Cage's Bend (46 page)
“What you thinking about?” I ask his profile.
Cage glances at me, then stares back at the lake. “Nick, gentle Nick. You and I were both kinda angry but he was a happy camper.”
“Come on, Cage. It wasn’t your fault. You’ve got to forgive yourself.”
“No.” Cage turns back to me. His eyes are red like he’d cried without shedding a tear. “It’s not that easy. You got to keep forgiving yourself. Again and all over again.”
I watch a ski boat across the lake, the rooster tail wake. “Nick was just as bad as us. How come we were so different from Mom and Dad?”
“It’s only natural to rebel against your parents.” Cage studies his palm. “We were just like our friends. Everybody thought that as long as you got good grades and won races, then you were entitled to party down.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Our parents represent Depression Man, raised in austerity, while we are Consumer Man, spoiled by abundance. Nobody thought drugs and sex were self-destructive. It was just recreation. Consumer choices.”
“After you were talking about your shadow on the phone the other day,” Cage says, “I thought how we were Dad’s worst nightmares made manifest.”
I laugh loudly from a sharp pang of shame.
“It’s like everything Dad repressed successfully,” Cage goes on, “came out in us. Maybe you’re not struggling with your shadow but Dad’s.”
“Whoa.” I’m impressed. “Wonder what Dr. Pearce will say about that?”
“Theories are like assholes.” Cage shrugs. “Everybody’s got one.”
S
ince before I was born, Dr. Hardeman’s office has been in a red-brick Federal three-story on the square in Thebes. With a Civil War statue of Morgan’s Raiders in the middle of the lawn, the square looks at first glance much as it did in the twenties, though the town hall, the post office, and the big stores moved out to suburbia in the direction of Nashville in the eighties, leaving the square behind like a postcard of a simpler time. Some of the glass fronts are boarded, some are dollar stores and cheap suit shops that cater to the blacks who’ve colonized the neighborhoods within walking distance. Only one of the three original banks remains, and Park’s Drugs, which had a long counter where Poppy took Nick and me to listen to farmers and Rotarians talk about fishing and UT football, is now a discount pharmacy with no soda bar. When Dr. Hardeman retires or dies, the last tie to the past will be cut and few white men will venture into the old center of Thebes.
After parallel-parking the Subaru wagon Mom and Dad bought me, I walk to the glass door and hesitate. What if I’m positive? After all, I slept with a junkie in San Francisco and any number of sluts on my manic rocket rides. Should I spare my family more pain and hardship and kill myself? Wouldn’t it be my luck to claw out of depression just to learn that I have a terminal illness? I open the glass door and climb up a flight of stairs to Dr. Hardeman’s second-floor waiting room. There are a few black women with children and a couple of older white folks. The receptionist smiles and calls out, “Hello, Cage.”
“Morning, Mrs. Leonard.” I set two bags of vegetables on the counter. “Carrots and potatoes from an organic farm down in Alabama, one for you and one for the doc.”
“You are too sweet,” she gasps. “Why, thank you.”
As I cross the room to an empty chair, the others’ eyes follow me reproachfully, and I remind myself that it’s not real, only chemicals in my mind.
Dr. Hardeman comes into the waiting room. “Hello there, Cage.”
“Morning.” I stand up, studying his craggy old face for signs of the death sentence.
“The farm must be coming along. I see you brought me some more produce.” Dr. Hardeman gives me his meaty hand.
“Actually it came from—”
The old doctor clasps me by the shoulder. “The test came back fine. You got nothing to worry about.”
I feel a rush of relief, the tension evaporating all at once. “Thank God.”
“A young buck can’t be too careful this day and age.” From his perspective Dr. Hardeman sees me as someone half my age. “Now, get on out of here. I’ve got real patients waiting.”
“What about the bill?”
“We took it out in trade.” He pushes me toward the door. “Give Mary Lee my regards.”
Across the back of the stall a banner reads
Naked Lunch Organics
. On the table are piles of lettuce and celery, bundles of herbs, and there are baskets of potatoes, carrots, and fennel on the ground. I wonder if I’m delusional when beautiful housewives smile at me. Harper might long for a whole life to devote to each, some particular way to make love only to her. I’d settle for just one. Now that my system has excreted the last traces of antipsychotics, my mojo has come out of long hibernation. But it’s hard to believe that any women other than fellow lunatics would want to have anything to do with me. If they heard what I was up to the last decade, no one would blame them for stepping back a few feet to keep a safe distance. The family insists I was an easy, funny conversationalist but I don’t remember what it was like to be me at twenty, and now whenever I meet someone new, I feel awkward and tongue-tied.
A businesswoman in a navy linen suit who looks like she ain’t the type to suffer fools gladly pauses at the stall. She is in her mid- or late thirties and her black hair has a striking widow’s peak and a white stripe that runs back from the center of her forehead. She has a handsome face with a long sharp nose, hazel eyes. She picks up a bundle of basil, several heads of lettuce, then looks over my shoulder at the banner and says, “I never read that, but the movie sucked.”
“I read it fifteen years ago. Only thing I can remember is being grossed out.”
She laughs and takes one of the recycled paper bags hanging from a nail and starts filling it from the baskets, glances up, and says, “So did you grow all this?”
“Only the lettuce. The Naked Lunch farm’s way down in Alabama. Comes up on the bus. The real harvesting up here won’t start till later in the season.”
“What’s the name of your farm?” She puts some potatoes on the scales.
“I’m still pondering that.” Sliding the weights along the bar, I don’t mention some that have crossed my mind—Recovery Farm, Manure Madness. “I was thinking about Oedipal Organics since it’s out in Thebes.”
The woman laughs and asks, “You come into Nashville every Saturday?”
“
Sí, señorita
. I’m the Naked Lunch rep now. Impressed?” I almost say, I must be the least successful of Vanderbilt’s Owen School of Management, class of ’88. She looks like she might have gone there. It’s only a matter of time until I run into an old classmate. I’m not sure if I’ll be embarrassed.
“Yeah, I am.” She pulls a wallet out of her handbag. “I think there’s a future in organic farming and it’s socially responsible.”
“Tastes better, too,” I say, totaling her bill. “Seven dollars, if you please.”
After she puts the change in her purse she sticks her hand out and smiles. “My name’s Rachel.”
“Rutledge,” I say, clapping the dirt off my hands. “Cage Rutledge.”
Rachel laughs and says, “See you next week, Cage.”
“I
can’t put my finger . . .” Isabella’s voice trails off and her eyes stray over my shoulder at the giant palm leaves painted on the wall. It fascinates me how different she appears from different angles or with different expressions and how people who meet her at the same time can have entirely different impressions of her. At drinks before the movie, Dooner told me that she was plain looking and Ronbeck whispered she was a stunner. The longer I know her, the more beautiful she appears. Her green eyes lock on mine as she finds her thought. “At first I thought it was a reaction against the smart-ass hit men in
Pulp Fiction
. Forest Whitaker’s samurai was Jarmusch’s answer to the Bible-quoting Sammy Jackson. But it fell apart in the last half hour. The comic murders made me stop caring. If anything, I wanted Whitaker to die so the thing would come to an end.”
“Too many cartoons,” I say. “I got tired of the cartoons.”
“That was sort of heavy-handed.” Isabella seems slightly less self-assured than she did the last couple of times I saw her at the cathedral.
“But I liked Travolta and Jackson. I liked
Pulp Fiction
.”
“Little boys like to play with guns.” Isabella laughs. “It’s a guy thing.”
“So what brings you to New York so suddenly? I was totally surprised when you called. It was chaos, the markets were closing, I thought you were joking. I thought you were really in Memphis.”
“Did you break a date to see me?”
I pause, deciding to be honest. “Yeah, I did.”
“Was she angry?” Isabella watches me closely.
“Nah, not at all. Camille said, ‘Isabella Ballou, the girl of your dreams? Go. Go.’”
“Who’s Camille?” Isabella smiles at the corners of her mouth.
“An old friend from Baton Rouge. Girl I’ve known since I was eight. A lawyer.”
“Do you sleep together?” Isabella laughs slyly.
I take a long, slow sip from my drink. “I don’t see how that’s your business.”
The waiter brings the appetizers. When he leaves, Isabella raises her eyebrows. “I’m just trying to understand you.”
“Actually we’ve slept together off and on over a few years in New York when she’s between boyfriends.” I wonder if telling her this is somehow a mistake.
“A sport and a pastime.” Isabella tries to name it. “How can a woman be so intimate, open herself up, when there’s no emotion to go with it?”
“There’s deep affection. Out of boredom, maybe. Or biological need.”
“That’s not enough for me.” She takes a tiny sip of Scotch, then picks up a slice of seared beef with her chopsticks.
“Maybe you’re just repressed by your Christianity.”
“No, it’s a different attitude. I can’t say, ‘Well, should we go to a movie or jump in the sack?’ to a guy I’ve known since I was a kid no matter how cute he is or how much I like him. I’ve had casual sex. Just never felt right.”
“You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing all of a sudden in New York?”
“First things first. How’s Cage?” Her forehead arches in concern.
“He’s great. The garden’s growing. He sounds cheerful whenever I call.”
“That’s
so good
.” Isabella looks genuinely thrilled and she is as beautiful as anyone alive. “I’m so happy for him.”
“He calls or e-mails every day to check on
me
, make sure that I’m keeping my new year’s resolution to stay dry on work nights.” I wait for her to respond but she just gives me a blank look. “So what brings you to New York out of the blue?”
Isabella takes a bite of a spring roll, looks away.
“You’ve been coy about it all evening.”
“I . . . ,” Isabella says to her plate. “I found out John was cheating on me. He’s been fucking a nurse, maybe several.” She looks up. “Stop smiling.”
“I’m sorry. Just the idea of you single makes me happy.”
“Well, try to put yourself in my shoes, Harper. Jesus.” Her eyes flash like lightning on an empty plain.
I’ve never seen her angry before. She looks positively sexy. “Sorry. I was just expressing myself honestly. I—”
“Something new for you?”
“I know you must be in a lot of pain.”
She laughs loud enough to turn heads, then whispers, “
You
. You know because you’ve made women feel this way. That’s what
you
know. What
he
feels like.”
“I’ve been betrayed before. I’ve been heartbroken.”
“So you’ve been getting back at women ever since?” Squinting, her mouth pinched, Isabella is not pretty.
“I think she just opened a door for me,” I say softly. “I’m sorry, Isabella. I’m sorry you feel like shit. I’m sorry your dreams came tumbling down.” I hesitate, then suggest, “Maybe you can work it out.”
“No. It’s over.” She looks defeated and small. “I can’t trust him. He’s not who he pretended to be. Men don’t change.”
“Maybe some can.” I consider telling her how I’ve felt like I’ve been bumping my head against a wall for so long, about my dreams, how my unconscious has been urging me away from promiscuity, but I don’t want to go on about me. The waiter arrives with plates of Vietnamese noodles and squid. Isabella barely sees him, smiles wearily, then leans against the table, resting her arms on the cloth. Her knuckles look like little broken spines.
“It’s as painful as anything.” I reach across and cup one of her fists. It’s cold and limp. “Losing someone you love is like a death.”
“That’s what they all say.” She pulls her hand away and takes her chopsticks, picks at a bowl of steamed rice, then sets the sticks across her plate. “You know, I’m suddenly very tired. I’m really sorry—”
“Then let’s go.” I watch her take a large drink of water.
“I’ll catch a cab. You finish your dinner.”
“You want me to drop you at Gramercy Park?”
“It’s out of your way.” She shakes her head.
“Do you want to do something tomorrow? The Met? The MoMA? The Museum of Natural History?”
“Let’s go there.” Isabella looks like she could cry, stammers, “I liked Dooner.” Suddenly the threatening squall is gone. She laughs. “I had fun tonight, Harper.” She stands up. “Thanks for dinner and the movie.”
“I always love seeing you.” I rise from my seat. “You’re the real reason I visit my parents.” I curve my arm around her waist and walk her toward the door. “My mother loves you for that.”
Isabella laughs. To the hostess I say, “Be right back.”
“Sure, Harper.”
“She’s pretty,” Isabella says, going out the door. “Have you ever fucked her?”
“No.” I laugh.
“But you thought about it.”
“Not recently.” I fight back a grin. “Look, it rained while we were in there.”
A cab is coming up Lafayette, the tires sizzling on the wet pavement. I wave my hand and whistle.
“I’ll call you in the morning,” she says. “Thanks. You cheered me up a bit.”
“I rekindled your belief in the goodness of men?”
“No, in the adorableness of some rakes.” She kisses me hard on the lips and jumps in the cab.
Isabella stares at the typical all-female family of elephants frozen in midstep on the fake African plain, the old matriarch trailed by daughters and grandchildren, the young males cast out in adolescence to wander alone or in temporary boys’ clubs. As I explain the social system, Isabella bites her lower lip, and her vulnerability and defiance almost make me faint. I lose my train of thought. Isabella glances at me, waiting for me to finish, then suddenly focuses in on my eyes as if she sees something new there. Neither of us speaks for a moment.