Wingshooters (10 page)

“He could’ve stayed in the big city,” said Earl now. “But the city couldn’t offer you nothing, son, that you couldn’t get here in Deerhorn, ain’t that right?”

“Nothing but a whole lot of trouble,” said T.J., taking a gulp of his Coke. Although he was on the skinny side, he had a certain physical ease I’ve always associated with men who use their bodies to work. And my impression was confirmed when John cleared his throat and said, “He’s going to come and work with me until he gets himself settled. He’s got a girl, you know, and they’re having a baby.”

There was a general murmur of approval and T.J. grinned widely, as if he’d accomplished something unusual. “That’s good, that’s good,” said Earl. “There’s nothing like being a father. It’ll change you, son. Put everything in your life in the right place.” There was a friendliness to his manner that I’d never seen before, a warmth he must have reserved for those he approved of. He took a sip of his coffee and asked, “So how was Vietnam? I’ll bet you burned up in those swamps. Did you kill yourself a whole bunch of gooks?”

I looked up at the men’s faces, surprised, but there was no reaction except for T.J.’s chuckle. “That was
your
war, Mr. Watson. What we had was Viet Cong. And yeah,” he smiled. “I did kill me a bunch of ’em.” And here I thought—although I couldn’t be sure—that he looked for a second at me.

“My years in the army were the best years of my life,” Earl said. “You were surrounded by good men, doing the country’s work, and you always knew exactly where you stood.”

“It’s
still
good, I guess,” said T.J., scratching his neck, “but things have changed since your time. Now, there’s no telling who you might get thrown in with. I mean, there was a lot of good country boys, but we had some sissy city boys, too. And a whole lot of niggers and spics.”

Again I looked for a reaction and again there was none. The men all nodded and shook their heads.

“They mix everyone up now, I guess,” his father said. “Throw the coloreds right in with the white men.”

“That happened in Korea, too,” Earl said. “But it’s gotten worse now, what with the army needing recruits, and all this garbage in the last few years about niggers and their rights. People don’t understand. You give a nigger a gun and let him fight, and pretty soon he starts to thinking he’s as good as a white man.”

Then Uncle Pete turned toward the window and said, “Funny you should say that. Look.”

We all followed where his finger was pointing and saw an older man walk by the coffee shop, holding a leash in his hand. It was Darius Gordon, the retired lawyer, farmer, and unofficial town historian who’d been a baseball hero when my grandfather was a boy. But I knew immediately why his appearance sparked Uncle Pete’s interest, and it wasn’t because of his youthful heroics or his knowledge of the town. It was because his middle son, Del—Dr. Del Gordon—was chief administrator of the Deerhorn Central Clinic.

T.J. Berger sprang up with more speed and force than I would have guessed his thin body could muster. His father stood up too, and then Earl, and my grandfather and Uncle Pete. They all walked to the door quickly and I followed closely behind; by the time I was outside, Earl had called Gordon’s name. The old man turned around and his dog turned too, a beautiful gray-ticked English setter. When the dog saw all the people, she drew herself up and growled softly. Gordon quieted her with a quick tug on her leash and a short, low, “Hup!”—and the dog licked her nose and sat down.

“Hello, Earl,” he said. “What can I do for you?” Now that all the men were standing together, I saw that Mr. Gordon was the tallest. He must have been eighty or eighty-five, but with his thick head of gray hair and upright posture, he looked and moved like a much younger man. He still hunted and fished, and since his wife had died, he spent his summers in a cabin next to Cortland Lake with its abundant supply of bluegill and crappies. When he reached up, quick, to save his hat from a gust of wind, you could still see the grace and fluidity that had made him, for four years, the second baseman for the Cincinnati Reds.

Now that Mr. Gordon was facing him, Earl seemed to hesitate. For years Mr. Gordon had been the only lawyer in town and that afforded him a certain standing, which was multiplied because he still farmed his own land and had helped other families hold onto their farms, too. He was educated, and a baseball hero, but he had no airs, and that combination of qualities earned all the town’s respect.

Even my grandfather seemed different as he approached his old idol. He faced Mr. Gordon directly but stood back on his heels, allowing the older man his due space. “Hello, Darius,” he said evenly.

“Hello, Charlie. What’s going on, fellas?”

Charlie looked a little uncertain now, as if it had taken all of his bravery just to get him outside. He waited for an especially loud car to pass before saying, “Well, everyone’s stirred up about that teacher, you know.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Gordon, looking at me. “Is he teaching your class? No, I suppose you’re too young for fifth grade.”

It was so unusual for me to be addressed by an adult that I looked behind me to see if someone else was there. I didn’t answer, but Mr. Gordon didn’t notice. My grandfather, though, put his hand on my shoulder protectively. “He’s not, but she’s seen him. Ain’t that right, Mikey?”

I nodded.

“Well, his wife works over at the clinic,” Mr. Gordon said, as if we didn’t already know; as if word had not already traveled, like a virulent strain of the flu, all over town and into the country.

“Yeah, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about,” said Earl. He did not seem particularly affected by the cold, nor by the status of the man he was speaking to. “We were just in Jimmy’s having our coffee, and John, he says, ‘I wonder what old Darius thinks about that nigger nurse working in his son’s clinic?’ And I says, ‘I don’t know, John, let’s ask him.’ And then we look out the window and there you are.”

Mr. Gordon held his coat shut and choked up on the leash. “I don’t think
anything
about it.”

“Well, why’d he let her in there?” asked Earl, leaning forward, cheeks red from the biting air. “And why’s she out at the country satellite? Just ’cos folks are poor doesn’t mean that any damn thing should be let loose on ’em.”

“She’s a top-rate nurse,” said Mr. Gordon. “Del worked with her down in Chicago. When he took over the clinic, with the expansion and the nursing school and all, he wanted to bring in good staff.”

“You mean he
brought
her?” Uncle Pete asked. “On
purpose
?”

“Yeah, he did. So what?”

“Well,” Earl said, “we just think he should have known better.”

Mr. Gordon turned his head slowly and looked Earl in the face. “There’s gonna be a
lot
of new people coming into town, Earl. You might as well get used to it.”

Listening to this exchange, I remembered what I had heard about Del Gordon. He’d spent most of his adult life outside of Deerhorn, going to college in Madison and medical school in Chicago. He’d been a military doctor during the war in Korea, and then had lived in Chicago until recently. Charlie and his friends must have thought about that too, because now Earl said, “See, this is what happens when people leave Deerhorn. Folks come back here confused.”

“
My
boy,” said John Berger, putting his hands on his hips, “didn’t come back here with no mixed-up notions.”

Mr. Gordon raised his eyebrows. He was a gentle man, but now he had been pushed, and it was clear he did not appreciate it. “Well, I wouldn’t hold up
your
boy as a model.”

T.J. Berger stepped forward, fists clenched, as if he’d forgotten that the man who’d just insulted him was old enough to be his grandfather. His father, glaring at Mr. Gordon, held him back.

“He’s just saying,” Charlie put forth, trying to calm the situation, “we’d of thought you taught him different than that.”

Mr. Gordon sighed. “Look. I’m not saying I would’ve done the same thing. But he’s a grown man, Charlie. What do you want me to do? I stopped taking him over my knee fifty years ago.” He paused. “And besides.” Here he looked meaningfully at Charlie. “
You
know how hard it is to keep hold of your kids.”

Something rippled across Charlie’s face and his body grew tense; I could feel it through his hand on my shoulder. He was in conflict; I knew that, everyone must have known that. Because as much as he hated the way my father lived, as much as he disapproved of my mother, how could he totally reject their union when it had produced me, whom he loved? Still, my presence there was proof of Stewart’s choices. I kept waiting for Charlie to stand up for my father. I kept waiting for him to say that his boy was coming back, that he was on his way home, but he didn’t.

“Well, you better let Del know,” said Earl, “that folks in town are real unhappy with what’s going on up there.
Real
unhappy. Especially now that she’s going out to the country and treating white people.” He said “treating” as if it meant injecting them with poison. “You know what it’s like when folks get upset around here. There’s no telling what might happen.”

Mr. Gordon heard the threat there, and he lifted his chin, looking down the length of his nose. “I’m not saying I would have done the same thing,” he repeated. “But the clinic’s going to bring a lot of good to this town. It’s going to help business, it’s going to help construction, it’s going to create jobs. My son is trying to bring in the best people he can. And I believe that he knows what he’s doing.”

Earl walked up so close I thought he might touch him. “You better shut that coat tighter, Darius. I think the cold’s affecting your head. Or maybe you’re just getting senile.”

“Get out of my face, Watson,” said Mr. Gordon, and I knew that despite his age he would not be afraid to fight. “Get out of here and go do something useful with your time.”

That night, we were awakened by a phone call. I didn’t know what the sound was at first, and I was so asleep it was like I was hearing it underwater. I only began to surface when I heard the creaking of my grandparents’ door, the heavy padded footsteps of my grandfather. He left the door open between the hallway and the dining room, so I heard him clear his throat, pick up the receiver, and say, “Hello?”

I figured it was Pete or Earl, both of whom went out drinking and occasionally came home late, or Ray, who was sometimes on duty. But whatever they were calling about—probably a new development at the clinic or at the school—Charlie wouldn’t be happy about being awakened. He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Do you know what time it is?”

I looked at my clock face, and by the light of the moon, I could see it was 12:27. I waited for him to say that whoever it was, Pete or Earl or Ray, should call him back later, or that he’d see him in the morning at the coffee shop. But what he said was, “She’s asleep. I’m not going to wake her up.”

My eyes flew open and I sat up in my bed. Charlie was quiet, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded terse. “Well, she’s home every night and all weekend. Wanting to hear from you. And then you wait till after midnight to call.”

Now I heard a softer set of footsteps, my grandmother’s. She came down the hall and went into the dining room, pulling the door closed behind her. I heard her muffled, questioning voice, followed by his sterner, lower one. But I couldn’t make out the words anymore, so I crawled out of bed and carefully made my way out of the room. I stepped quietly down the short hallway, stopping in front of the door. It wouldn’t close all the way, so I put my ear up to the crack, which wasn’t big enough to see through but enabled me to hear.

“Yes, we got it,” Charlie was saying. “Yes, the postcard too. It’s good you’re in one place for a while.”

“Ask him when he’s coming,” my grandmother said, and although I couldn’t see Charlie, I could picture him waving her off, gripping the receiver and frowning.

“She’s fine,” he said. “She’s no trouble at all. About twice as big as when you last saw her. She’s looking forward to you coming for Thanksgiving, you know. Your mother is too.” Then he was quiet for several moments. I heard some shuffling, as if he was walking or turning in place. When he spoke again his voice had a harder edge. “Well, make up your mind, son. Are you coming or not?” Another pause, and now he was breathing so hard I could hear him from where I stood. Then: “You can’t keep saying you’re doing something if you’re not going to do it. You can’t keep getting her hopes up. It’s not fair.”

More quiet, and then his voice so loud I jumped back from the door. “I’m
not
being hard on you! I’m just telling you how it is! It’s not just
you
you’ve got to think about. You’ve got a
child
here, remember? And she needs you to—”

He stopped abruptly. Then he said, “God
damn
it!” and slammed down the phone, and I knew that my father had hung up on him.

“Charlie, keep your voice down,” my grandmother said, but my grandfather didn’t answer. He’d hung the phone up with such force that it made the desk shake, and either that, or my grandmother’s getting up and moving toward him, caused the door to open a couple of inches. I hid my body behind the wall and peered through the open crack, and saw something I had never seen before—my grandfather sitting down with his head in his hands, fingers working through his thinning hair. My grandmother stood in front of him and gently put her hand on his shoulder. I expected him to shake it off, to tell her to leave him alone. But they both stayed where they were.

I felt strange and confused standing there, seeing them like this, so I slipped back to my room and then back into bed, where Brett was still snoring on his pillow. My father had called—I couldn’t even remember the last time he had called—and it was clear that he wanted to talk to me. Sure it was late, and sure he and Charlie had argued. But he wanted to talk to me, wanted to see me, and they had talked about Thanksgiving. He would come after all of this, wouldn’t he? I knew he would come. There was no way he would have traveled so far, gotten within striking distance, if he weren’t headed back to Wisconsin. If there had been any question about it, maybe the fight had even helped. Maybe Charlie had shamed him into keeping his promise.