The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter (83 page)

Randall has to do some major sifting through his mind files before he comes up with it: his high school “fan” from the voter registration yesterday. The one who was so impressed with Randall's little performance at the school anti-integration back in September, the one who remembered Randall was the eighth-grade valedictorian, remembered Randall on the eighth-grade debate team. And still excited about it. These would be the kind of friends Randall attracts.

“Okay?”

“Listen. I don't mean to be in your business but I heard about you losin your job. That's a goddamn shame.”

Randall imagines himself undressing unconscious Erma and carrying her naked body into a tub half full of water. How long would it take for her to naturally slip under, or would she need some help? Twenty minutes below the surface would certainly bring clarity to the present ambiguity of her existence.

“Hel
lo?
”

“Hi.”

“Listen. I'm a manager out at Oldham's. You know, hardware.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We needin some help with the inventory in the immediate. Whaddya say?”

Randall's mouth falls open. For a dazed moment he pulls the receiver from his ear, staring at it as if it were playing a cruel trick on him.

“You offerin me a
job?
”

“Temporary for sure. But my boss come to like ya, good chance it go permanent.”

He holds his breath. Luck? For
him?
“Oh. Oh I gotta tell ya, I been goin through a little bit of a bad time, this the firs kind thing I heard in days!”

“Happy to oblige! Toldja, you're my hero, Randall. Listen, I get off at three today. Might I take you out for a drink after?”

**

Eliot creeps to the Coatses' in the bright sun. They will have gone to work but no one around here locks doors. As he gets closer, a flood from the earlier monsoon materializes, in some places water halfway up his tires. His windows are open in the post-storm humidity so he hears, “Welcome to The Bowl.”

A young neighbor woman smiling at him as she hangs her laundry. Her property is on a slight incline, so while her bare feet squish in the mud, she is otherwise protected from the newly formed pond.

“The dip out here. Floods practically every rain. You that voter registration lawyer, right?”

“One of them.”

“I thought yaw went back North this mornin.”

“Well.” He tells her about Roy's death, and her smile fades. He'd stopped by Rosie's but no one was home.

“Hunter's on Clark Street.” She sighs. “Only colored funerals in the county.”

The office at Hunter's Funeral Home is just off the entrance parlor, so as soon as Eliot walks in, Beau and Rosie, seated and talking to the funeral director, see him.

“Got stuck in the rain?” Beau asks. Eliot nods. “I wondered.”

“Well come on in,” says Rosie. “We pickin out the casket. Maybe you got some thoughts.”

It has only been seventeen days since he sat in their place next to Dwight making arrangements for his mother. Eliot is willing to offer any help he can, unhappily feeling experienced. But the elderly Negro director seems honest, and Rosie and Beau old hands at dealing with the loss of loved ones.

Eliot is not sure how word got around already, but by the time they walk through Rosie's door at two, several sympathy plates have been left on the kitchen table: baked chicken, pigs' feet, potato salad. Knowing she's about to become inundated with visitors, Rosie begins tidying up, accepting brother Beau's offer of assistance but refusing guest Eliot's. The younger gazes at the photographs on the living room wall, his eyes resting on one in particular—Roy in his sergeant's uniform, about as high a rank as a Negro could get. Eliot calculates that Roy's service was somewhere between the world wars. The U.S. occupation of Haiti? of the Dominican Republic? of Nicaragua? Or were his amputations some home-front mishap like his childhood friend Jeanine's uncle Ramonlee?

“Handsome, wa'n't he?” Eliot turns to see Rosie smiling beside him, her shining eyes on the portrait. Though it's only head and shoulders, the image gives the impression of a large, commanding presence tempered by forbearance.

People start coming around three. Eliot is just about to call the Coatses to let them know what's going on when the family walks through the door. After they pay their respects to Rosie and Beau, Martha walks up to him.

“Looks like we get our houseguest back sooner n we thought.”

“If you don't mind.”

“
Mind?
The ride over Leona tole me she got three new jokes she need to try out on you.”

Twenty minutes later Eliot walks outside, gazing at the lowering afternoon sun in the autumn sky.

“So whatchu plannin on doin tonight?” Rosie suddenly beside him.

“Martha said I can stay with them again.”

“Uh-huh. I was jus talkin to Martha. You know they live in The Bowl.”

“I found that out earlier.”

“So if the rain start up, you could get stuck there.”

“It looks pretty clear now.”

“Can change fass these parts. What I'm thinkin is maybe you should stay here. Then you be able to get out in the mornin, no matter.”

Eliot glances into the crowded house. Earlier he'd overheard Rosie on the phone with far-flung relatives who would be arriving. Given that she refused to let him help clean earlier, he's pretty certain his presence would be just one more burden.

“Dontchu worry, we'll find a place for ya, even if it's on the floor a Beau's room. You don't mind the floor, do ya?”

“I don't. But the storm seems to have passed. I think I'll be fine at the Coatses.”

“Well the invitation stands. If yaw get down the road an the rain starts, you can always turn aroun.”

“Thank you.”

“Course you always could jus stay another day. But I guess with the overnight drive that mean you wouldn't get to Indianapolis till late Friday, not back in your office till nex week.”

“That's the problem.”

“Awright,” she sighs, “you all hardworkin people.”

It's just past four when they get into their cars, Eliot to follow the Coatses. Leona is in the backseat but as soon as her grandparents are seated, she opens her door and runs to Eliot behind his wheel.

“Whaddya call a cat suckin on a lemon? A
sourpuss!
”

“That's a good one.”

“Girl!” her grandmother calls. “Get in this car!”

Leona runs back. The Coatses pull out, and just before Eliot follows suit he glimpses through the picture window Beau and Rosie among the throng, the siblings holding up but their faces swathed in exhaustion and sorrow. He wonders what Beau must be thinking, having not seen Rosie and Roy in twenty-four years and within twenty-four hours of reuniting with them, this
:
death. Does he feel he brought bad luck? Or was it on the contrary a divine blessing—that he was able to see Roy one last time, that the brother Rosie adored was here for her in her hour of greatest need. Eliot is certain the latter is what Rosie is telling her guests, and what she believes.

**

Randall's bad mood is somewhat mitigated by the job offer. Still, the more he thinks about the events of yesterday—Benja's battered face, Benja and his mother nagging him in the hospital, the uncaring cop outside her room, the humiliation of B.J. having to rescue him from Benja's bastard husband, the humiliation of getting fired, the humiliation of jail, the humiliation of his humiliated wife calling the jail—the more beer he consumes.

He's supposed to meet Francis Veter at the bar at four, so at 3:30 he heads up to the guestroom. He thinks she may have moved slightly from her previous position but he isn't certain. He touches her chest. Her heartbeat seems remotely stronger. He walks down to the kitchen, fills a pitcher with water. Back up, standing over her again, he sticks a couple of fingers into the water and flicks the drops at her eyes. She remains still as stone. He flicks more. Nothing. He takes the jug and pitches its entire contents into her face, soaking her hair, pillow. Now a stir, a little coughing. So she survived. He's neither especially relieved nor disappointed. Well, tomorrow he'd probably realize he wasn't quite ready for widowerhood anyway, tomorrow the anger would dissipate and he'd be back to his usual state of being: ennui. He descends the stairs and out the door.

He walks into the tavern five minutes early. Francis Veter, sitting on a barstool facing the entrance, holds up his drink. “Hello, Randall Evans!”

Randall stares at the gold rim of the shot glass in front of him. Francis Veter has been chattering nonstop since he arrived.

“They musta been outa their fuckin minds! They really think jus cuz they gather theirselves up in droves, suddenly we gonna say, ‘Oh in
that
case you
can
vote!'” Francis Veter laughs.

“You figure the job gonna be effective immediate?”

“Oh it's effective immediate. Seein em all lined up like that, I didn't know there was so many aroun here. Whatta ya call em? Flock? Herd? A bevy. A bevy a niggers!”

“So I start tomarra?”

“Tomarra I'm off, an since I gotta bring ya in, introduce ya, it'd be nex day, Thursday, Thursday you can start. Sound good?”

“Sounds great.” Randall lifts his glass and downs it. The place is half full, the jukebox asserting
Every puppy has his day, Everybody has to pay, Everybody has to meet his Waterloo
.

“Strickly inventory.”

“Mostly inventory. But you also might be called on to do a little a this, little a that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Looks like you empty there. Pour him another!”

“Listen. I ain't s'good with sales.”

“This ain't shoes, Randall, it's hardware. Somebody come in to buy a Philips screwdriver he
needs
a Philips screwdriver. Ain't no sales pitchin involved.”

“Okay.”

“Somebody come in to buy 16d nails it's cuz they need 16d nails.”

“You know Martin's ain't gonna gimme no good recommendation.”

“
I'm
givin ya a good recommendation an I am definitely an employee in good standin. Awright?”

“Awright.” Randall relaxes. “Thank ya. Thank ya!”

The door opens and in walk twins. Randall's vision has started to become impaired but he didn't know he'd already graduated to seeing double.

“Over here!” Francis Veter grinning. “These are my nephews. This one's Reggie, that's Louis. Twenty and nineteen.”

“Hi,” they say in unison. Blond and blonder.

“This is Mr. Evans. Member I toldja bout Mr. Evans?'

“Uh-huh.”

“There, have a seat. Told yaw, drinks on me.” The only two seats left at the bar are on the other side of Randall, and the boys take them. “My sister's boys, in town a couple weeks. Helpin me build a pool out back.”

“Uncle Francis pays nice,” says one of them.

Francis Veter laughs. “Well.”

Randall stares at the boys. He turns to Francis Veter. “Pool?”

“Oh yeah. Cool things off in the summer.”

“That ain't a cheap proposition.”

Francis Veter laughs. “Well.” Francis Veter is not a guffawer. His gentle chuckles seem to be half for the listener, and half some private internal narrative.

“I take it you boys is twenty-one,” says the bartender. He's brought their drinks so it doesn't seem to matter much to him, but the nephews scramble to pull out their fake driver's licenses.

“I got seven kids an I'll definitely be bringin in a little slave labor on that account,” Francis Veter laughs. “But the oldest is only eleven, they can only do so much.”

“Edna Jo told us she's goin to Catholic school.”

“Uh-huh. Well, St. Mary's, I think they get a better education there. So once they reach the seventh grade, that was always the plan.
Double
the plan now, I sure ain't havin my girls go through puberty sittin next to some lecherous nigger.”

“I
hate
em,” says the blonder boy, his eyes suddenly glowering. “Stinkin, nappy niggers.”

“Yeah,” says the other.

“They got their own schools!” says the first. “Well I guess they figure how much learnin's a nigger get if his teacher's a nigger. But how much learnin they need anyway? To be a maid. Shine goddamn shoes.”

“Yeah!”

“Ain't Catholic school expensive?” Randall asks Francis Veter. “If you ain't Catholic. I'm guessin you're not.”

“Not as expensive as havin one a my girls come home with some black bun in the oven.”

Out of the blue flash-crash, everything going dark, silent. Then the downpour, and a few moments later the lights pop back on. The patrons laugh, like God was just pulling their leg there.

“But you said you planned it before. You were all set to send your kids to the Catholic before the colored invasion.”

“Like I said. Good education.”

“Why you plan that? Why they need such a fine education?” Francis Veter looks at him, and Randall's voice hollows as he continues his train of thought. “College?” Francis Veter smiles.

“You know what they'd read in our schools?” says Blonder. “‘Othello was a nigger.' Hemingway wrote that. ‘Othello was a nigger!'” Both boys crack up.

“Who's Hemingway?” says Less Blond.

“You said you mentioned me to your boss?” Randall asks Francis Veter.

“Boss?”
gasps the Othello-was-a-nigger one.

“It's all taken care of, Randall, you got nothin to worry about.”

Uncle Francis pays nice.

“Lemme ask you somethin. You
own
the hardware store?”