spent half a day
bruising our hands trying to crack windows loose from their paint,
and the sliding doors had these miniature locks down in the runners
that Theenie said to prize out. "Prize ’em out with a crowbar
or call the lock man, because you ain’ gone get nare one out with
this hammer." She had a hammer with one claw left, like a kid
with a front tooth knocked out. She held it in an attitude that
looked like one of those Walker Evans photographs of sharecroppers.
Theenie’s got the sharecropper patience that seems so sure of the
world even in its humility that the Doctor, who I thought would take
out glass and all before calling anybody, stopped and called Vergil
at the Texaco station and told him to get a locksmith who didn’t
have to have an arm and a leg and who might like a drink after a long
day and bring him on out and to look at the Cadillac himself
(Vergil), and she got them so well lubed there was no bill at all and
we had those drapes standing out in the breeze in no time, like the
capes of flying super-heroes. And the roaring crowd of the surf was
brought in—we had only heard the muffled rumble of it before.
Well, they pulled the burned hull of the heat pump
and left all the ductwork, thinking the Doctor would change her mind
about ordering a new unit. They didn’t know she was one of these
readers of Southern literature who talk about progressive light
changes at dusk and how the air in the country is different than in
the city, and how country crickets sing a different, more authentic
tune than city crickets, who just get in your woodwork and keep you
awake. It was many things like this that earned her the Duchess
status.
So there was this square vent with silver insulation
that came down to within four feet of the slab and I could stand on a
block and go up in it to my shoulders. It was like putting your head
in a speaker cabinet. You could hear the Doctor move on the wicker.
It sounded like when a bad folksinger changes chords and the squeak
on the frets is louder than the picking. You could hear the whole
house, a giant conch shell and its internal sea. You could hear,
believe me, voices.
So this Friday in question I get on the block and go
shoulder-high into the Voice of the Theater. . . cannot be h-wealthy
forum," Daddy was saying.
". . . cannot buttabean h-wealthy forum,"
the Doctor said. I think I was too far up in the speaker. . . whoever
evah hearded of a dearded child uvah twelvild runnnwellve vilding
inilda nigger road nigoadhouse rrrouse !"
"I havehv."
"You’re unfit tittit . .
I stepped down and moved the block and just stood
under the vent, maybe only my hair up in it. "Everson, frankly
the place worried me too, before. But he has to have some life other
than . . . "
A small wicker squeak.
"Than what?"
"Than this." A big wicker squeak. This was
much clearer.
"Well, what pray tell doesn’t worry you now ? Before when ?"
"Before he had his new companion to—escort
him."
"Companion. And not the first—"
"Don’t start that tape—"
"I’ll start it—"
"You’re a boor."
A giant scraping and tinkling and gushing, pouring
noise came down.
"Here. The ice is gone," Daddy said.
"Thanks."
It was quiet for so long I got scared they might be
sneaking down. I could see the stairs where their shoes would show up
long before they could see me, but I went over to the stairs just in
case. Then they started talking again. I tiptoed back over, missed a
few words.
. . think either one of us," she said,
and a pause like for a lecture notetaker, "has been chaste, has
we, Iv?"
"ln my book discretion still beats valor."
"Quite," she said. A scream of wicker. “So
what sets us so far apart in this spectrum of morals, my lovely?"
(Sounds weird, but that’s what I heard.) "That I don’t with
every coroner, convict, drifter, and what’s more entrust a boy to—"
"Who fucking left , Everson?" The
volume nearly scalped me. I was weak. I can only think of one noise
like
bruising our hands trying to crack windows loose from their paint,
and the sliding doors had these miniature locks down in the runners
that Theenie said to prize out. "Prize ’em out with a crowbar
or call the lock man, because you ain’ gone get nare one out with
this hammer." She had a hammer with one claw left, like a kid
with a front tooth knocked out. She held it in an attitude that
looked like one of those Walker Evans photographs of sharecroppers.
Theenie’s got the sharecropper patience that seems so sure of the
world even in its humility that the Doctor, who I thought would take
out glass and all before calling anybody, stopped and called Vergil
at the Texaco station and told him to get a locksmith who didn’t
have to have an arm and a leg and who might like a drink after a long
day and bring him on out and to look at the Cadillac himself
(Vergil), and she got them so well lubed there was no bill at all and
we had those drapes standing out in the breeze in no time, like the
capes of flying super-heroes. And the roaring crowd of the surf was
brought in—we had only heard the muffled rumble of it before.
Well, they pulled the burned hull of the heat pump
and left all the ductwork, thinking the Doctor would change her mind
about ordering a new unit. They didn’t know she was one of these
readers of Southern literature who talk about progressive light
changes at dusk and how the air in the country is different than in
the city, and how country crickets sing a different, more authentic
tune than city crickets, who just get in your woodwork and keep you
awake. It was many things like this that earned her the Duchess
status.
So there was this square vent with silver insulation
that came down to within four feet of the slab and I could stand on a
block and go up in it to my shoulders. It was like putting your head
in a speaker cabinet. You could hear the Doctor move on the wicker.
It sounded like when a bad folksinger changes chords and the squeak
on the frets is louder than the picking. You could hear the whole
house, a giant conch shell and its internal sea. You could hear,
believe me, voices.
So this Friday in question I get on the block and go
shoulder-high into the Voice of the Theater. . . cannot be h-wealthy
forum," Daddy was saying.
". . . cannot buttabean h-wealthy forum,"
the Doctor said. I think I was too far up in the speaker. . . whoever
evah hearded of a dearded child uvah twelvild runnnwellve vilding
inilda nigger road nigoadhouse rrrouse !"
"I havehv."
"You’re unfit tittit . .
I stepped down and moved the block and just stood
under the vent, maybe only my hair up in it. "Everson, frankly
the place worried me too, before. But he has to have some life other
than . . . "
A small wicker squeak.
"Than what?"
"Than this." A big wicker squeak. This was
much clearer.
"Well, what pray tell doesn’t worry you now ? Before when ?"
"Before he had his new companion to—escort
him."
"Companion. And not the first—"
"Don’t start that tape—"
"I’ll start it—"
"You’re a boor."
A giant scraping and tinkling and gushing, pouring
noise came down.
"Here. The ice is gone," Daddy said.
"Thanks."
It was quiet for so long I got scared they might be
sneaking down. I could see the stairs where their shoes would show up
long before they could see me, but I went over to the stairs just in
case. Then they started talking again. I tiptoed back over, missed a
few words.
. . think either one of us," she said,
and a pause like for a lecture notetaker, "has been chaste, has
we, Iv?"
"ln my book discretion still beats valor."
"Quite," she said. A scream of wicker. “So
what sets us so far apart in this spectrum of morals, my lovely?"
(Sounds weird, but that’s what I heard.) "That I don’t with
every coroner, convict, drifter, and what’s more entrust a boy to—"
"Who fucking left , Everson?" The
volume nearly scalped me. I was weak. I can only think of one noise
like
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