Spinning Dixie (13 page)

Little Tennessee aliens were chirping outside my window. In a half-sleepy haze, I thought they might be crickets with Southern accents. When I blinked myself awake and lucidity took hold, I concluded that crickets in Tennessee didn't have Southern accents any more than crickets in New Jersey confronted their woodland neighbors with
“Whatta you lookin' at?”

I tried falling back asleep, but my most gnawing tendency kept me awake: the conviction that wiser humans were doing some authentic living while I was perpetrating a fraud with my time.

Claudine traverses the valleys in my brain. I know by sound the distance between her footsteps and the precise blade of grass that her soles will crush when her foot touches down. I know the wind path in which leaves will blow when she breezes by a tree. I can anticipate the moment she'll nibble at the inside of her lower lip (right side) during a pregnant pause in conversation, and how many milliseconds it will take to return to the unposed pout—borne either by a sequencing in her upper lip's genetic code, or God's decision to focus his full powers on torturing me. The scent of known flowers lingers long after she's out of my sight. The last thing Claudine says to me before a separation reverberates in my limbic system as if it's a command from Mount Sinai (“That grass down by the icehouse needs some mowin'…”)

I could see from my window a light on in the mansion. I envisioned Indy conspiring with Patrick Henry to give somebody liberty or somebody death (probably me). The night whisperers outside my window continued to beckon. I slipped on a pair of cutoff shorts and my work boots, grabbed a flashlight, and left my quarters.

It occurred to me when I stumbled on a rock that this excursion might not be wise. I didn't see myself as an intrepid youth, certainly not the horror movie genius who inevitably came up with the suggestion “let's split up.” Nevertheless, everything associated with Claudine Polk in my kindling brain promised wonder and awe, so I proceeded stupidly into exotic darkness.

Pacing to the west of the plantation, the high-pitched whine grew louder, and cultivated the rhythm of something man-made, perhaps hydraulic. My visceral reaction: fear. Nevertheless, I proceeded through a patch of woods. I saw a ridge in the distance ahead of me, and set it as my final destination. If the mysterious beast didn't reveal itself there, I'd beat it back to the safety of the old slaves' quarters.

The ridge began to swell beneath my feet. I figured I was about a mile from the mansion, unsure if I was even on Polk grounds anymore. When I reached the top, I peered into a valley and saw globs of lava dripping like tears from another planet onto the ground.
Urim and Thummim, I thought—the glowing dice of God's Revelation.
The lava, once on earth, oozed through a stream and vanished in a death hiss somewhere beyond my vision—and well out of sight of the slumbering Polks.

I considered the possibility that I might be the spirit of a Confederate soldier witnessing the final mile of Sherman's march. Perhaps I was the soul of a slain warrior about to greet a saint or even a Polk. Could I use the Polk name to advance my status in the next life? Maybe things here didn't work like a casino disco in Atlantic City.

I returned to modernity when a mosquito bit me close to my heart. Anybody who itched this badly couldn't be dead.

I studied the sky once more and concluded that the fireballs were being secreted from the heavens in syncopation with the sound I had originally attributed to crickets. My
Fantasia
sensibility collapsed when I saw the lights of a massive truck go on. The power of the lights revealed two human shapes, a slim wiry man and a squat, beefy one. They were no further than one hundred yards from me.

I heard my own breathing, and turned quickly around on the path. This movement sent a handful of pebbles tumbling down the other side of the ridge. The silhouettes reacted to the infinitesimal shift in tundra. I began to run.

My feet were sliding in my work boots, which were making too much noise against the earth. A masculine voice echoed from the direction of the glowing sky, but I knew the voice did not belong to God. It had a foothills twang, the kind that is attached to rural places, Union or Confederate.

I thought about turning off my flashlight, but was afraid I'd careen into a tree. Glancing over my shoulder, I did not see the silhouettes. Throttling down to a brisk walk, I made it back to my quarters. Until the sun rose, I lay in bed staring at the fireballs waltzing across the ceiling and listening to the washing-machine swish of my heart.

Claudine knocked on my door. I was already dressed.

“I don't believe you,” Claudine said, looking more like a Technicolor lithograph in an orange polo shirt and khaki shorts than a mere person.

“You don't believe me about what?”

“I read the note you left on my pillow.”

“I didn't know how you would take it.”

“I think it's neat, your religion.”

I was exotic. This could be good. No, it couldn't. Claudine pulled me outside, and we sat on the grass.

“I was worried about what you would think,” I said.

“Why would I think something? I'm Episcopalian. You don't think strangely of me.”

“That's because you're not strange.”

She thought for a few beats.

“I don't understand why you would be afraid to tell me.”

“Claudine, it's the South. There's that whole ‘Who killed Jesus?' thing.”

“That has nothing to do with you.”

“Claudine, who do you believe killed Jesus?”

“The Jews.”

“Aha!”

“But this was God's will. It wouldn't have happened unless God had wanted it. It's not like some ongoing vendetta.”

“I don't know, Claudine.”

“Well, it's not what we think here. I don't even understand why people don't like Jews.”

“Do you know any besides me?”

“I know one. I knew a girl from Nashville named Judith Altman. Someone said she was Jewish. What do you think hating Jewish people is all about?”

“There are different brands of hate, I think,” I said.

“Brands? Like soap?”

“Exactly. Different reasons to hate appeal to different people. Some people hate the Jewish commie—the activist, protesting type. My grandfather goes nutty every time he sees some guy like Abbie Hoffman whining on TV. Mickey says, ‘If you want to feel sorry for somebody,' he says, ‘Feel sorry for the Indians!' He says that showing weakness makes people want to kill you, not defend you.”

“That's terrible.”

“Maybe…. Then there's the Chosen hate. There are the people who park illegally in certain spaces because they think they can, and push their way to the front of lines because they think that's what being Chosen means. They have big hair and wear gold.”

“That sounds like Texas.”

“Aren't there things about Southerners that make you be critical of your own.”

“I guess. Feminists make fun of the Southern hostess, who just run around asking if you'd like some pie.” Claudine pronounced pie loudly for effect—
pah!
“When I see certain types, like the bubbas, I get embarrassed—like everybody'll think we all support what they believe.”

“See.”

Claudine was on a roll. “Then there's the stupid but harmless hick, like Jethro in
The Beverly Hillbillies.
What about who you marry, Jonah?”

“If my parents were alive, they would want me to marry someone of my own faith.”

“What do
you
want?”

“I don't know, Claudine. I think the world is different than it was when my parents got married. Jewish kids are brought up to want the whole world, and then parents get angry when they go out into that world and find things that aren't Jewish. You can't win. The Jewish guys I know all want to meet Christian girls and the Jewish girls view Jewish guys as…Motel the Tailor.”

“Who?”

“The tailor Motel Kamzoil in
Fiddler on the Roof
. You saw the play at your school, right? This nice Jewish boy who you have to end up with because, in the village, Motel's a catch, remember? In a bar in Margate, he's depressing, he's a huge step back for a girl. He's evidence that she blew it in America.”

“I'm sorry, Jonah, I'm just not getting you at all.”
Gittin' ye-ew eh-tall. “Fiddler on the Roof
is a play, not a dating guide.” I kissed Claudine because I had to. How could I not kiss a woman who said things like
gittin' ye-ew eh-tall
? There was no hope of resolving this existential debate. She was the answer to this question.

Claudine's voice grew husky as her lips left mine. “Know what I think?” she asked softly. “I think we take the things that we like and leave the rest behind. Like we've had to do at Rattle & Snap.”

“But you can't have a successful slave-free plantation.”

“We are trying, Jonah, we are trying so hard. What about you?”

“I'm a kid from the Jersey Shore. But I haven't found answers there. I've found answers here.”

“Do Mickey and Deedee see you with me?”

“Deedee thinks you're going to break my heart.”

“I see,” Claudine said sadly. “Do you think I will break your heart?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

What I could not tell her was that Heartbreak was how I defined her. Deedee and her sage insight, predicting things. Claudine was discontentment and impossibility wrapped in a sweet, wafer-thin confection of longing. I pushed her slowly back onto the hot, soft grass and kissed away my doubts.

“I saw something funny,” I said eventually.

“In the mirror?” Claudine inquired, pleased with her mock.

“Well, there's that. But I couldn't sleep last night, so I took a walk. There was a chirping sound, a hissing or something.”

Claudine scrunched up her nose. “I've never heard anything like that.”

“Anyhow, I took a walk southwest of the plantation.”

Claudine sat up. “In the middle of the night? Why would you do that?”

“Because I heard a strange noise.”

“You shouldn't have done that.”

“Why, is somebody going to mug me?”

“No, nothing like that. It's dark. You might have fallen.”

Claudine hadn't struck me as a girl who sat around worrying about the fragility of men. “I had a flashlight.”

She said okay, cautiously.

“When I got over a ridge, I saw the sky glowing. It was like drops of lava were falling.”

“That sounds crazy,” Claudine said. She began to kiss me assertively. It was not her style, but I didn't care for the moment. Usually when I kissed Claudine, I thought of nothing but her, the consummation of my hair-trigger romanticism saturating my senses. This time, I was thinking of the fire in the sky and the two men who stood by the snaking valley of lava. I sang to her a verse from “Volcano,” a popular Jimmy Buffett song:

She laughed at me, so I tickled her. After hours in the grass, we rose, our faces chapped with kiss tracks. Neither of us had left the issue of our origins.

“What kind of name is Price?” Claudine asked.

“It's made-up. Mickey changed his name when he was thirteen. He was born in Romania, but I think his name got mutilated on the boat over by a Polish officer. That happened to a lot of immigrants. By the way, how do you think of Jewish people?” I asked.

“Just as people looking for the Promised Land.”

“And where is that, Claudine?”

“Israel, dummy,” she answered.

“Mmhh.”

“Mmhh what, Jonah?”

“Israel isn't my Promised Land.”

“What is, Jonah?”

“Rattle & Snap.”

Claudine rested her head against my collar. “Well, that changes things, doesn't it?”

On a punishing hot day in mid-June, I wrapped up my work inside the church early. During the past few weeks, I had cleared the sanctuary of debris and stripped away and stained the floor and pews. Elijah was impressed with my progress and hurried down to a hardware store to buy paint for the ceiling and walls.

“Didn't think you'd do all this so quick, with such passion. My, my.”

I wandered toward the mansion to see if Claudine wanted to ride horses into the woods and have lunch. This was code, of course. While we had spent many hours during the evenings together, the Polks were never far away and I was very self-conscious about getting caught in any textile removal. Last night, as I rolled around in bed, hugging my pillow pretending it was Claudine, I made the decision to use any legal means necessary to get her somewhere far away where we couldn't be caught. The worst she could do was to wave me off, but I figured I'd be some sort of mutant if I didn't try. I thought the Valley of Lava might be a romantic overlook, but remembered how upset Claudine had become when I told her about my wandering. Now, here I was, semimolesting a pillow in a converted plantation slave house.

Claudine suddenly burst out of the kitchen onto the brick patio, crying. She shouted “Fine, Mother,” as she slammed the door.

What to do. It was one of those times where I was afraid of getting decked if I tried to insert myself into the situation, but afraid of coming off like an insensitive ass if I just stood there.

“Claud?”

“I can't now, Jonah,” she cried. She held up her hand the way a cop would.

Claudine stomped somewhere behind the mansion.

Unbeknownst to me, Indy Six was watching this from the back porch.

“Petie nailed your girlfriend with her six-shooter,” Six said happily, as a little brother would. “Pow!”

“What was that about?”

Six bounded down the inside stairs in his bathing suit, holding a transistor radio grenade-style, and invited me to swim in the pond. Given that Operation Apparel Minimization had to be aborted for now, I got a pair of swim shorts and followed Six to the pond.

The water bubbling up from a natural spring was surprisingly cool. Six dived in. I swiped at the water from a gazebo with my toes, a maneuver I immediately regretted. Totally gay.

“Enough toeing the water, Jonah,” Six said from midpond. “C'mon in.”

I hopped in, went completely under, and shot up, mouth agape, like Mr. Bruno. The machine-gun piano prelude to Billy Joel's “Angry Young Man” was playing on Six's transistor.

“Too cold for ya, huh?” Six splashed.

I responded by swimming toward him and dunking him. He tried dunking me back, but I tripped him from beneath and crammed him down again. Seeing the mansion rising behind him, I felt like I was drowning history itself, so I let Six up for air.

“So, what was that about back there with your sister?” I asked.

“Claudine and Mother go at it now and again.”

“What about?”

“I think this one was about J.T. stopping by for dinner tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah, he called and talked to Petie. His girlfriend. She told him he could come by for dessert.”

“Oh. What did Claudine say?” Casual interest masking clinical depression.

“Don't know. Can you be cool with this?”

“Can I behave? Yeah. Can I be cool with this? No way. I love her, Six.”

Six stuck his neck out, ostrichlike, aghast.

“Why so much, though?”

“If I knew, maybe I could turn it off.”

“Maybe you should try, Jonah.”

“Why would you say something like that?” I asked, watching the sunlight reflect off of Six's hair.

“Because you've got all the odds against you.”

“Does your mother hate me that much?”

“No, I don't think she hates you. You're just, I don't know, standing in the way of this big old train she's got coming down the tracks.”

“What's the train exactly?” I wondered. “Claudine can't get married this young.”

“I dunno, Jonah. It's like it's gonna be. Hilliard's a big name down here, like the Polks are. You saw that gravestone: Sallie Hilliard Polk. It ends up that way, I guess. J.T.'s father, Smoky Hilliard, is a big businessman.”

“What does that have to do with Claudine?”

“What are you yelling at me for? I'm just telling you the way it is. Sorry to hurt you so utterly.”

I laughed. “Utterly,” I repeated.

“What's wrong with ‘utterly'?”

“Oh, nothing. It's just a strange word. It makes me think of milking cows.”

“Yeah?” Six asked. “You milk Claudine yet?”

“Six!”

“You oughta.”

“Watch it, Six.” I bit my lip and submerged. When I resurfaced, Six was still stuck on sex.

“I'm serious. If it was me, I would. Six put his hand on my shoulder. “You really love that dumb girl crazy, don't you?”

“I told you I do.”

“I just don't see it. She's not made for it like you are.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You're like this gangster guy on the outside with your family and all—”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“C'mon, Jonah, we're Southern; we're not in a coma. But you're no gangster under the skin.”

“Thanks, Six.”

“Elijah and I were talking about it. Claudie thinks you're…I dunno, the outlaw Josie Wales or somebody. But we see how you are with Claudie, and you're like the guy you hope she'll marry.”

“You say that like you're disappointed.”

“Oh, I'm not. I'd take you over J.T. any day of the week. That guy thinks he owns her. Maybe where you come from, you've got what it takes to win the games you play, but down here's another story. I dunno, Jonah, maybe not every girl wants what you think she wants.”

I wanted to drown. The kid had sliced me wide open.

“Hey, Six, does she love me?”

“Whoa…” He slipped under water for a while.

Six, soaking: “I don't know how you figure a thing like that, Jonah. All I know is that I've never seen her like this with anybody. I see her grinning like Raggedy Ann up in her room. Yeah, I'd say she loves you. As best she can.”