The Marrowbone Marble Company (32 page)

They watched as the crimson stripes disappeared. The color of Fury's face went from red to almost pale. His wheezing seemed to settle and the tendons in his neck relaxed.

“Good Lord,” Rachel said.

Mary had her hands to her face. For a moment, she thought Wimpy had killed the young man.

“How did you do that?” Orb asked. He was squeezing Ledford's hand so hard his fingertips went numb.

Wimpy did not answer. “Leave him be now,” he said. “He's got to sleep for a day or more.” He did not tell them that the fever was the hottest he'd encountered, nor did he tell them of his fear that when Fury awoke, he'd not be the same man. Wimpy looked at the dead tick in the yellow ashtray. “You burn that,” he said. “I don't care how dead it is. You burn it.”

The insects of Marrowbone were coming after them now. Wimpy was certain of it. Out of the ground and the trees they came, marking the land and its people with their signs.

T
HE WALRUS-TUSK KNITTING NEEDLES
had been snapped in two. Like dry branch kindling, they'd broken and splintered so as never to be repaired. Rachel bent to the ground and thumbed the sharp edges. She found them this way, out of the bag where she'd left them when the kitchen phone rang. In pieces on the back lawn next to her rocking chair. She'd taken to sitting out back instead of out front. She'd just as soon watch the trees and birds as the people, whose numbers had shrunk considerably. Now her tools had been sabotaged, her grandmother's walrus needles rendered useless by an unknown entity. She looked into the woods. Listened. There was nothing but the usual, katydids and crickets, an ebb and flow, a melodious din.

It was April Fool's Day. The air smelled of a skunk.

Rachel wondered if the ruined knitting needles were someone's idea of a joke.

“Rachel?” Wimpy had come up behind her.

“Good Lord,” she said. Her hairs stood on end, her heart electrified. He laughed at how she'd jumped. “Almost came out of your shoes, didn't you?” he said.

Rachel smiled at Wimpy. Noticed something wrong in his eyes. “I brung you somethin,” he said. He handed her a mess of newspaper tied with twine. It was the funny pages, and Wimpy had put something inside. Paper flared at the top like a hard candy wrapper.

“Well thank you Wimpy,” she said. “Should I open it now?”

“If you want to.”

She tore the paper with her fingernails. Inside was a tiny, drawstrung pouch fashioned from hide and sinew. She emptied its contents into her open palm.

It was the redbird's feet.

Wimpy had lacquered them and attached hooks made from thin wire. “They're earrings,” he said. “I don't know if that gauge is too big, but…”

Rachel was horrified. She stared at the missing toe, fought the urge to drop the feet on the ground. “I'm not sure what to say. Did you kill him Wimpy?”

“No. That's what I come to talk to you about. You remember that redbird?”

“Yes. I could never forget it.”

“Well, he never come to visit me this year. And then, last week, I found those.”

“Earrings?”

“No, his feet. Just perched on a gatepost, pretty as you please, no body in sight. No feathers, nothin.” Wimpy still could not rectify that picture in his mind. He'd tried to shake it loose, but it had begun to visit his dreams.

“What happened to his body?”

“Don't know. Best we can figure, something ate it.”

Rachel didn't know what to think, but she was newly glad about the earrings. Found it thoughtful of Wimpy to give them to her.

“I've spoken to you on my talks with the bird,” Wimpy said. He motioned to the dogwood tree. “I'd like to lean,” he said.

“Do you want a chair?” For the first time, she noticed he was an old man.

“No, I'd like to lean.” They walked to the tree and Wimpy put his back against its trunk. “I believe,” he said, “that the bird come to warn us, but something got him fore he could.” His eyelids were heavy. “I believe it's them cicadas that got him.”

Rachel wondered if his mind was fading. “What was he coming to warn us about?” she asked.

“That's what I can't figure. But you'll see it if you look hard enough. It's in all of them.” He swept his hand in the air as if to mark something.

“All of them?”

“Birds, bugs, snakes. It's in the way they're comin out of their nests and holes and runnin scared. Zigzag, like something has shook them.”

For a moment, it seemed to Rachel that Wimpy might cry. He'd sunken so far into the tree that he almost seemed a part of it. His chin was to his chest.

He watched a black oil beetle crawl across his boot top. It stopped and looked up at him. It roared.

 

A
N HOUR AFTER
the news report that Martin Luther King had died, Don Staples drew the last of his shallow breaths.

Ledford was with him when he went, holding the old man's hand in his own. He did not cry. Instead, he remembered the words Staples had spoken to him again and again in his last months. “When I go,” he'd said, “I want you to open my desk drawer. In it you'll find my papers. You do what's written.”

Ledford let go the cold hand and stepped to the little oak desk next to the broken television. He opened the middle drawer. A thick stack of lined yellow paper had been folded and tied in twine.
For Ledford
was scrawled across the front.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and split the twine with his daddy's dogleg jackknife. He would read it with Staples next to him. It would only take a moment to know that the man's words were sage and true. He'd written them in black ink, slow and neat.

T
WENTY-FIVE WERE PRESENT
at the Bonecutter burying ground to watch Don Staples lowered into a hole. Jerry had built his coffin from scrap wood. The women cried.

The wind blew through the Cut and the people huddled together. Harold stood before them in a black suit and tie. There was a lump in his throat. He held a sheet of yellow paper in his hand. It trembled. Staples had wanted Harold to give his eulogy, and so it was done.

He looked down at the words and read. “Don Staples left behind a son.” Harold looked at the people and continued. “A man who lives and works in California. Beyond these facts, he knew nothing of the grown child he once abandoned. He asks that all of you look to your children today. Hold them and teach them the laws of Moses and the model of Jesus, who fed the hungry and clothed the naked. Remember the words of the Book of Malachi—‘and the Lord will turn the hearts of fathers to their children and the hearts of children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the land with a curse.'”

Harold folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket.

Jerry, Stretch, Willy, and Chester pulled the ropes taut and scooted the coffin above the hole. They let lengths of rope out, inches at a time, sliding across their work gloves with a whirring sound, and the box sank in increments to its designation.

Mary shivered, her arms crossed in front. She'd worn a green dress, refusing black. Staples had liked her in green.

Harold looked at her, then back at the hole in the ground. He closed his eyes and listened to the thump of dirt on wood. Shovelfuls. Loud at first, then muted.

Mary was the first to walk away. Her mother followed, calling her name. Their heels sunk with each step into a ground made soft by spring rain. Mary wiped at her eyes and ignored her mother's call.

It was quiet inside the community center. Mrs. Wells had come out to pay her respects. She poured Dixie cups of her Rum-Tum-Goody Punch. Rachel had made ham salad on saltines, Staples' favorite. Fury handed out plates and cups, nodding graciously. He wore one of Ledford's old suits. He'd gained fifteen pounds. Trimmed his beard and put his hair in a ponytail. As Wimpy had predicted, Fury was a changed man after the fever broke, but the change was for the better.

The television was on. The newsman said 300,000 were in attendance at the funeral of Martin Luther King. Orb and Chester sat on the floor and watched as Mahalia Jackson sang a few lines of “Take My Hand, Precious Lord.” Then the newsman said riots were raging in the nation's capital. They were raging too in Baltimore, and in Louisville. In Kansas City and Chicago. Orb's eyes scarcely blinked. He watched buildings smolder, their windows blacked and jagged. Soldiers stood on street corners, their rifles slung over their shoulders.

Fifteen remained at Marrowbone full time. The rest had left.

The Corps of Engineers had posted a date on which everyone had to be out. That date was January 2nd, 1969.

T
HE PARKING LOT OF
Veterans Memorial Field House was nearly full. The sun hung orange over the dye factory next door, where men finished their shifts and stepped into the street. They walked past the Ford dealership, smoking and gripping lunch pails. Their hands were stained blue.

Inside the field house, area boys knuckled down and narrowed the competition. Ham Maynard was too old to compete, and everyone wanted to see who'd take his place as champion.

There'd been a power outage, so floodlights hung on basketball rims, extension cords snaking to a generator. Two men were on their knees inside the Ringer circle. They ran concrete floats across the surface to certify it was level. A big man in a suit vest walked around them. He called out the semifinal matchup on a whistling microphone. On his head was a piss-cutter hat with
USMC Korea 1st Marines
monogrammed in red. He'd sweated through his shirt. “Let's give these boys a hand,” he said. The crowd responded halfheartedly. The big man looked at them, bent-backed on wooden bleachers. He'd expected more and couldn't figure why the crowd had shrunk as the day went on.

The answer was in the parking lot. Sixty or more people had heard whispers that Orb Ledford was going up against Ham Maynard once and for all. They gathered in a bunch at the parking lot's northwest edge. Some sat on the hoods of cars, others on the roof of an abandoned body shop. A dozen boys pressed against the chain-link fence in the alley. There was a patch of dirt in the body shop's side yard, perfect for Ringer. Fury and Stretch had worked on it all afternoon. The lines were painted. The cross rack was loaded with thirteen marbles.

Orb stepped to the pitch line with Chester behind him. “You got nothin to worry about,” Chester said.

Orb was sweating, wiping at his forehead with the backs of his hands.

Ham Maynard toed the line next to him. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt, and his arms were the circumference of Orb's thighs. Ham hadn't said a word since he pulled up in the bed of a truck full of football players.

Over at the fence, Willy had Tug on a short leash. “Sit,” he told the dog. Orb had insisted on bringing him. He never went anywhere without Tug in those days. Willy regarded the two boys. Ham had lost all his baby fat and sprouted to six feet. Orb was tall and skinny as ever, frail some might call him. It had surprised Willy that Orb wanted to face Ham at Ringer after all this time. He'd been hard to figure ever since the raid.

Fury leaned a chalkboard against the brick wall. It was the size of a record album. He stepped to it and marked changing odds. He kicked at a rusted sign lying face up in the yard.
Drink Royal Crown Cola
, it read.

Fury held up a fistful of dollar bills. “Anybody else?” he called. “Last chance before we start.” Nobody answered. “Scared money never wins,” Fury said. He had energy to spare. He'd been off dope for three months, but he'd doubled back on small-time gambling. “Okay fellas,” he said. “I'll ask one more time after the lag.”

It was quiet. From across the parking lot, the generator could be heard through an open field-house door.

“Lag!” Fury hollered.

Ham tossed first, and his black taw rolled within an inch of the lag line.

Orb followed suit, his cicada taw rolling a hair closer.

There was a low cheer, some mumbling. One boy fell from his perch on the chain-link. In the bed of the truck, two others cracked open beers and whooped and hollered.

Orb and Ham retrieved their taws for the match.

A car swung into the alley. It was Shorty Maynard's police cruiser. “Shit,” one boy said. “Put up the beer.”

Ham squinted at the oncoming car. “It's my dad,” he said.

Charlie Ball was in the passenger seat, Noah in the back. The three of them knew that Ledford and Mack were at the Friday meeting of the West Virginia Human Rights Commission. It was an important one, a fund-raiser in memory of Bobby Kennedy.

They wouldn't run into Marrowbone brass, Charlie had told Noah. They were tired of hiding, and they were drunk. Had been since an Independence Day party the night prior.

The car rolled to a stop in the alley. The sun was getting low.

Tug stood and tested the leash. A low rumble started in his chest. Willy gripped the leash tight.

Charlie Ball stepped from the open door in a three-piece white suit, fat as ever. “Evenin boys,” he said. He smoothed his thinning hair and pulled up his pants. “I hope nobody's into anything illegal around here.”

Shorty stepped from the driver's side and propped his arm on the roof. He wasn't in uniform. Noah stayed in the car.

Stretch felt his blood rush. He hadn't seen Shorty Maynard since the night he beat him into the ground. Nobody had. In the fallout from the theater riot, Shorty had been shamed out of running for sheriff. He'd kept his job as deputy, but most days, like this one, he just drove around. Drunk. Trouble in his eyes. His family had left him.

Charlie had been nearly as scarce. He made public appearances when he had to, won the primary, along with Noah, but otherwise he'd taken to hiding behind his curtains, just as his frail cousin had before him.

He walked through the fence gate and regarded the Ringer circle. “Regular dirt engineers around here,” he said. “I heard the two best marble men in the state was having a side match. I guess I found it.”

“You want to lay a little down?” Fury asked.

Charlie laughed. He up-and-downed the young man, his long hair, his sandals. “Hippies know how to count paper money?” he said.

Fury laughed too. “When they grow up the son of a Chicago bookie they do.”

Charlie swallowed. He hadn't recognized the boy. “Oh,” he said. “Well, your daddy and me go back a ways.”

“Maybe you want to consider wagering on this match,” Fury said.

“From what I hear, you could use the scratch.”

Shorty whistled a signal. “Excuse me,” Charlie said. He walked back to the alley.

Some in the crowd got nervous and left. Others whispered about boxing and bench presses and who would whip who in a fair fight.

Tug's snout twitched, his eyes on the police car, his hackles halfway up. “Sit,” Willy told him.

The two men at the cruiser called Fury over. “Don't do it,” Stretch said.

Willy just stared at Shorty Maynard. He didn't advise either way. “It's cool Stretch,” Fury said. He strode to the alley alone.

When he got to the car, Shorty asked him, “Ever hear of a barber?” His breath smelled of whiskey on an empty stomach.

“Ever hear of Lavoris?” Fury answered.

“How much can we put on Ham to win?” Charlie asked.

“As much as you got.” Fury looked from one of them to the other.

“As much as you believe he can beat the likes of Orb Ledford.”

Shorty laughed. “The retarded one?”

Fury didn't like the word. He'd come to marvel at Orb's concentration inside a Ringer circle. He knew he couldn't be beat. “What do you want to wager?” he asked.

“I don't know if you can cover it.” Charlie took out his billfold.

“I can cover it,” Fury said. He was lying. He was flat broke.

He walked back to the circle with two thousand dollars in his back pocket.

Orb knuckled down. He shut one eye and cocked his elbow. Pressure built inside his thumb, and he shot.

The cicada taw zipped across the ground like a bullet. It struck a center marble, sent it to the grass. But something was wrong in the sound of the strike. It was too loud. It turned Orb's stomach.

The cicada shooter lay in the center of the circle in pieces. There had been an unseen air bubble somewhere. Glass lay in shards next to the tiny clay wings.

Orb crawled to it on his knees. He nearly cried, seeing the clay insect like that. Exposed, artificial. One bent wing, same as his favorite cicada. He stuck it in his pocket. He'd had enough.

“I forfeit,” Orb said.

“What?” Fury couldn't believe his ears.

Orb stood up. “I forfeit.” He walked for the parking lot.

Chester followed. “Orb,” he called. “Orb, you can use my taw.”

Orb would not use anybody's taw but his own, that was known.

“You owe us four grand,” Shorty Maynard hollered from beside the car.

“Hold on a minute.” Fury tracked down Orb. Chester did the same. The three of them stood between two pickup trucks and talked in whispers.

Fury came back with an offer. He stood at the police cruiser again, between the state senator and the deputy, who took slugs from a brown pint bottle between cigarettes. “In the event of a forfeit,” Fury said, “it's customary to allow an alternate player.”

“Spit it out,” Shorty said.

“Chester will go against Ham.” He pointed to Chester. Shorty smiled.

“The colored boy?” Charlie said.

Fury nodded.

“Deal.”

They strode to the circle.

Ham won the lag, and on his first shot, he knocked a marble clear of the ring line. Then another, and another. He was meticulous. But on his fifth shot, his angle was off, and the marble stopped short of the line.

Chester got down in his stance. One leg was straight behind him, toe pointed. The other was tucked under his chest. His sneakers gripped the dirt, his armpits dripped sweat. He blew on his hand and knuckled down.

Chester never missed a shot. He knocked the remaining nine marbles out of the circle with ease, and then he knocked out Ham's shooter.

“He was hunching!” Charlie hollered. “His thumb came over the line.”

A chorus of low mumbles moved over the crowd. “No he wasn't,” some said.

“This is a goddamn fix,” Shorty Maynard said. He spat out his words.

“It's a setup. That fuckin hippie's a yankee hustler, and this boy's his nigger sidekick!” His chest heaved.

Tug shot forward on the leash. A current came through Willy's elbow and shoulder, tendons wrenched, but he managed to hold on and dig in. The dog erupted, bellowing from deep, his front paws off the ground.

Shorty Maynard's hand went to his gun. Everyone watched as he kept it there, frozen under his shirt in back.

Noah stepped out of the car's backseat and watched from the alley. “All right,” Charlie said. “Let's get going now.”

“We ain't goin nowhere,” Shorty said.

Stretch had his hands fisted.

Chester hadn't moved. He stayed on one knee by the ring line.

Orb walked to Tug and tried to calm him.

Boys in the crowd were wide-eyed. One ran down the alley. “C'mon!” Noah hollered. “We got to go.”

Ham Maynard stepped to his father. “Daddy,” he said quietly, “he beat me fair and square.”

“The hell he did!” Shorty felt their eyes on him. He wanted to smack his boy for talking to him like that. “Get in the car Ham,” he said.

“But I came in the truck with—”

“Get in the fuckin car fore I kick your ass over there to it!”

Ham did as he was told. His chest sunk and he hung his head. Orb thought he saw tears welling.

“Boys, you all go on home now,” Charlie said. He was trying to smile, trying to go on pretending his life was in control. He gave Fury a look and followed Ham to the cruiser.

Shorty worked his jaw. He stared at Stretch Hayes, then Fury, then Willy. “You'll all get what's comin to you,” he said.

Tug growled low. “You keep that dog away from me,” Shorty said.

The sun had set behind the dye factory's outbuilding. Boys walked away in near darkness, retelling what they'd just seen.

While Shorty strode backwards to his car, Orb searched the ring's perimeter for Ham's shooter. He knew it was Ham's favorite, the big black onyx.

He found it in a patch of greased-over grass. He started toward the alley to return it. “Hold on,” he called, holding up the marble. He jumped a rotten railroad tie in the lot.

“What's he doing?” Fury asked.

Chester stood up and brushed off the knees of his blue jeans. “Orb don't play for keepsies,” he said. “Never has.”

Inside the cruiser, Shorty Maynard stuck the shifter in first and turned to the backseat. He eyeballed his boy. “You make me sick,” he said. He let off the clutch and mashed the gas before he'd turned back around.

Ham and Noah yelled, “Wait,” but it was too late. There was a crunching sound at the front bumper.

For a moment, it was still inside the car. Then the screams came from over at the circle.

Shorty's face went white. “It was that dog,” he said. “I told em to keep that dog lashed.” He knew it wasn't the dog. He shifted into reverse and howled backwards down the alley. He jerked the wheel hard when he got to Twenty-sixth Street, straightened, and gunned it up Fifth Avenue.

The car's grille had hit Orb in the legs and buckled him forward, then back. His head had struck the alley bricks, dull and hard. When they got to him, he was out cold. A pump knot was already rising on the back of his head, big as a tennis ball. Willy put his hand under it. He screamed for someone to call an ambulance. Chester ran for the Field House.

 

T
HE NURSES AND
doctors called it “the bird,” but Rachel hadn't asked them why. She stared at it, a small green box on the rack next to Orb's bed. It had knobs like those on her old radio. A tube ran from its side, across her lap, and into Orb's mouth, where the tape had caused a rash. Rachel listened to the little green respirator blowing and sucking. She watched her boy, his eyes unmoving under the lids, his chest rising and falling unnatural. His hand was warm in hers, and she rubbed her thumb there, squeezed once in a while, hoping he'd squeeze back.

She sang to him. Mostly “Shortenin Bread” and “Twinkle, Twinkle,” like she had when he was a baby.

They'd cut a piece of his skull bone away, and they hadn't put it back. A tube ran from his brain to another little machine. It measured pressure, let them know if the swelling came back.