Texas Summer (12 page)

“Don’t drop the monkey man!” he yelled at the top of his voice, and he lifted him to his shoulder for all to see. Mister Dan was squealing and grimacing in a sort of joyous consternation.

Here the thoroughfare crossed the midway, and someone from one of the shows must have recognized him, because the “Hey Rube!” cry went up, and two men in coveralls converged on Harold and Lawrence, yelling:

“Hey Rube! They’ve got Mister Dan! Hey Rube!”

“We gotta start lookin’ for tall cotton,” said Lawrence as he took Mister Dan from his shoulder and lowered him to the ground.

“Good-bye, monkey man!” he said, pulling Harold by the arm. “Let’s head for the dang pickup!”

So they took off, leaving the monkey man with the jacket still draped around him. One of the two men picked him up, while the other one chased after Harold and Lawrence — past the rock-throwing concession, behind the Loop-O-Plane, and almost to the big Ferris wheel itself, before he realized they were long gone.

XII

B
IG
N
AIL SAT
near the back of the half-empty Greyhound, next to a window so encrusted with red dust that it was barely translucent, despite the blazing afternoon sun that seared the bone-dry countryside.

After he had left the farmhouse, he had gone to the toolshed, located a chisel and a heavy hammer, and removed his leg-iron. So that, wearing ordinary work clothes instead of his prison garb, and without the telltale leg-iron, he appeared quite normal — except for his scarred and deadly countenance. He gazed dully out the window, seeing almost nothing because of the dust-caked glass; but, as the bus slowed to a stop in front of the war monument in the main square of a dusty little town, Big Nail was able to make out clearly three of the very few words he knew — not because he could read them, but like Pavlov’s dog, he had learned to recognize them, now emblazoned across a big gold star on the side of a glistening white automobile: TEXAS STATE POLICE. The furrows of his brow narrowed to an even darker interest.

“Sweet fuckin’ Jesus,” he muttered, “don’t leave me now.”

A part of his mind leaped back to the ditch and the voices yelling behind him. “Git ’im!” he heard Cap’n say again. “Git that black son’bitch! Blow ’im in two!”

And then his brain was flooded with the image of a bull-mastiff that Cap’n had been training to fight in the pit, the dog laboring on a crude treadmill, with two weights hooked to its lower jaw, the gaping mouth dripping blood and saliva.

“The heavier the weight,” Cap’n had said, “the sharper the bite.”

And Bull Watson had snickered and spat a trail of Red Man across the room, before he replied: “Wal ah
reck-tum.
”

The image had returned to Big Nail in a dream; except in the dream
he
was the dog, and it wasn’t Cap’n and Bull Watson in the dream, it was always somebody else.

Now the police car, which seemed to have been lazily browsing at the corner near the bus stop, slowly nosed up and, with just enough screech of rubber to suggest potential drama, peeled away from the curb and headed down the highway out of town. Big Nail sighed heavily.

“Sweet mutha-fuckah,” he said half aloud. “Gimme a sharp bite today!”

If his countenance and the subdued rage there softened for a moment when the police car left, it clouded again as he looked up, into the face of a white boy of about seventeen — a boy who, as the bus pulled away from its stop, had left his seat to walk down the aisle, hesitant and nervous, but finally managing to lean over and say in a genial tone: “Excuse me...I’m a student at Arlington College...and we’re doing a study on low-rent housing in this area of Johnson County, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions...”

Big Nail glowered. “Say
what?
”

The young man tentatively eased himself down on the armrest of the seat and repeated his question.

“What we’re interested in,” he went on, “is the low-rent housing situation in this county.”

Big Nail did not reply at once, but gazed at the large many-dialed wristwatch that had been exposed on the young man’s arm when he moved to sit down, bracing himself with one hand against the back of the seat in front of them, and continuing to talk as though now having committed himself too far to turn back.

“Would it be okay to, uh, ask you a few questions about the housing situation in your area?”

“Uh-huh.” Big Nail raised his dull killer-gaze to the young man’s blue eyes. “What’s you want to know ’bout dat, uh, ‘situation’?”

The young man asked the questions he had on a printed sheet, jotting down the answers in a small notebook. After a few queries, however, it became apparent that Big Nail’s situation was somewhat atypical, and perhaps of dubious value for a survey of this nature.

“Ah been away from this place,” Big Nail explained. “Ah been gone on a
trip,
you see what ah mean.”

The student was understanding and very polite. He did not know if Big Nail was telling the truth about having been on a trip or simply did not wish to respond to personal questions. In either case, he was prepared to forego the questionnaire in favor of general conversation, which was not long in occurring.

“Lemme ast you somethin’,” said Big Nail after a minute. “How much do a watch like that cost?”

The student was not sure about the price of the watch, but at least it was a talking point, and he made the most of it. Indeed he was so loquacious that Big Nail felt obliged to interrupt at one point, laying a hand on the young man’s arm.

“Would you, uh,
read
somethin’ for me?” he asked, and he took a small folded square of lined tablet paper from his shirt pocket. It was limp and soiled from age and handling. “Ah think ah know what it say,” he continued, handing over the paper, “but I want to be sure that I do, if you know what ah mean.”

The young man seemed pleased by the opportunity to help someone in the other’s circumstances.

“Certainly,” he said, unfolding the paper, “I’d be more than glad to.”

He looked at the smudged and creased page from the dimestore lined writing tablet, and it was apparent from his slight frown of distance and consternation that he had never before encountered, nor perhaps imagined, so primitive a document. The words had been printed in an unsure and tentative manner by a thick leaded pencil and were spelled phonetically:

THE WELFAIR TOLE ME TO RITE YOU BECUSE OF BOOKER AND THE LAW THAT SAY I HAB TO TRY TO
CONTACK
YOU TO GIT THE WELFAIR FOR BOOKER. C.K. HAS TRY TO HELP. HE IS GOOD TO BOOKER. I HAB TO GO TO WORK NOW. TRY AND DONT HURT NOBODY ELSE.

CORA LEE

Somewhat self-consciously, but without much difficulty otherwise, the young man read the letter aloud to Big Nail, then refolded it and handed it back to him.

Big Nail grunted and muttered, “That what ah thought it say,” as he accepted the letter and replaced it in his pocket, adding, “Ah obliged.”

“You’re very welcome,” said the young man, perhaps not really having understood the other’s remark.

XIII

T
HAT EVENING AT
supper Harold’s mother announced that they would be receiving a visit from Aunt Flora and Caddy — her sister and her sister’s thirteen-year-old daughter.

“They’re driving down to Mexico City,” she said, “and they’ll stop over and spend the night, and start out again the next day. It’ll be a nice way for them to break their trip, won’t it?”

They were city folks, with different, perhaps higher, values and very sensitive in many and unusual ways — all of which Harold’s mother felt she could, if not fully understand, at least appreciate; she was anxious that nothing upset them.

“We have to decide,” she said, “which one of those horses would be best for Caddy.”

Harold scoffed. “She can’t ride worth a lick anyway.” He looked at his father to confirm it, but his mother went on: “No, Flora said she’s been taking lessons and that she goes riding in the park every Saturday morning.”

It did not sound right to Harold, and he made a face. “In the dang park...,” he muttered.

“Now you can just stop it,” said his mother firmly. “Caddy is your first cousin and she’s a wonderful girl. So stop being so silly.”

Harold’s grandfather looked up from his plate.

“Is that Flo’s girl you’re talking about?” he asked. “Caddy? Is that who you’re talking about?”

“Why yes it is, Granddad,” said Harold’s mother, pleased at his show of interest. “You remember Caddy, don’t you? She visited us last year.”

“Hell yes, I remember her,” he said. “An’ I’ll tell you something else too — that little girl has the makings of a blue-ribbon
rump
on her, an’ that’s a fack!”

Harold’s mother made a face and shook her head.

“Granddad,” she demanded, “what on earth are you talking about?” She glanced uneasily at Harold and his father.

“Well, I’m tryin’ to tell you,” the old man went on, “them jeans she was wearin’ looked like they was a couple of ripe mushmelons back there. I’ve never seen better,” he declared, then added, “on any gal her age.”

“Granddad...,” pleaded Harold’s mother. “You get sillier every day.”

But he was adamant. “She’s a dead ringer for her mother at that age,” he said. “Or that part of her is anyway. Don’t you remember what a cutter Flo use’ to be? Why she could sashay with the best of ’em!”

Harold’s mother was exasperated. “Granddad...,” she said, drawing out the word. “Flo is still a young, beautiful woman. You talk about her like she was some kind of old maid. Good heavens.”

“Of course she’s a beauty,” said the old man, “an’ so was
her
mother — so you shouldn’t be surprised that Caddy is developin’ the way she is.”

“Well I wouldn’t trust her to ride Blackie,” said Harold.

“Of course not,” said his mother, glad that the subject was changing. “He’s too wild and crazy for her.”

“He ain’t wild,” said Harold with as much emphasis as he dared, “an’ he sure ain’t crazy neither.”

“Don’t say ‘ain’t,’ Son,” his mother said.

“He’s just high-spirited, hon,” said Harold’s father. “I reckon that’s what you mean.”

“He’s got a cockeye,” she said. “I noticed it again the other day.”

“Just a mite high-spirited,” repeated his father, as if that settled it, but he went on: “I reckon we could borrow that horse of Les Newgate’s again.”

His mother brightened. “Yes, that’s the one she rode last time, isn’t it?”

Harold sighed. “If you want to call it that,” he said.

“That roan-colored horse of Les Newgate’s,” his mother went on. “Yes, that’s a very nice horse.” She looked at Harold. “Would you ask him, Son?”

“Yes ma’m,” Harold said, as stiff and formal as he could manage.

“And stop being so silly,” his mother added.

When Aunt Flora and Caddy came for a visit down from Dallas, they often brought small expensive gifts from Neiman Marcus — scarves, gloves, neckties, billfolds, and the like for Harold and the two men, and a cashmere sweater for Harold’s mother and occasionally a piece of exotic lingerie. This time they brought hunting vests for Harold and his father — quite fancy, with ammo pockets of soft leather — a pair of small German binoculars for his grandfather, and a lacy camisole for his mother.

“Caddy picked it herself,” said Aunt Flo.

“It’s lovely, hon,” said his mother to Caddy, and kissed her.

Caddy had recently become a cheerleader at her high school, and had worn her purple sweater and white pleated skirt for them to see. She was blond and blue-eyed and as cute as a girl of thirteen could be. Harold’s mother asked her to show them one of the routines she was learning, so she did a few cheerleading jumps and turns on the front porch. It was also the first time that her mother had seen her perform.

“Caddy,” said Aunt Flo at one point, “try not to let your skirt go so high when you twirl like that.”

“
Mo-ther...,
” said the girl in exasperation, “that’s the way it’s supposed to go! Good grief!”

On this visit, in addition to the gifts and the cheerleading demonstration, Aunt Flo and Caddy had brought with them their dedication to Moon, a new card game that was all the craze in the cities and towns of Texas at the time, and Harold and his mother were obliged to play the game with them. So now, after supper, when the dishes had been cleared away, and Harold’s father and grandfather had gone into the parlor, where the bookcase of
National Geographics
was kept, and had settled down to reading the local papers or listening to the radio, Harold was required to forgo his game of catch or fungo practice with C.K. and sit down with his mother and Aunt Flora and Caddy at the round kitchen table for a game of Moon.

It was not a complicated game, but a certain amount of scorekeeping was required on the part of the person designated to do so. It seemed quite natural that Caddy, as the genuine aficionado of the game, should be the first to keep score, and Harold had provided her with the paper and pencil to do so. After half a dozen hands, however, she made her mouth into a petulant rose and said, “I just wish somebody else would keep score for a while.”

“Why don’t you try it, Son,” his mother said.

And when Harold agreed, Caddy brought the paper and pencil around to his side of the table. She showed Harold the figures on the paper and explained what they meant. At first she was just standing next to him, but her arm was so close to his that he was certain he could feel the body heat of it. He was wondering if she would lean forward or kneel down to better explain, which she did, in an even more perfect way than he had conceived, resting a bare golden arm on the table, and leaning her head forward so that one or two blond locks dangled indolently just above the paper. The whole thing, beginning with her getting up from her chair on the opposite side of the table — the languid poise of her perfect cheerleading body rising from her chair, her hands for an instant smoothing the front of her skirt as in, or so it seemed, an involuntary caress — then the fluid movement around the table, and finally, and for some reason the most extraordinary thing of all: the incredibly sweet scent that preceded — like the heralding of something angelic — the fall of her hair past his face as she lowered her head.

“Sorry about my unruly mop,” she said, as the golden strands momentarily touched the paper.

“That’s okay,” Harold managed, and she gave him an American cherry-pie girl-next-door smile that was dazzling.

Now, as she leaned over the table, the upper part of her arm pressing his, her face only inches away, the slender gold chain-locket dangling in what seemed to be a free and careless manner, Harold knew that if she were wearing anything other than her cheerleader sweater, he would, at this angle, be looking down at her breasts, as he had last year with the gaping pajama top. He tried to recall exactly how they looked, to fit the remembered image with the pert mounds confronting him now from beneath her sweater, which was neither tight nor loose but just right so that they might have appeared like nesting birds, soft and warm, even occasionally stirring, or so it seemed.

The first time the pencil fell to the floor was a complete accident. Harold, somewhat unnerved after his moment of scorekeeping instruction, had replaced the pencil on the table by the paper in so careless a way that it simply rolled off and fell to the floor. He felt it strike the top of his foot and fall forward, toward the center of the table. Although he was embarrassed about the awkwardness of having dropped it, he was relieved that before leaning down to retrieve it, he was certain he knew exactly where it would be, so that the incident would not be prolonged by his having to grope about looking for it. And indeed it was there, when he leaned over, just as he had imagined, on the floor in front of his left foot. What he was not prepared for, however, was the extraordinary spectacle presented by the rest of the scene. He did not notice, at least for very long, what was happening with the legs and feet of his mother and Aunt Flora, for his gaze, as if it were a heat-seeking missile, went straight to Caddy. Her feet, in brown-and-white saddle shoes and short white socks, were quite properly close together; but her knees were about as wide apart as her skirt would allow them to be. Harold was so astonished that for the moment he was unable to register the visual image, only the realization that it was there. Then he picked up the pencil and this time allowed his eye to focus — on the left bare dimpled knee, then quickly along the golden curving thigh to the magical white V, which seemed to Harold to represent the ultimate achievement of the experience.

As he raised himself and replaced the pencil by the paper, he avoided at all costs looking at anyone, even wondering if they somehow knew. He felt that having done it was wrong, but it was too extraordinary a thing to regret. He felt it was somehow much more serious than what he and Lawrence had experienced at his sister’s bathroom window. And he knew Lawrence would envy him for it. But he also knew he did not intend to share it.

After that, Harold played the game quietly and intently, as he tried to muster up the courage to do it again; but with no success. Then it was his turn to deal the cards; he was shuffling them and, without his having even considered such a possibility, a card flipped out during the shuffle and fell in his lap, and then, still without connivance, as if to crown the festival of serendipity, the card fell to the floor. On this occasion, when Harold retrieved the card he was prepared, and he believed or imagined that by now his eyes were more accustomed to the half-light beneath the table — where, as he soon discovered, the fabulous tableau remained unchanged, but was even enhanced when, during the fleeting eternity while his eyes devoured the sublime spectacle, one of Caddy’s hands resting on her right leg just above the knee, began absently, carelessly to rub a small area of her leg, just above the knee. Despite better judgment, Harold risked another instant so that his gaze could retravel the enchanted stretch from knee to the mysterious sheen of the white triangle there, even allowing himself the luxury of a split millisecond of speculation as to the color of the hair behind it.

Following this triumph, he felt sated and was determined not to press his luck — that is, until Caddy, reacting to some development in the game, or perhaps for no reason at all, shifted in her chair. Harold immediately wondered if her movement had caused a change in the undertable tableau and, in the end, he could not resist one last artful drop of the pencil — and an extraordinary thing occurred: the young girl had indeed changed her position; her legs were now together — closely, securely, together. Harold felt strangely relieved, as if something that had gotten dangerously out of hand was back to normal. He quickly retrieved the pencil, glad that it was all over and feeling only a slight guilt about his behavior. But in the instant he began raising himself, and his eyes, the legs miraculously parted, affording one last riveting glimpse. But what was to become the most haunting and consuming thing of all was his gradual speculation as to whether or not she had deliberately parted them, aware all along of his craven antics.

The cotton harvest began the day Aunt Flo and Caddy arrived. Harold might have joined C.K., Lawrence, and a few others to go over to Farney and make some extra money picking cotton at the big syndicate farm; but because of their visitors, his mother had asked him to stay home and go horseback riding with Caddy.

Harold had imagined that Caddy would appear in some kind of strange foreign-outfit, and he was relieved when she turned up in ordinary faded jeans and what looked like a boy’s shirt.

He was also greatly relieved, and even pleased, when it became apparent that she had become a much better rider since the last time, because he knew he would be blamed if she fell off the horse or had a similar mishap.

She was riding the horse he had borrowed from Les Newgate — a roan mare not much more spirited than an ordinary farm horse, ideal for the walking gait with which they set off for the pond, Harold making a mental note to avoid the pasture where the red bull stayed, and hoping that he had not somehow gotten out. Most of his thoughts, however, dwelt on the events of the previous evening. He did not recall having ever behaved in such an underhanded and incomprehensible manner. The earlier business of spying on Lawrence’s sister through the bathroom window was done, he felt, simply because they knew it was wrong, and somewhat dangerous; and also it had been Lawrence’s idea. But there had not been the compulsion, the crazed urgency he had felt last night in retrieving the pencil.

He could still not entertain the notion that she might have been aware of what he was doing; it was too fantastic. Surely she would have kicked over the table, exposing him, denouncing him, and storming out of the house, leaving his mother and Aunt Flora sobbing hysterically, and his father reaching for an ax handle, if not the ax itself. And so of course the parting of her legs during the last time had been a total coincidence — just an absent, reflexive, involuntary movement; he would have to be crazy to imagine anything else.

The presents from Neiman Marcus that Caddy and her mother usually brought with them were always extraordinarily packaged — beautiful and glittering gift-wrapping being one of the store’s most exclusive hallmarks. Harold never failed to be impressed by the extravagant beauty of the wrapping — and then, of course, equally impressed to see that the quality of the gift seemed, after all, to warrant such finery of presentation.