A Southern Place (11 page)

Chapter 8: November 1958

Phil

The farm stuff was the hardest thing Phil had ever done, but it turned out that he wasn’t too bad at it. It made sense to him, and he didn’t have to read a book for the instructions. He rigged an adapter for a broken corn auger, and the farm guys carried on like he’d found a cure for cancer. That’s when they started treating him normal, not like the boss’s son they had to baby-sit. And though he hated to admit it, Phil was beginning to like the farm more than the driving. And then there was living at the lodge.

The lodge had been the home of the previous plantation owner, but Phil’s dad had furnished it in “man” stuff—animal heads, leather couches, prints of foxhunts and the like. But what the older Foster didn’t know was that Phil had discovered his secret treasure, which was in his opinion, worth more than the whole kit and caboodle of the factories. He’d found his father’s toys.

Kicking at a dip in the carpet, Phil detected a somewhat sophisticated trap door set in the floor. A tiny but sturdy lock held it in place, but a quick search of the nearby desk provided the key. He pulled back the door to see a stairwell with a single light bulb begging him to pull its string. He did.

He passed an assortment of wines, hundreds of bottles, but that seemed to be only an afterthought. Below his father’s study was an arsenal of firearms. Purdy shotguns. Colt single action revolvers. Winchester rifles. Hundreds more he couldn’t name.

It would be Calvin, the one-armed man, who taught Phil the names of the rest of them.

Phil knew Cal liked hunting. He’d talked about it constantly, back when he had two arms and was the most viable of the farm workers. Now Cal stayed inside, wandering out to the barn on occasion, making them all feel sad and uncomfortable. Phil had a true liking for the man and wanted more than anything to bring a smile to his face, to do something that for even a moment restored him to the Cal he used to know. Finding the gun collection seemed an answer to his unvoiced prayer.

Phil had noticed how Cal walked the fence lines just before dusk; and the next day, he joined him at his quiet constitutional. “How’s it going, buddy?” Phil asked, sidling up to his friend.

“Well as can be expected,” said Cal without expression.

“You still in a lot of pain?” The question seemed horrible, but he had to keep talking, just to make sense of his staying in step with him.

“Arm’s gone, nothing there to hurt,” he said. “Stump’s still sore, but it’ll heal with time, they tell me.”

“Hell of a bad break for you, man,” said Phil.

“Hell of a bad break for anybody,” he said without remorse. “But at least I lived. If you can call this livin’.”

Phil shook his head. He had no idea what to say in a situation like this one. He opted for changing the subject. “Well, hell,” he said. “I’m glad I caught up with you. I’ve been by your house a few times, but you won’t answer the door, and you got your sister trained to keep out the riff-raff.”

Calvin said nothing and continued to walk.

“There’s a basement in the lodge,” Phil explained, his voice coming out all breathy as he near-trotted to keep up with Cal. “And there’s a wine cellar. And I’ve lived there damned near a year and didn’t know it.”

Calvin’s mouth turned up at the corners and his eyes crinkled, but he still looked straight ahead, walking at the same clipping pace.

“Guess I never thanked you for showing me the ropes about farming and drinking,” Phil said. “Didn’t believe you at first, but you were right. Weekends are fair game, but the weeknights are a bad idea.” He pushed his hair, damp with perspiration, back off his forehead. “Especially when you know the next day’ll be a scorcher.”

“Guess that’s something we all learn in time,” Cal said, still walking but at least slowing down.

“You got that right. So how’s about coming over and sampling some wine?” asked Phil, grasping for anything that would keep Calvin interested.

“Ain’t much of a wine drinker, myself, but if it’s free, I’ll try it.”

That night, Phil took him through the study, then opened the little door. But Calvin didn’t look surprised at all.

“Wanna come down and see? My dad’s got a few nice guns, too.”

Cal cackled. “A few nice guns? What ails you, boy? Your papa’s got one of the finest vintage collections in the state, maybe even the country!”

Cal spoke with an air of respect towards Mr. Foster’s guns, but it still pissed Phil off. How did Cal know about these guns, yet
he
never did? Reverting back to a childhood memory, Phil wondered if Cal had known his birthday puppy, too. After the big show of presenting him with the champion dog, “Sir” had gone back to the farm to be trained by professionals. Once again, had his father deemed him too simple to understand?

Calvin walked down the staircase like he’d been doing it all his life. He caressed random guns, telling stories about each one. His crude illiterate manner gone, he could have been a curator at the Smithsonian.

“This one’s a .36 caliber Remington Navy revolver. Copies of the Remington were the closest thing to a standard sidearm in the Confederate Army. Also an 1860 Colt Army, .44 caliber, the standard sidearm of the Union Army.” Cal stroked the gun and moved on. “This one’s a real beauty; refinished this one himself, just last year. A World War I issue Colt 1911A1 .45 auto.” He continued down the wall.

“This one’s a Thompson Sub-machine Gun, also called a Tommy Gun and chambered in .45 acp. This could be an FBI or a gangster gun used during Prohibition, a WWII issue gun, or a gun owned by security guards fighting labor unions in the 1920s.” There were Hawking rifles, a Brown Bess musket, Kentucky long rifles. “This one’s my favorite: It’s a Mannlicher-Schönauer 6.5 mm mountain rifle. You could kill a grizzly bear with this baby.”

How did Calvin
know
these guns?

“But your daddy’s favorites are these two: The Webley Mark IV and Mark 5. These here was officers’ guns in World War I that his daddy brought back from the war, hidden in a box of silverware.”

Later, Phil couldn’t remember when Cal had left, and he knew he must have drunk three bottles by himself. That night he dreamed of bears and wars and guns, and fathers who treasure beautiful old things.

Not their sons.

Chapter 9: December 1958

Calvin

Calvin went back to see his friends at the barn a few times, but the awkwardness never lessened. There was nothing visible he could do, and the workers seemed to resent his helplessness as much as he envied their labor. He stopped dropping by at all, keeping to himself and staying safely inside until he knew the workers had gone home. Then, establishing his own private ritual, he’d walk the fence lines until near sundown, taking in the daily changes of crops and pasture no longer a part of his life.

One evening, Cal cut his walk short when he saw his old truck parked under the tree out back.
Delores is home early
. He recognized Mr. Foster’s Lincoln Town Car in the front.
What the hell,
he thought as he crossed behind the pumphouse, heading for the backdoor.

Cal didn’t wipe his boots on the rubber-treaded mat but stood silently to the side, peering through one of the three descending rectangular panes in the hollow door. Inside, he could see Mr. Foster, his sister, and a man he didn’t know at the green formica table: Delores fidgeted with her hair and the stranger, who wore a bow tie and looked like Howdy Doody, was taking papers from a briefcase. Mr. Foster was talking in rapid sentences, and Cal could only make out some of the words.

“Medical bills,” Cal heard him say, “and rehabilitation.” There were sentences between that he seemed to mumble. Cal’s stomach lurched, and he wondered if he needed another pill.

“Settlement,” was the next decipherable word, with Mr. Bow Tie chiming in something else.

Delores nodded her head like a plastic dog in the back of a car window. Cal felt a wave of nausea and a sharp pain in what used to be his arm. He couldn’t be sure if he was sick or just pissed, but either way, he wanted to puke or hit something.

Foster’s voice grew louder. Cal heard, “Farming’s no place for—” and then “fair to everyone.”

“But he wants to work,” Dolores said. “Getting that hook—”

“You agreed, Delores,” said Foster. He mumbled some more, putting his hand on Delores’s shoulder. “It’s what’s best for Calvin,” he said. The two were looking face to face.

Cal couldn’t hear the next words, but he’d heard enough. He gritted his teeth and swallowed bile, then shoved open the door with his single, still-strong arm.

“How ’bout it, Sis?” he growled, sucking in air and feeling his veins bulge. “What the hell is best for me now?”

The two conspirators looked up in shock, Mr. Foster recovering much quicker than Cal’s sister, who remained frozen. “Have a seat, son.” Foster stood, making a grand sweeping gesture towards Cal’s knobby green couch. Cal continued to stand.

“A little present for you.” Mr. Foster set out a hundred dollar bottle of Scotch—Cal could see the price tag. He ignored Foster’s suggestion and joined them, standing behind the fourth chair at the table. “Sit down with us,” Foster said, pulling the chair out. “We’ve done the research and spent a lot of time thinking about you, son,” he said.

Howdy Doody spread papers on the table. “Of course,” Mr. Foster continued. “We’ll still take care of your medical bills up through your rehabilitation.” Cal thought how out of place the man looked there, his silver hair parted perfectly, and his gold cufflinks glinting in the light. “But I know you’re probably tired of hanging around here and having nothing to do.” He spoke quickly as though beating someone to the punch line. Next to him, Howdy Doody ruffled through the briefcase. “And there’s no reason you should have to. So if you agree to this settlement, we can get things squared away and you can be on your own in no time.”

Howdy Doody passed Cal a pile of papers. Cal took the papers and looked at Mr. Foster. “I’m losing my job?” he asked. “I mean, I know I can’t do what I used to do, but the doctors say after I get the hook I’ll be able to earn an honest wage.” He could hear a slight panic rising in his voice, and he tried to fight it back. “If it’s about you still paying me now, you don’t have to, I don’t see why you still do. Delores makes enough to pay our light and telephone bills, buy a few groceries. If you could just let us stay on here ’til I get the hook and go back to work—”

Mr. Foster spoke quietly, calmly. “No one expects you to go back to work. And your sister will not have to take care of you, either. The settlement is, we believe, fair to everyone.”

“But I’ve gotta get back to work sometime, and as soon as they fit me for that hook—”

“Working on a farm is no longer a wise choice for you,” said Howdy Doody. He glanced nervously at Mr. Foster, who was nodding in agreement.

“Definitely not a wise choice,” Mr. Foster said. “And Robert here has read up on the many reasons for this. Tell him, Robert.”

“Certainly.” Robert began a lengthy speech that sounded rehearsed or read off cue cards on the ceiling. He spoke through his nose in a twang that made Cal want to beat him.

“Research shows that farm environment is not a safe place for workers with prosthetic devices, which can become entangled with crops, livestock and equipment at an alarming rate. Amputees must deal with a loss of balance, additional stress on remaining limbs, the possibility of using the non-affected limb to break a fall or perform a task. Many workers forget their impairments in the heat of the moment, causing hazardous conditions to themselves and those around them. And remember, farm work is not without hazard to even healthy workers.”

Robert smoothed his lapels and folded his hands on his lap as though he’d just been given a gold star in class.

“Frostbite—tell him about the frostbite,” Mr. Foster said.

“Yes,” Robert continued, licking his lips. “A very unfortunate circumstance for amputees is the delicacy of the remaining tissue near the amputation site. Scar tissue changes the surface area as well as severed parts within the site. And areas with nerve damage are extremely susceptible to frostbite.”

The word “frostbite” hung in midair like a sudden cold front. Cal wondered how many south Georgians had ever suffered from frostbite.

“So you see, Cal, it’s with your best interests at heart that we want to get this settlement in place. To take care of you, and let you get on with your life,” Foster said.

Cal could feel the heat in his face as his pulse rose and his stomach turned to butter. “So I’m getting fired.” His jaw was tight, he was trying to talk around it. “But you’re calling it a settlement, and you say you have my best interests at heart. And what is this life I’m supposed to get on with? I don’t have an arm, and now I won’t have a job or a place to stay. This is my new
life
?”

Foster leaned forward. “No, son, a settlement is a lump sum of money given to compensate for your lost wages and lost quality of life. Our lawyers, insurance adjusters and rehabilitation experts have put together a plan that should keep you comfortable, even set you up in a new career, and help you in the coming years. At no expense to you or your family.”

Cal reached for the Percodan bottle on the table and shook two out. They watched him. The lawyer cleared his throat. Calvin stuck the pills in his mouth and swallowed them without water.

“Mr. Foster’s been out of his mind worrying about you, wondering what he could do to help. That’s when I realized I had the answer you both needed,” the lawyer said.

Cal stared at him, waiting for some logic to enter the picture.

“My father was a victim in the polio outbreak, but was rehabilitated through our nation’s most state-of-the-art treatment program.” He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses.

I don’t have polio, Cal wanted to tell him.
So what in hell does this have to do with me?
“Do you mind if I get up and get something to drink?” he asked Foster.

“I was waiting to toast signing the settlement, but would you like a little preview taste of this?” Foster asked, lifting up the bottle of Glenlivet.

“Sure,” nodded Cal. Foster stood up. In his peripheral vision, Cal saw him go to the kitchen and take a jelly glass from the cupboard.

“The Warm Springs Institute was founded in the twenties by President Franklin Roosevelt,” the lawyer read. “Our mission,” he put the glasses on and read from a shiny pamphlet, “is to empower individuals with disabilities to achieve personal independence.” He grinned. “Sounds good, doesn’t it, Mr. Mullinax?”

Calvin stared at him. The old man cleared his throat and unfolded his treatise.

“With five decades as a comprehensive rehabilitation center dedicated to service,” he read, “the institute offers technological advancement, program diversity, research opportunities, continuing education and future
development on behalf of persons with disabilities.”

Mr. Foster came back and stood by the table with the jelly jar in one hand and the Glenlivet in the other, smiling like Calvin had won the lottery. Or gotten his arm back.

The old man read on, as though milking his moment in the spotlight. “The history of the Roosevelt Warm Springs Institute for Rehabilitation predates FDR, to the Native Americans who first utilized the healing properties of the warm springs, to the pre–Civil War and later Victorian resort era of the late 1800s.” His pace exhilarated, with radio announcer-like emphasis on “Native American” and “healing.”

Calvin opened the pill bottle and swallowed another Percodan. The old man glanced up and then continued to read.

“However,” he said with a lilt of legalese. “It was FDR who clearly made the greatest impact. He made forty-one visits here, and was the driving force for polio research and rehabilitation in general; and it was during that time FDR initiated The March of Dimes.”

The March of Dimes
, thought Cal.
So now I’m on considered equal with birth defective babies.
He listened as the geriatric speaker finished.

“Since his passing in 1945, the Roosevelt Warm Springs Institute for Rehabilitation has continued his living legacy, and is now a National Historic Landmark.” He took off his glasses and crossed his arms. His sagging eye sockets were red, and he appeared short of breath.

“Do you understand the impact of this, son?” Foster squatted beside him and passed him the jelly jar of Glenlivet. “This is an amazing opportunity, right here in our state. And they’ll take you for three months, six months, up to two years. Long enough to teach you a trade and make you fully independent.”

Until that moment, Cal had believed he
was
independent. Now they were saying he’d be able to go to school—not agricultural college, not real college, but a place for defectives. He could learn a trade and become independent. And they thought he should be excited
about it.

“So I have to leave here?” Cal asked. “What about my sister? You’re kicking her out, I guess. She’s gotta find a place to live.”

“No one’s kicking anyone out, son.” Foster stood, flicked his arm, looked at his watch and then back at Cal. “You two can stay here as long as you need to, though I’m sure you’ll want to find a nicer place. With the resources from the settlement, you might buy a place of your own. No sense having to live as tenants. There’ll be plenty of means for taking care of your sister while you’re away.”

Cal drained his jelly glass in one swift swallow. “Okay,” he said as he set the glass down. He wanted to refill it but decided he’d wait until they were gone. “Tell me about the goddamn settlement.” He lifted his remaining hand to indicate quotation marks, then dropped it quickly in confusion and embarrassment.

The attorney took over the conversation, appearing perfunctory, business-like and efficient. “The settlement my client offers is one of great forethought and generosity.” He smiled at Foster, who nodded. “In addition to the substantial medical bills not covered by insurance and worker’s compensation which have already
been paid, Mr. Foster’s settlement will pay all costs for the fitting and care of your first prosthetic device, including but not limited to doctor’s visits, orthopedic rehabilitation, and a complete evaluation, career assessment, and daily independent living skills inventory at an accredited institute for the disabled.”

Cal remained silent while bewildered, overwhelmed, and more chemically altered with each breath.

“Upon signing and acceptance of this agreement, you will also be compensated by the one-time lump sum of $25,000,” the lawyer finished.

Cal started to stand, then sat down again, dizzy. No one in the Mullinax family had ever seen $25,000 at one time. The bank had sold their eighty acre farm for less than that. He could buy his own place, a decent place for him and Delores. He could buy a truck he was capable of driving, put the rest back for when he could really work again.

He could work once he was fitted with the hook. He’d seen other men work. It wasn’t like his life was over. Even without sharecropping, he could follow his dream, own a little piece of land for himself. To hell with Oakland. If they didn’t want him working there, so be it, but they’d have to buy him off. And this was a pretty good offer. Mr. Foster was a fool.

“Sound like something you’d be interested in?” asked Cal’s former boss.

“Reckon so,” he answered, slurring slightly but trying to sound nonchalant.

“Sign here,” said the lawyer, laying out groups of papers in pristine stacks.

Foster lifted up the Glenlivet.

It was the first time Cal had signed with his left hand.

He was fitted with a steel hook prosthesis the following week. A leather strap wound around the shoulder of his good arm, somewhat like a policeman’s shoulder holster. The stiff leather chapped his skin like a pair of new shoes, but he soon grew accustomed to the annoyance. Prosthetic specialists at the Easter Seal Center gave him a booklet of simple instructions on how to wiggle his shoulders for operating the hook, then made him an appointment for therapy. The Warm Springs Institute expected him to be proficient with his appliance before entering for evaluation and training. Cal figured out the hook at home and never returned for his designated appointment.

Delores and Cal moved into Nolan’s ancient and singular apartment house. At Christmas, he presented his sister with a book of samples—paint colors, linoleum, options for bathroom tile and such from the Jim Walter Home Corporation. Cal had paid, in cash, for an acre lot on the Flint River and had contracted for his house to be built there. He had chosen a popular two-bedroom bungalow on stilts, a wide deck to overlook the river. Delores was not wild about living twelve feet above the earth, but she seemed to soften up when given the chance to decorate. Like Calvin, Delores had never really had anything new, and the experience was exhilarating. At the start of the new year, Cal would leave for the Institute, and she would stay, continue to work at the factory, and supervise the details of Cal’s new house. If all went well, it would be finished and waiting for him when he came home.

Cal drove himself to the Institute on January 8th, Delores riding shotgun to take his new truck back home. Personal vehicles were not allowed on campus. He climbed out of the truck with his single suitcase at the scenic Little White House where Roosevelt had stayed, now a historical museum. When his sister started to follow, he held up his hand in protest.

“No, Sis,” he said. “I need to do this alone.”

“It’s a museum, Cal. What’s wrong with me going inside?”