ago. “I declare, sometimes I feel like I know more folks in here than I do downtown,” Dolly sighed as they passed the large cement stone that marked the grave of Clifton Lee, a man whom Dolly had certainly flirted with, and from the much discussed evidence of lipstick stains had kissed, a lot. But that was all that Dolly said that anywhere near referred to Clifton—and then she went on, “Those Hapgoods were always just the tackiest people. Would you look at that pink granite ?” And a little later, in the Negro section, “Eliosa Caldwell. Why, he must’ve been a slave of some of SallyJane’s people, you know the Caldwells were about the biggest landowners in the county before the War. Not this war of course, the War. My, don’t our colored folk think up the most outlandish names in all get out? Eliosa! Beats even Odessa, now don’t it?”
The trees too were old, some probably pre-War. A beautiful heavy dark stand of tall cedars perversely graced the Negro cemetery, but in the white part there were some lovely pines, though fairly new, and later in the spring, pretty soon now, the dogwood trees would bloom, all beautiful and white, like lace.
“O Lord Jesus Christ, who by His death didst take away the sting of death.… ”
Jimmy Hightower stood somewhat apart from the crowd, near some pines; the boughs of the trees were thick and heavyand even the needles were longer and broader than those on younger pines. And maybe even after all this time in the South, Jimmy was allergic to pine? Some people were, and an allergy could come on a person at almost any age; poor SallyJane, a few friends remember, got allergic to poison oak not long before she died, poor creature, as if she didn’t already have troubles enough. But there was old Jimmy, just sniffling away, like a man near dead of hay fever—but did anyone ever die of such a thing?
Russ must have meant to die, was one of the black and irrational thoughts that crowded against each other in Jimmy Hightower’s mind. Another was: I hope everyone thinks I’ve got a cold, or some allergy, especially that chatterbox silly bitch Dolly Bigelow, who keeps looking over here. Easy to imagine just what she’d say, in her horrible high flat voice. Russ had never liked Dolly, Jimmy was sure of that—fairly sure, hard to know really just who Russ did or did not like. But no matter what anyone saw, or thought, or said, the truth was Jimmy couldn’t stop crying; tears poured down and his nose ran like a child’s. The thought of Russ dead, or almost worse, of Russ really wanting to die—all that was too much for him. The truth was, he had loved Russ Byrd—whatever anyone meant by that word, he had felt it for Russ. And now he did not see how he could go on living, much less writing, without old Russ to talk to. To check in with. Or even if they didn’t see each other or even talk, just to know Russ was there, inhabiting the same time span, the same territory that Jimmy was.
“Russ wanted you to have this,” Oscar, Russ’s agent, had told Jimmy Hightower. Oscar was speaking of the Oppenheimer-physicsstory, which just prior to his death Russ had refused, certainly not mentioning this Hightower fellow as he did so, but what the hell? Hightower had written that big oil best-seller, and even though Hightower seemed reluctant, he, Oscar, had one of his strongest hunches that Hightower was just the guy to do it. Too bad about Russ, though; Oscar had genuinely liked him, although he had never understood Southerners.
And now Jimmy thought, Well, maybe I should do that physicists’ thing, out in New Mexico. Continuing Russ’s work, even work that he didn’t want to do, though maybe he would have, eventually.
Jimmy thought, Russ, God damn it, why did you have to go and die on me?
Deirdre and Melanctha, as they had in the church, stood somewhat apart from each other. Deirdre’s coat was long and a little too tight. Must have been an old one. Melanctha’s was one of
The trees too were old, some probably pre-War. A beautiful heavy dark stand of tall cedars perversely graced the Negro cemetery, but in the white part there were some lovely pines, though fairly new, and later in the spring, pretty soon now, the dogwood trees would bloom, all beautiful and white, like lace.
“O Lord Jesus Christ, who by His death didst take away the sting of death.… ”
Jimmy Hightower stood somewhat apart from the crowd, near some pines; the boughs of the trees were thick and heavyand even the needles were longer and broader than those on younger pines. And maybe even after all this time in the South, Jimmy was allergic to pine? Some people were, and an allergy could come on a person at almost any age; poor SallyJane, a few friends remember, got allergic to poison oak not long before she died, poor creature, as if she didn’t already have troubles enough. But there was old Jimmy, just sniffling away, like a man near dead of hay fever—but did anyone ever die of such a thing?
Russ must have meant to die, was one of the black and irrational thoughts that crowded against each other in Jimmy Hightower’s mind. Another was: I hope everyone thinks I’ve got a cold, or some allergy, especially that chatterbox silly bitch Dolly Bigelow, who keeps looking over here. Easy to imagine just what she’d say, in her horrible high flat voice. Russ had never liked Dolly, Jimmy was sure of that—fairly sure, hard to know really just who Russ did or did not like. But no matter what anyone saw, or thought, or said, the truth was Jimmy couldn’t stop crying; tears poured down and his nose ran like a child’s. The thought of Russ dead, or almost worse, of Russ really wanting to die—all that was too much for him. The truth was, he had loved Russ Byrd—whatever anyone meant by that word, he had felt it for Russ. And now he did not see how he could go on living, much less writing, without old Russ to talk to. To check in with. Or even if they didn’t see each other or even talk, just to know Russ was there, inhabiting the same time span, the same territory that Jimmy was.
“Russ wanted you to have this,” Oscar, Russ’s agent, had told Jimmy Hightower. Oscar was speaking of the Oppenheimer-physicsstory, which just prior to his death Russ had refused, certainly not mentioning this Hightower fellow as he did so, but what the hell? Hightower had written that big oil best-seller, and even though Hightower seemed reluctant, he, Oscar, had one of his strongest hunches that Hightower was just the guy to do it. Too bad about Russ, though; Oscar had genuinely liked him, although he had never understood Southerners.
And now Jimmy thought, Well, maybe I should do that physicists’ thing, out in New Mexico. Continuing Russ’s work, even work that he didn’t want to do, though maybe he would have, eventually.
Jimmy thought, Russ, God damn it, why did you have to go and die on me?
Deirdre and Melanctha, as they had in the church, stood somewhat apart from each other. Deirdre’s coat was long and a little too tight. Must have been an old one. Melanctha’s was one of
Similar Books
