across the street and down one, Old Mrs. Entsminger, sitting on her porch in a rocker, a shawl around her shoulders, her grandson at her feet on a stool with a fiddle to his chin.
The boy played eight notes, and the old lady began to sing in the high mountain voice they all used. There was such sadness in her quavering voice, such hope in the words she sang. She had been singing the same song since she was a girl younger than her grandson.
The water is wide
I can’t cross o’er
And neither have
I wings to fly
Build me a boat
That can carry two
And both shall row
My love and I.
Such a sad sweetness, a sweet sadness that was born in the mountain and crept down into the valley like a gentle fog. She drifted off, it seemed, to sleep or memory, but the boy played on, and when he had played another verse through, she opened her eyes and patted his head. “Finish it, Henry,” she said, “Take us home.”
He was a boy; he was eleven, or twelve, his voice not yet changed. Still he had the music in him, and he sang the words that were far older than he would ever be, and what he sang filled and changed Charlie’s heart.
Oh love is handsome
And love is fine
The sweetest flower
When first it’s new
But love grows old
And waxes cold
And fades away
Like summer dew.
How could he know, the boy, and, knowing, how could he sing? But he knew. His child’s voice didn’t mean he did not know, and Charlie knew, too, knew a thing that he had not remembered for a long time.
The boy’s voice trailed off. He helped his grandmother to her feet and into the house, their porch light went off, the last one of the night. Then Charlie went indoors and closed the door behind him, locking it, he knew for no reason. He climbed the stairs, a glass of whiskey in his hand, and undressed and lay in his bed and sipped the whiskey. Alma had told him never to smoke in bed, but he did anyway. The linen sheets were old and heavy without being hot, and they felt good on his body. He was small in the big four-poster Alma had chosen for him.
Whiskey done, he said his prayers, remembering, as he always did, the name and face of every person he had ever loved. Before turning out the light, he picked up his diary, spit on the end of a pencil, and turned to September 30, 1948, and wrote: Home. 126 Main Street, Brownsburg, Virginia, USA.
He closed the book and arranged the pillows so that nothing touched his body while he slept. But smooth and arrange as he might, hearing the soft whir of his new fan from Sears, he couldn’t sleep. He tried for three hours, and then he gave up. So Charlie Beale got out of bed, remaking it as neatly as a nurse, and got dressed and went out and started his truck, the only sound on the street.
He drove out to his land by the river, and spread out his quilt on the ground. He was asleep in five minutes, while the silver river fish swam through his dreams.
He woke up with the first light of a new day in his eyes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T HERE WERE TWO things Charlie Beale wanted, and neither one was a woman.
The first thing he wanted was a dog. He said it wasn’t so much that he himself wanted a dog, although deep down in his heart he felt that if you had a house you ought to have a dog, but that Sam wanted a dog and couldn’t have one. That boy talked about it every single day, bringing it up time after time as though it had never been discussed before. He knew every dog on the street by name, and there was a kind of mournful, tender wonder in his eyes every time he put his hand on a dog’s head to pat it.
The second thing was land. Charlie wanted to amass acreage the way boys collect baseball cards or young men collect broken-down cars, hoping to take the parts and put them all together one day into a sleek, fast, girl-attracting ride.
Maybe it was because Charlie wasn’t a big man and wanted the armor that land would provide him. Or maybe because it was that, for so long, he had lacked a sense of place, of belonging. It was
The boy played eight notes, and the old lady began to sing in the high mountain voice they all used. There was such sadness in her quavering voice, such hope in the words she sang. She had been singing the same song since she was a girl younger than her grandson.
The water is wide
I can’t cross o’er
And neither have
I wings to fly
Build me a boat
That can carry two
And both shall row
My love and I.
Such a sad sweetness, a sweet sadness that was born in the mountain and crept down into the valley like a gentle fog. She drifted off, it seemed, to sleep or memory, but the boy played on, and when he had played another verse through, she opened her eyes and patted his head. “Finish it, Henry,” she said, “Take us home.”
He was a boy; he was eleven, or twelve, his voice not yet changed. Still he had the music in him, and he sang the words that were far older than he would ever be, and what he sang filled and changed Charlie’s heart.
Oh love is handsome
And love is fine
The sweetest flower
When first it’s new
But love grows old
And waxes cold
And fades away
Like summer dew.
How could he know, the boy, and, knowing, how could he sing? But he knew. His child’s voice didn’t mean he did not know, and Charlie knew, too, knew a thing that he had not remembered for a long time.
The boy’s voice trailed off. He helped his grandmother to her feet and into the house, their porch light went off, the last one of the night. Then Charlie went indoors and closed the door behind him, locking it, he knew for no reason. He climbed the stairs, a glass of whiskey in his hand, and undressed and lay in his bed and sipped the whiskey. Alma had told him never to smoke in bed, but he did anyway. The linen sheets were old and heavy without being hot, and they felt good on his body. He was small in the big four-poster Alma had chosen for him.
Whiskey done, he said his prayers, remembering, as he always did, the name and face of every person he had ever loved. Before turning out the light, he picked up his diary, spit on the end of a pencil, and turned to September 30, 1948, and wrote: Home. 126 Main Street, Brownsburg, Virginia, USA.
He closed the book and arranged the pillows so that nothing touched his body while he slept. But smooth and arrange as he might, hearing the soft whir of his new fan from Sears, he couldn’t sleep. He tried for three hours, and then he gave up. So Charlie Beale got out of bed, remaking it as neatly as a nurse, and got dressed and went out and started his truck, the only sound on the street.
He drove out to his land by the river, and spread out his quilt on the ground. He was asleep in five minutes, while the silver river fish swam through his dreams.
He woke up with the first light of a new day in his eyes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T HERE WERE TWO things Charlie Beale wanted, and neither one was a woman.
The first thing he wanted was a dog. He said it wasn’t so much that he himself wanted a dog, although deep down in his heart he felt that if you had a house you ought to have a dog, but that Sam wanted a dog and couldn’t have one. That boy talked about it every single day, bringing it up time after time as though it had never been discussed before. He knew every dog on the street by name, and there was a kind of mournful, tender wonder in his eyes every time he put his hand on a dog’s head to pat it.
The second thing was land. Charlie wanted to amass acreage the way boys collect baseball cards or young men collect broken-down cars, hoping to take the parts and put them all together one day into a sleek, fast, girl-attracting ride.
Maybe it was because Charlie wasn’t a big man and wanted the armor that land would provide him. Or maybe because it was that, for so long, he had lacked a sense of place, of belonging. It was
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