Boy's Life (46 page)

     Her brows lifted, ever so slightly. “Is that a fact?”

     “
Cory!
” Dad scolded. “Don’t make up such things!”

     “Seems to me,” the Lady said, “a boy’s bicycle needs to see where it’s goin’. Needs to see whether there’s a clear road or trouble ahead. Seems to me a boy’s bicycle needs some horse in it, and some deer, and maybe even a touch of
rep
-tile. For cleverness, don’t you know?”

     “Yes ma’am,” I agreed. She knew Rocket, all right.

     “That was kind of you to give Cory a bike,” Dad said to her. “I’m not one to accept charity, but—”

     “Oh, it wasn’t charity, Mr. Mackenson. It was repayment for a good deed. Mrs. Mackenson, is there anythin’ at your house that Mr. Lightfoot needs to fix?”

     “No, I think everythin’s workin’ just fine.”

     “Well,” she said, and she stared at my father. “You never know when things are likely to suffer a breakdown.”

     “It was good to see you, Mrs… uh… Lady.” Dad took my mother’s elbow. “We’d better be gettin’ on home now.”

     “Mr. Mackenson, we have some matters to discuss,” the Lady said as we all started moving away. “I believe you understand when I say they’re matters of life and death?”

     Dad stopped. I saw a muscle in his jaw work. He didn’t want to turn back to her, but she was pulling at him. Maybe he felt her life force—her raw, primal power—heat up a notch, just as I did. He seemed to want to take another step away from her, but he just couldn’t do it.

     “Do you believe in Jesus Christ, Mr. Mackenson?” the Lady asked.

     This question broke through his final barricade. He turned around to face her. “Yes, I do,” he said solemnly.

     “As do I. Jesus Christ was as perfect as a human bein’ can be, yet he got mad and fought and wept and had days of feelin’ like he couldn’t go on another step. Like when the lepers and the sick folks almost trampled him down, all of ’em beggin’ for miracles and doggin’ him till he was about miracled out. What I’m sayin’, Mr. Mackenson, is that even Jesus Christ needed help sometimes, and he wasn’t too proud to ask for it.”

     “I don’t need…” He let it go.

     “You see,” the Lady said, “I believe everybody has visions, now and again. I believe it’s part of the human animal. We have these visions—these little snippets of the big quilt—but we can’t figure out where they fit, or why. Most times they come in dreams, when you’re sleepin’. Sometimes you can dream awake. Just about everybody has ’em, only they can’t fathom the meanin’. See?”

     “No,” Dad said.

     “Oh yes, you do.” She raised a reedy finger. “Folks get all wrapped up in the sticky tape of this world, makes ’em blind, deaf, and dumb to what’s goin’ on in the other one.”

     “The other one? Other what?”

     “The other world across the river,” she answered. “Where that man at the bottom of Saxon’s Lake is callin’ to you from.”

     “I don’t want to hear any more of this.” But he didn’t move.

     “Callin’ you,” she repeated. “I’m hearin’ him, too, and he’s wreckin’ my damn sleep, and I’m an old woman who needs some peace.” She took a step closer to my father, and her eyes had him. “That man needs to tell who killed him before he can pass on. Oh, he’s tryin’, he’s tryin’ mighty hard, but he can’t give us a name or a face. All he can give us are those little snippets of the big quilt. If you were to come see me, and let’s us put our thinkin’ caps on, maybe we could start sewin’ those snippets together. Then you could get a good night’s sleep again, so could I, and he could go on where he belongs. Better still: we could catch us a killer, if there’s a killer here to be caught.”

     “I don’t… believe in… that kind of non—”

     “Believe it or don’t believe it, that’s your choice,” the Lady interrupted. “But when that dead man comes callin’ on you tonight—and he will—you won’t have any choice but to hear him. And my advice to you, Mr. Mackenson, is that you ought to start listenin’.”

     Dad started to say something; his mouth opened, but his tongue couldn’t jimmy the words out.

     “Excuse me,” I said to the Lady. “I wanted to ask you… if you’ve been… like… havin’ any other dreams.”

     “Oh, most all the time,” she said. “Trouble is, at my age, most all my dreams are reruns.”

     “Well… I was wonderin’ if… you’ve been havin’ any dreams about four girls.”

     “Four girls?” she asked.

     “Yes ma’am. Four girls. You know. Dark, like you. And they’re all dressed up, like it’s a Sunday.”

     “No,” she said. “I can’t say that I have.”

     “I dream about ’em a lot. Not every night, but a lot. What do you suppose it means?”

     “Snippet of a quilt,” she said. “Could be somethin’ you already know, but you don’t know you know.”

     “Ma’am?”

     “Might not be spirits talkin’,” she explained. “Might just be your ownself, tryin’ to figure somethin’ out.”

     “Oh,” I said. This must be why the Lady was picking up Dad’s dreams but not mine; mine were not the ghosts of the past, but a shadow of the future.

     “You’ll have to come over to Bruton and see our new museum when it’s done,” the Lady said to Mom. “We’ve raised money to start buildin’ onto the recreation center. Should be finished in a couple of months. Gonna have a nice exhibition room.”

     “I’ve heard about it,” Mom said. “Good luck.”

     “Thank you. Well, I’ll let you know when the openin’ ceremony’s gonna be. Remember what I’ve told you, Mr. Mackenson.” She offered her violet-gloved hand, and my father took it. He might be fearful of the Lady, but he was first and foremost a gentleman. “You know where I live.”

     The Lady rejoined her husband and Mr. Damaronde, then they walked out into the warm, still night. We went out soon after them, and we saw them drive away in not the rhinestone Pontiac but a plain blue Chevrolet. The last of the attendees were talking on the sidewalk, and they took the time to tell me again how much they’d enjoyed my reading. “Keep up the good work!” Mr. Dollar said, and then I heard him brag to another man, “You know, I cut his hair. Yessir, I’ve been cuttin’ that boy’s hair for years!”

     We drove home. I kept my plaque on my lap, clenched with both hands. “Mom?” I asked. “What kind of museum’s gonna be in Bruton? They gonna have dinosaur bones and stuff?”

     “Nope,” my father told me. “It’s gonna be a civil rights exhibit. I guess they’ll have letters and papers and pictures, that kind of thing.”

     “Slave artifacts is what I hear,” Mom said. “Like leg chains and brandin’ irons, would be my guess. Lizbeth Sears told me she heard the Lady sold that big Pontiac and donated the money toward the buildin’ costs.”

     “I’ll bet whoever burned that cross in her front yard isn’t exactly whistlin’ ‘Dixie’ about this,” Dad observed. “The Klan’ll have somethin’ to say, that’s for sure.”

     “I think it’s a good thing,” Mom said. “I think they need to know where they’ve been to know where they’re goin’.”

     “Yeah, I know where the Klan wishes they’d go, too.” Dad slowed down and turned the pickup truck onto Hilltop Street. I caught a glimpse of the Thaxter mansion through the trees, its windows streaming with light. “She had a hard grip,” Dad said, almost to himself. “The Lady, I mean.” We knew who he was talking about. “Had a hard grip. And it was like she was lookin’ right into me, and I couldn’t stop her from seein’ things that—” He seemed to realize we were still there, and he abruptly canceled that line of thought.

     “I’ll go with you,” Mom offered, “if you want to go see her. I’ll stay right by your side the whole time. She wants to help you. I wish you’d let her.”

     He was silent. We were nearing the house. “I’ll think about it,” he said, which was his way of saying he didn’t want to hear any more talk about the Lady.

     Dad might know where the Lady lived, and he might need her help to exorcise the spirit that called to him from the bottom of Saxon’s Lake, but he wasn’t ready yet. Whether he was ever going to be ready or not, I didn’t know. It was up to him to take the first step, and nobody could make him do it. I had to concern myself with other problems for now: the dream of the four black girls, the Demon’s crush on me, how I was going to survive Leatherlungs, and what I was going to write about next.

     And the green feather. Always the green feather, its unanswered questions taunting me from one of the seven mystic drawers.

     That night, Dad hung the plaque on a wall in my room for me, right over the magic box. It looked nice, up there between the pictures of a large fellow with bolts in his neck and a dark-caped individual with prominent teeth.

     I had been charged with power and tasted life tonight. I had taken my own first step, however awkward, to wherever I was going. This feeling of sheer exhilaration might fade, might wane under the weight of days and dimmish in the river of time; but on this night, this wonderful never-to-be-again night, it was alive.

3
Dinner with Vernon

TO SAY THE DEMON PESTERED ME IN THE FOLLOWING DAYS ABOUT coming to her birthday party is like saying a cat has a fondness for the company of mice. Between the Demon’s insistent whispering and Leatherlungs’ window-shaking bellows, I was a bundle of nerves by Wednesday, and I still couldn’t divide fractions.

     On Wednesday night, just after supper, I was drying the dishes for Mom when I heard Dad say from the chair where he was reading the paper, “Car’s stoppin’ out front. We expectin’ anybody?”

     “Not that I know of,” Mom answered.

     The chair creaked as he stood up. He was going out to the porch. Before he went out the door, he gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Hey, you oughta come take a look at this!” he said, and then he went outside. We couldn’t resist this invitation, of course. And there parked in front of our house was a long, sleek car with a paint job that gleamed like black satin. It had wire wheels and a shiny chrome grille and a windshield that seemed a mile wide. It was the longest and most beautiful car I’d ever seen, and it made our pickup truck look like a crusty old scab. The driver’s door opened and a man in a dark suit got out. He came around the car and stepped onto our lawn, and he said, “Good evening” in an accent that didn’t sound like he was from around here. He came on up the walk, into the porch light’s circle, and we all saw he had white hair and a white mustache and his shoes were as shiny and black as the car’s skin.

     “Can I help you?” Dad asked.

     “Mr. Thomas Mackenson?”

     “Tom. That’s me.”

     “Very good, sir.” He stopped at the foot of the steps. “Mrs. Mackenson.” He nodded at my mother, then he looked at me. “Master Cory?”

     “Uh… I’m Cory, yes sir,” I said.

     “Ah. Excellent.” He smiled, and he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and his hand came out holding an envelope. “If you please?” He offered the envelope to me.

     I looked at Dad. He motioned for me to take it. I did, and the white-haired man waited with his hands clasped behind his back as I opened it. The envelope was sealed with a circle of red wax that had the letter T embossed in it. I slid from the envelope a small white card on which there were several lines of typed words.

     “What’s it say?” Mom leaned over my shoulder.

     I read it aloud. “‘Mr. Vernon Thaxter requests the pleasure of your company at dinner, on Saturday, September 19, 1964, at seven o’clock P.M. Dress optional.’”

     “Casual wear recommended,” the white-haired man clarified.

     “Oh my,” Mom said; her worry-bead words. Her brows came together.

     “Uh… can I ask just who
you
are?” Dad inquired, taking the white card from me and scanning it.

     “My name is Cyril Pritchard, Mr. Mackenson. I am in the employ of the Thaxter household. My wife and I have looked after Mr. Moorwood and young master Vernon for almost eight years.”