The Heaven of Mercury (26 page)

-You want some coffee, too, Mr. Junius, she said, no expression on her face.

-No, no, none for me, he mumbled, gruff and not looking at her.

She went back into the kitchen, stood by the window looking out.

-You sure you don't want a cup of coffee, Mr. Junius?

-I said I didn't. She heard him grumbling to them about her.

-I think I'll go over to the lake for some exercise, Mr. Earl said. -Cut some wood from that tree that fell last year.

-Earl, don't tax yourself, Miss Birdie said. -We got plenty of wood from that tree that fell in the storm.

-That's still green, won't be dry till next year, Earl said. -And we're a little low on seasoned wood here at the house. That tree's been down more than a year and I imagine it's ready. I just feel like getting out and doing it, anyway. Need some fresh air.

-I'd go with you, I was feeling better, old Junius grumbled, and headed shuffling back to his room.

Just her lot to live here, wait on these people, live in that shanty out back of their house, be at their beck and call. And nobody but them, anyway. Mama dead since she was so little, her daddy she didn't know where, gone off, could be dead, Vish never said. She stood at the window. She saw, out on the side lawn and in a flat dull ray of winter sun angling over the hedges through the junkyard across the road, the endless days of nothing but the same, and being nothing but a nigger in the world.

The others had left the dining room. She was alone. She poured a fresh cup of coffee, took out the pouch, poured it all into the cup, and stirred it. She took it back to Mr. Junius's room and tapped on the door. No answer.

She went on in. He was asleep. She set the coffee on the table beside the bed.

-Just in case you changes your mind, she said, in case he was really awake. He said nothing, breathing heavy. She went out, back to the kitchen, into the pantry, and sat in her chair. Waiting and hoping, and dreading, too. Didn't know how long she'd sat there when she heard Mr. Earl come into the kitchen in his boots, heard a clatter in the sink.

He stuck his head into the pantry, scowling.

-What the hell did you do to that coffee?

She sat there like a mute, frozen. Then she managed to say, -Is he all right?

Earl snorted.

-He's better off than I am. I'm the one tried to drink it. That's the worst cup of coffee I've ever had in my life. Tasted kind of like Birdie put some more of that goddamn sassafras in the pot again. Or something.

He just stared at her a minute, then shook his head, saying something to himself.

-Don't you bother him anymore, he said. -And make a fresh pot of coffee. Just coffee. I'll be back in about an hour.

-Yes, sir, she managed to whisper, after he'd gone out, the screen door slapped to, the truck door slammed, the truck rumbled off. The quiet came back, there in the pantry.

Last time anybody saw him alive.

H
E WAS RESCUED BY
the foursome he'd passed on the fairway of hole number 12. Pumped out, unconscious, and carried to the emergency room in the cart of one of the men who'd hit before him on 13. He lay overnight in a bed on the fourth floor of the hospital, and the next morning Orin Heath came up to give him a last check-over before letting him go home. Orin poured himself a flask cap of whiskey, opened the window, and sat in a chair beside it to smoke a cigarette.

-Looks like you'll miss Birdie's funeral, he said.

Finus nodded. -Might have to.

-How you feeling?

-Not too bad, considering.

-Did you have what they like to call in the
National Enquirer
a near-death experience?

-White light and all that? No. Birdie did, out at the rest home.

-I heard they had to revive her out there.

They were quiet awhile.

-Have a drink?

Finus shook his head no.

-Your daddy was quite a drinker, too, wasn't he, Finus said. -What was his name? He asked though he knew and Orin knew he knew this unless the hole 13 pond water had gotten into his brain.

-Cornelius, Orin said. -Yes, he liked the corn. Said his name gave him a predilection for craving corn whiskey from the getgo. I ever tell you how I got my name? -No.

It was a game, almost a ritual, with them, came up every year or so in the regular banter. There was often some slight change in the story. -I was an accidental conception, Orin said. -Papa said to me one day when he had a load of corn in him that I was conceived on a romantic evening out in a boat on the lake, and they had it rocking. There was a loon calling, round there. Heat lightning way off, purple sky. He had a moment there, forgot who he was with. Came the time to make a decision, to take it out or leave it in. Do I take it out, or leave it in? Looked down at her face in a flicker of lightning glare, she was a stranger, made him wild with lust. Out, or in? Out, Or-in? My name reflects the grave finality of his decision.

-That's preposterous. What's that about the loon?

-There was a loon. It's a strange and ancient, solitary bird. Got an egg the greenish color of tarnished copper, speckled brown. It was in the summer in the northeast, in New England, where he was at school. He brought her back here but she was never happy.

Finus said, -I believe I was named after an Irish chieftain, but I'm not sure. That or they decided I was just the finest-looking young'un.

-The loon's got a strange call.

-You sound like you been talking to Euple.

-He came in the other day.

-Was he talking about loons?

-No.

-Beans?

-Digestive problems. He fears it's cancer. I sent him for some tests.

-What do you think?

-Intestinal gas, Orin said. -Constipation. Talks about beans, eats nothing but meat. Never drinks water. He's dry as beef jerky inside.

-What did you give him for it?

-Nothing. Told him to drink some of those herbal teas, instead of drinking coffee all day. I used to use them for remedies way back, before they got into the stores. I had an interest back then in what they call alternative medicine these days.

-Just the old remedies.

-Yeah. Old medicine woman down in the ravine used to make me up herb tea leaves, roots, all that crap. Worked about as well as pharmaceuticals, then. She had a garden somewhere down in there, grew what she didn't find wild in the woods.

-Old Vish.

-That's right.

-She used to treat all the black folks back then didn't she.

-Well, some. Midwife, mostly. But hell she knew as much in her own way as we did, in those days. What, you want a remedy? Can't cure old age, my friend.

Finus stood up from the edge of the bed. After a moment he said, -I've never believed your papa's story. I believe Orin is derivative in some oblique way of Cornelius.

-Well, Orin said, I have rather liked being an accident. It's relieved me of some of the burden of accomplishment. You seem to be feeling better.

-I'm all right.

Orin got up, tossed his cigarette out the window, and closed it.

-You can go on home if you want to. I'll give you a ride. Your cart's in the shop.

-All right. Maybe I can get out to Birdie's later on, anyway.

-Nobody'd blame you if you didn't. It's not every day an old man crashes his golf cart.

-I feel all right, Finus said.

-Just take it easy, Orin said.

-I will.

-I fed your dog, let him out to do his business.

-I thank you, Finus said. -I'd like to get on home now.

-At your service, Lazarus.

 

HE WAITED, LOOKING
out the window of his apartment, until Orin's car had turned the corner, then skitched his cheek at Mike. The old dog looked up with his sad vacant eyes.

-Come on, old boy, let's take a drive.

Mike followed him slowly down the stairs, taking one at a time on his old shoulders, claws clicking on the wooden steps, scratching on the sidewalk. Finus opened the pickup's passenger door and gave him a little boost to get him onto the seat, where Mike settled down and put his snout onto his forepaws again, just like he'd been on the floor. But he was alert.

Finus took old winding Poplar Avenue to the north end of town, out past the shopping center and up the long hill, pulled over in the little dirt clearing in front of the old ruined Case house and shut off the engine, went around and helped Mike down from the truck. Together they walked slowly, both of them a little shaky-legged, careful of exposed roots and gopher holes, down the path that led down into the ravine. Though the day was dry and had not cooled, he felt an instant drop in the temperature along the shady path, which had the softened and weed-edged appearance of an old path not used so much anymore. Finus was aware of birdsong all about him, and began to notice them flitting and fluttering in the low limbs and wild shrubs on either side of the path, and crossing the path ahead of him in short bursts of flight.

They came to the low and shaded clearing at the base of the ravine. The little leafy tunnel of the trail opened up into what could only be called a woodland cathedral, its ceiling the boughs and leaves of tall oaks, sycamores, sweet gums, beech trees, and pines. The floor carpeted with pine needles and brown leaves, and furnished with small shrubby trees and the remains of a half a dozen small plank cabins on brick and pine-stump posts. These all stood on one side of a tiny creek that wound down toward a dense-looking swampy area, and on the other side of which stood bamboo thickets and lower-limbed, moss-draped live oaks. All appeared to be abandoned, at first look. Then he saw something on the little porch of the far one, and a movement, and went that way.

She sat in an old paintless rocker, though not rocking, and her eyes though cataracted looked unmistakably at him. She was as knotted up as if she were actually a strip of cured leather someone had twisted into shapes resembling a head, shoulders, crooked arms and hands, and a pair of feet on shanks so thin they couldn't possibly hold her up. She was barefoot, though her feet were a blackened color such that he'd had to look twice to determine they weren't in some worn-thin pair of old leather soleless shoes. Her face like an old burnt knot of lighter pine from within which the two milky pools of hardened sap regarded him calmly.

-Afternoon, Finus said, standing there.

Her eyes cut momentarily to old Mike standing droop-headed at his side.

-Are you Miss Vish? Finus said.

She nodded again, continued to look his way without speaking.

-I'm Finus Bates, run a little newspaper in town. This is my old dog, Mike.

-I don't much like dogs, she said, her voice phlegmatic but strong for that. Then she said, nodding toward Mike, -You seems pretty healthy, yourself, for an old gentleman, but your old dog is ailing.

-Yes, I expect he won't be around much longer.

-I don't know much about treating dogs, she said. -Sometimes I treated a cat or a horse or a cow, but never could do much to help a dog.

-That's all right, I'll just let him go when he's ready.

She looked at him a moment, nodded.

-Yes, sir, what can I do for you?

Finus said Dr. Orin Heath had told him about her. She said nothing, working her mouth a little bit, then nodded.

-How he doing, then?

-All right, all things considered.

-Still drinking that whiskey?

-Yes.

-Well, she said after a moment, it ain't killed him yet. Maybe it keeping him alive.

-May be, Finus said.

-Them cigarettes gon kill him, though.

-I expect they will, soon enough.

-Yes, sir, soon enough. Is there something I can do for Dr. Heath, then? Ain't nothing I can give him make him stop that whiskey or smoking.

-No, I just wanted to ask you about a couple of things.

She nodded. -You knew Mr. Case, now, ain't that so.

-Yes, I did know him. I always heard he left this land open for the folks that lived here in the ravine.

She nodded. -He left it so can't nobody clear or build down here, so his children can't let nobody do it, for some time.

-How long he make that for?

-He ask me how long did I think before everybody live down here be moved out into town. I said could be just ten year, could be twenty, thirty, or longer. Just depend on how much the younger folks likes it, or if they gets restless or not. He say, You think could be forty year, Vish? I said, May be, but I doubt it. Well, he say, just in case, and make it forty year. That was near about forty year ago, and now I'm the only one left down here. I figure any day the Case children gon get a judge to let them change the papers, tear it all down, if they remember to. She laughed. -With me goes the ravine, I speck. I speck they gon put another shopping center right here someday.

Finus looked at this old woman looking at him like she'd watch a snake.

-You ever help out Mrs. Birdie Urquhart, lives out on the Macon highway?

She considered that.

-No, sir, don't believe I ever helped her out none.

-Did you ever know the woman worked for her, Creasie Anderson?

She didn't answer for a minute, then, -Yes, sir, she from down here in the ravine. I raised her. But she ain't lived here in a long time.

-How long she been gone?

-Moved out from here to the Urquharts' when she was just a girl, many year ago.

-Did she keep a place back here?

-Yes, sir, had a place. Ain't been back to it in a long time, though.

-When would you say was the last time she used her place here, then?

-Couldn't say, I reckon. Ain't seen her here in a long time.

Finus looked around at the other cabins.

-Which one was hers, then, you don't mind my asking?

The old woman cut her eyes without moving her head to look at the other cabins.

-That old green one over there was hers.

Finus looked. One of the cabins was a flaked and faded dark green color.

-You reckon it'd be all right if I took a look around it?

After a moment the old woman nodded.

-I don't reckon it make a whole lot of difference, she said. -She don't never come back here no more.

-I appreciate your time, Finus said. -You take care, now.

-Yes, sir. Tell Dr. Heath I said good day.

-I will.

Mike following stiffly, Finus walked over to the green cabin and mounted its rickety porch. He pushed on the old plank door and it gave way to a cobwebbed and ratty single room that gave way itself to what looked like a tiny kitchen in the rear, where he could see the edge of an old wood stove there. In the main room there was just an old stuffed chair, torn about the arms and cushion and backrest and stained with water and whatever. A little table stood near it, bare. The walls were covered with what appeared to be faded Sunday comics pages, torn and stained and splotched with age and water damage. In the kitchen the stove was bare except for a rusted cast-iron pan sitting on one of the heating plates. There was an old metal sink with no faucets but with a drain that appeared to run out through the wall. Above the sink there was a single shelf on which sat a salt box folded in upon itself, shredded paper in a mound of something could have been once flour or cornmeal. A lard tin. A mason jar stood next to it, shrouded in cobwebs and dust. He leaned in close to it, something inside. A black and gnarled little knot of something, like a charred fist of an old monkey or something. Finus heard a huffing sound, Mike settling down on the floor beside him, old baleful eyes looking at nothing.

-Poor old Mike, Finus said, bending stiffly over himself to scratch the dog's head. Mike's eyes moved to him but otherwise he didn't respond. Finus straightened up and looked at the jar again, took it off the shelf and wiped the cobwebs and dust away and peered closely at whatever it was inside there. Shriveled tendonish piece at either end, looked to have been severed away. He gently coaxed Mike up off the floor and led him outside. The old woman was still on her porch in her rocker. Seemed to be looking at nothing, just out through the woods. Finus stepped carefully down the steps of the porch and, Mike slowly and stiffly making his way beside him, walked back over and stood at the base of the porch steps.

-Sorry to trouble you again, Miss Vish, he said. -I just wanted to ask one more thing.

She nodded. Eyes cut just for a second to the jar he held in his hand.

-Yes, sir.

-I was asking Dr. Heath about poisons, ways folks might poison someone if they had a mind to do it.

She looked at him, even cocked her head just a fraction of an inch.

-Poisons? she said. Then an odd little movement ticked at the thin licorice twist of her mouth. The old lips opened a hair and something between an enervated laugh and a wheeze came out. -Naw, sir, she said then, don't truck in no poisons.

-Say you don't.

-No, sir, and her eyes went back to where they rested on something over his head across the tiny creek in the swampy woods. -No sir, she said again, managing an emphatic little movement of her head, the white straw and scarce hair there looking as if permanently blown and dried hard away from her face like a frost-driven shrub. -Poisons invented by the white folks. Black folks don't need no poisons.