Something Rising (Light and Swift) (5 page)

Cassie jumped up and ran past him, grabbing her sandals off the porch as she went. She leaped down the porch steps and landed on some sharp rocks, had to make her way down the driveway to where he'd parked, pulled open his passenger door. It was
hot
inside, it was
shocking
. Jimmy drove a black 1964 Lincoln Continental convertible with suicide doors and black leather interior, and if they were starving to death or would die without penicillin and the only way to save them would be to Sell The Car, then good-bye Cassie, good-bye Belle. This according to Laura. Poppy reluctantly agreed.

A minute passed. Jimmy had undoubtedly gone upstairs to collect his things, and would come sailing out the front door any minute. He favored a dress shirt that allowed room for an entrance, or an exit, in its graceful folds. He sailed out the door. Laura was right behind him, speaking quickly but not loudly, and she threw something but Cassie couldn't see what it was. Conditions were not ideal, Cassie realized this right away.

Jimmy walked down the driveway, his walk a kind of glide, and pulled his door open. “Get out, Cassie,” he said, starting the engine. Boiling air blew from the vents. “Sweet creeping Jesus, it's hot in here.”

Sweat poured down her face and in a stream down her chest.

“Get out, Cassie, right this minute.”

Laura still stood on the porch but she was hard to see behind the screen.

“Right this goddamn minute, Cassie, I'm not playing.”

She turned and looked at him. His long black eyelashes had never worked to his advantage when he was angry, but she could see he really was. Angry.

“GET OUT OF THE CAR.”

Another minute or two and he'd see what her point was.

“
Fine
,” he said, his teeth grinding. He pulled the gearshift into reverse as if he wanted to pull it off the column, then backed out so fast stones flew up and hit the bottom of the car, and obviously this wasn't something Jimmy would wish to happen to the Lincoln. He was beyond himself. His tires screeched against the King's Crossing as he moved the transmission into drive, and then Cassie was thrown against the red leather seat, and the compass bobbing around in liquid on the dashboard swung around, up and down.

“Do you see what you do to me, all of you, every last blasted one of you? You make me
hate my life
, Cassie, how does that feel?” Jimmy slammed the lighter into the dash, flipped a cigarette out of the pack in his breast pocket. “I don't know what I was thinking, picking you out at the zoo. I honestly do not know.”

Cassie rolled down her window, stuck out her head, let the wind fill her mouth and nose. When she leaned back, Jimmy was smoking, driving slowly, listening to his favorite radio station, Frank Sinatra was singing “Fly Me to the Moon.” Jimmy hummed along with him, Jimmy's beautiful voice.

They drove the four miles into Roseville, a town famous for two things: a small candy factory called April and May's, after the unmarried sisters who'd begun it out of their kitchen; and a restaurant, Holzinger's, which boasted a large, expensive buffet. Cassie had been there only once, on her parents' anniversary a few years before, and buffet was probably not the correct word. She and Belle had been stunned into silence when they entered. The restaurant occupied four floors: the first was appetizers, the second was breads, the third was entrées, and the fourth was desserts. Cassie had stopped in the appetizer room—the mountain of cold pink shrimp on ice in the middle of a table, the cold silver platter underneath it beaded with condensation, had made her want to run.

Now they passed the Granger School, which was beautiful and looked as if it might fall down, and then the gas station and a flower shop. The main street was tree-lined and shady.

“High suicide rate in Roseville, you know that, Cass?”

Cassie shook her head.

“Oh yeah. I coulda told anybody who asked, and for free, but they hired an
expert
instead.”

She doubted it would have been for free.

“County coroner—you know him? Robbie Ballenger?—he suggested it to the county council. Read some article about national suicide rates, saw that ours are as high as an Indian reservation. Don't want that, do we.” An old rocking horse and a birdcage were sitting on the sidewalk outside the antique shop. “The Christians are calling for Robbie's resignation. An in-erad-i-cable rule of life, Cassie,” he waved his cigarette at her like a stern finger, “do not piss off the Christians, they will throw their stones at you every time.”

As they approached the center of the downtown there were fewer and fewer businesses, just empty buildings. An evacuation order. Uncle Bud's sat on the corner of Main and Railroad; it had been a drugstore fifteen years before, a low and long building with a green awning along the front windows. The windows were covered with a film that made them look silver from outside: mirrors. Jimmy pulled into one of the three parking spaces facing the back door. Behind them, on the corner of Railroad and Fifth, was a bar called Howdy's. A sign outside advertised fifty-cent Miller drafts and a whole room devoted to darts. Other than Howdy's, everything seemed deserted. A few faded storefronts proclaimed flyby night mechanics, flown, and body shops. Cassie had been here once, sent inside Uncle Bud's to fetch Jimmy when Laura was so mad she couldn't get out of the car for fear her legs would explode. The place had held Cassie in an attraction so powerful she could no longer remember the specifics, only the heart-knocking joy. She felt a shadow of it every time she went past this part of Roseville with Poppy, on the way out to the highway and to the strip of stores at the edge of Hopwood.

Jimmy rolled up the windows, reached into the back for his cue. “You're not to bother me.”

Cassie nodded.

“I've come here to visit my table and get in some time, not to focus on you.”

“Okay.”

“And if Bud comes in, who is as you know an old sumbitch, and says you have to leave, then you're going to have to skedaddle and find something else to do.”

“Okay.”

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. His lips were smooth and hard and cool. “You know you're my favorite, Cassie, although God knows that ain't saying much.” Stepping out of the car, he pulled his shirt away from his chest, fanning himself with it, then looked for the key to the back door.

The door was steel, gunmetal gray, no window. In the back room Jimmy pulled a string, and a bare bulb illuminated the rough wooden shelves covered with boxes of Master chalk, cases of crackers filled with cheese or peanut butter, new balls. On the floor were boxes overflowing with empty beer and soda cans. Against one wall was a line of cues that looked as if they were awaiting surgery. Cassie took a deep breath. This smelled better than anything in her life, better than a Christmas tree, better than the raspberry bush at the edge of the house, tangled with honeysuckle, better than Jimmy's winter coat.

“I'm not going to entertain you, and the rules are the same as when the table was at home, you can't touch it.”

Jimmy used another key to open an ugly green door with a frosted glass panel that seemed to have been stolen from a hard-boiled detective agency. They were in the dim main hall. Bud's
bar still looked as it had, Cassie guessed, when the building was a pharmacy—a long counter with stools, and a mirror behind it with
Rx
painted in vivid blue, a mortar and pestle beside it. On the shelves below the mirror were trays of balls and boxes of chalk, mostly battered, and bags of potato chips clipped to a black metal rack. A single jar held dill pickles in cloudy green brine. There were no draft beers or fountain drinks; everything was lined up squarely in a refrigerator with a glass door.

“And I'm not buying you a soda or chips and have you make a mess in here, so don't ask.”

Cassie's eyes glanced from surface to surface. She'd never been anywhere so clean and precise. Bud used a big old-fashioned cash register: five dollars was the last anyone had paid. On the steel counter next to the cash register was a big rectangular book with a grainy black cover, the word
ACCOUNTS
. The book was centered so precisely on the counter it looked like Bud had used a speed square. A sign on the bar explained that between three and six in the afternoon the tables were a dollar a person per hour, and between six and two in the morning, they were two-fifty. In one corner was a silent jukebox, and other than that just the tables.

“And don't ask for quarters for the jukebox because I didn't bring any.” Jimmy had taken out his cue and was screwing the joint on the butt.

Seven tables, five feet from the wall and five feet apart; a light with a green accountant's shade hung over every table. At each end of the room was a rack with ten house cues. A shelf for drinks and ashtrays ran the length of the room, and there were four tall chairs against the wall and ten stools scattered around the room. Cassie wandered around, not quite touching anything, taking in the smell of chalk, beer, cigarettes, while Jimmy used a third,
smaller key to unlock the door to the glassed-in room at the end of the hall. Inside the glass room was one table, no stool, no chair. Cassie hovered in the doorway,watched him flip the switch to the light that had formerly hung in their garage.

“Ahhhh,” Jimmy said, resting his stick on the toe of his shoe. “There's my best girl.” He spread his arms as if making a gift of the whole room to his daughter. “I ever tell you how I came into possession of this table?”

Cassie nodded, she had heard the story many times.

“It's a vintage Brunswick, this one. Built in 1884, probably in New Orleans; moved with a family to Alabama and eighty years later was back in the Big Easy, where one James Claiborne happened to win it in a game that went on so long God wished me luck and went on to bed.” Jimmy lit a cigarette. He bent and studied the length of the table, looking for wear on the felt. “I hauled it in the back of a borrowed station wagon to the boardinghouse where I was staying—oh, don't worry, it was a Christian boardinghouse for Christian men. The slate, rails, legs, pockets, rack, sticks, and balls, the whole shebang, I reassembled it in an abandoned tobacco warehouse on Tchoupitoulas, the key to which I happened to find upon my person after another difficult game. In an old hotel, that one.
Spooky
.” Jimmy rested his cigarette on the small shelf against the wall, not in the ashtray provided but on the shelf. There was a series of dark stripes in the wood, as if he'd placed burning ash there on a number of occasions. He ran his hand along the shining hardwood of the table's rails. “There was a single missing part, believe it or not, and I found it in a Brunswick repair shop on Frenchmen Street. It's a civilized town, Cassie, that has a Brunswick repair shop. It's long gone, just like old Jimmy Claiborne. I'd bet I'm still talked about, though. If I were a betting man.”

He didn't say the table was walnut, but Cassie knew. The legs were ornately carved and the pockets woven leather. It was four feet by eight feet, the measurement Uncle Bud called True. The slate had been flawless when Jimmy won the table, and remained so; Bud changed the felt, every two years, said felts made of fine wool from somewhere in the Netherlands. Wood spun and dyed by virgins, Jimmy said. Cassie wished he would go on, she wished he would tell the story of the light, too, which she had studied for hours. The glass was deep red and imprinted with black Chinese characters, and red silk fringe hung like liquid from the bottom of the shade. She wanted to hear Jimmy say the words
Colorado
and
mining town
, which she'd long ago written in her notebook.

But he said nothing more. His cigarette sent up a ribbon of smoke against the wall. Cassie watched him rack the balls (they came from Belgium, and he would have no others), knowing she was invisible to him. She watched as she had hour after hour, sitting on a kitchen ladder in the garage. The 1-ball was the yellow of a sunflower; the 2 was the same shade as the Indiana sky on a flawless summer day, Cassie had often had the feeling they had been made for her, or that they represented, at the very least, the possibility of something beautiful. At night sometimes, unable to sleep, she would imagine the balls spread out across the green table under the red glass of the lamp: someone had stepped on a box of paints and let them fly. Ruined paints on new grass.

Jimmy stood at the foot of the table and, using a house cue left propped in a corner, took two practice strokes (never one or three), then sent the cue ball crashing into the gathered tribe. All fifteen balls careened around the table, and the 4 and the 13 fell. He was practicing straight pool, even though he'd been saying for
years that the days of the great straight players were over, and that the money was now on 8-ball for hustlers and 9-ball for professionals. Cassie didn't know which he was. Jimmy moved around the table quickly, as if on a preordained path. When the table had been at their house, all those years, she had watched Uncle Bud and many other men play against Jimmy, and she knew her father had a strange and specific style related to his restless grace; he bent at the knees instead of at the waist and didn't sight down the cue as if down the barrel of a gun. In deep concentration, he made his bottom lip so thin it vanished. She never would have told him or anyone, but she had missed this table fiercely, and even after spending her whole life with a man to whom objects gravitated and then were lost—things that came and went like the stray men Jimmy invited to dinner and a game, who would never be seen again—she had not understood what had happened, how the table went missing and ended up here at Bud's.

She had been standing in one spot, watching her father, for so long that when she heard another key rattle in the ugly green door, she awoke as if from a dream. Uncle Bud stepped in, gently closing the door behind him. As he passed the glass room where Jimmy played, Bud barely gave him a glance, and there wasn't the comfort of old friendship in the look, either; Jimmy rarely earned such a thing. Uncle Bud had been Jimmy's childhood companion, they had a long history. And there were a few dark moments in the past two dark years when Bud had stepped into their house in Laura's name, had roughly set things right.