Com- pany, an ‘export consulting firm’ which I had been told would be doublin’ its staff when I reported for work. It was just old Emil and me, on th’ second floor of a big brownstone up on Riverside Drive. He worked there and lived there, and so did I; it was a big place, quite suitable for accommodatin’ th’ occasional overnight guest. Emil understood; he wasn’t that old. “Emil had th’ guts of a cat burglar. He had hit on th’ idea of posin’ as an investor in companies that produced war materiel, and had managed to join th’ American Ordnance Association. Th’ AOA was a sort of semi-official organization that all th’ munitions makers belonged to, and members had pretty easy entree to plant sites and most any other classified areas that they wanted to visit. Kramer had passed himself off, by mail, as a heavy-duty investor in AOA member companies, and apparently got in just on th’ strength of that. Typical of him; ask and ye shall receive. When you don’t, just keep on askin’. He had two things above all: persistence and balls. He was an Ameri- can citizen, a U.S. Army veteran, who had worked in place as a Ger- man spy in New York City since World War I. Not as part of any of Tradecraft 551 th’ rings that had come before or after him; just himself. He’d been a lone wolf all those years, until he got so busy he needed a leg man. “Emil was tall, thin and bald; and so intense it was hard for me to imagine him goin’ to sleep. His eyes were so dark you could say they were black, set close together over a long bony nose. ‘You can learn a lot from me,’ he told me in our first meetin’, with his usual modesty. ‘Just don’t try to learn it too fast. Do exactly as I say, and we’ll get along. One day–and soon–the United States and Germany will be at war again. What I, and now you, do will help to insure a victory for the Reich, and make the outcome of the next war very different from the last.’ “That to me, of course, was bullshit. I was too ill-informed then to realize how right he could have been. Like most people, I didn’t take Hitler too seriously. He was such an ugly little bastard; he reminded me of Charlie Chaplin’s little tramp who’d found his voice while on a week’s drunk. He appealed to th’ worst in people, and to th’ anger over th’ way th’ way th’ World War–and there had then been only one–had ended. I thought he was just another politician; another of th’ breed who’d like to be king, but counted on oratory and th’ other rituals of kissin’ th’ public’s butt to get there. He fooled me, though, just as he did almost everybody else. He was th’ furthest thing from Chaplin; he was more of an Al Capone, who used his gang to become th’ duly-elected boss of a nation. They were kickin’ a lot more butt than they kissed, and th’ majority of Germans were eatin’ it up. “For me, bein’ an undercover agent was th’ most excitin’ thing I’d ever done. I was an officer in th’ intelligence service of a buddin’ world power, and th’ fact that I’d taken a personal oath of allegiance to Hitler was just part of th’ required window dressin’. I fully expected to take another oath to his successor when th’ time came. That’s how dumb you can be at twenty-nine. All I wanted to do was to enjoy th’ game, and leave th’ dreck to th’ politicians. They could talk about world war all they wanted, but as far as I was concerned it was just to keep them in power. Th’ wars, such as they might be, 552 The Rough English Equivalent would be little wars; like Spain. Just enough to keep th’ machinery up to date and th’ arms makers busy. In th’ meantime, we in th’ intelligence community would have a grand old time keepin’ th’ players’ abilities in balance. We’d steal their secrets, they’d steal ours, and a good time would be had by all. And that’s th’ way it went for awhile. “Emil and I got very busy and stayed that way, for th’ four years or so between my return to New York and th’ start of World War II. I was accepted, on his recommendation, into th’ AOA, and used my credentials to tour all kinds of plants in war-related industries–th’ Brewster and Grumman aircraft facilities, for example–and Emil did th’ same, plus makin’ some important friends in Washington. He got to be on very good terms with several of th’ senators and congress- men who served on war-related committees, and cultivated th’ kind of friendships with a few of them that let him ask them for favors, which usually were granted. I’d made a few of my own, like a young Italian guy named John Bisceglia, who I’ll tell you more about later. Th’ AOA, though, was our hole card. In 1939, for example, th’ German battle cruiser Graf Spee got into a fight with three smaller British ships in th’ Atlantic, off th’ coast of South America. Th’ gunfire was so loud that seals in a rookery off Punta del Este, a finger of land that juts out into th’ Atlantic, were so frightened that many of them leapt over th’ cliffs to their deaths on th’ rocks. Th’ Spee was beaten up very badly, and put into th’ port of Montevideo for asylum and repairs. Th’ Uruguayan government wouldn’t allow them to stay, so th’ captain put back to sea and scuttled th’ ship.” “Scuttled? What’s that?” Jack asked. “That’s when you sink a ship on purpose. Ships’ hulls have big valves, called sea cocks, that lead out to th’ skin of th’ ship, and can be opened to let in sea water. They’re there to let th’ crew balance th’ ship in case it’s damaged, but when you open them, and leave them open, th’ ship fills up and goes to th’ bottom. Th’ Graf Spee’s captain scuttled her to keep her from bein’ taken as a prize by th’ British. When Hitler got th’ news he went nuts, and demanded a blow-by- Tradecraft 553 blow recount from th’ Abwehr’s Buenos Aires office of how one of th’ Reich’s prized capital ships was defeated by a couple of lightly-armed British cruisers. They quickly put together a report of what they knew about th’ action, which wasn’t much, and sent it to Berlin. It made Hitler even madder. We were advised of th’ situation through our radio link, and were able to give th’ Fuehrer exactly what he wanted. “Within 48 hours, we dispatched a full report of th’ action. Th’ source? Th’ AOA. Immediately after th’ battle, th’ U.S. War Depart- ment commissioned th’ AOA to send a delegation to Montevideo to investigate th’ circumstances of both th’ battle and its aftermath. Th’ delegation’s final report was made available to interested AOA members very soon after they returned. Less than a month after th’ action, we were able to put this report, which was sent through our New York Consulate’s radio link, into Hitler’s hands. For this, and several other coups of similar stature, th’ Kramer operation became very highly regarded within th’ Reich’s intelligence community. So much so that th’ Ambassador, through th’ chief of United States Abwehr operations in Washington, came to confide in Kramer as th’ war in Europe expanded in th’ Atlantic and throughout Poland, France and into Russia. “By 1941, I had had plenty of time to realize how wrong I had been about Hitler and Germany. We had heard far too much about what was bein’ done to th’ Jews, both inside Germany and out, for me to believe anything but th’ worst as far as Hitler’s ultimate goal was concerned. It was world domination, pure and simple, right out of that crazy little book of his that I had read in Spain. And in Hit- ler’s world, there would be no Jews. Absolutely no one outside my family knew that my mother was Jewish. Had it been known, I’d have been sent back to Germany and put in a concentration camp. Or killed, like millions of others. It was simple; I’d picked th’ wrong side in what was already bein’ called th’ Second World War. What I didn’t know was what I was goin’ to do about it.”

chapter 26 s Next Stop Baltimore

1405 Wednesday 30 May 1956: “In June, Bremen ordered Kramer to call on Dr. Thomsen, th’ Chargé d’Affaires at th’ embassy in Washington. Since Germany and th’ U.S.’ recall of their ambassadors in 1938, he had been in charge of th’ embassy. It turned out that Viereck, th’ embassy’s intelligence chief, had seen reports of our contacts with th’ Irish Republican Army in New York. Th’ IRA, as it’s called, is a secret organization that’s dedicated to runnin’ th’ British out of Northern Ireland. They hated th’ British then, and they still do today. “Kramer had ﬁrst contacted their leader, Sean Russell, while he was in New York in 1940 to see what they might be able to do for us. Russell told him that they could do a lot, sabotage and assassinations and so on, as long as th’ money was right. To drive home his point, he said that they had men who would undertake th’ assassination of Winston Churchill and members of his cabinet, which would be suicide for th’ assassins. This didn’t interest Kramer at all, since his style was to work as inconspicuously as possible from th’ inside, but he duly reported it to Bremen, and one way or another it got back to th’ embassy.

- 555 - 556 The Rough English Equivalent

“By then, after th’ failure of th’ Luftwaffe’s bombin’ to pave th’ way, Hitler had given up on invadin’ England. He had decided instead to invade Russia, and did so on June twenty-second. Viereck saw th’ IRA’s suicide assassins as a way to deal a catastrophic blow to th’ British war effort without an invasion. He worked through th’ Chargé to have Bremen order Kramer to th’ meetin’. He met with Dr. Thomsen, and Viereck, who sat quietly while Dr. Thomsen asked Kramer to investigate th’ likelihood of th’ IRA’s success in assassina- tin’ Churchill. Over Kramer’s strong objections, th’ Chargé instructed him that if he was convinced that th’ IRA could bring it off, he was to negotiate th’ price and terms. This instruction, he stressed, came directly from Berlin. He meant that it came from Hit- ler himself. One of his staff had presented th’ ‘opportunity’ to him, Thomsen said, and he was most enthusiastic at th’ thought of elimi- natin’ Churchill, th’ inspiration for England’s determined resistance to Nazi Germany. This absolutely ﬂoored Kramer, but now he had no alternative but to get on with it. “After Russell died in one of our u-boats on th’ way to Ireland, Kramer met with th’ New York IRA leaders, and was told that Churchill would die within sixty days of th’ delivery to them of ﬁve million dollars in cash. They guaranteed th’ success of th’ mission, sayin’ that th’ money would be returned if Churchill lived past this deadline, but that they would still carry out th’ assassination. It came to light after th’ war that what they’d planned to do was to go after Churchill durin’ his August meetin’ with Roosevelt at Placentia Bay in Newfoundland, usin’ an IRA-connected crewman from either th’ USS Augusta or HMS Prince of Wales, th’ ships that would bring them there, as th’ assassin. As ordered, Kramer reported th’ terms to th’ Chargé, but suggested that three million be paid in advance, and two million on th’ mission’s successful completion. Th’ Chargé agreed. If th’ IRA accepted these terms, Kramer was to come to th’ embassy to pick up th’ money for delivery to him. Next Stop Baltimore 557

“They went along with th’ deal. When Kramer advised th’ Chargé of his acceptance, he was told to be at th’ embassy at noon on July 3rd, a Saturday. He was to bring two large suitcases, into which th’ money would go. Th’ strategy was for him to appear to be stoppin’ by th’ embassy at th’ end of a routine trip to Washington, and gettin’ out of town in time to miss th’ congestion of th’ July 4th holiday. He was to do everything as usual, takin’ th’ train from New York and back, usin’ taxis to and from th’ railway stations, not showin’ th’ FBI surveillance teams anything at all out of th’ ordinary. “Kramer wasn’t happy at what his role in this undertakin’ had turned out to be. He told me, over and over, that he should have never contacted Russell in the ﬁrst place, but, havin’ done so, should never’ve reported th’ contact to Bremen. ‘It was a vast error in judg- ment, Wessel,’ he said. ‘We are not the Gestapo. If this madness suc- ceeds, we’ll make Churchill a martyr. If it fails, we open ourselves to exposure and massive retribution directed by Churchill himself. These people, all of them, are maniacs. Hitler. Thomsen. Viereck. There’s no real difference among them. They’ve no interest in the welfare of the German people. This is hubris; pure, simple, and out of control. And the Irish madman who’s volunteered for this could just as easily shoot Roosevelt, intentionally or not. The IRA offered that deal–they’d kill both of them–but the price was too high–ten million.’ “He was miserable at havin’ set this business in motion; it was murder, and it would harden th’ British will to prevail against us even more than th’ bombin’ of their cities had done. Churchill was like God to th’ English people. Added to th’ growin’ awareness of th’ persecution and massacre of Jews, doin’ this would set much of th’ world permanently against th’ Reich, at a time when its resources were bein’ stretched to th’ limit by th’ invasion of Russia. Th’ charade of hirin’ th’ IRA to do it would immediately be seen through, and th’ allies’ security forces would run down every suspect with a ven- geance. This would certainly include our operation. 558 The Rough English Equivalent

“Emil was convinced that his natural German compulsion to report our activities in detail had signed th’ death warrant for Ger- man intelligence in th’ U.S. He was inconsolable; he showed no interest in th’ work that we had goin’ on. He literally began to fall apart before my eyes, as I tried to do both his work and mine. As th’ day for th’ embassy visit grew closer, he spent more and more time in bed. I finally talked him into havin’ a doctor come in to examine him. Th’ verdict wasn’t good news; th’ doctor diagnosed his condition as advanced heart disease. Th’ Churchill plot, apparently, had just brought it to a head. He put Emil into th’ hospital on th’ spot. That meant that I’d have to take his place in Washington; before th’ ambulance arrived, he called th’ embassy, and got Dr. Thomsen’s approval for th’ substitution. While he avoided sayin’ anything about it, I think he knew that he’d also have to send me to th’ IRA with th’ money. “I left for Washington th’ Monday before th’ pickup day, and checked into th’ Statler Hotel, where Kramer always stayed. Since I didn’t know any of th’ people with whom he did business, he’d arranged a few ‘busy work’ appointments for me, callin’ on th’ offices of consular and embassy commercial attaches and on Senator Reynolds of North Carolina, with whom he’d managed to become friends. I found myself wishin’ that I’d be able to do more of this part of th’ job, even though it looked like circumstances would make that unlikely. Things in Europe and th’ Pacific were movin’ fast, and th’ people I saw that week were pretty well convinced that th’ U.S. would be drawn into th’ war before much longer. At that time, though, nobody but Japan’s top politicians and military officers knew then would happen at Pearl Harbor in December. Th’ diplomats of th’ Axis countries–Germany, Japan and Italy–and their staffs would, of course, be leavin’ Washington as soon as war was declared. And U.S. security forces, particularly th’ FBI, would start takin’ much more notice of people like Emil and me, operatin’ illegally on behalf of th’ Axis. Next Stop Baltimore 559

“I had started thinkin’ about what all this would mean to me durin’ th’ trip. As an American citizen, I had th’ option of simply turnin’ my back on th’ Abwehr, leavin’ town and findin’ a new job. If I chose to do that, however, and th’ Axis countries won th’ war, I’d be high on th’ list of traitors to th’ Reich who would be hunted down and executed. And th’ idea of returnin’ to Germany didn’t interest me at all; th’ more that I had learned about how Hitler and th’ Nazis had changed things, th’ more that I knew that I wanted no part of that. Sittin’ there in th’ Statler, I began to realize what a tight spot I was in. Playin’ around in th’ spy game put me into th’ middle of a real mess. Now, what would happen in th’ next few days would seriously affect th’ rest of my life. “Until that day, I’d never imagined that Emil’s vision of Germany and th’ U.S., my two home countries, bein’ at war again would ever come true. I hadn’t realized how deep th’ anger of th’ German people ran, against th’ outcome of th’ last war, against th’ Jews, against th’ idea of bein’ seen by th’ world as a defeated people. I finally realized, lookin’ back on everything that had happened since I came back to th’ States, how deeply Hitler’d tapped into this anger. It was frightenin’ to think about, and it was frightenin’ for me to think about bein’ one of th’ nation of people that Hitler could drive into doin’ what I now knew was bein’ done, all over Europe. But I kept thinkin’ about it, over and over, th’ way you do when you’ve cut yourself shavin’, but can’t help goin’ back over th’ same spot, like you could undo th’ cut. “Meantime, I had a date with three million bucks. I’d bought two three-suiter leather bags in New York, and gave ’em a once-over with some steel wool to take th’ new look away. Along with what I’d need for th’ trip, I’d shoved enough old clothes, towels and stuff in them to fill them up. I looked at them, stacked one on top of th’ other in a corner of th’ room, too big to fit in th’ closet, and tried to imagine ’em full of money. I was in an incredible situation, and it was all I could do, sittin’ there alone in a hotel room, to make any kind of sense out of it atall. I finally gave up. It just didn’t make sense to me. 560 The Rough English Equivalent

“Turnin’ onto Massachusetts Avenue, my cab pulled up in front of th’ embassy a couple of minutes before noon. As th’ driver dropped my bags and turned to leave, th’ front door opened. A tall man about my age looked at me, then down at my bags, then back at me, with cool blue eyes. ‘Hauptmann Wessel.’ “‘Yes,’ I said. “‘Please to follow me.’ “He took my bags and walked down th’ long hall, stoppin’ at an open door about halfway down on th’ right. Settin’ one of th’ bags down, he rapped lightly. ‘Your Excellency,’ he said to th’ white-haired man seated at th’ large desk on th’ far side of th’ room. ‘Hauptmann Wessel is here.’ “It was Dr. Thomsen, the Chargé de Affaires. ‘Thank you, Johann,’ he said, gettin’ up and walkin’ towards us. ‘Please handle the Haupt- mann’s luggage.’ Smilin’ as he extended his hand to me, he said, ‘I am Hans Thomsen, Hauptmann. Thank you for assisting in this mission.’ “‘It is my pleasure, Herr Doktor,’ I said. “‘Herr Kramer’s condition has not improved?’ “‘No, sir. His situation, according to the doctor, is very serious.” “‘Will he be able to meet with the Irish?’ “‘I don’t think so. I think it would kill him,’ I said. “‘Then you must take his place. It is appropriate that a hero of the Kondor Legion should do so. This mission must not fail.’ “‘I understand.’ “‘Johann will be here soon with your bags. We’re fortunate to have had the cash available for this opportunity. Another operation for which it was procured was canceled. Please make certain that you create no unnecessary suspicion in your handling of the bags. They will be quite heavy, but you will always handle them yourself. You appear to be strong enough to make them appear to be of normal weight.’ Next Stop Baltimore 561

“‘I see no problem with that, Herr Doktor,’ I said. ‘With luck, the opposition will take no notice of me.’ “‘Let us hope so. If you are followed, you must evade anyone who attempts to follow you when you reach New York.’ “‘I shall.’ Johann returned with the bags, which as expected were very heavy. A cab had already been hailed for me, and I took my leave, wavin’ off the driver’s assistance with the bags and puttin’ them into the back seat beside me. It was a damn tight ﬁt. “As we pulled out into th’ street, my mind raced. Th’ more I thought about it, th’ more I understood th’ amazin’ opportunity that had opened up for me. A hero of th’ Reich, for th’ most part because th’ Reich needed heroes at that moment…who th’ fuck, I asked myself, wants to be a hero of this Reich, anyway? One of th’ bags sat beside me, its buckles at my elbow. I unbuckled th’ bag’s straps and slipped its latch. I eased th’ top half up a couple of inches and looked inside. And there it was; more money than I’d ever hoped to see. Checkin’ th’ driver’s eyes in th’ rear view mirror, I slipped one of th’ nearest bundles out and closed th’ case. Holdin’ th’ bundle between my knees, I pulled a bill out for a close look. It was a genuine, not- too-new, United States hundred-dollar bill. I made my decision right then; I became a millionaire, three times over, in th’ gray velvet back seat of a 1939 DeSoto. If I wasn’t bein’ followed, either by U.S. or German security people, I could solve my own problems, and save Churchill’s life, by just disappearin’ with these two big bags of cash. But should I try to go underground in New York, or take my two bags full of new future in another direction? As these thoughts ﬂew around inside my head, we kept movin’ toward Union Station. Before I knew it, we were there. I made th’ decision on th’ spot. I paid th’ cabbie, walked directly through th’ station to th’ other side to catch another cab. For better or worse, th’ money was mine, and Churchill was out of danger, at least from this operation. 562 The Rough English Equivalent

“I walked out to look for another cab. My idea was to go to another Washington hotel until I could work out a plan to keep out of sight. I didn’t know who, or how many, they’d send after me, but I knew they’d be there, and soon. Th’ first thing I saw outside th’ station entrance was a bus. Th’ sign on th’ front said “Baltimore.” Sump’m told me to get aboard. I slid th’ bags as close as possible to th’ bus’s baggage compartment, stood there while th’ driver put them in, and got on th’ bus. Th’ driver collected th’ $3.50 fare from me and my fellow passengers, took his seat, and we were off. We pulled up in front of th’ Graham, which th’ driver had recommended at my request for a good downtown hotel, a little over an hour later. “I registered usin’ a Pennsylvania driver’s license, which I had gotten through a source that Kramer didn’t know about, that identified me as Moses Kubielski of Upper Darby. I had also gotten a copy of th’ late Kubielski’s birth certificate, and usin’ those documents applied for and was issued a Social Security card in that name. I kept th’ license and Social Security card back to back between a couple of photos in my wallet. As things developed, I was to be Moses Kubiel- ski for quite some time. I had gotten a little less nervous about th’ bags’ weight, cautionin’ th’ bellman to be careful with my ‘book samples.’ Th’ Graham was obviously used by a lot of salesmen, and he seemed to handle their weight as though it wasn’t anything out of th’ ordinary, bringin’ them up on a cart. I tipped ’im four dollars, which he appeared to think was about right. “I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so I called room service and ordered a hamburger and a beer. It was four o’clock. By four o’clock tomorrow they’d be lookin’ for me, and I could only hope that they wouldn’t be lookin’ right under their noses. I had a lot of thinkin’ to do in a hurry, beginnin’ with findin’ a place for th’ money. I felt pretty certain that I could put it a Swiss bank and have it kept secret, but I wasn’t sure. Then I needed to be somewhere that they wouldn’t think to look for me for awhile. From what we’d been hearin’,th’ U.S. and Germany would be at war within a year; as soon as that hap- Next Stop Baltimore 563 pened, they’d have a lot less interest in findin’ me or th’ money, and a lot less people around to do it. So those were th’ things I had to do immediately; hide th’ money and drop out of sight. Part of th’ droppin’ out of sight would be changin’ my appearance, but I couldn’t do that until I got out of th’ hotel. “I found a listin’ for a Swiss bank, Credit Suisse, in th’ yellow pages. I’d need to get there as early as possible on Monday. Until then, I’d lie low and try to put th’ rest of th’ pieces of this puzzle that I’d made for myself together. And I’d have time to regret th’ spot in which I’d put Emil. I felt pretty bad about that at first, his bein’ so sick, but th’ old guy was a dedicated Nazi and totally professional, and he wouldn’t have lost a minute in doin’ what he had to do in th’ event that I’d somehow become expendable. He’d fight his war, for th’ Reich, and now I’d fight mine, for me. And I felt good about stoppin’ th’ Churchill assassination attempt before it got started. I also felt sure that th’ U.S. and th’ Allies would defeat Germany, so I was fairly confident that I could pull this off and stay alive. “It seemed to me that my best chance to go unnoticed would be to stay in a large city, even if th’ embassy, or Emil, filed a missin’ persons report. My experience in Berlin and New York was that ordinary people, doin’ ordinary things, became faceless in a big city. With a new name, some change in my appearance and some kind of everyday job, I thought I could fade into th’ background and be pretty damn hard to find. Since I was already in Baltimore, I figured I’d stay there until I saw any reason to move. “I slept late on Sunday, had room service bring up a New York Times, orange juice, coffee and an omelet with whole wheat toast, and sent my clothes out to be cleaned. There hadn’t been room in th’ bags for anything but th’ money and my shavin’ gear, so I’d also be goin’ shoppin’ for clothes as soon as I parked th’ money. I ate breakfast, turned th’ radio on for some music, and looked through th’ Times for anything about my disappearance. Nothin’. It was, of course, both too soon and not newsworthy anyway, as long as three 564 The Rough English Equivalent million dollars wasn’t part of th’ story. And th’ Germans would certainly keep that part to themselves. So I had a pretty restful day under th’ circumstances, readin’ th’ Times and listenin’ to th’ Sena- tors-White Sox game on th’ radio. I smiled to myself every time I thought about what day it was. Independence Day. “Th’ Credit Suisse office was, I found, just six blocks from th’ hotel. I called ’em at nine o’clock Monday mornin’ and made an appointment with th’ manager, Mr. Leclaire, for two that afternoon. I told th’ woman who took th’ call that I would be makin’ a substantial deposit, and that I would want th’ transaction kept completely confidential. I called th’ front desk for a porter and a cart, and th’ bags and I took a very short cab ride to th’ corner of Booker and Jer- ome Streets, a block down and across th’ street from th’ bank. I stood on th’ corner until th’ cab was out of sight. Then, for th’ last time, I picked up my load of cash and took it to its final destination. “Depositin’ th’ cash was th’ simplest thing in th’ world. We went into a windowless room with a large, waist-high table in its center. While two men counted th’ money, Leclaire explained th’ bank’s obligations to its depositors under both Swiss and U.S. laws. He said that th’ bank and all its employees were required by Swiss law to protect depositors’ identities from any and all inquiries, and that this requirement was within th’ confines of U.S. bankin’ laws that governed foreign banks’ operations. Th’ cash amount was verified to be two million, nine hundred eighty thousand dollars, reflectin’ th’ twenty thousand that I took out for immediate expenses. I decided against havin’ th’ account be identified only by number, because I’d always have to make withdrawals in person. Th’ account would be Moses Kubielski’s. “Havin’ founded th’ Republic of Me, I walked out of th’ bank with two large empty leather bags, a deposit slip, and a checkbook. A quick cab ride back to th’ hotel to drop off th’ bags, and I was back on th’ street to do some clothes shoppin’. I had decided to look for as invisible a job as possible, and I needed duds to match. I was already Next Stop Baltimore 565 likin’ th’ idea of workin’, but not for a livin’. At least not in th’ usual sense of th’ word; I’d be workin’ to live like everyone else, but in a very unusual sense of th’ word. Anyway, I wouldn’t need suits and ties for th’ kind of job I’d be lookin’ for. Th’ yellow pages had a listin’ for a men’s store, Fitzpatrick’s, just down th’ block from th’ hotel. It was a little fancier than necessary, but they had what I needed; I picked out slacks, shirts, a couple of sweaters, a sports jacket, an overcoat, socks, underwear and two pairs of shoes. I was back at th’ hotel by five. “Th’ next order of business was a place to live. I wanted to get out of th’ hotel as soon as possible. I bought a Baltimore Sun and looked in th’ classified ads for apartments. I wanted to live someplace in th’ city, so I could walk to work, or ride th’ bus. I didn’t want to buy a car yet. Even though I had a new name, I didn’t want to show up on a list of new automobile registrations. I found a few listin’s that sounded suitable, and th’ next mornin’, wearin’ new clothes and my old shoes, I set out on my first reconnaissance of Baltimore. I picked up a street map at th’ first newsstand that I came across, and took it into a cafe across th’ street. I looked it over while I had breakfast, and got myself oriented. Then I ranked th’ apartment listin’s based on that knowledge, and I had at least a rough idea of where to go first. “It took me a couple of days to find what I wanted; besides bein’ in a decent part of downtown Baltimore, it had to be comfortable enough for me to live there indefinitely. If war came, as I felt sure that it would, housin’ anywhere near Washington would become scarce overnight, and I wanted to lock myself into as long a lease as possible. I intended to fade into th’ workaday world of th’ city, and to stay there as long as necessary. I really had no idea how long, or how intense, th’ search for me would be, but I had to assume th’ worst. Th’ overnight disappearance of a trusted Abwehr officer and three million dollars wouldn’t be shrugged off and forgotten, even if that officer hadn’t been part of what would have been th’ assassination of 566 The Rough English Equivalent th’ century. They’d be lookin’ for me, that was for sure; how long and how hard they’d look was th’ question. “Th’ place that I picked was in a four-story buildin’ on North Charles Street, in th’ kind of quiet workin’-class neighborhood that I was lookin’ for, a couple of miles north of downtown. Th’ apartment was on th’ northeast corner of th’ third floor; it had two bedrooms, a livin’ room, bath and kitchen. Th’ rent was seventy-five dollars a month. Th’ buildin’s superintendent told me that th’ standard lease term was one year. I asked him if I could get a lower rent for a longer lease; after a little negotiation, and my agreement to pay three months rent in advance, I signed a two-year lease for sixty-eight-fifty a month, with an option to renew for th’ same period at a rent increase of no more than ten percent. Since th’ apartment was vacant, I could move in immediately. “I had told Foster, th’ superintendent, that I was recently divorced, and that I had come to Baltimore to start a new life, havin’ sold a parcel of land that had been left to me by my father to provide th’ funds to do so. I’d be needin’ some new furniture, since I’d agreed that my former home in Philadelphia, along with its contents, would go to my wife as a part of th’ settlement. I asked ’im if he could recommend a furniture store that sold reasonably-priced lines, since I needed to stretch my money as far as possible while I looked for work. He gave me th’ names of two nearby stores, where I found what I needed. I wished that I could’ve spent more time pickin’ out things, since this was th’ first furniture I’d bought in my life, but that wasn’t possible. What I had to do was move as fast as I possibly could, and by takin’ what I could get from these stores’ stock, I was able to move in on Saturday, just a week after I’d hit town. “I settled into apartment 312 on 1769 North Charles, near th’ intersection with West Lanvale, and took th’ next few days to get acquainted with th’ neighborhood. And it was a real neighborhood, with drug, dime and grocery stores, a couple of restaurants, a movie, a barber shop, newsstand, library, doctors and dentists within a few Next Stop Baltimore 567 blocks, a few apartment buildin’s and lots of houses on either end and up and down th’ side streets. Downtown Baltimore was due south, just a short distance away. I could look for a job downtown without needin’ more than a bus ride to get there. “I didn’t go out of my way to talk with a lot of people at first; I’d decided to let my hair and beard grow as a little bit of a disguise. Th’ less conversation between me and my new neighbors durin’ that process, I thought, th’ better. In th’ three weeks or so that it took for th’ beard to look presentable, I spent a lot a lot of time settin’ up th’ apartment and monitorin’ th’ newspapers and radio for any mention of my disappearance. I never heard or saw anything about it; th’ more I thought about it, th’ more I could imagine how it made sense. Since I lived at Emil’s, there was no one wonderin’ about a vacant apartment or back rent. And neither he, th’ embassy nor th’ IRA had anything to gain by havin’ anything at all point to th’ Churchill plot. They’d obviously been able to keep a lid on th’ situation, and now they could come after me without th’ handicap of any news people gummin’ up th’ works. I just had to hope that th’ search wouldn’t be thorough enough, or last long enough. But three million bucks is a lot of money. Talk about frustration; there I was–one day with very little, th’ next day with th’ means to do anything I wanted to. But for those five months until Pearl Harbor, all I could do was hide. “As it turned out, I never had to leave th’ neighborhood for work. I had gone to th’ movie–th’ Strand Theatre–a couple of times. Th’ third time I went, a HELP WANTED sign was out front. I asked th’ woman in th’ box office what kind of help was wanted, and she asked me to come inside while she called th’ manager. I stood in th’ lobby, lookin’ at comin’ attractions posters for westerns and women’s dra- mas, listenin’ to th’ popcorn poppin’ and sniffin’ its aroma as it mixed with a dozen different candy smells. Th’ manager was just a little older than I was, a little shorter, and twenty pounds heavier. He had th’ tiredest grayish-blue eyes that I’d ever seen, set under a bushy 568 The Rough English Equivalent set of eyebrows. His name was Mark. ‘Ever work in a theater before?’ he asked me. “‘No,’ I said. ‘Whaddaya need done?’ “‘Well, I need someone who’ll be willing to help out everywhere at first. Box office, tickets, usher–if you’re willing to do that for awhile, you can learn the projection system in your spare time and become a full-time projectionist. That’s a union job; starts at three-fifty an hour.’ “And that’s what I did. A far cry from helpin’ Hitler take over the world, but it was perfect. Hell, I would’ve paid them to work there. The shifts were ten to five or five to twelve, changin’ every two weeks. And the longer I did it, the better I liked it. After two months I moved into the projection room, and joined th’ union, The Interna- tional Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees, Moving Picture Tech- nicians, Artists and Allied Crafts of the United States. IATSE, or “Yotsy,” for short. And I’m still a member in good standin’. “I was out for an early lunch one day that fall when I had the late shift, and decided to walk over to the library on St. Paul. I wanted to see what they had in the way of maps of Russia. The German invasion was into its third month. They had taken Kiev, and it looked like they’d be in Moscow soon. If they made it, Russia would soon become part of the Reich, which made them a much stronger potential adversary of the Allies. Strong enough to invade the United States some day. I wanted to get a clearer picture of the distances they’d have to cover in th’ process of gettin’ there. “Th’ library was white-trimmed red brick with a scatterin’ of dark blue ones, like several others in th’ neighborhood. A one-story buildin’, it looked like a private home, just a little larger. A thirtyish woman stood at th’ counter; she offered a faint smile as I approached. Slender, almost thin, a little above medium height, just- grayin’ dark brown hair done up in a bun. ‘May I help you?’ she asked. Large, solemn, tired eyes, dark blue, set wide in a pale oval face, examined me with mild interest through tortoise-shell glasses Next Stop Baltimore 569 as I rested my hands on th’ desk. A small brown mole sat over her right cheekbone. We seemed to be th’ only two people there. ‘I’d like to see a map of Russia,’ I said. ‘As large a scale as possible.’ ‘Following the war news?’ ‘Right.’ ‘Come this way,’ she said as she moved from behind the counter, walkin’ down the corridor to my left. ‘Maps are in the reference room.’ As she walked in front of me, I saw that her shoes were flat- heeled loafers. She was taller than I thought, maybe five-ten. ‘There are several atlases here,’ she said. ‘This one’s the largest.’ She pulled a book that was probably two feet long down from a shelf. ‘Last Sun- day’s paper had a map of the front. I’ll get it for you.’ I took the book from her and set it on the nearest table. I was still lookin’ for the map of Russia when she returned with the Sunday Sun’s first section, the left edge clamped in one of those thin wooden poles that lets it hang in a rack. She’d folded it open to the map of Russia, showin’ the Ger- man and Russian positions as of September second. As she bent over the table to put it down, a faint, but definite, whiff of alcohol hit me. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘This’ll help a lot.’ ‘You’re quite welcome. I’ll be at the desk if you need anything else.’ “Half an hour of tryin’ to put myself in the shoes of the Russian front generals, first on one side, then the other, was as much as I could stand. I put the atlas back on the shelf and walked back past the front counter. ‘Thanks a lot,’ I said to the librarian, who was lookin’ down at sump’m behind it. “I startled her. She looked up at me, her eyes wide. ‘Oh. You’re welcome. Come see us again.’ “I walked over to the desk, extending my hand as I did. ‘I will. My name’s Moses. Moses Kubielski.’ “I’d surprised her, and she took a few seconds to grasp it. ‘Oh. Hello. I’m Mrs. Green.’ But no ring on the wedding finger. “‘Well, Mrs. Green,’ I said, ‘Looks like it may be a short war, but I wanta keep up with it as long as it lasts. I’ll see ya in a day or two. 570 The Rough English Equivalent

Don’t guess ya like movies all that much, or I’dve seen ya at th’ Strand by now. I work there.’ ‘Oh. No. I do like movies. I just don’t have the time to go very often. The Strand. What do you do there?’ ‘Projectionist.’ ‘Hm. That must be interesting.’ ‘Wait ’til you’ve done it for awhile. Guess most jobs are a little borin’, though. That’s why they call ’em jobs, I guess.’ “She laughed; the smile that followed the laugh was real. ‘I guess so,’ she said. “I took a theatre pass out of my wallet and put it on th’ counter. ‘Come over and see a movie sometime. The first one’s on me.’ “She looked at it, then at me. She picked it up and looked at it, then put it down on her side of the counter. ‘Thank you. Could I bring my daughter?’ ‘Sure,’ I said, pullin’ out another pass and discountin’ her desir- ability as I did. ‘How old is she?’ “‘Fourteen. She loves the movies. You may have seen her there; tall and dark, with her father’s high cheekbones.’ ‘Could be. Want another pass for him?’ “She smiled that thin half-smile again. ‘No. Thanks. We haven’t seen him for quite some time now. Are the passes good on weekends?’ ‘Yes. Sure. Anytime.’ ‘Well, if my daughter hasn’t made plans with her friends, I’d like to come this Friday evening. I’m off this Saturday, and it’d be a nice way to relax and start the weekend.’ ‘That’ll be just fine. How Green Was My Valley will still be runnin’. Walter Pidgeon and Maureen O’Hara. You’ll like it, I’m sure. I’ll still be workin’ the five to twelve shift. Ask the girl at the box office to call me up in the projection room, and I’ll come down for a minute. I’d like to meet your daughter.’ Next Stop Baltimore 571

“They came for the seven o’clock show, and I went down to meet ’em. Linda was nearly as tall as her mother, even at fourteen. Her hair was several shades of red lighter as a young girl; maybe she has it darkened now, I don’t know. Sarah’d let her hair down out of th’ workday bun; it reached down just below her shoulders, not showin’ the gray nearly as much as it did when it was put up. ‘Hi, Mr. Kubiel- ski,’ she said. ‘Hi. And please call me Moses. Mose would be even better.’ ‘Well, Mose, this is my daughter, Linda.’ ‘Hi, Linda. Welcome to the Strand.’ ‘Hi, Mose,’ she said with a bright smile. ‘Looks like a good movie; thanks for getting us in.’ ‘You’re welcome; glad that you could come.’ ‘We were talking on the way down,’ Sarah said. ‘and we thought we’d invite you to either lunch or dinner tomorrow, depending on what shift you’re working. Would you be free to join us?’ ‘Freer than usual, as it happens; this is my weekend off, too.’ “Well, things moved along smartly after that dinner. We became lovers, and I had my first experience of bein’ involved with a woman who was smarter than me. About a lot of things, anyway. But most of all, literature. She was a librarian, of course, but that by itself can’t describe how much she knew, and loved, books in general and American writers in particular. I’d never read much beyond what my folks, and school, shoved down my throat. Sarah helped me to understand what fun readin’ could be, first with Mark Twain, then Hemingway, then Faulkner. Faulkner really helped me start to understand people here in Bisque.” Jack smiled. “No wonder you’ve always talked so much about ’im.” “Yeah, I guess I’ve bored your ass off about ’im all these years.” “Well, maybe at first, but not for long. You made me curious about what he had to say that grabbed a guy like you so hard. Readin’ him’s what first got me interested in writing.” 572 The Rough English Equivalent

It was Moses’ turn to grin. “Wonder what he’dve had to say about this town. Well, anyway, th’ big problem with Sarah was that she was an alcoholic. You’d have to live with one to know what hell that can be. Th’ more we were together, th’ less she bothered to hide th’ way she was from me. And, like a lot of people, it took me too long to realize that she was one of th’ ones who wouldn’t accept help; didn’t want it. Th’ more I came to realize it, th’ more worried I got about what it was doin’ to Linda. You’ve met her, so you know she’s no dummy. Turns out she’d always been a whiz in school. Just a really bright kid who loved to learn stuff. She’d been drawin’ and paintin’– pencil, ink, watercolors–since she was six or seven. It was th’ damnedest thing–as much as I learned from Sarah, I enjoyed sittin’ and talkin’ with Linda even more. It was like talkin’ to a grown person who could still dream. “By th’ time she was sixteen, in 1943, she was a sophomore in high school, doin’ better than ever, but it was in spite of Sarah’s influence, or th’ lack of it. It was almost like she resented th’ kid’s success. I called her on it all th’ time, and our relationship evaporated in a series of scraps about all sorts of shit, but mostly about Linda. Pretty soon it just got to be too much. She’d actually try to kick my ass when she’d get a snootful, and to make sure I didn’t hurt her, or get hurt myself, I stopped seein’ her. “I kept up with Linda, though. I even talked with a couple of her teachers about her potential, even though they were hesitant about talkin’ about a student with a non-family member. I was persistent, though, and pointed out th’ fact that th’ Greens had come to Balti- more from Cedar Rapids, Iowa (Sarah always called it ‘Cedar-fucking-Rapids’), there was no immediate family nearby to help out at critical times. What I wanted to do, I told them, was to make sure that Linda had th’ opportunity to go to college without anything, financial or otherwise, gettin’ in th’ way. One of th’ teachers, Mrs. Roberts, understood Linda’s situation well enough to get into an Next Stop Baltimore 573 informal partnership with me to keep me informed about Linda’s progress and what she needed to carry on. “I set up a trust fund for her that would be large enough to send her to any college that she might want to attend. Mrs. Roberts agreed to be th’ trustee. As it turned out, Linda was accepted by a bunch of colleges, includin’ some in th’ Ivy League, but she decided to go to Johns Hopkins, right there in town. That didn’t seem like such a great idea to me; I thought, no, I damned well knew that she’d let her concern for her mother’s condition keep her in town. But I’d put no strings on th’ terms of th’ trust, and Mrs. Roberts assured me that for her major field, art history, Johns Hopkins was an excellent choice. So by June of 1945, my only remainin’ tie to Baltimore was Linda. That would naturally diminish pretty quickly as she settled in to th’ routine of bein’ a college student. So, since I could do pretty much anything I pleased now that there was no Third Reich to worry about, I started thinkin’ about what I wanted to do with th’ rest of my life. And although she hadn’t answered any of th’ letters that I’d sent her over th’ years, I couldn’t get Lídia off my mind. We’d been pulled apart so fast by Tanner’s suicide and my court martial, and I felt that somehow she must be blamin’ me, or herself, or both of us for his death. A lot had happened to me in th’ years since I left Cuba in ’31. And I had no way of knowin’ how much had happened in her life. But th’ more I thought about it, th’ more I realized that I needed to see her again, if only to straighten things out between us. So I started makin’ plans to go back to Cuba and find her. “I thought I’d better hang around for a few months longer to make sure that everything was OK with Linda and her school situation. I used th’ time to catch up on what was goin’ on in Cuba, applyin’ for a passport and a visa and mailin’ off a subscription to both th’ English-language paper and El Día, th’ big daily paper in Havana. And I started shoppin’ for a car; figured I’d drive to Miami and ship it over, because I planned to stay there awhile. However my search for Lídia turned out, I was tired of cold winters, and I figured 574 The Rough English Equivalent

I’d just take a long holiday, do some ﬁshin’ and then see what I felt like doin’. I found th’ white Buick in th’ Sun’s want ads, and bought it from th’ estate of a Mr. Browning, who, accordin’ to th’ lawyer with whom I made th’ deal, had gotten rich in th’ printin’ ink business. It looked like just th’ car for a minor-league war proﬁteer to drive around Cuba. And my Dad always wanted a Buick. Anyway, by th’ time I was ready to leave Baltimore it was late in th’ summer of 1946.” “Sounds like a great life to me,” said Jack. “Sun, fun, señoritas…” “Yeah, but you’ll notice that I didn’t get there. As much as I was smitten by your mom, things didn’t really have to go they way that they did. When I got th’ money, it changed some things in my life, just th’ way th’ chance discovery of gravity and radioactivity changed some things in humanity. But it didn’t change me at th’ core; otherwise I’d never have bought th’ Winston or gotten involved in th’ beer business. I could just as easily have hung around on one pretext or another. But that little striver down at th’ bottom of my soul wouldn’t let me do it. Like most everybody else you know, I feel th’ need to hustle for recognition through observable deeds.” Jack saw the little vein above his left eyebrow thrusting out and subsiding, as it would when he got pissed, in time to his beating heart. “Neither England’r th’ USA, goddammit, will ever decorate me for my one great chance deed, and unfortunately I needed to build a monument of little deeds to that petty bourgeois part of myself, stackin’ turds of commerce one on top of th’ other.” “Well, bourgeois or otherwise, you ole buzzard,” said Jack, “I’m damn glad you stayed.” Moses exhaled heavily as he looked at his watch. It was almost eleven. “So am I, kid. Anyway, that’s th’ guy who came to Bisque. And, soup to nuts, you’re th’ only other person who knows th’ story. Sorry to spring it on you like this, but sump’m’s come up that made it necessary.” Next Stop Baltimore 575

“Holy shit, Mose. I’m not sure I got it all, but it’s th’ damnedest story I ever heard. But it seems like it’s all way back in th’ past. Why would you tell me, or anybody else, about all of this now?” “Well, a couple of reasons. One is that I was comin’ close to th’ point where I’da sat on all of this for as long as I could’ve anyway. I’ve always been careful about what I’ve said to you about how much watchin’ you grow up’s meant to me, because you have a mom and dad who love you, and I wasn’t about to try to assume some kinda “uncle” role in your life. What you are, buddy, is my best friend, and when th’ time comes to spill your guts, that’s what best friends are for. I woulda waited awhile, ’til you were done with school, but like I said, sump’m’s come up.” Jack’s face turned solemn. “What is it?” “Paul Pulaski.” “Paul Pulaski?” “Yep.” “What’s he got to do with it?” “He’s th’ guy that saved my life in Spain. He’s Dieter Brück.” Jack’s face kept its composure, th’ eyes tightening slightly. After a minute or so, he said: “Why’s he here?” “It’s a long story, but he came here as an agent of Soviet intelligence; th’ KGB. He came to recruit agents inside th’ Savannah River plant. After thinkin’ about it for weeks, and doin’ as much checkin’ as I’ve been able to, I’m convinced that our meetin’ was a case of pure coincidence, incredible as it seems. He walked up to th’ Win- ston box office one Saturday night back in March, right before th’ revival. I was sittin’ there, while Evvie was in th’ can. We recognized each other immediately. He came up to th’ office, and we talked for hours. After he heard my story, he told me that he dreamed of leavin’ th’ KGB, but that he hadn’t come up with a way to do it that had even a fifty-fifty chance of gettin’ out alive.” “Do you think he’s tellin’ you th’ truth?” 576 The Rough English Equivalent

“Yes, I do. He’s had more than enough time, since Abercrombie took him on as sexton, to tip his hand to me if he felt otherwise. Obviously, I’d be a prime agent recruit for him, and th’ knowledge that he has about my past is a good basis for blackmail. No, I think th’ guy’s just tryin’ to put twenty years of th’ spy business behind him, and get out for good with a whole skin.” “And he wants your help.” “Sure. Understand, he’s given me no reason to believe that he knows about my takin’ our old employer for three million. I think they kept th’ lid down tight enough on that so that rank and file agents in Europe never got th’ word. And I see no reason to tell him now. Since I helped to get him hired at First Baptist, he’s satisfied that I’ve got what it takes, in terms of influence here in Bisque, to help him disappear successfully.” “Do you?” “Not if I try to stay here any longer. I believe him when he says he means me no harm, but he’s a professional intelligence agent. His instinct to survive will always override everything else. If he got caught, either by his own people or US security, there’s no doubt I’d be an immediate bargainin’ chip. So my solution’s to have us both disappear. I’ve been a merchant long enough, anyway.” “What?” Jack’s eyes widened as he spoke. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you about this. If I was gone from Bisque tomorrow, I’d imagine that everybody here would get over it pretty soon. No disrespect, but that includes your mom. It’s just human nature to move on in life, and that’s what people naturally do. But I didn’t think I could leave you to do that on your own. For one thing, I’m not proposin’ to disappear forever. Moses Kubielski’ll be gone, but th’ guy you know’ll still be around, just usin’ a different name. For another, I couldn’t stand th’ thought of you thinkin’ I was dead. And that’s what it’s gonna come down to. Everyone else in Bisque’s gonna to have to be convinced that Paul Pulaski and I’ve been killed.” Next Stop Baltimore 577

Jack’s green eyes focused rock-steady on him. “What do you want me to do?” Moses grinned. “Jesus, kid. I hoped you’d say that, but I really wasn’t ready for it. Lemme tell you a little more about what I think I’m gonna do before you get on board…”

“Goddamiteydayum!,” Flx squawked, “what a fuckin’ story. Ol’ Mose–er–Peter’s really been over th’ jumps.” “No shit,” Jack said as they drove back to town. Now I understand how he was able to take things around here in stride. To anybody that’s seen what he has, goin’s-on around this little burg gotta seem right puny.” “And yet, dull as this fuckin’ place can be, he’s stuck around,” Flx noted, his hooded eyes searching the overhanging tree limbs as they neared the hotel. “And you know why.” “I guess I do.” “I guess I do,” Flx mocked, his wings quivering. “You know damn well the only thing that’s kept him around here, at least since 1948 or so, has been his wantin’ to watch you grow up and get the fuck outa here. Sure, he and Mom are great friends, but that’s all it’s been since he got her figured out.” “You’re right. It’s not her fault that her art drives her the way it does, and he knows that. But it scares me to think about his life before he came to Bisque. There was–is–this sinister side of him, and I never saw it.” “Me either,” Flx admitted. “That’s how good he is.” “He’ll hafta be good to do what he says he’s gonna do. Even after he figures out exactly how he’s gonna do it.” “I’ll keep an eye on ’im–find out what I can. He probably won’t pass everything along to you, at least while he’s doin’ it, and it oughta be damn interesting to watch this happen.” “That’s for sure,” Jack said. That is for damn sure.”

chapter 27 s Money, Honey

1420 Monday 4 June 1956:

Lan’lord rang my front do’ bell, I let it ring for a long, long spell, Went to the window, peeped through th’ blind, Axed him to tell me what was on his mind— He said ‘Money, honey,’ mmmmhm-hm…” As Clyde McPhatter & the Drifters struggled to get out of the Checker Cab’s speaker, the stifling air that coursed through its open windows ran a bit cooler as the car ducked into the Midtown Tunnel. He’d forgotten how miserable early June in the city could be. To get his mind off the cab ride from LaGuardia into Manhattan, he retraced his schedule; tomorrow, meet Johnny Boots at the location that he had given him in their brief phone call last Friday. The Hotel Sutcliffe had seen better days, but its eastside location on 14th Street was where Moses wanted to be. His genuine but outdated documents that identified him as Peter Wessel had first priority. He’d get on the phone and start the process of renewing his New York state driver’s license and his U.S. passport as soon as he checked in. Then get he’d get hold of Linda. It had been almost a year since they’d talked, and

- 579 - 580 The Rough English Equivalent he needed an update on her circumstances before he could discuss his plans, and her possible role in them, with her. 1742 Tuesday 5 June 1956: The cab stopped with a jerk in front of a faded green canopy on East 9th Street, a weathered yellow 247 on its end panel. Amalfi, in gilt script, appeared at eye level at the right of the door, embedded in a thin coat of grime that fogged the restaurant’s plate glass window. Above the fat brass tube and rings suspending a sun-faded, once- burgundy curtain that dropped to the window sill, Moses could see vignetted images of a couple of men at the front of the restaurant, one behind the bar and one perched sideways on a barstool. The door hissed closed behind him; garlic, basil, tomato and cigar smoke rode on top of a hint of mildew. Except for the bartender’s white apron, the men were identically dressed in white shirts, black ties and black trousers. The man on the barstool slid off it as Moses approached. The gla- cial slide of his shiny cap of graying black hair toward the back of his head was some two-thirds complete. The corners of his mouth turned up a millimeter, and parted slightly in an amiable grunt. “Eeey. Ya havin’ dinneh?” “Lookin’ for Mr. Bisceglia,” said Moses, returning the vestigial grin. The man’s eyes clicked an aperture wider. “Oh. He know ya?” “Yeah. He’s expectin’ me.” “Wait.” He turned, walking toward the shadowy back of the dining room. Daylight streamed through the door that he opened, then closed behind him. He was back in a couple of minutes, trailed by the familiar figure of “Johnny Boots” Bisceglia. The tall, spare figure of the middleweight fighter he used to be was gone; thick, graying, well-barbered hair countered bright teeth gleaming in a face the color of Pecan wood. “Petey!” he roared in a voice that, like the facial fissures, had deepened, testimony to increased responsibilities as Money, Honey 581 authoritative as hashmarks on a top sergeant’s tunic. He pushed past the waiter to embrace Moses. “Howsa boy?” “Not bad, Johnny,” said Moses, returning his broad grin. You’re lookin’ good.” “Yeah, I try to stay in shape. Looks like you do, too. Come on back inna courtyard. We gotta catch up onna few years.” They sat at a table midway in a single rank of six in the narrow canyon created by the buildings that surrounded them. Two large electric fans stood on floor stands at either side of the door, sending a brisk breeze over the table. A bottle of Valpolicella and a plate of cold antipasto sat between them. Johnny sat far enough back from the table to cross his legs, showing one of a pair of the namesake custom-made ankle-length boots. That’s gotta be ostrich, Moses thought. “So, how’d th’ war go for you, Petey?” “Pretty well, I guess, John. I picked th’ right side, anyway.” “Yeah, you coulda been in a real jam otherwise. Ya dropped outta sight before Pearl Harbor; not that long after we fixed ya up with the new papers. Where ya been?” “I got outta here on the fourth of July, ’41. Settled down in Bal- amer.” “Where?” “Balamer. Maryland.” “Oh. Baltimore. That’s what I’m hearin’. At first I thought you was doin’ Rhett Butler. What took ya down there?” “The need to disappear. Didn’t want to hafta argue with my Ger- man friends about my decision to leave their employment.” “Yeah,” Johnny said, nodding gravely as he speared a piece of roasted yellow pepper, added an olive, and ate it. He chewed briefly, then said, “I guess they woulda tried to convince ya that ya’d made the wrong decision.” “Well, you know, there are some outfits you just can’t quit.” 582 The Rough English Equivalent

Johnny wiped his mouth with a large white napkin and grinned, his brown eyes narrowing. “That’s what I hear. Well, I was happy to getcha call. With the war and everythin’, you don’t know who from the old days made it and who didn’t. Glad you did. Don’t get to sit down across from an old sparrin’ partner every day.” “Yeah. Makes you wonder where we’d be if we’d made it across the river to the big time.” “Inna ring? That’s a dream we never shared, Petey. Fightin’s a sucker’s game. No worse odds anywhere. I was there because it gimme a place I could beat the shit outta somebody and not go to the lockup. That, and learnin’ I could take a punch, was all Ridge- wood Grove ever did for me. Just parta growin’ up. I din’t have the natural talent a fighter needs to make it to the big time. Ya came a lot closer than me as far as talent–’til you picked up the gimp.” “Yeah, there was a time when that’s all I could think about. Cost me a college education, among other things.” “Well, it’s way behind us now. What you up to, anyway? You said you needed some advice.” “Yeah. I made a little money during the war, and I’m thinkin’ of goin’ back to Cuba. Did I tellya I was stationed there in the Navy before the war? I liked it. Thought I’d see whatcha thought of th’ idea of an American livin’ there, now that Batista’s running things. Or is he?” Johnny laughed, brushing some crumbs off the underside of his sleeve. “El Presidente’s our guy; you read the papers, or we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation. Since gambling was legalized, Meyer moved down there a couple years back. The Cuban government and the Teamsters are bankrollin’ us, fifty-fifty. We’ve built the Riviera– for $17 million–and the Tropicana’ll be done soon. The Cleveland people built the Nacional, and there’s plenty more to come. Meyer says we’re bigger’n U.S. Steel. You wanta go down there? Go ahead. I can get you a 2-year visa now, as a casino employee. You don’t have Money, Honey 583 to be one, of course, we’ll just say you are. Ya can renew it if ya wanna stay, or who knows what’ll be goin’ on by then? When ya wanna go?” “Well, I’m in no hurry, but there’s nothin’ holdin’ me, either. One other question, though.” “What?” “That visa. Can you get three?” “Hell, I can get a hundred. You takin’ a lady witya?” “Yeah, and a guy that I owe big-time. Saved my life once.” “Guess your pals’ll need new papers. How ’bout you?” “No, thanks, John. I think it’s time for me to get back to being Petey.” “Got their pictures?” “And the other vitals for the guy; I’ll get the girl’s stuff later today.” Moses said, handing him the large manila envelope he’d dropped on a adjacent chair. “I figure 5 G’s each. OK, pal?” “That’s fine.” “OK. Call me here tomorrow.”

The cab crawled along the narrow riverside street in Queens. “D’jya say 723?” the cabby asked Moses. “723-A.” “Dere’s 737. 733. 725. Oops, 721.” “Just hold it here.” Moses looked along the row of one–and two- story buildings that backed up on the East River, shading his eyes against the morning sun’s reﬂections bouncing off the windows of Manhattan skyscrapers. “OK. Wait while I ask somebody.” Stepping out of the cab, he walked into the closest of the businesses, number 721. A battered counter stood between him and a gray-haired man of about sixty in a worn shop apron, hunched over a workbench. “Mornin’,” he said to the man’s proﬁle. 584 The Rough English Equivalent

“Whaddya want?” the man asked him without turning from his work. “Lookin’ for 723-A.” “Next door. Upstairs.” Moses opened a glass-paneled door that led to a narrow staircase. Reaching its top, he looked down a hall with four doors cut into its walls. The first on his right had 723A hand-stenciled on it in yellow letters. He pushed the button on the door-facing; he gave it a couple of minutes. Just as he was about to knock on the door, it was opened by a thin, fortyish man dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and slacks. The man waited for him to speak. “Mr. Weiss?” The man nodded. “You here for Mr. Bisceglia?” “Yeah. Excuse me for a minute while I pay off my cab.” He rejoined Weiss, who beckoned him through a doorway that led into a large open space, which held several large buoys in various stages of overhaul and repair. Weiss motioned him into a chair beside his desk, which sat in one corner. “Mr. B said you were lookin’ for some type of fuse.” “That’s right. I need ta detonate a charge a couple of hundred feet underwater.” “What kind of charge?” “Dynamite. Three, four sticks.” Weiss looked at him quickly over rimless glasses, then looked out the shop’s rear door beyond the hoist at the river. “You want this to work the first time, of course.” “Yes. Yes, I do,” said Moses. “Who’s putting the gadget together?” “I am.” “Built an underwater piece before?” “Yes,” Moses said, “but it’s been some time.” “Be sure to vent the housing. Water won’t hurt anything, but you don’t want a false reading. A hydrostatic fuse is what you want. Pre- Money, Honey 585 determined depth settings at 25, 50, 75 and 100 meters. Works with standard blasting caps, which simplifies things.” “Sounds great. Got ’em in stock?” Weiss smiled. “This isn’t a store. I’ll order it and send it over to you. What’s the address?” “I’ll pick them up here, if you don’t mind. I’d like three; can you have them here tomorrow?” “The day after. Call me to be sure I have them.” He gave Moses a business card. “OK. What do I owe you?” “My fee’s five hundred, and the fuses’re one-fifty each. Nine-fifty. You can pay me when you come back.” “OK. Is there a cab stand close by?” “Better let me call one for you,” Weiss said.

Sitting at the bar at Reuben’s restaurant just off 5th Avenue on 58th Street, he waved to Linda as she walked through the door, and stood to meet her with a hug and a kiss. A teal blue knit dress sheathed her lean body. Lightly bloodshot eyes looked into his with the customary candor. “You never give a girl much warning, do you?” she said. “Sorry; didn’t have much myself. Whaddya say we get a table?” The waiter came and went, and they sat doing general reminis- cence for a few minutes. “So how’s life in general, kid?” asked Moses. “It’s been better, Mose, to tell the truth. Sometimes I wonder what I should be doing that I’m not. I’ve been here damn near ten years, I’m still doing the same job, with damn little to show for it. This is no town to grow old in.” Stiﬂing a grin, he said, “Well, you’ve got a few years left. You’re not even thirty.” “No, but so close to it I can smell it, or smell of it. Why don’t you marry me and take me away from all this?” 586 The Rough English Equivalent

“Jeez, now I know it’s serious, if you can say that with a straight face. That is a straight face, isn’t it?” “None straighter. You’re a neat guy; they should’ve made a few more like you.” “Just as well they didn’t,” he said with a grin. “What’s up? You still seein’ the guy that rents you the boat?” “Rented me the boat, and for less than you’d believe. I’ve been off the Petrel, and Roger Brannon, for nearly six months. I’m in a dump just off Columbus Avenue on West 69th.” “I’m sorry. Wanta talk about it?” “What the hell good would it do? It’s just my personal edition of the old New York story. Successful ad man keeps young girl on the side, promises to divorce Connecticut wife and marry young girl, years go by and the promise’s repeated until it’s forgotten. Successful ad man finds new girl as young as his now-not-so-young-girl used to be, and things get sticky. It’d be funny if it weren’t so pathetic. I just feel stupid, and since a lot of my work was coming from Roger’s agency, I also lost that when I suggested that he kiss my ass on my way out.” “What you need, my dear,” said Moses, “is a new boat.” “No shit.” He paused to let the waiter deposit two dark draft beers and the café’s namesake sandwiches. “Ever think seriously about movin’?” “Sure. I’ve also thought seriously about jumping off the George Washington bridge, among other things. I guess I’ve just been frozen since I left that fuckhead. Why do you ask?” “Because I need your help. In a big way.” “Well, you know you’ve got that,” she said. Does it involve me moving?” “What I’m thinking of doin’ involves leavin’ behind as few loose ends as possible. Part of the process’d be for you to leave New York, because people could be nosin’ around here lookin’ for me after I’ve Money, Honey 587 gone. You’d be a lot harder to find in a marina in, say, Miami than you would be here in the city.” Her blue eyes darkened. “Seems like you’re always leaving someplace. “What’s the deal?” “The deal is this; I’d like you to pack your stuff, catch a train down to Balamer, rent a car, drive back here and throw your stuff in it, drive back to Balamer and buy a cabin cruiser that’s fit for offshore work. Big enough for six people. Then I want you to shake it down, provision it and pick up a friend of mine and me down South. Take us on a little cruise, about two week’s worth, I’d say. Then drop us, bring the boat back solo and dock it where you please, since it’ll be yours, and forget that any of the above ever happened. Sound OK?” “Sounds like I wanta do it. When?” “Soon. But I want you to sleep on it, because I need a definite, non-cancellable commitment.” “Hey,” she said, bending over the table so her eyes were inches from his. “I’d do it without the boat. Just say when.”

Using an East 22nd Street address provided to him by Johnny Boots, Moses spent the next few days renewing his identity as Peter Wessel. Buoyed by Johnny’s willingness to provide as complete a relocation package as he’d agreed to do, Moses wasn’t about to let any grass grow under his feet. When he had his new driver’s license and passport in hand, he closed Moses Kubielski’s account at the Canal Street branch ofﬁce of Credit Suisse, receiving a bearer draft in the amount of $6,520,447.02, and deposited it in a new account for Peter Wessel at the Bank of Basel three blocks uptown.

chapter 28 s Friggin’ in the Riggin’

1025 Friday 15 June 1956: The Annapolis gulls greeted the dock’s latest human arrivals to a series of low passes that ended with their determination that no food would be forthcoming. The largest of the group alighted on the cabin roof of the sportfisherman Striker, moored stern-to, two berths from the end. “There she is,” said the broker, a tall, spare fortyish man in fresh-pressed khakis and Topsiders. “1953 Chris Craft. Forty-six foot of offshore fishkiller. Flying bridge. Twin 160-horse Chryslers with less than a hundred hours on ’em. Dual generators and bilge pumps, heavy-duty batteries. Holds 210 gallons of gas. Forward and *aft cabins. Full galley, two heads. Fighting chair. Twin bait wells. UHF and VHF radios. Radar. Depthfinder. She’s a lot of boat; the owner lives in San Francisco now, and wants to move her. Shall we go aboard?” “By all means,” said Linda. 0805 Wednesday 22 June 1956: Moses woke much more slowly than usual, coming out of a dream that had put him back on the Gulf of Mexico, where he’d spent anxious hours over the weekend. He’d tested Package Number One suc-

- 589 - 590 The Rough English Equivalent cessfully, but memories of the explosion’s ferocity had made his first night back in Bisque a restless one. The trip in all its detail lay smoldering in the forefront of his consciousness. Waving his thanks from the helm in response to the deckhand’s “Good fishin’!”, Moses had headed the rented 22-foot Lyman out of Destin, Florida’s harbor, the rising sun already warm on his left shoulder. Package Number One sat securely inside the outsize tackle box he’d bought in Fort Walton Beach, just across the entrance to Choctawhatchee Bay. The Gulf of Mexico’s 100-fathom curve runs close to shore at Destin; an hour’s run due south at thirty knots would give him depth in excess of two hundred feet, the hydrostatic fuse’s setting of seventy meters, that he needed. He had built Pack- ages Number One, Two and Three within twenty-four hours of his return from New York, and was gratified to find that his skills in this work, acquired long ago, had come back to him so quickly. Each package consisted of a six-volt dry cell battery, three sticks of dynamite, a blasting cap, one of the three fuses that he’d bought in New York and the necessary connecting wire and sealing compound* to render the packages essentially waterproof, if not watertight, per Weiss’s advice. Passing from the bay into the Gulf, Moses was relieved to see just a few small craft, none of which were on a heading near his. He throttled up the boat’s six-cylinder Grey Marine; at just past nine, the boat’s newly-fitted fathometer slipped past two hundred feet. Cut- ting the engine to idle, he opened the new tackle box and removed the green oblong file box that was Package Number One’s container. He opened the box and double-checked the soldered joints, one between the fuse’s arming switch and a length of rod that extended through a hole drilled in the box’s end nearest the fuse, the other securing a wing nut on the outside end. Satisfied that he could arm the bomb with a clockwise quarter-turn of the wing nut, he taped the box’s lid shut with several turns of electrical tape, first around its shorter dimension, then around the longer. Returning to the boat’s Friggin’ in the Riggin’ 591 controls, he moved the throttle to full power and set a course for Destin, checked the horizon for boat and ship traffic, and seeing nothing, armed the bomb and cast it over the starboard side, count- ing off the seconds from the splash. At twenty, the boat having taken him some two thousand yards from the drop point, he cut the power and turned south again. Almost as soon as he did, the ocean erupted in front of him, a geyser of water shooting at least a hundred feet into the still-cool morning sky. The boat lifted more than a foot as the concussion wave passed under him. As the water calmed, Moses took up a westerly heading and moved at flank speed toward the fishing grounds that the deckhand had recommended. As his feet hit the floor, he thought about the thousands of fish that he’d killed with Package Number One. A high price to pay, he thought, but unavoidable, given what I’ve set out to do. And the price’ll go up next month. The summer sun was still bright at seven p.m. as Moses finished his briefing on the successful bomb test. “I wonder where their nest is,” said Paul Pulaski. “Whose nest is that?” Moses asked after swallowing a bite of hamburger. “Herr und Frau Cardinal, pecking around down there by the water.” “Hard to say,” said Moses. “There’re quite a few of ’em around. Don’t believe I’ve ever seen a Cardinal’s nest, though.” “This is quite a place you fell into. It’s a shame to think about leaving.” “Well, when there’s no real choice, why waste time with regrets? Cuba’s not bad, either.” “I’m sure. Can’t imagine your being able to get into a position like the one you have here, though.” “Whaddya mean, ‘position’?” asked Moses. “I mean, my friend, that you’re someone in this town. You have influence. People value your opinion about things. That’s an enviable 592 The Rough English Equivalent position in which to be, and it can’t have been easy to get there. Don’t you think you’ll miss it?” “Miss it? I guess so, now and then. But to tell you the truth, I’m kinda tired of playing the role of big–well, medium–fish in a little pond. I pretty much fell into it, and if you hadn’t showed up, I’d’ve found some other way to fall out of it. Actually, I was thinking about seeing if I could talk Buster Redding–you met him?” “Don’t think so.” “He’s the Hudson dealer; races one in these ‘late model’ stock car races around the Southeast. I’d thought about seein’ what he’d take to audition me as a driver.” “Well! You were getting restless.” “And maybe a little old, too–at least to the point that spendin’ most of my time sellin’ beer, and fuckin’ and drinkin’ myself silly with what’s left over, holdin’ my interest like it used to.” “I don’t want to seem unsympathetic, old friend, but I must tell you that from my personal perspective, I think that a year or two of this life would be very nice indeed.” Moses smiled. “Actually, it was right nice for a lot longer than that; but ten years of anything’s a pretty good stretch. And from your personal perspective, I’d think you might agree.” It was Brück’s turn to smile. “And KGB years are dog years. I’m starting to believe that we can pull this off. At least, what I’ve seen you do so far makes me think that we have a chance. Bremen taught you well. I’ll bet none of that bomb material came from anywhere around Bisque.” “Nope. I told you about th’ fuses, and I took a little ride up to Ten- nessee for th’ caps and dynamite.” Still smiling, Brück said “It’s a shame we never worked together. I’d have enjoyed it.” “Whaddya think we’re doin’ right now? But we’ve got most of this operation in front of us. Lemme take you through the plan, top to bottom, and you tell me where it’s weak.” chapter 29 s Go Fish

1410 Saturday 23 June 1956: “Annapolis Motor Inn,” said a bored male voice. “Deposit three dollars and seventy-ﬁve cents for three minutes, pleeeuz.” Moses fed the phone slot. “Room 431, please” he said over the bell’s last ding. “Hello.” “Linda.” “Yes.” “Mose.” “Hi.” “Just mailed you a copy of our arrangements for the holiday.” “Oh, great. We’re all set here.” “Good. You should have it by Wednesday. I’ll call you Thursday to see if you have any questions.” “OK. We’re looking forward to seeing you.” “Yeah, us too. It’ll be fun. ’Bye.” “Bye.” She would be in Savannah on the Fourth. Weather permitting, they’d rendezvous two days later.

- 593 - 594 The Rough English Equivalent

“Jack.” The squawk was uncharacteristically hushed. “Hm.” “Sorry to wake you, pal. Need to chat with you before I go, and time’s a’wastin’.” Jack sat up, of whom had an his eyes. “Where you goin’ this time?” “TAD to your Uncle Mose. And I think it’s about time you went ahead and thought of ’im that way. He’s nearer family to you than some others you got blood ties to.” “Reckon you’re riit. Whaddya mean, TAD?” “Picked that up from your one of yer other uncles. Gene Debs. Navy lingo for temporary duty.” “OK. How temporary you talkin’ about?” “Just to get him where he’s goin. I think he’ll appreciate th’ help, comin’ from a friend a’yours. And I’m damn sure he’s gonna need it.” “Whaddya think you can do?” “Just shadow ’im for riit now. He won’t see me ’til it’s time. I’ll deﬁnitely be ﬂyin’ with ’em when he and Dieter leave here next month. But I won’t have time to check back with you for awhile.” “Flx.” “Huh.” “I have this feelin’ about you. One I never had before riit now.” “Whassat?” “That you’ve been around here a lot longer than you’ve let on.” “Hm.” He said it in a way that reminded Jack that birds of prey could chuckle. “Am I riit?” “Yup. Matter of fact, we’re all there is left.” “Left from what?” “Left from th’ human fuckin’ race, boy. I guess I shoulda tolja.” “Yes,” said Jack. “It woulda been niice. Why doncha tell me now?” Go Fish 595

“Well, there’s a handful of us left. You could call us spirits, I reckon. I took up this Goshawk getup so I wouldn’t scare you, and now I’ve gotten used to it. But I was a boy like you once, though, thousands of years, give or take, back up th’ road.” “What happened?” “Well hell, we just kept on evolvin’, to th’ point that it didn’t seem to make much difference. Got to where we could see up an’ down th’ line. We ﬁnally broke time down, an’ thought it’d make a difference. But you know what? It didn’t.” “Well, I don’t guess I can really get ahold of that riit now. You go on, Flx. Th’ main thing riit now’s for them to stay safe. I’ll miss ya, buddy, but you’re exactly riit. It’s gonna be a full-time job ’til they get where they’re goin’, whatever all this other shit’s about.” “Knew you’d understand, pal. Well, I’m gone, then. Keep th’ rubber side down.” “Fly Navy, shitbird.” 1205 Wednesday 4 July 1956: A car-horn staccato jerked Moses’ head up, letting the sweat that had been falling harmlessly onto the keg of Carling Black Label that he was tapping roll into his eyes. Squinting, he saw Roberta Webster’s Dodge convertible bounce through the gate, which had been left open for the party. “Look who’s here,” he called up to Jack and Terry, who had just brought down some folding chairs from the barn. Answering the Websters’ wave with a swipe of his forearm across his eyes, he got beer ﬂowing through the tap before walking up the slope to greet the new arrivals, who had parked in the big temporary space along the fence set off by yellow police crime-scene tape that City Council Chairman David Browne had requisitioned. “Hey, folks. ’Preeshate y’all coming early so you could help us get set up.” “What the hell’re you talkin’ about, early?” said Webster. “You said high noon!” “I did? You’re sure I didn’t say I’d be high by noon?” 596 The Rough English Equivalent

“Well, we’re here, whatever it was you said, Mister High Roller, an’ I fer one hope ya’ll don’t run outa whatever it is that got you high by noon,” said Roberta as she and Webster advanced down the slope toward him. “Hey, sweetie,” she said as the three of them collided and merged in a group hug. Marriage appeared to be agreeing with them, most visibly with Roberta, whose streaky blond hair parted around ruddy cheeks that had broadened somewhat since the wedding. “You asked us early a’purpose, didn’cha? I know about th’ two a’ y’all. But I cain’t hold it agin ya, ’cause I know how loveable ’is damn ole bawey is. Whatchoo want us ta do faya, honey?” “Oh, how ’bout sittin’down here and le’s swap some bullshit before th’ great unwashed show up? This big box’s fulla Red Cap, or wouldja rather have a draft’r sump’m else?” “’At fresh draft’ll be fine for me, big boy,” she said as they settled onto the lawn chairs’ interlaced pastel plastic straps. Nodding toward the trickle of Atlanta Crackers game announcer Hank Morgan’s voice out of the battered Zenith Transoceanic, she asked, “Who’re they playin’?” “Th’ Chicks,” said Webster. “Double-header.” “I figured no matter how outa control this party may get,” said Moses, “We’ll hold on to a little reality with th’ Crackers.” “We’ll get some goddam tan sittin’ out here,” said Webster. “Glad you got these funeral tents to duck under.” Indicating the nearest midnight blue tent, which like the others was open on all sides, the name HARRISON emblazoned in white lettering on the four short flaps that ran around the bottom of its pyramidic outline, he asked, “Who’s handlin’ the barbeque?” “Rollie–a friend of Ralph’s. Smells good, huh? Put that ol’ pig in th’ ground yesterday afternoon. We been sittin’ here all night with ’im, off and on.” “Well, you don’t look too bad, bein’ up all niit,” said Robbie. Go Fish 597

“Oh, I took a nap around four, and got back up around sunup. Even fished a little bit; caught a coupla cat for anybody that prefers ’em to that fine swine over there.” “Hey,” said Roberta. Talkin’about catfish. J’you hear th’ one about th’ woman shoppin’ for a fishin’ pole?” “Umm-um.” “A woman goes into a sportin’ goods store to buy a rod and reel for her husband’s birthday. She don’t know which one to get so she just picks one up and walks over to th’ counter. This man in sunglasses is standin’ behind th’ counter. She says, ‘’Scuse me. can you tell me anythang about this here rod and reel?’ He says, ‘I’m completely blind, ma’am, but if you’ll put it on the counter I can tell you everything you need to know about it from the sound it makes when you set it down.’ She didn’t believe ’im, but she set it on the counter anyway. He says, ‘’Atair’s a Shakespeare Wonderod, with a President reel loaded with 10-pound test line. It’s a good all around rig, and it’s on sale this week for only $10.00.” She says, ‘That’s amazin’. You can tell all that just by the sound of it hittin’ th’ counter? I’ll take it.’ She goes t’open her pocketbook and money falls out on th’ floor. She bends down to pick it up, and passes gas. She’s embarrassed, but then she realizes there’s no way a blind man could tell it was her. The man rings up the sale and says, ‘That’ll be $16.50, please.’ The woman says, ‘Didn’t you tell me it was on special for $10.00? How did you get $16.50?’ The blind man says ‘Yes ma’am, th’ rod and reel’s $10.00, but the duck call’s $5.00 and the catfish bait’s a dollar and a half.” Their hooting trailed off as Moses looked up the hill once more. Serena had pulled her Hudson Hornet convertible into the driveway, stopping for the briefest of exchanges with one of the two off-duty Bisque police officers hired for the occasion, then pulling it up in the carport behind Jack’s car. “The minons are much in evidence today, my liege,” observed Webster. 598 The Rough English Equivalent

“Yea, verily, they burgeon thus,” said Moses; “and more there be behind yon mullions.” “What in th’ hail ’re y’all talkin’ about now?” grumbled Roberta. Flipping a casual wave their way, Serena took a large box from the back seat and headed into the house. “That’s some boat,” said Web- ster. “Wonder what she’d take for it?” “Wouldn’t hurt to ask ’er,” said Moses. “Buster gave her th’ deal of a lifetime on it last year, after he’d carried it as a demonstrator so long the bank was callin’ ’im about it once a week. She needed a new car; th’ wheels’d just about gone square on that damn old wagon of hers. She said she took it off his hands because she could get more in th’ trunk than she could in th’ old wagon, but that th’ red paint job was way too ﬂashy for her. Probably be just about right for you; you could put ‘R&B Lee’ on th’ sides ’n write it off as a business expense.” “Hell, I wouldn’t do that; that damn car’s a classic in th’ makin’. With Nash and Hudson mergin’, that’ll be one of the very few real Hudson Hornet convertibles ever made. Hell, it could be the last.” “At least it’d shake you loose from ’at damn Searsmobile,” laughed Roberta. “Unh-unh, baby. I can’t part with ’er. I’m pullin’ th’ trunk lid offa that lil’ darlin’, paintin’ ’er pink and parkin’ ’er in th’ back yard for a planter. Couldja handle a trunkloada pansies every spring?” “How’d you get drunk so fast? You know ain’t no picea shit liike ’at goin’ in my back yard.” Webster laughed himself into a coughing spasm. “You know, darlin’,” he wheezed, “sometimes you’re just too easy.” Serena walked toward them, gently agitating a large Bloody Mary in a stemmed glass as she approached on bare feet. Her white sleeveless top scooped low in both front and back, extending an inch or so below the top of mid-thigh length aqua shorts. “Hi, sweetie,” said Moses. “Hang on a minute; I’ll get you a chair.” Webster, anticipating him, was already on his feet. “Stay where you are; you’ve been up all night. Hey, Ríni.” Go Fish 599

“Hey, Lee. Don’t worry about that chair right now. I just came down to see if anybody’d like one of these.” She raised her glass an inch or so. “Very few people have Mose’s knack with a Bloody Mary, and I found a gallon jug of ’em in the fridge. You made ’em, didn’t you?” she asked as she looked at Moses. “Indeed I did, Madam; primarily with you in mind. You’re here a little early, or I’da had ’em in a pitcher.” “There’s a lot of stuff that hasn’t been put out yet,” said Serena. “Terry and Jack’re just foolin’ around up there. You need those two folded-up school tables in the carport down here somewhere, doncha?” “Damn sure do. Hey, Jack!” “He’s not gonna hear you from here; they’re way up in the back. I’ll go roust ’em out.” “Waydaminit, Ríni,” said Roberta, getting to her feet. “II think II’ll take y’up on one a’them Bloody Marys.” “Well, Webster,” said Moses as they watched the women walk back toward the house, “Life appears to be treatin’ you pretty well.” The chubby broadcaster smiled, pulling a shiny blue bandana from his hip pocket and swabbing his brow and dewlaps. “You could say that,” he conceded. “I miss our seminars down at Ribeye’s, though.” “Me, too,” said Moses, having begun his solitary mourning of their friendship’s impending end some time ago. “Most of what I learned about this burg was from them.” “Not sure what I learned the most about,” said Webster; “probably a dead heat between how to piss off the natives or put th’ fear of God into ’em.” Moses laughed uproariously. “God? Moi? I’d be the last one in town to do that!” “Yeah, better edit that copy. Let’s just say that you showed a lot of ’em what their limitations are.” 600 The Rough English Equivalent

“Funny how things turn out, hunh? If Walton hadn’t been ready to turn the Ritz loose, I woulda been headed on down U.S. 1 before I had the chance to do hardly any enlightenin’ at all, or to get any myself.” “Well, buddy, we’d all’ve been the worse for that. Lemme tell you sump’m that’s long overdue. ’Til you showed up, I didn’t have a friend in this friggin’ town.” “And you were deﬁnitely my ﬁrst. Look what’s happened now; you’re an old married gent, and I’m still pitchin’ cards in a hat.” “All I can say to that is, ‘some cards, some hat.’ You know damn well most people around here’d swap lives with you in a heartbeat.” “Based on what they know,” said Moses with a brief wry grin. “Let’s top up these beers and check on th’ pig.” Moses slung an arm over Webster’s round shoulders as they walked toward the barbeque tent, quart-size paper cups sloshing onto the parched grass. Of all th’ Bisquites I’ll miss, he thought, you’ll be at the head of the line, ya friggin’ gasbag. Webster lost his footing and stumbled against Moses. “Damn, you do need a caretaker.” Webster laughed. “But she’d probably say ‘keeper’. Oh shit! Speakin’ of that, I forgot to tell you. Your old playmate Lindall’s gettin’ out of Reidsville next week.” “Really? Seems like just yesterday he went in. Got paroled, did he?” “Yep. Hey, there,” Webster said to the tall Negro who turned to face them as they stepped under the tent that covered the barbeque pit. “Y’all ready fo’ a lil’ sample?” the man asked as he stuck a twin- tined fork into the pig’s hindquarters. He pulled a chunk loose and put it onto a paper plate. “Thanks, Rollie; looks great,” said Moses. They stood at the corner of the tent, chewing tender pork. Go Fish 601

“Lindall. I hadn’t heard. Your grapevine’s always been better than mine. Wonder what he’ll do to keep busy.” “You mean aside from shootin’ you’n Lord’s asses off? I can’t imagine.” “Then he is truly certifiable.” “Bingo!” “What I mean is, parolees can’t leave the state, can they? So long- haul truckin’s not gonna be an option. And that cute little thing he used to be married to’s not around any more, so he had to depend on somebody around here to give ’im a job.” “Don’t know about that,” said Webster. “Last I heard, his pissant nephew was drivin’ one a’ Jernigan’s ready-mix concrete trucks. Maybe he’ll try to get ’im on there.” What he saw as he looked up toward the gate made him grin. “But here comes somebody who might shed some light on the situation.” An officer waved a steady stream of new arrivals, which included the Bishop twins’ Buick, into parking spaces. As the white car slid into its berth, Moses, already in mental retreat, took a physical step back as Maxine Jackson and Sadie Lindall alighted from the rear compartment. Maxine, first out, turned and took a large box from Sadie, setting it on the front fender. “Oh, shit!” he breathed. “What th’ hell d’you suppose’s in that box?” As they opened the box, Charlie and Walt Jefferson, two-up on Charlie’s Indian Warrior TT, pulled to a stop, interposing themselves between the tent and the car. One of the twins reached over Maxine’s shoulder and pulled a flag, mounted on a stick that appeared to be something over a foot long, out of the box. They could easily make out the flag’s stars and bars, even at a distance of more than a hundred feet. She gave the flag to Walt, who waved it above his head as Charlie u-turned the bike back up the hill. “That’s th’ new state flag,” said Webster. “First time I’ve seen one; th’ Legislature just passed on it a few weeks back. Looks like they’ve got a bunch of ’em,” he said as more people ran to the car to take flags from the women and give 602 The Rough English Equivalent them drinks in exchange. Moses now saw that they were dressed identically, in blue short shorts and stars and bars tops of red, white and blue, both in the shiniest-possible satin. In a very few minutes, Rancho Notorious was studded by the new flags, which combined the Confederate battle flag and the Georgia state seal. “If that’s not tellin’ th’ Supreme Court where to stick Brown vs. Board of Educa- tion, I don’t know what is.” “Somehow it’s nicer when you do it with tits,” observed Moses. The hard-core partiers, including Nelson Lord, the Jefferson brothers and the “flag ladies,” had floated a keg of beer out into the pond, setting up a branch party on the raft. Everyone else was full of barbecue and gone by a little after four. The heat of the day had eased off sufficiently to allow Moses and Serena to sit at the water’s edge in chaise lounge versions of the pastel-slatted lawn furniture and observe what Serena insisted on calling “the high jinks.” “Glad my folks shoved off before they started strip diving,” she said. “They all seemed to have a good time,” said Moses. “Buster even mounted two of th’ new flags on his car.” “Seemed to have,” Serena agreed. “I’m amazed Cordelia didn’t stay for th’ strip diving contest. By the way.” “What?” “How many of those flag bimbos’ve you screwed, if you don’t mind my asking?” Realizing that Serena was drunker than he thought, Moses pursed his lips in mock thought before answering. “Not many.” “Well, well,” she said. “What a lot we have to celebrate on this Independence Day. A nice new state flag, the bomb plant’s all finished and my lover’s left a town slut or two unsullied. Happy fuckin’ fourth, sailor.” “And the same to you, madam. What’s this about th’ bomb plant?” Go Fish 603

“Sheriff Wahoo had an indiscreet moment this afternoon while Little Evvie went pee-pee. Said they were finally finished over there. J’you ever do her?” “What?” She said it again, as she might have to a child, a word at a time. “Did-you-ever-do-Evvie?” He blew out his cheeks. “Hell, no. She’s an employee. Or was, anyway. What th’ hell does Wahoo know about th’ bomb plant?” “Apparently the Feds brief the local lawmen now and then. And apparently he thinks it impresses me to know it.” “What a guy. All that knowledge and a Purple Heart too.” “He can big-deal it all he wants,” she said, “as long as his people and the police do their job and help us get outa here if the Russians decide they’re gonna bomb the goddamn thing. I’m not interested in a Purple Heart of my own.” “If they do decide to bomb the joint,” said Moses, “we probably won’t get enough notice to make any difference. And they’ll use enough planes to make sure they get the job done. That’s a big damn area they’ll have to cover, and I expect Bisque’d be likely to get some of the overflow.” “Wahoo said they’ve had as many as forty thousand people working there.” “He’us just full of information, wadn’t he? If any of these security spooks that’re hauntin’ the area got wind of that big mouth, we’d like as not have us a new Sheriff overnight.” “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, struggling a bit to get to her feet. “Sit still,” said Moses. “I’ll top you up.” “You stay where you are,” she said, “and keep score.” By the time Moses had concluded that at least some of the strip divers, having stayed in the water and moved to the far side of the raft, had become strip fuckers, she was back, with sandwiches and the Bloody Mary 604 The Rough English Equivalent jug, which was seriously depleted. She had also changed into a pair of jeans. “Just when I was countin’ on lookin’ at those fine legs of yours,” he said, reaching for a sandwich. “I was countin’ on something more than that,” she said. “Remem- ber the time when we talked about having sex at a picnic?” “Yes. Yes I do. Those your trick jeans?” “Right you are. Don’t see why a bunch of flag bimbos should have all the fun. At least we’ll be doin’ it on dry land.” 1710 Friday 6 July 1956: We got to the field just after five. The heat of the day still hung on. Mose had almost finished preflighting the airplane when Mom and I pulled up to the hangar. He looked at us around the F3F’s big round cowl and waved, flashing a fleeting conspirator’s smile. “Paul,” already sitting in the front seat squinting at a chart, twisted his head around quickly, and, recognizing us, flicked a quick wave too. “Got everything?” I asked as we walked up to him. It seemed like the only thing left to say. “All set,” he responded briskly, just as though fishing was all he had on his mind. I looked along the length of the airplane, loving as always its curious combination of sleekness and bulk, its fragile struts and barrel-like fuselage, the scarlet tail and bright yellow wings. The old warrior ready for its last mission. Pulling on his flight jacket, Mose joined us at the port wingtip. His gray eyes skipped from mine to Mom’s. “Wish you were going with us.” “Now that would be a fine kettle of fish,” Mom said. They looked steadily at each other for a heartbeat; then Mose grabbed us both in a fierce hug. “See you Monday,” he said, letting us go and immediately turning to put his foot on the cockpit step. “Grab the fire bottle for me, Jack?” Go Fish 605

“Switch on?” I shouted, glad for the chance to shout down my sadness. “Switch on,” Mose echoed. The big Cyclone’s starter ground, turning it over slowly for a couple of turns before it cleared its throat and caught, quickly settling down to its familiar loping, ﬂat bass. After a couple of minutes of earth-shaking idle, Mose gave me the “thumbs-out” signal. I scurried around behind the wing to pull the wheel chocks. Dropping them, I stood there with Mom as Mose, with a wave, taxied out of Bisque forever. In a way, I felt like hell that I couldn’t tell her what was going to happen, but in another way I didn’t. If she wanted him, she’d had plenty of time to do something about it. Mose ran the engine up at the end of the strip. The tattered wind- sock showed a steady 10-knot wind, just south of east, as they taxied onto the runway. The morning shook as he throttled up, bringing the big engine quickly to takeoff power. The tail came up right away, and with a ﬁnal wave from the open cockpit as the F3F broke ground, Mose was gone. We watched the plane shrink, the landing gear creeping into the fuselage as Mose held his heading. There was something feathery in the wings’ shadow that ran ahead of them. Then I remembered; Flx’s on board. Turning to go, we saw GD standing on the porch, watching the takeoff and, no doubt, giving Mose a grade for it. “Hey,” he said, reluctantly shifting his attention from the aircraft’s climbout. “Didn’t expect to see you people out here this af’noon. Want sump’m to drink?” We sat on the porch, drinking and feeling the absence of Mose. “Wish that was us takin’ ’at old bird cross-country,” GD said to me. “We oughta run it down to Pensacola next time you’re home.” “Suits me,” I said, “I’ll call you when I know.” “I’ve been thinkin’ about upgradin’ the engine,” he said. “You know, that 2-stage blower version that they run in the T-28s. One of my old shipmates down there says it’ll bolt right up.” “I don’t know; how do you think the airframe would handle it?” 606 The Rough English Equivalent

“Hell! If Al Williams could put Gs on that Gulfhawk the way he did, I don’t think another 25-30 knots of cruise is gonna strain anything.” “Jack, we need to get back,” Mom said. It was the ﬁrst thing she’d said since we sat down. “OK.” GD picked up the glasses as we stood to leave. “Well, maybe old Cueball’l bring us back some ﬁsh. Be careful, Bub. Don’t let that Rocket 88 get out from under ye.”

Throttling back to twenty-six inches of manifold pressure, Moses eased the F3F’s nose down to level flight attitude, retrimming the controls as the aircraft picked up its normal cruising speed of 180 knots. They were at eight thousand feet, the magnetic compass steadied up on a heading of 112 degrees, making a beeline for the Atlantic, for which his preflight planning provided an estimated en route time of 36 minutes. Keying the microphone on the recently- installed intercom system, he asked Brück, “How’re you doing?” “Very well, my friend,” he responded. “How long before we get our feet wet?” “Thirty-five, forty minutes,” said Moses. “Got your smoke car- tridge ready?” “Ready and waiting for your signal, Captain; just give me the word.” “Great. We want to pop it before we start our descent. I’ll let you know as soon as I have contact with the boat.” He had already tuned the VHF receiver to the specified frequency. Beginning at ten past six, Linda would key her microphone for ten seconds, at sixty-second intervals, to allow Moses to take a bearing on the Striker with the plane’s radio direction finder. Unless something totally unexpected were to occur, he would be able to make visual contact with the boat, whose cabin roof was overlaid by a white canvas cover with a black Go Fish 607 cross painted on it, and ditch the aircraft beside it with no verbal communication having been necessary. Discreet research in the Navy’s Bureau of Aeronautics publications had satisfied Moses that he would be able, as a number of Naval Aviators had been, to ditch the F3F into a reasonably calm sea with little or no difficulty. As soon as Linda had the aircraft in sight, she would cut the boat’s power to the minimum necessary to keep the boat headed into the ocean swells. Moses would fly the aircraft carrier-type approach that Gene Debs had taught him, turning off the downwind leg of his approach in a constant one-hundred-eighty-degree descending turn instead of flying an orthodox base leg, using the boat to mark the end of an imaginary runway in the ocean. Leaving the landing gear up, he would fly the aircraft onto the water at two or three knots above stall speed, letting the rear third of the fuselage make first contact with the water, slowing the craft further before its bottom wing, and immediately after that a half-ton of engine, dropped onto the surface. Moses’ radio fix at six o’clock showed them two minutes ahead of their preflight-planned six o’clock position. He glanced down at the remote radio detonator, wedged between the right side of his seat and the skin of the aircraft. He had wrapped it in a metal box quite a bit larger than the transmitter, the extra airspace in the box producing a package that would float. The box lid’s rubber grommet fit onto the box’s knife edge, and the several layers of two-inch electrical tape that encased it, guaranteed its watertight survival as he swam from the plane to the boat. A wire cable secured with more layers of electrical tape extended from the box to a loop that would be closed around his wrist by a spring latch. The long blade on his pocket knife, honed to razor sharpness, would cut through the layers of tape very quickly as soon as they were on board the boat. Moses looked at his watch; when the sweep-second hand hit twelve, it would be six-ten. Glancing at his compass, he confirmed their heading and continued scanning the blue water for sea traffic. 608 The Rough English Equivalent

He took some comfort in seeing nothing, confirming his expectation of little or no activity in the area that he’d chosen. On the other hand, where the hell was Linda? Three things happened almost simultaneously; he banked gently to the right, beginning a series of easy s-turns that would let him see the areas of water that the fuselage and wing were blanking out. As the nose of the aircraft moved right, he saw a white speck about five miles ahead. The click and sizzle in his earphones sent his gaze immediately inside the cockpit to the radio magnetic indicator; its needle pointed directly at the growing white speck. “Looks like our ride, dead ahead,” he said over the intercom. “We should get another bearing in a few seconds. By the time we have it, we should be close enough to see the black cross. “Roger,” said Brück. “Standing by.” He heard the click and sizzle in his earphones again as the needle pointed solidly in the direction of the boat; the black cross on its roof stood out as it neared the edge of his port wing. “That’s it,” he said over the intercom. “Open the canopy and stream the smoke.” He throttled back to begin their descent, checking the sea around them once again for other craft. Seeing none, he flew another thirty seconds or so on the same heading before banking left to set up the downwind leg of his approach. He could see wisps of black smoke to his left, and was relieved to see that the first smoke grenade had worked, eliminating the need to fire one of the two backups they’d brought along. As they passed through five thousand feet, he leveled his wings on a heading roughly reciprocal to that of the boat. He pulled back the power a little more to increase their rate of descent, shooting for an altitude of seven to eight hundred feet by the time they were abeam the boat. Checking again for other traffic, he asked Brück, “See any other craft down there?” “I’m pretty sure that I saw one due east of us just as I popped the smoke,” he said. “But I lost it over the horizon as soon as you began to let down.” “Any idea what it was?” Go Fish 609

“No; looked pretty small, but I couldn’t say for sure.” “Well, he’s at least twenty miles away,” said Moses as he snapped the detonator cable around his right wrist. “We’ll be down and headed out of here way before he can get within binocular range of us, even if he saw the smoke as soon as it started streaming.” As his left wingtip passed abeam the boat, Moses opened his canopy and banked left, adding a little power back to slow their rate of descent just a bit. Passing through five hundred feet, he took it off again, confident now of touching down very near the boat. “Check your shoulder harness locked,” he said over the intercom. “Roger,” Brück acknowledged. The waves were near enough now to estimate their height, which he put at a couple of feet at most. The boat was just off the plane’s nose now; he smiled to himself as he shot a quick glance at the stern. Striker. Quickly pulling the throttle back to its stop, he eased a little more back pressure onto the stick, scrubbing off a bit more speed but making sure the aircraft didn’t begin to stall. He wanted to ease it into the water as gently as he possibly could. Easy, easy, he said to himself just as he felt the tail kiss the water. The aircraft settled on to the sea with a whoosh and a very sudden stop. Although he couldn’t see it, Striker was already under way, picking up speed to cover the scant two hundred feet between them in a hurry. 1203 Friday 4 October 1956: “This a WBQE news flash….This morning, Federal District Court Judge Whitlow Richards ruled that former Bisque residents Moses Kubielski and Paul Pulaski were killed when the airplane in which they were flying last August sixth crashed into the Atlantic Ocean. While the Judge was not specific with respect to the process of his decision with regard to the deaths of Messrs. Kubielski and Pulaski, who were bound for Kitty Hawk for a weekend of fishing, expert observers who would not consent to be identified credited the testimony of commercial fisherman Rodney Bledsoe as crucial to the case. Mr. Bledsoe, of Nag’s Head, 610 The Rough English Equivalent

North Carolina, testiﬁed that he had seen the Grumman biplane begin a smoky descent into the sea, exploding on impact. Mr. Bledsoe also tes- tiﬁed that his boat reached the impact site within a half hour of sighting the stricken airplane. His crew recovered a few pieces of the wreckage, but saw no sign of either man. ‘The sea just swallowed ’em up,’ Mr. Bledsoe said.” chapter 30 s Case Discount

1620 Sunday 11 January 1959: The breeze blew briskly, drier than usual for Miami, even in the winter. Jack pressed the button, and again half a minute later when he’d heard no bell or buzzer inside. Seconds later Linda opened the door. “Hi, Jack,” she said, the husky alto bringing everything back to him, smiling as she extended her hand. “How’ve you been? Her dark red hair was cut short now, making the high cheekbones more of her face than ever. A blue scoop-neck top clung tastefully to the well- remembered contours of her body. Recovering, Jack managed to say, “Hey, Linda; long time.” She smiled again, glancing back over her shoulder. A tan, slim, long- haired Peter Wessel, in a white guayabera shirt, stood grinning behind her. The man who had once been Moses Kubielski had also acquired a close-clipped moustache and a new nose. “Get in here, shitbird,” he said, reaching out to put his arm around him, hauling him into a hug, which Linda augmented with an arm around each of them. “Sorry to spring my new look on you this way.” Keeping an arm around him, he pulled him into the house’s interior, down a shadowy hall toward the daylight at its end.

- 611 - 612 The Rough English Equivalent

“This place is no Taj Mahal, but it’ll do for awhile. Plenty of room, anyhow. You can stay for awhile, caincha?” “As long as it takes, seenyore,” Jack said, “I wanta hear what the hell y’all’ve been up to for the last two-three years, besides plastic surgery, you ol’ muffucker. I can’t believe we’re here.” “Unbelievable’s the only word that fits,” Peter/Moses agreed. They went through the door into a large courtyard that hosted three six- foot-plus palmettos. “Sit,” he said, waving a hand at one of two white wicker chaises on either side of a glass-topped table. A large metal pitcher sat on the glass in a pool of condensation, sharing the space with half a dozen stemmed glasses. “Daíquiri OK, or something else?” “Daíquiri? Fine,” Jack said. “It’ll be my first.” They sat, Jack and Linda on the green-and-white striped chaises and Peter in a matching armchair, letting the first half of their drinks settle things down. Jack spoke first. “When’d y’all get here?” “Couple of weeks ago,” said Linda. “We loaded the boat on Christ- mas eve, and weighed anchor at sunup. The gunfire over in Santa Clara kept the sky lit up all night.” “We weren’t that much ahead of Lansky’s bunch–or Batista’s either, for that matter,” said Peter, getting up to top off the Daíquiris. By New Year’s, Castro and company were movin’ into Havana and takin’ over.” “It sure happened in a hurry,” said Jack, who had to keep reminding himself who this ersatz Latino was. “Do you think things’ll get better down there, or worse?” “Hard to say, if you mean better for the Cubans,” said Peter. “But it sure as hell won’t be better for Gringos any time soon.” “Guess not. A revolution’s no place for the ‘haves’. By the way, what’d y’all do with Dieter? He came back with you, didn’t he?” “He’s dead, Jack. Almost two years,” Peter said, his head dropping slightly, seeming to rotate on the axis of his eyes as they continued to look at him. Case Discount 613

The blood drained out of Jack’s face. “Dead? What happened?” “Got his head blown off in Havana when a bunch of rebels attacked Batista’s palace. Sittin’ in the back of a cab, on Calle Mon- serrate, mindin’ his own friggin’ business. It was his bad luck to be sittin’ there when they blocked traffic and charged the building. The casino people got us a copy of the police report; fifty-caliber slugs hit Paul and several others when one of the machine guns opened up on the rebels.” Jesus. When was that?” 1957. March 13th. A Wednesday; we hadn’t even been there a year.” “God. What a shame.” “Yeah. Dieter–his new name was Robert–was really enjoying Havana. We’d gotten a house out in Vedado; we called it ‘Hawkcienda,’ for this hawk whose picture Linda shot. He ran a herd of Cubanitas in and out of there day and night. They loved his pale blondness, even when he’d left the pale part behind. He used to say, ‘Havana makes up for all of the horseshit,’ in that piss-elegant way of swearing that he had, making it seem like he really hadn’t said ‘horseshit’ at all, but something that you’d say at a Ladies’ Aid lunch. Well, at least he had a good time while it lasted.” “About that hawk,” said Jack. “You say you shot a picture of it on th’ boat?” “Yeah; it came out so well that I had had it blown up so we could hang it in the hall,” Linda said. That damn bird was sump’m else; he flew in and lit right after I picked ’em up. Just perched out there on the bow and watched everything that went on. He’d come and go, but he stayed with us all the way to Havana. Guess that was the only way he’d ever have made it, using the boat has his own personal hangar.” “Yeah, that crazy bird was a lot of company to us.” said Peter. “Dieter got in the habit of talking to him, and damned if he didn’t act like the damn bird was talking back to him. He took off as soon 614 The Rough English Equivalent as we had Cuba in sight, and we never saw him again. So we hung that picture of him in the house, and it seemed like the right thing to do for Dieter to take him along when he was cremated.” “Guess you could say he’s back in the air,” said Jack with a momentary grin. “Just livin’ there must’ve been awful, after losin’ Dieter like that. But y’all really had no alternative to stayin’ there, at least for awhile.” “Well, there probably were alternatives, but it just seemed easier to stay. Except for the few weeks when we snuck up here last year to get this nose job.” “It looks good; it’d take awhile for anybody who knew you before to recognize you, which I suppose is the idea.” “Just a precaution, once I realized that I’d be wantin’ to come back here some day. We had a helluva good time down there for those first few months. After Dieter bought it, of course, things turned pretty flat. And even with the connection to Lansky’s people, a police state’s a police state. The longer you stay, the more you see. We were about ready to get back to the mainland, Castro or not.” “I guess so,” Jack said. His assumption was that Mose–he couldn’t call him Peter yet–and Linda were together, had been together for all this time, and that Moses knew that he and Linda had been lovers– could you call it that? A kid’s passion for an older woman, who, as much as she’d seemed to enjoy it, had probably never been all that excited about it–but he wanted to, had to, hear it from them. He decided to wait them out, at least for a while. “Were you down there th’ whole time too, Linda?” “Yes, I was,” she said with a wry smile. “He promised to show me Cuba, and I held him to it.” “We’d never’ve pulled it off without Linda,” said Peter. “She’s some navigator; met us out there on the high seas like it was nothin’. Nine days later, we were anchored in Havana harbor.” Case Discount 615

“I know that it had to be done, but I still hate to think about that beautiful bird on the bottom,” said Jack. “Particularly since I never got to solo it.” “It’s on the bottom, all right, and in a lot of little pieces; I have a hard time with that myself, from time to time. But I couldn’t think of another way to wipe Dieter and me clean off the face of the earth, with no chance of anyone bein’ able to poke around into what happened. Not in 100 fathoms of ocean.” “No, I certainly couldn’t imagine a better way. You guys really evaporated.” “Good description,” laughed Peter. That’s what we did, but it never occurred to me to think of it as evaporation.” “And it felt just about as slow as evaporation, running down the Intracoastal with them laying low in the cabin,” said Linda. “Yeah, it got kinda rancid below decks,” said Peter, “but it was pretty cheap insurance. Even though Linda had to deal with a few people askin’ her how it was to solo sump’m as big as a 46-footer, it was better than somebody rememberin’ later on that they’d seen a coupla guys that looked a lot like the unfortunate crash victims of July 6.” He paused, taking a long pull of his drink. “Well, that’s the short take on where we’ve been, bud,” he said. “How’ve you and Bisque been doin’?” “You can ask me that, after servin’ a ten-year sentence yourself? It’s Bisque, that’s all. A little town fulla little people. I’ll never forget what you said that day when we were driving back from Rick’s house the day they kicked him off the team. ‘Most of these fuckin’ people are so full of fear that they’ve forgotten what they’re afraid of.’ Understanding that was really the beginning of my growing up. Oh. Pap died last year.” “I’m sorry. It must’ve been unexpected.” “Yep. Heart attack. He’d just turned eighty. Guess I thought he’d go on forever.” 616 The Rough English Equivalent

“He was as good a man as I ever knew. And I know I said that about th’ Bisquites, but lookin’ back on the few places I’ve been, it’s pretty much the same anywhere you go. Most people live in fear. And thanks to the God industry, they’re not just afraid to die; they’re afraid of what’s going to happen to them after they die. Let’s just, as they say, ‘rejoice’ that we’re not on that particular ship of fools.” “Speakin’ of fools,” Jack said, John Lindall’s in th’ ground.” Moses’ eyes narrowed. “How about that. Somebody shoot ’im?” “Nope. Guess you could say he did it to himself. Remember how hot people got when the Civil Rights Act got passed?” “Whooee. I can still see alla those little Georgia ﬂags that th’ Slut Brigade brought to that last party.” “Well, the city council was split 3 to 3 on closin’ the swimming pool out at th’ park to the keep the blacks out. They wrangled around tryin’ to get your ol’ pal the chairman to break the tie, and it got into the paper in one way or another every day. Well, ol’ Johnny was maybe three, four weeks outa prison; drivin’ a ready-mix truck for Jernigan.” “Umm-hm.” “Well, he decided to take the job outa the council’s hands. He took a full load of concrete out there after dark, backed up to the fence, knocked it down and went to the back of th’ truck to drop the chute,” Jack grinned. “He just forgot one thing.” “What was that?” “To set the brake. Goddamn truck crunched his ass on its way into th’ pool.” “Bet that got th’ Klan hoppin’.” “Got th’ council hoppin’, too. Th’ damn pool was slap-full a’concrete by the end of the week. And there’s more good news.” “Don’t know if I can handle any more,” Mose chuckled. “Yes you can. Wahoo’s now the ex-Sheriff of Hamm County; lost the election last year.” “Good God!” How’d that happen?” Case Discount 617

“What you might expect; too horny for too long. Accordin’ to th’ grapevine, Dr. Clinton opened the door to this supply room at th’ hospital, and there was ol’ Wahoo, takin’ a ride on a Licensed Practi- cal Nurse of the Negro persuasion.” “Holy shit! Even he should know there’s a limit. Or at least to lock the door.” Jack grinned. “Nobody’s perfect, least of all Wahoo. I doubt he thought anybody’d dare to mention it. After all, he’us th’ law. If it’d been an intern or somebody that found ’em, he’dve probably pulled it off. But Dr. Clinton called the cops and signed a complaint.” “Overconﬁdence’ll do it every time. So who’s sheriff?” “Guy named Malone. Used to be on the police force. Coulda been a police dog an’ve beaten Wahoo.” “Sic transit gloria hard-on. What’s he doing now?” “Working for th’ company.” It was Peter’s turn to grin. “Doin’ what?” “One of the things that he does real well. Drivin’ around.” “Beer delivery?” “Yep. Seems to be enjoying it. Except for Ralph bein’ his boss. But you can’t have everything; he’s got a wife to support.” “Oh? Who’s that?” “Evvie Summers.” “No.” “Yes. The ever-pregnant Mrs. McDaniel. She, excuse the expres- sion, ﬁngered him.” Peter was still grinning. “You’ve become an evil person, my boy.” “Not at all. I just tried my best to think like you. To see the potential in an unusual situation. Not that I’m not taking a little perverse pleasure in the process.” “So you like the beer business?” “Not all that much, but Bev and Ralph pretty much run it. I’ve only been on the scene full time since last June. And I’ve put out feel- ers for a buyer.” 618 The Rough English Equivalent

Peter’s grin faded slightly. “Really. Why would you want to sell a cash cow like that?” “Because I wanta be gone from Bisque. And thanks to you, I’ll clear enough from the sale to do exactly what you did; found the Republic of Me.” “No doubt of that,” said Peter, grinning broadly as he reﬁllled their drinks. “What’d you do last year?” “A little under three and a half.” “Well, don’t take less than ten. And no payout; if you’re gonna leave town, hold them to a cash deal.” “Don’t worry,” said Jack. “And Bruce thinks I can get closer to twelve.” “Bruce Goode?” “Sure.” “Well, it’s your deal, buddy. I’d feel better if Pap was there to give you a hand. Of course you know I’ll do whatever I can to help you.” “I know that very well, Mose. Jesus. Peter. How’s long’s it gonna take for you to start bein’ Peter to me? Thanks.” “Is your mom still there?” In Bisque? No. She’s been back in New York for awhile now.” “Really.” “Yeah, it’s been almost two years.” “Does she like it as well as she thought she would?” “Seems to. Her stuff’s selling pretty well, and she thinks she’s getting a commission from somebody–Philip Morris, I think–to do a big piece for them. Big fee, although that doesn’t mean as much to her as the recognition, particularly since Pap died.” “That’s the way to live in New York,” said Linda. “An independent income.” Jack looked at her, trying and failing to stop reliving at lightspeed their every moment together. “Not a bad way to live anywhere,” he said. “How’s Ricky doin’?” asked Peter. Case Discount 619

“Pretty damn well,” said Jack. “He was drafted by the Colts, so the next time I’ll see him may be on television. Goes by Rick now, by the way. And still buying the Jesus bit. I’ll probably be pesterin’ his ass for tickets to a Giants game before long.” “Rick was Jack’s best friend, growin’ up in Bisque,” Peter said to Linda. “They were my welcomin’ committee to town, back in ’46.” “Yeah, we were,” said Jack. “I can still see th’ steam blowin’ outa that big old white Buick.” “Speakin’ of that,” said Peter, “What about the Bishop twins?” Jack’s grin widened as he looked at Linda. “I doubt that he’s told you about the Bishop twins.” “Not a thing,” said Linda, her eyebrows arching slightly as she returned the grin. “They were the town psychics.” “Bullshit.” “No, really. They could see things that would happen in the future, and back into the past, too. They were sump’m. When this girl accused Rick of knockin’ her up, they told him that the baby was her old boyfriend’s, who she was still seeing while she and Rick were together. They told him, and his folks, exactly when and where it happened, all the details down to what they both were wearing. Rick’s dad got the three families together and confronted Trisha and Preston–the old boyfriend–with the details. They folded up on the spot, and Rick was off the hook.” “They were sump’m, all right,” said Peter with a wry shake of his head. “They got hold of my old car and started followin’ me around town in th’ damn thing. They got to where they’d just walk up to me and start telling me stuff about myself that nobody could’ve known. Called me ‘Petey.’ They made a believer out of me in nothin’ ﬂat. Scared the shit out of me, with all those FBI and AEC peepers all over th’ place.” “I’ll tell you sump’m else,” said Jack. “They wanted to screw you, in the worst way.” 620 The Rough English Equivalent

Peter glanced at Linda. “I don’t suppose I should ask how you happen to know that.” “They told us–Rick and me. We got to be pretty good friends after they cleared up th’ Trisha business.” “Well,” said Peter, “by the time Dieter–Paul, at the time–showed up, their screwin’ around had gotten me about ready to bail outa Bisque anyway. It was only a matter of time before one or another Fed tapped into the Bisque grapevine. And not long after that they woulda been askin’ me questions that I didn’t have the right answers for.” “The twins’ problem,” Jack explained to Linda, “was sump’m that nobody in Bisque’d ever heard of. Tourette’s syndrome, but with a twist. They were okay as long as they were togther–you know, close by each other–but if they got separated, they’d go kinda crazy.” “Tourette’s. That the one where people suddenly start talkin’ nasty in public?” asked Linda. “Yeah, among other things,” said Jack. “I guess it’s a lot better known now than it was back in the forties. My introduction to it was during grammar school; one of them got stuck recitin’ a poem and out of the blue shouted “fuuuck!” as loud as she could. From then on, there wasn’t any question that the Bishop twins–later known as the Boobsie Twins, for their post-puberty development–were people to be reckoned with.” “I’m afraid to ask,” said Peter, “but do you know what became of them?” “Oh, yeah. According to Lee Webster, who got it from their aunt the beautician, they’re livin’ in New York. You’ll love this; they’re commodity traders.” “Commodity traders?” “Believe it or not. Appears as how they’d been helpin’ their daddy do sump’m they call hedgin’, sellin’ cattle an’ buyin’ grain, since they were thirteen, fourteen. One of the packin’ company guys got wind of it an’ started keepin’ up with their ‘uncanny’ success, hired ’em Case Discount 621 both right outa Georgia, and they jumped from there to th’ New York office of one ‘a th’ big brokerage houses. By th’ way; I bought your car from ’em pretty soon after you left.” “What?” Peter barked, unable to hide the momentary look of dis- tress that crossed his face. “I said I bought it. The engine blew up while they were travelin’ with the Tabernacle, and their daddy had it towed to the Buick place. I gave Foster two bills for it, and got Skeeter and Roy to straighten it out. Drove it down here from Bisque without the first burp. Roy says it’s gotta be makin’ around 400 horsepower now.” “Oh, Jesus.” “You won’t believe it. Roy ported the head and found some big Pontiac valves that’d fit. Put in a Crane cam, Jahns 10-to-1 pistons, Edelbrock headers, two Holley 500 cfm carbs, an aluminum flywheel, oil cooler and steel main bearing caps. He took a set of new stock rods and got ’em heat treated, shot-peened and magnafluxed. I remember you sayin’ it’d do eighty in second gear; it’ll do ninety-five now.” “I thought I’d seen the last of that white elephant.” said Peter. “You have,” said Jack. “It’s blue now. Authentic 1941 Buick Mus- keteer Blue. And they repainted the engine block red, the stock color for just that one year. But here’s the best part.” “What?” “It’s cool. Air-conditioned, that is. Wait’ll you see the size of that compressor. Six vents blowin’ cold air all over that ole bus.” “And a stock hood ornament?” Peter asked with raised eyebrows. “Plain old bombsight,” Jack laughed. “But I still have the ‘custom’ one, if you want it.” “Sounds like a drugstore cowboy’s dream, just like it is.” “Well, ride ’em, cowboy. It’s yours again.” “Wait a minute…” “Just think of it as th’ smallest of paybacks. I hope you’ll enjoy it.” 622 The Rough English Equivalent

“I’m sure I will. Thanks, bud. Maybe they’ll bury me in it. I can’t help thinkin’ how big it’d have gone over in Havana.” “Yeah, with that Gilbert Roland profile, you’da slayed ’em.” They stood abreast on the beach, Linda’s arms around their waists, watching the Atlantic’s blue-gray color deepen in the setting sun. “Well, sport,” said Peter, “it might take a day or two to figure out, but I’ll ask the question anyway; whaddya wanta do now?” “I dunno exactly,” Jack said, feeling Linda’s hand creeping south for a momentary squeeze of his right cheek. “We’ll think of sump’m.” “Yeh-baw-ey,” said Peter. “We better get going,” said Linda. “Our reservation’s for seven.” “Reservation?” Jack said. “For what?” “Dinner,” said Peter. “A thank-you for touting us onto this place. One of Linda’s canasta partners at the Capri referred us to a guy that lives here.” “Bernie. A guy I’d seen at the blackjack table often enough that we developed an acquaintance,” she said. “I liked the Capri; it was close to our place, and small. And George Raft was its front man, but he was only around at night. Bernie was some kind of government inspector, and I guess he liked gambling on the job in a more secluded location than the big hotels. Spoke American English. I mentioned one day that I might be shopping for a place in Miami Beach, and he told me about Howard. Said he had a place here in Coconut Grove, and suggested I call him.” “Let’s take old Musketeer Blue and arrive in style, buddy,” said Peter. They slid into the Buick’s front seat, Jack driving at Peter’s sugges- tion. “You’re used to this new version,” he’d said. I’d rather get used to 400 horsepower in broad daylight, cold sober.” Reacting to sound of the engine’s exhaust, which approximated that of a well-muffled Peterbilt, with a quick glance at each other, they settled back for the short ride out Coconut Grove’s Main Highway. “Heard anything about Ziggy?” Case Discount 623

“Oh shit, Ziggy. I sure have. He was at Morehouse College for four years, you remember, after getting out of the Marines in ’54.” “Yeah, I kept up with ’im, after a fashion, through Ralph while he was in school. He only came home a coupla times that I know about, durin’ the time I was still there.” “Guess he was too busy with the band.” “Band?” “Yeah, he started singin’ with a band pretty soon after he got there. Just some students who’d put a group together. Ziggy was probably the only guy old enough to hit the low notes of the old R&B standards they were copycattin’. But it turned out he was better than even he expected. He got hooked up with a voice teacher, and the band started getting some fairly decent bookings. They were on that local TV show in Atlanta, Café TV, a coupla times. Remember? They’d do an hour on Saturday afternoons, the ﬁrst half gospel and the second R&B.” “Don’t guess I ever caught it,” said Peter. “What’s their name?” “The Chimes. Ziggy and the band didn’t get on until after you’d gone, anyway. But here’s the best part; they’ve cut two or three records on the OKEH label that’ve gotten pretty fair radio play.” “Damn! I bet Ralph’s chest is stuck out a mile.” “It is, but it’d be stickin’ out a little farther if Ziggy wadn’t quite so political.” “Political? Whaddya mean?” “He’s been involved with this SCLC, Southern Christian Leader- ship Council, or Conference, not sure what the C’s for, but it’s a negro civil rights group that this preacher, Martin Luther King, started in Atlanta after the black woman got locked up over in Mont- gomery. King’d been at Morehouse, too, so he had a pretty good- sized booster group built into the campus. Ziggy’d recruited for the Marines there, so he was pretty well-known even before he started school. And a decorated Marine made him great window-dressing for King’s bunch. He became known in the movement, and publicly 624 The Rough English Equivalent for awhile, for a speech that he made right after the Russians invaded Hungary in ’56. The line the newcasts picked up was “Wars fuck people up. That’s why they have ’em.” “Sure, I remember Ralph talkin’ about that. Had all Bisque talkin’ for about a month. And aside from why he said it, I can’t say he’s wrong,” said Peter. Sobering, he added, “I wish I could see ’im. And Ralph. And Webster and all the rest.” “And you know they’d feel the same way,” said Jack. “Just to know you’re alive…” “Here we are,” Linda broke in. As a well-tipped parking attendant positioned the Buick out front, the trio walked jauntily up the broad steps and into the foyer of Norman’s Restaurant. It was 7:05; a voice behind and to the right of them said “Ah…. The Wessel party?” Turning, they saw a balding man of about forty-ﬁve, medium height, in wraparound sunglasses and a powder-blue silk polo shirt, his hand extended. Jack was closest to him and took it. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Howard Hunt.”

As we ate Norman’s excellent ﬂan, it became evident that Hunt wanted to extend the dinner conversation beyond dinner, and to restrict that conversation to Pete and himself. The erudite, slickpated Hunt turned up the charm to make his request, explaining that he was just starting research on a book about Castro’s takeover of Cuba. To his obvious relief, neither Linda nor I objected; I couldn’t believe this opportunity, much sooner than I could’ve dreamed, to see if things between us were the same as before, as was indicated by our having taken every more-or-less discreet opportunity to touch each other. Hunt assured us that he’d drop Pete off after they’d dissected his take on three or four decades of Cuban history. The old Buick’s new power got us back to the house in a hurry, and we were in bed ﬁve minutes later. Case Discount 625

The time that had passed since our last time in the Petrel’s after cabin evaporated. Linda’s delight that I had “grown up” made the reunion sweeter than I’d have dared imagine. We spent a vigorous half-hour making up, or beginning to make up, for the years that we’d been apart. “We’d better get dressed,” I said. “He’ll probably be back before long.” “Don’t worry about that, sweetie,” she said, stretching luxuriously. “Mose–shit,see,Idoittoo–Peter–he knows all about us. I told him, in Havana. And I told him that I intended to get you into bed as soon as I possibly could.” “You did? Then-” “Oh, honey, you thought that he and I…” “You mean you didn’t?” “No. Jesus, even I have to draw the line somewhere. I think we probably both thought about it, and came to the same conclusion; it was just too creepy somehow, so we never even discussed it. He fucked your mother and mine, for Chrissake! Now I was attracted, at first, to Dieter, but then he…well, the entire time in Cuba was pretty much a bust for me, sexwise. I was looking forward to getting with you in Havana, but of course Castro and company blew that for us. So, baby, here we are, and no need to wait up for the old boy. We’ll see him at breakfast.” “Shit, Linda; I’m having trouble digestin’ this as fast as you’re throwin’ it; he’s like a dad to me; I haven’t seen him in nearly three years, and I’m supposed to just hop out of bed in the morning, say ‘Hi, Pete, thanks for bringin’ my lover-that-I-never-told-you-about back in one piece?’” “Well, you could say that, sweetie, but actually I’m the one who brought him back. C’mere and gimme some gratitude.” From what I’d been able to see so far, the years since we’d been together hadn’t been at all hard on her body, and seeing her at thirty-five in the warm light of the bedside lamp confirmed the impression. When I was sixteen, I’d imagined her as a hammered copper statue, come to 626 The Rough English Equivalent life. Tonight she was a bowsprit nymph, a slim shining reflection of the sea. “Get that oil on top of the chest of drawers, would you, baby?” What was left of the next morning pretty much took care of itself. We could see Pete–that’s what I’d decided to call him–out on the beach, so we dressed, got coffee from the pot that he’d made, and joined him. A lot had changed in a little over twelve hours, and I felt pretty good about most of it. A little put off, maybe, about Linda wanting me to do her butt. She said that she felt she couldn’t ask me to do it before, but now would I please, because she needed it to complete the act of love. And once I got the hang of it I kinda liked the way she whispered ‘Fuck me, Daddy!’ every time I pushed in, and I got used to the shit aspect. Looking back, I hate to think that I might’ve left her hanging all those times, when she always seemed pretty well whipped. Live and learn, I guess. Seeing us, he shouted “Mornin’, guys.” I was glad to see that he’d ditched that fruity white shirt. Standing there on the beach in a swim suit, he looked a lot more like the old Mose. And there was no question that he was happy to see us together. “Ya just missed th’ por- poise sweepstakes,” he said, with a sweeping wave toward the ocean. We walked down to the water, side by side, splashing calf-deep in the cool, gray Atlantic. But this time Linda wasn’t in the middle; I was. Pete took the right side, where the water was deepest, while Linda splashed along on the shore side, ankle deep. “Hope you weren’t worried about what I thought about you kids bein’ together,” he said. “We just got too pressed for time last night to talk about the old times. You really put one over on me, shitbird; when Linda told me about the way you guys carried on in New York, I laughed like a sonofabitch.” “You know, as funny as it sounds now, I was afraid that if I told you, you might tell me something I didn’t want to hear, like what a bad idea it was for me to be involved with an ‘older woman,’ or maybe that you might give Linda the version of that warning that Case Discount 627 applied to her. All I knew was that seein’ Linda made visitin’ Dad a lot more fun than it used to be.” “I thank you,” said Linda, “and the New York Bureau of Tourism-” giving my butt a vicious pinch–thanks you.” “Well, you know I might’ve done sump’m like that, too, for you guys’ ‘own good;’ wouldn’ta made me look too smart in hindsight, would it?” And that was his last word on the subject. Sensing that it was, I asked him, “Did you get Mr. Hunt straightened out on Cuba?” “He seemed ta be pretty straightened out already,” Pete said with a smile. “I don’t think I was able ta tell him a thing he didn’t already know. Didn’t seem to upset him; he said he was happy just to get the perspective of another American who had spent some time in Cuba durin’ Batista’s last days. Mostly, we talked about what I’d seen in my day-to-day contact with Cubans; how strong their support for Cas- tro appeared to be six, twelve, eighteen months before the march on Havana.” “Did you tell him about Dieter gettin’ killed?” “Sure. Couldn’t see any reason not to. Just described him as a friend we’d met in Havana and invited to share our hacienda. He was real interested in the story, and sympathetic; it was the only thing, really, that I told ’im that really piqued his interest.” “Of course,” Linda interjected, “you weren’t about to tell him about Lídia’s daughter.” “Hah! Not in a million years. You remember Lídia’s story, Jack.” “Sure,” I said.” You obviously looked her up.” “Yeah; turned out she’d married a doctor by the name of Sánchez. They were livin’ out there in Oriente province, close to where she grew up. Linda and I paid ’em a visit; it was quite a reunion. They seemed pretty happy; his politics’re way over to the left, so I guess it was natural that their daughter, Célia, would adopt his ideas. She moved even farther to the left as she grew up, and joined up with Castro in the Sierra Maestre right after he returned to Cuba. Accor- 628 The Rough English Equivalent din’ to Lídia, she’s now one of a handful of his trusted advisers, ‘right up there,’ she told me, proud as she could fuckin’ be, ‘with Ché and Raúl.’” “Good God!” I said. “Ché. Guevara. I’ve heard of him, guess everybody has. But Raúl…” “Raúl’s Castro’s brother.” “Whoa! Good thing you kept that to yourself. You never know who a guy like Hunt may be talking to next. You could have more ‘consulting’ business than the law allows.” “That’s right; he’s an interestin’ guy, but I’ve had enough of Cuba ’til they finish killin’ each other, if they ever do.” And that was pretty much all he had to say about Cuba for the rest of the three weeks or so that we were together. Three weeks couldn’t make up for three years, but we managed to put a pretty good dent in the large lump of loneliness that I’d lived with since seeing the old boy off in ’56. And the name is starting to seem pretty natural to me now; it helps, of course, to remember that it’s his real name. “Well, boys,” Linda said, “If you think you can do without me for an hour or so I’ll go gas up the boat and pick you up for lunch.” She looked at me. “The one thing this place doesn’t have is a dock, so you’ll have to swim out when your hear the horn. See ya. Oh. Mind if I drive the Buick?” As she walked away, Pete put his arm around my shoulder. “How’re you doin’, buddy?” “Notsa bad, I guess, considerin’.” “Yeah, I’m sorry that business with Hunt came up last night, but maybe it was just as well. You got some time alone with Linda, and now you get some with me.” “And not a minute too damn soon; I’m still workin’ to keep my feet under me.” “I know; I feel pretty much the same way, although I know a little more about what you’ve been doin’ since Dieter and I took off that Case Discount 629 day in ’56. Anyway ya look at it, it’s a long time for best friends not to see each other.” “That’s for sure. I hab’m even had the chance to tell you what a great funeral you had.” “Oh, yeah? Ya know, I never gave much thought to that. I know it couldn’tve been any fun, even though you knew I was OK.” “Yeah. Mailing me that postcard from “Sylvia” on your way down was a nice touch. You’dve been pleased at the turnout; quite a few people in Bisque that thought a hell of a lot of you, and were damn sorry you were gone. I don’t think Mom’s over it yet.” “I’m sorrier about that than I am about anything that had to do with this, Buddy. I loved her the way I expect I’ll never love again, and I’m sorry that you had to bear the frustration of our situation on top of everything else. I had no right to ask you to do what you did, but it was the only way I could see to get everybody clear of Bisque. Maybe if I’d been a little bit more of a genius…” “Well, I’ve been thinkin’ about it since you left, and I haven’t been able to come up with another way to get it done. And it had to be done, didn’t it?” “Either that,” said Pete, “or continue the Bisque experience while I was hearin’ footsteps and you were…what?” “Not gettin’ rich,” I laughed. He laughed, too, and tightened his grip on my shoulder. “Guess you could say we both got ‘rich’-” he raised his hands in front of him to make the quotation marks–“by accident. Well, after the last couple of years, I’m ready to explore the process of gettin’ a little less rich–on purpose. Hope you can see your way clear to join me down here while we figure out what else life’s got in store for us.” “Sounds like a damn fine idea. I’ll run on back up to Bisque in a few days and see what I can do about gettin’ things closed out there. One thing’s for sure; we’re gonna need the bikes. I’ll get ’em crated up and sent down here.” 630 The Rough English Equivalent

“Better not, ’til we find a place to keep ’em. I’ll let you know. I’m damn sure ready for some ridin’; hab’m had a bike under me since my last ride on th’ Shadow.” He paused, then said, “Listen; you’re still the only one that knows the whole story. And ya always will be. Linda thinks that th’ whole Cuba exercise was just to get Dieter out of the KGB, and that I did it because he saved my life in Spain, which of course is true. She didn’t need to know any more than that. She thinks that I became Pete Wessel as part of the operation. So, please, don’t tell her any different, regardless of how things turn out between th’ two of you. OK?” “Sure it’s OK. I told you back in Bisque that I’d never tell another soul, and I wasn’t makin’ any mental reservations when I said so. I figured you’d let me know when, or if, anything changed along that line.” I guess a little of the pique that I felt crept into my voice, and that Pete picked up on it. “Hey, buddy,” he said, pulling me around to face him. “I know that. If I hadn’t been certain of it, I could never have trusted you with my life in the first place.” He looked at me for another long moment, then with a quick shake of his head said, “No. I felt sure you could handle it, but I really didn’t have any choice, because there was no way that I’d let you think that I was dead for even a second. That’s why I did it; simply because I had to.” I gripped both his shoulders and returned his steady gaze, as steady, that is, as a gaze can be when both parties’ eyes are full of tears. “I know that, Pete; knowin’ that’s what got me through this.” That, I thought, and a bunch of Flx briefings. “Hey, man, you’re gettin’ me outa th’ Bisque morass, along with you guys. But when I saw Linda…” “You thought things’d changed. I don’t blame ya. In your shoes, I’da thought th’ same thing. You put a woman into any situation, and all bets’re off. Don’t get me wrong; as women go, Linda’s the absolute best. But women can get men to do things for ’em that’re, well, the only word I can think of right now’s irrational. Happens millions of Case Discount 631 times a day, all over the world. So damn if I can blame you for thinkin’ she was leadin’ me around by my dick. Nice to know it ain’t so, idn’t it?” “Very damn nice,” I said, grinning at him. “We’re all in this little enterprise together. Linda’s quite a bit older than you are, and quite a bit younger than me. I’m not sure how that fact’ll figure in the long term; it’s one of a lotta reasons I’m sorry Dieter’s gone, because I think she was all his, and vice versa. Her drinkin’ picked up, and stayed up, for quite awhile after he died. I’m afraid she might go back to it some time when her life gets rocky again. Looks like she picked up that trait from her Mother, and I told you what that was like. And sex could be what does it. Here today, gone someday, unless the folks in question are really special to each other. Guess we’ll just have to let it play out. If things go well with y’all, that’ll be one big thing we won’t hafta worry about. If she got interested in somebody off the street, well, then we’d all be takin’ a closer look at how many laws we had to break to get where we are. Just keep that in th’ backa your head.” He blew out his cheeks, shaking his head in mute indication that he wanted to leave the situation in limbo for the time being. “One more thing, though. I need to even things up with you about sump’m.” In spite of his smile, my stomach plunged toward my shoes. “What’s that?” “Remember the day you quit football?” “Don’t guess I’ll ever forget it.” “You surprised me that day; more than once, but what I’m talkin’ about’s when you got outa th’ car at school.” “Oh.” “You know what I mean.” “Yeah.” “Well, I’m beatin’ ya to it this time. I love ya, shitbird.” Opening his arms wide, he took the necessary step toward me to wrap me in 632 The Rough English Equivalent one of his trademark hugs, which I was happier than ever to return, and not give a shit who saw us, even though I doubt anyone did. “I love you too, Pete. That’s sump’m I haven’t heard it from my Dad since I was five years old.” “You know sump’m, buddy? I never heard it from mine. My mom, sure, all th’ time, but never from him. I wonder how different things might’ve been if I had.” We drank a lot of rum in various Coconut Grove and South Beach joints while Pete, as he put it, “gathered a market sample.” Some- times he’d bring a sample home, sometimes not; meanwhile Linda and I went at it like sables in heat. The days began late, as a rule; we spent a lot of time on the water, cruising the local waters in Striker and looking at used amphibians as possible replacements for the F3F. Pete said that he thought some island-hopping might help us gather our thoughts about the future, and we looked at a few ex-military multis–PBYs, UFs and SA-16s. He’d logged some twin-engine time in Cuba, but not enough to go for a rating. With our own aircraft, of course, we could log time in a hurry. Driving to the store to pick up some beer and baby oil one morning, I’d just turned onto the highway when Flx flew in the window. “Howdy, podnuh,” he screeched, perching on the back of the seat. “Howdy your own damn self; where you been?” “Just fartin’ around while you get your horns clipped, ol’ sport. They gettin’ short enough to suit you yet?” “Yeah, they’re gettin’ there,” I told him, “But I’ve still got some work to do. Had a little dry spell to get over.” What he said then made me glad birds can’t smirk. “Yeah, addin’ buttfuckin’ to your repertoire oughta let you pull even a little quicker.” I wanted to bat his ass into the back seat, but thought better of it since I didn’t want him going away to sulk, or whatever trans-tempo- ral birdlike immortal beings do when they’re pissed, right now. Case Discount 633

Instead I slid him some sarcasm. “Guess you’re gettin’ a big fuckin’ kick outa watchin’.” “Oh, not so much; I’ve seen buttfuckin’ by experts; Alexander and Ptolemy spring immediately to mind, but Pete ain’t so bad himself. He’d applaud your generosity with th’ baby oil.” “I’d like to see you try it. That’d be a sight to see, ﬂappin’ your goddamn wings around tryin’ to get that stinger of yours inta sump’m.” “My equipment ain’t the issue here; it’s yo shaft that’s gettin’ chapped. You don’t need to be fallin’ inta that thing and lettin’ it slam shut on yo’ ass.” “Don’t sweat that; I’m gettin’ back to work in a few days.” “Back to dear ole Biscue.” “Bingo. Gotta get out of th’ beer business if I’m gonna play around with these two. She’s takin’ me back on Striker; up the Intra- coastal as far as the Savannah River, then hang a left upriver to Augusta.” “That oughta be quite a trip. Maybe you can do a little stand-up butt work while she’s drivin’.” “Why didn’t I think of that?” I could see it happening, too. “Any- way, couldn’t very well turn ’er down. Said she’d heard way too much about Bisque not to have a look at it for herself, and that there was no time like the present. What she said was, “I’ve gotta see the place that could hold both of you wild-ass motherfuckers for ten years.” So we’re castin’ off Friday, and next week Linda gets a load of Bisque, and vice-a versa.” Well, sex ain’t all ole Pete’s inventive about,” Flx warbled. “Unless I miss my guess, he and that Hunt character ain’t seen the last of each other.” “Well, I guess if the guy’s doin’ research on a book, he might want to talk to Pete again.” Flx spread his wings, vibrating them in frustration. “You know damn well there’s more to it than that,” he squawked. “What yankee 634 The Rough English Equivalent fucker’s gonna drop what he’s doin’ and start actin’ like a real-estate agent for a coupla strangers? I ain’t buyin’ it.” “Then what the hell is it you are buyin’?” “Not sure yet. But that sneaky-eyed fucker looks to me like he could cut your throat and smile at you while he was doin’ it. Cold, sneaky eyes. Who knows what he’n that damn Cuban’ve got cooked up?” “Which Cuban’re you talkin’ about?” “Linda’s friend at the blackjack table in Havana. He’s the only Cuban I know of in this story, and least so far.” “You know what? You are a very damn suspicious bird.” “We’ll see. By the time y’all get back down here, I’m bettin’ Pete and these “Cuban interests” will be in each other’s hip pockets. And here’s sump’m else for you to think about, sport. How d’you know your pals’re tellin’ you everything there is to know about how they’ve gotten to know these guys?” “What the hell d’you mean by that?” I barked at the bird. “Can’t say it any plainer, m’boy. ‘Playin’ around with these two’ might be a little more complicated than you think. Be sump’m to ponder while y’all screw up to Bisque and back. And call Rick,” he squawked, wings ﬂapping. “ ’Bout time he got to see you in over your fuckin’ head with a woman. Better check and see if there’s a case discount on thatair baby oil, shitbird!” As I watched his tailfeathers get smaller, I wished Dolores and Diana were here.

THE END

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