Cool Hand Luke (14 page)

And I knew that Carr's answer was for all of us, booming out in the Building and into the night, out among the fences, the guns and the stars—eeeaaahhh!

12

AND THAT'S WHAT THOSE OTHER VOICES seemed to be saying today in the church yard as we had our beans. They were singing their gospel hymns with a grating energy, a song that expressed as much despair as it did of hope and put off the whole question of salvation, confining themselves solely to matters of style.

While they were singing Dragline was still telling the story to the Bull Gang. A group of men lay on their sides and on their bellies, their heads all pointing towards
him, the spokes of a fabled wheel that spun backwards through time and space. Drag muttered and whispered, glancing every so often at Boss Godfrey who lay on the tarp without moving, his Walking Stick at his side, his glasses reflecting the pale gray and blue of the clouds and the sky.

Ah'm tellin‘ yo'll now. That crazy Luke son of a bitch jes couldn't be beat. No how. He could work the hardest, eat the mostest, tell the biggest lies and sing the dirtiest songs. And fart? Man, it was like somethin' done crawled up his ass and died. When he farted he made your eyes water and your teeth rot. The grass didn't grow again for fifteen years at the place where he let go. These other guys, they couldn't never keep up with old Luke. All but me. Ah jes said, “Sing it to me, sweet lips. Ah hear yuh talkin‘.” On account of he was mah boy. Mah ass-hole buddy.

I listened to what Drag was saying as I filled my pipe again and lit it, reaching down to scratch the red bug bites on my ankle. Again I shut my eyes. Stupid Blondie was no longer sharpening yo-yos but the traffic roared by on the road as always. And the music continued; the piano, the trumpet and the banjo. Yes. There was no doubt about it. Somewhere inside someone was playing a banjo. Just like the one that Luke always played.

His mother brought it with her when she came down to visit him one Sunday with his brother and his brother's eight-year-old son. They had written him in advance that they were coming, starting out before dawn
and scheduling their three hundred mile trip so they would arrive just before visiting time at noon.

Luke was nervous Sunday morning. He hadn't seen his mother since he left Alabama several years before. She didn't even know about his being in trouble until after he had been sent to Raiford and then transferred to The Hard Road, when he finally wrote a letter home. So Luke paced the floor, his face shaven, his hair combed, his clean clothes for the week pulled and rubbed in an attempt to get some of the wash wrinkles out.

A group of men idled on the front porch, sitting or standing, motionless, looking out over the fence at the clay road and the orange groves, the clump of small live oak trees in front of the Captain's Office with the picnic table and the chairs set out in the shade underneath. It was hot and only the slightest breeze stirred the Spanish moss hanging in the live oaks. Boss Godfrey was the Walking Boss in charge of the Visitor's Park that weekend. Boss Smith sat in a chair about twenty feet away, his legs crossed, his hands discreetly folded over the pistol laying in his lap.

A new car came up the road, a well dressed woman getting out as the trustee opened the door for her and helped her take out the sack of groceries. The trustee brought the sack over to Boss Godfrey who casually poked around inside and then waved it away. Walking over to the gate, Boss Godfrey called out,

Steve!

But Loudmouth Steve was inside the Building lying
down on his bunk and reading a comic book. The loiterers on the porch raised up a cry,

Hey Steve! Come on out! Your mother's here!

Quietly some of them swore to themselves,

Damn punk. Gets a visit every week and don't even care. Wish I had somebody out in the Free World to bring me stuff like he gets. Spoiled little prick. That's all he is.

Then Loudmouth Steve came out, pouting as he swaggered down the sidewalk, calling out to Boss Kean sitting on the gun platform at the corner of the fence,

Comin‘ out here, Boss.

Yeah, Steve. Come on out.

Boss Godfrey opened the gate and shut it behind him as Steve walked across the grass towards his mother, turning his face and offering his cheek as she advanced to kiss him. They sat down at the picnic table, Boss Godfrey sitting backwards on a chair about six feet away, his arms folded on top of the back rest.

A little later Curly's wife and two kids drove up from Orlando where she had had a job and had rented a house for the previous three years in order to be near the same place Curly was. Then the parents of Little Greek arrived from Tarpon Springs. But it was another half hour before a late model pickup truck came up the road covered with mud and with dust of several colors. It stopped beside the other cars and then a boy and an old woman got out on one side and a man on the other side who went over and spoke to Boss Godfrey.

Luke waited on the porch until he was called and
then marched down the sidewalk swiftly, his shoulders back and his head erect. His mother stood waiting, a thin woman in a plain cotton dress, her hair iron gray and swept up in a bun, her shoulders gaunt and stooped. Luke's brother came forward, grinning, shaking his hand and leading him over to their mother. Then he stood aside waiting as they embraced each other. The old woman tried not to cry but couldn't stop the flow of tears. Luke held her and patted her on the back until she could control herself and then the whole family moved to the table.

Inside the Building the radios were going full blast. Preacher had turned on some church hymns. Ears had turned on some jazz to drown him out. Others went back to their poker games and wallet making. But the rest of us stood on the porch and sat on the steps, smoking and watching and remembering how things used to be. Or better yet, as things should have been. With great interest we watched the picnic lunches being opened, the tidbits offered back and forth. We knew perfectly well that there wasn't a word being said about a man's Time, his guilt, his regrets or his felony. Except for the question of parole only the most ordinary kind of gossip was discussed. But we were fifty feet away and had to watch the melodrama of the afternoon as a silent pantomime. Except that later we heard about everything that had been said at Luke's part of the table, getting it practically word for word from Loudmouth Steve who sat next to them with his mother.

 

Luke ate the lunch his mother had brought along in a basket but he ate very slowly and with a sense of decorum.
His young nephew sat beside his father twisting and craning his neck to see all he could of the guns and the stripes and the fences. Turning his head he looked directly into the eyes of Boss Godfrey who sat just behind them. Abruptly the boy turned his head back to the family.

Luke's brother tried to be cheerful, telling stories of the neighbors back home and telling a couple of the latest jokes he had picked up. Then he snuffled his nose and picked at his teeth with his thumb nail.

I saw Helen the other day.

Luke looked down at his plate, took a strong bite out of the piece of chicken he was holding and said nothing.

She's got a fine lookin‘ young'un. A boy.

Luke said nothing. His brother said nothing. Struggling to find another subject he turned his head to look around. Then he saw Boss Godfrey sitting behind them, his old black hat pulled down low over his forehead, his eyes covered with the mirrored sunglasses, a cigar in his mouth, his arms folded motionlessly over the back of the chair.

His brother looked back at Luke, at his mother and then down at the ground.

She says to say, Howdy.

Again Luke took a bite out of his chicken.

Luke's brother was wearing a suit, a white shirt and a tie. His hair was shiny with vaseline and plastered down smooth over his head. And even from the porch I could see that he was a farmer, as clearly as if he had been wearing
overalls, brogans and a ragged old hat. You could see it in his hands, the weather-beaten complexion of his face, the awkward movements of his body. Jackson's people were mountain people from that extreme northeast corner of Alabama which lies adjacent to Tennessee and Georgia, at the very end of the Appalachian Range. They were coal miners, timber cutters and livestock raisers who had always struggled without much luck to make a living out of a hard, tough country.

And I could see from there that Luke's mother was the strong, enduring breed of woman that you find in those mountains. She was getting old and she was tired but she still had that expression of determination, of suffering long ago accepted without question.

Steve told us about it a few days later when Luke wasn't around. Mrs. Jackson had been quiet, making sure that Luke got enough to eat but otherwise not saying much, just looking at him, ignoring the prison sights and sounds around her, ignoring Boss Godfrey's eavesdropping and the pistol guard sitting nearby.

It's been a long time, Lloyd.

Yes maw, said Luke.

About three years now, ain't it? Since the war was all done with?

I reckon it is.

Still drinkin‘ like you were?

Aw, come on now, maw, interrupted Luke's brother. You know Lloyd ain't allowed no liquor in—while —he's got to stay here.

I don't mean that. He knows what I mean.

Yes maw. I know what you mean.

Have you been gettin‘ any religion? I asked you once. Before you went into the army. Please Lloyd. Wherever you are and whatever you're doin', take a little time out once in a while for the Lord. Give him just a few minutes of your time.

Luke said nothing. He reached for a piece of huckleberry pie and picked up a fork. But he stopped himself.

Maw. You know—maw—

They just looked at each other. Then Luke turned his eyes away.

Lloyd. I know how you feel. But I do wish you could forget about your paw. That was a long time ago. You were only a little boy.

Luke didn't answer.

He couldn't help what he done. If I can find it in my heart to forgive him, why can't you?

Luke turned his head to the other side.

Lloyd. He couldn't help it.

He couldn't? He was a preacher, wasn't he?

Yes. But he was flesh and blood too.

He was, huh? But didn't he decide to call himself a man of the cloth? Didn't he teach the Good Word? Folks ain't supposed to steal? Ain't supposed to kill and lie and sin? Gotta work real hard and go to church and have lots of faith? Can't even drink or dance or play music? Just off. That's all. I guess he's still spreadin‘ the Faith somewhere's
ain't he? Among the poor innocent heathen, most likely.

Lloyd. Please.

I'm sorry, maw. I wish you hadn't mentioned it. You know I always get riled up.

The rest of the time was spent in idle talk. Some of the visitors in the park had nothing more to say at all. Curly played with his kids. The Greek just fidgeted, his parents holding hands and staring off to nowhere. Steve was anxious to get away and come back inside so he could peddle some of the groceries his mother brought him and get into the poker game. Boss Godfrey stood up and looked at his watch. Without his saying anything, everyone knew. It was already time, the two hours were over. Last minute greetings and assurances and instructions and questions were exchanged. People kissed each other, kids were called, men shook hands.

Suddenly Luke's brother called his son and rushed over to the pickup truck, returning with a cardboard box full of Mason jars of preserved fruit and vegetables. The boy followed behind his father, grinning, holding out in his arms an old, scarred, scratched and beat-up banjo. Luke took it from him, holding it out at arm's length to examine it with smiling wonder.

There were the farewells, the last kisses and tears. The convicts gathered in front of the gate, clutching their parcels and sacks with one arm and waving with the other; short, embarrassed gestures, crippled by shyness and regret
and pain. On the other side of the lawn the visitors began to get into their cars, turning to wave and blow kisses, the kids screaming out their goodbyes.

Boss Godfrey walked over and opened the gate. The men came inside the yard and stood on the porch as the cars drove off down the clay road in single file, a horn blowing, arms sticking out of every window and waving. One or two of the convicts made unconvincing waves, knowing they could no longer be recognized in the crowd of men standing on the porch dressed in the same gray prison clothes. Then they turned and went inside the Building to go to their bunks and inspect their packages. The rest of us stayed outside, trying hard to swallow down the lumps in our throats while pretending to be thinking of nothing at all.

After we recovered we went inside the Building to gather around Luke's bunk. Again we knew that something great was going to happen. There was a silent hush as we crowded around. Luke sat on the floor crosslegged, his back to the wall. At first he just stared at the banjo in his lap, rubbing his hands over it, stroking its parts. In a low voice he began to mumble.

Hell, I ain't played this thing since the day I got out of the army. Back in nineteen forty-five. Fort McPherson Georgia. Yeah, man. Took it home with me and put it up. Left it there when I took off and landed in Tampa. Never thought my kin folks would bring it down with ‘em. Well, hell. Got lots of time. Might just as well play it a little while.

As it happened, Koko fancied himself as a guitar player, occasionally strumming out a few awkward chords on a beat-up guitar that he had bought for three dollars, an alligator wallet and twenty-four haircuts on the cuff from a man who was going home.

Then Dragline ran outside to fumble through his locker for the rusty harmonica he had found in a ditch one day, coming back into the Building already huffing and puffing on it, his toothless gums and lips wrapped around it within the cup of his hands. Luke slowly ran his fingers over the strings, turning the pegs, the strings answering his touch with the strident yawps of chaos but then gradually allowing themselves to sweeten.