furnished with twin beds, had belonged to Mamaâs older sisters, Faith and Hope. I only knew it because Mama said so, just once. I had an idea that they were either in jail, which was the worst place I knew of short of hell itself, or they were dead. Portraits, photographs and snapshots of Junior were here, there, and everywhere at Ramparts, but I cannot remember so much as a curling snapshot of Faith or Hope. I might have slept in that room, except the beds were never made up, the rugs were rolled up against the walls, and dustcovers shrouded every object. The woodwork of the door frame in the hallway was curiously pitted with nail holes. I concluded that at some time the room had actually been boarded up. It would not have surprised me if it had been, and Faith and Hope left to starve to death within, as punishment for some perceived defiance of Mamadee. Possibly a scratch on the mahogany of the Victrola.
The room I was accustomed to using was up a short flight of stairs from the others, under the eaves. Once a servantâs room, the narrow meager space had been taken over at some time by Junior, who may never have actually slept in it. The greater height in the house of that room must have offered better reception for his radios. The room accommodated a single bed of brown-enameled iron, a dresser with a Bakelite radio on it, and a wooden chair and desk that had seen some hard days. On the desk was a shortwave radio, a spill of pamphlets and old books about ham radio, and a suitcase record player. From the rod in the small closet hung a net bag of mothballs. On the bottom of the closet floor was a wooden orange crate of records, the cardboard sleeves all marked with the name Bob Carroll Jr.
The crate of records was better than pirate gold to me. The records were all far more recently pressed than Captain Seniorâs; many of the songs could still be heard on the radio. The box contained recordings by Charlie Parker, Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Dizzy Gillespie, and more, hits (as they were called on the radio shows) like âDonât Sit Under the Apple Tree,â âSwinging on a Star,â âRum and Coca-Cola,â âSentimental Journey.â
Among the records, I kept a rusty chisel, stolen from a toolbox in the barn, in case Mamadee boarded up the room while I was in it. I was big enough now to get out the window, so I probably wouldnât ever need it, but I left it as a courtesy to any other kid Mamadee might board up in the room in future.
Under the iron bed was an old stained china pot with a cracked lid. Over the bed, a few dusty books, with Robert Carroll Jr. inscribed in them, held each other up on a homemade wooden shelf. One was Petersonâs A Field Guide to the Birds of Eastern and Central North America . It was a first edition, published in 1934, not that first edition meant doodly to me then. Another was Birds of North America , also dated 1934, with 106 full-color plates of Louis Agassiz Fuertesâs paintings. It was a Bible-heavy old book, which for me added to its authority. Hallâs North American Trees: Guide was easier to take off the shelf without braining myself. The third bird book was the most recent, a 1946 Audubon Bird Guide: Eastern Land Birds , by Richard Pough. It had green binding and a comfortable fit to the hand. There were three or four others, all pertaining to the natural world, and in their margins, someone had written notes in a script faded to illegibility. I had been looking at those books since I was old enough to reach the shelf and before I could read. Fortunately, Mamadee never came near this room, so I did not have to worry about her catching me with the books and taking them away, which she surely would have for fear that I might enjoy them.
Once I had overheard Mamadee remarking to one of the women with whom she played Bridge, that when her Bobby died, it killed Captain Carroll too, sure as God Made Little Green Apples. I reckoned
The room I was accustomed to using was up a short flight of stairs from the others, under the eaves. Once a servantâs room, the narrow meager space had been taken over at some time by Junior, who may never have actually slept in it. The greater height in the house of that room must have offered better reception for his radios. The room accommodated a single bed of brown-enameled iron, a dresser with a Bakelite radio on it, and a wooden chair and desk that had seen some hard days. On the desk was a shortwave radio, a spill of pamphlets and old books about ham radio, and a suitcase record player. From the rod in the small closet hung a net bag of mothballs. On the bottom of the closet floor was a wooden orange crate of records, the cardboard sleeves all marked with the name Bob Carroll Jr.
The crate of records was better than pirate gold to me. The records were all far more recently pressed than Captain Seniorâs; many of the songs could still be heard on the radio. The box contained recordings by Charlie Parker, Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Dizzy Gillespie, and more, hits (as they were called on the radio shows) like âDonât Sit Under the Apple Tree,â âSwinging on a Star,â âRum and Coca-Cola,â âSentimental Journey.â
Among the records, I kept a rusty chisel, stolen from a toolbox in the barn, in case Mamadee boarded up the room while I was in it. I was big enough now to get out the window, so I probably wouldnât ever need it, but I left it as a courtesy to any other kid Mamadee might board up in the room in future.
Under the iron bed was an old stained china pot with a cracked lid. Over the bed, a few dusty books, with Robert Carroll Jr. inscribed in them, held each other up on a homemade wooden shelf. One was Petersonâs A Field Guide to the Birds of Eastern and Central North America . It was a first edition, published in 1934, not that first edition meant doodly to me then. Another was Birds of North America , also dated 1934, with 106 full-color plates of Louis Agassiz Fuertesâs paintings. It was a Bible-heavy old book, which for me added to its authority. Hallâs North American Trees: Guide was easier to take off the shelf without braining myself. The third bird book was the most recent, a 1946 Audubon Bird Guide: Eastern Land Birds , by Richard Pough. It had green binding and a comfortable fit to the hand. There were three or four others, all pertaining to the natural world, and in their margins, someone had written notes in a script faded to illegibility. I had been looking at those books since I was old enough to reach the shelf and before I could read. Fortunately, Mamadee never came near this room, so I did not have to worry about her catching me with the books and taking them away, which she surely would have for fear that I might enjoy them.
Once I had overheard Mamadee remarking to one of the women with whom she played Bridge, that when her Bobby died, it killed Captain Carroll too, sure as God Made Little Green Apples. I reckoned
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