said.
“No?” I said.
“No. He’s in hell. And I’m goin soon.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I ran his dogs on runaways afore I seen enough to quit. Then I’se fifteen. Old enough to join the militia. But the things I done. I helped take the skin off ’n one nigger who ran away twice, and stretched his hide between two poles, like a jackrabbit, with his face still on it. Had a wheel to spin the niggers on till they lost they minds. But he didn’t run dogs on his slaves when he hunted. He went out by himself. I saw him once, comin back naked. And they never came back. That place is haunted, young man.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Do you like the banjo?” he said.
“Sure.”
“Reach me my banjo an I’ll play you a song. It’s under the bed.”
I looked under the bed, but there was no banjo. Just the feet of the twitchy white woman getting closer.
“I reckon this is your uncle?” she said, giving me the angry eye.
“Don’t you fuss at him,” the old man said. “This is my nephew. Now, get me my banjo, you witch. You evil witch. I want to play something pretty.”
WHEN I GOT out to the car, I found that Eudora had put the top down. Her white legs were on display and her bare feet were on the dashboard. The smell of nail polish hit me. Her toenails were brick red and she had cotton between her toes.
“If I’m going to be a whore, I should look the part,” she said. “Mind if I dry these out while you drive?”
I threw my head back and laughed.
Jesus Christ, I was in love.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I T WAS ON the first or second day of September that the vagrants came to town. Two men, one white and one black, accompanying a mannish woman who smoked a pipe and wore her hair up under a man’s hat, established themselves on the benches in the middle of the town’s square. The white man held a sign that read NEED WORK while the black man held his head down so the brim of his hat kept shade on his face and the woman smoked her pipe. The white man had a huge mustache that would have sat well on a cowboy’s face. Nobody approached the town square for several hours, which was normal in the hot part of the day when the sun stooped and whipped the tea roses unmercifully, so around two o’clock they shuffled over to Harvey’s Drug Emporium and ordered an ice cream.
That’s where I was sitting, reading a collection of James Joyce, procrastinating again and glad to be out of the dank basement.
They were a penny short of the cost, so I slid one over to them.
Funny how specific the memory is; I still remember the sound of that penny going ssshhhkkk across the counter. They all nodded their heads and the white man thanked me. Harvey found it in his heart to scoop an extra half scoop on top since it was clear they meant to share it.
What struck me about the way they ate the ice cream was that they had a system; each took a level spoonful to be fair to the others, and their attack was almost choreographed. I suspected then that these were rail-riders, and that they had learned their table manners in those hobo camps I had heard about where men, women, blacks, whites, dogs and Chinamen all slept together and ate out of the same pot. I was fascinated.
“How are you makin it?” Harvey asked them.
“We makin it alright,” the white man said. “Be makin it better with some work. We can all three of us chop cotton, split wood, fix a roof. You know somebody needs a hand?”
Harvey said, “No,” then shook his head afterwards as if to emphasize the no , but more likely to shake the image of Miles Falmouth out of his head; Miles with his bad back and his oldest son just ten; the neighbors had been taking turns pitching in with the farm work. Miles, who had a little money now thanks to Pastor Lyndon’s collection. Miles, who hated vagrants, but not nearly as much as he hated blacks.
“No, I don’t know nobody,” Harvey said, closing the matter.
That was all they had to offer in the way
“No?” I said.
“No. He’s in hell. And I’m goin soon.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I ran his dogs on runaways afore I seen enough to quit. Then I’se fifteen. Old enough to join the militia. But the things I done. I helped take the skin off ’n one nigger who ran away twice, and stretched his hide between two poles, like a jackrabbit, with his face still on it. Had a wheel to spin the niggers on till they lost they minds. But he didn’t run dogs on his slaves when he hunted. He went out by himself. I saw him once, comin back naked. And they never came back. That place is haunted, young man.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Do you like the banjo?” he said.
“Sure.”
“Reach me my banjo an I’ll play you a song. It’s under the bed.”
I looked under the bed, but there was no banjo. Just the feet of the twitchy white woman getting closer.
“I reckon this is your uncle?” she said, giving me the angry eye.
“Don’t you fuss at him,” the old man said. “This is my nephew. Now, get me my banjo, you witch. You evil witch. I want to play something pretty.”
WHEN I GOT out to the car, I found that Eudora had put the top down. Her white legs were on display and her bare feet were on the dashboard. The smell of nail polish hit me. Her toenails were brick red and she had cotton between her toes.
“If I’m going to be a whore, I should look the part,” she said. “Mind if I dry these out while you drive?”
I threw my head back and laughed.
Jesus Christ, I was in love.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I T WAS ON the first or second day of September that the vagrants came to town. Two men, one white and one black, accompanying a mannish woman who smoked a pipe and wore her hair up under a man’s hat, established themselves on the benches in the middle of the town’s square. The white man held a sign that read NEED WORK while the black man held his head down so the brim of his hat kept shade on his face and the woman smoked her pipe. The white man had a huge mustache that would have sat well on a cowboy’s face. Nobody approached the town square for several hours, which was normal in the hot part of the day when the sun stooped and whipped the tea roses unmercifully, so around two o’clock they shuffled over to Harvey’s Drug Emporium and ordered an ice cream.
That’s where I was sitting, reading a collection of James Joyce, procrastinating again and glad to be out of the dank basement.
They were a penny short of the cost, so I slid one over to them.
Funny how specific the memory is; I still remember the sound of that penny going ssshhhkkk across the counter. They all nodded their heads and the white man thanked me. Harvey found it in his heart to scoop an extra half scoop on top since it was clear they meant to share it.
What struck me about the way they ate the ice cream was that they had a system; each took a level spoonful to be fair to the others, and their attack was almost choreographed. I suspected then that these were rail-riders, and that they had learned their table manners in those hobo camps I had heard about where men, women, blacks, whites, dogs and Chinamen all slept together and ate out of the same pot. I was fascinated.
“How are you makin it?” Harvey asked them.
“We makin it alright,” the white man said. “Be makin it better with some work. We can all three of us chop cotton, split wood, fix a roof. You know somebody needs a hand?”
Harvey said, “No,” then shook his head afterwards as if to emphasize the no , but more likely to shake the image of Miles Falmouth out of his head; Miles with his bad back and his oldest son just ten; the neighbors had been taking turns pitching in with the farm work. Miles, who had a little money now thanks to Pastor Lyndon’s collection. Miles, who hated vagrants, but not nearly as much as he hated blacks.
“No, I don’t know nobody,” Harvey said, closing the matter.
That was all they had to offer in the way
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