Texas Summer (13 page)

Now in a flash of recollection, Caddy’s legs beneath the table, close together prim and proper, the bare dimpled knees then slowly parting, and the golden limbs, finally to reveal at their apex the triangle of white panty sheen. Wasn’t this perhaps the most elaborate, and appropriate of all gift wrappings? And if so, was it being offered as such?

“Are you always this quiet?” Caddy wanted to know, having to lean out from her saddle to get his attention.

“Huh?”

“What were you thinking about just now?” she pressed on.

“Oh, you mean just now?” said Harold, having to come out of it, somewhat more abruptly than he might have liked.

“Nothing really I guess.”

Just as they arrived at the pond, it began to rain. They stopped under a large willow and tethered the horses. Caddy secured her reins by knotting them around the nearest limb, but when she saw Harold do a one-hand corral cinch, she was intrigued.

“How on earth did you do that?” she asked, her eyes wide and very blue.

So Harold was obliged to show her the simple manipulation of the two leather straps, having to hold her hand and guide it through the move. In doing it he had to stand on her right-hand side, very close and slightly behind her. He was careful not to press against her, but even so the pressure was there — between their upper arms — and unexpectedly, but most notably, between Harold’s upper leg and Caddy’s right hip. And he was again aware of the extraordinary fragrance of her hair, now only inches from his cheek. As he looked down to where his hand was holding and guiding hers, he was looking past the open collar of the shirt she was wearing — a boy’s cotton shirt, with the top three buttons undone — looking past it, but perhaps not entirely past it, because what also registered in his peripheral vision was the gold locket, resting at the end of its slender chain, between her two perfect breasts, each of which were gift-wrapped, as it were, in a floral filigree edged with lace.

“Neiman’s,” she said, catching his eye while it lingered. “Like it?”

Before Harold could consider a response, she took his arm. “Look, there’s a dry spot,” she said, indicating the ground next to the trunk of the tree where the overhanging boughs were most dense.

“It’s a set,” she went on while Harold was sitting down with his back against the tree, and when he looked up she undid the first button on her beltless jeans.

“See?” she asked brightly, opening them just enough to reveal the top two or three inches of her matching panties — all done with such apparent ingenuousness that Harold could only marvel at how oblivious she seemed to the effect she could have on other people.

“Well?” she asked as she buttoned her jeans and sat down opposite him.

“What?”

“Did you
like
them?” she wanted to know, laughing and flipping a twig at him to show her impatience.

“Oh, sure,” he said in a somewhat perfunctory manner, then added in a voice that trailed away: “They’re...wonderful.” He could not recall ever having used the word before.

The rain had gradually softened and finally stopped altogether, so that now, on the bank of the pond, under the great green canopy of the willow, it was like an oasis. Caddy stretched herself, one limb at a time, like a cat.

“This is marvelous,” she said. “Do you spend a lot of time here?”

Harold felt overcome with awkwardness. “You mean here, under the tree?”

Caddy laughed, then looked serious. “I want to ask you something,” she said, “and I promise I won’t be mad if it’s true.” She looked at him expectantly.

“What do you mean?” asked Harold, feeling panicky.

She smiled. “Were you looking up my skirt last night?”

“When?” he demanded, looking hurt and confused.

Caddy laughed. “When you kept picking things up under the table.”

Harold felt his face grow hot with the flush of doom; he couldn’t meet her blue eyes, which now were dancing with mischief.

“I told you I wouldn’t be mad,” she reminded him.

But it was no good; how could he possibly believe her? It had to be a trick to make him confess to his outrageous behavior. He could only sit there immobilized with guilt and some nameless apprehension. Caddy stood, stretching her arms again, her body in silhouette for a moment, and Harold saw, as if for the first time, what was involved in the pressure he had felt on his upper leg when demonstrating the corral cinch — namely, her teenage cheerleader’s blue-ribbon rump, boyishly narrow, but with softly rounded cheeks, looking pert and perfect in her snug-fitting jeans. She sighed, smiled, moved to where he was sitting and knelt down beside him. Despite his state of flushed and numbed immobility, he was immediately struck by the now most familiar fragrance of her hair, and he vaguely wondered if she had somehow managed to put more on in the last few minutes.

“Tell me what you saw,” said Caddy.

“How do you mean?” asked Harold, hoping for a great deal more time.

Caddy sighed again. “Well, when you were looking up my skirt, what did you see?”

“Well you know,” said Harold trying somehow to deprecate its significance, “your legs and so on.”

“So?” Caddy wanted to know.

“What?”

“And so what did you
think?
” She pursued it, relentlessly. “What did you think about what you saw?”

“Aw, I dunno,” said Harold.

Caddy laughed aloud.

“I really do like you, Harold,” she said. “I like you a whole lot.”

And she leaned out and kissed him, quite firmly, on the cheek.

When Harold didn’t react right away, she gave him a searching look, and crinkled her nose.

“And now what are you thinking?”

He had to clear his throat.

“Well, that it’s too bad,” he managed, “that you’re just passin’ through.”

“Oh, I’ll be back,” said Caddy, and showed him a sparkling smile. “I’ll be back before you even know it! Come on, I’ll race you to the house!”

And he could only watch as she skipped over to her horse, and away.

XIV

T
HE THREE MILES
of dirt road that connected the farm to the highway was, depending on the weather, a near impassable quagmire or a clay-hard stretch of axle-breaking ruts. When Harold and C.K. went into town in the pickup, Harold usually drove the dirt stretch, but then, at the highway, would let C.K. take over, because of being underage himself. Lately, however, Harold’s father had said that C.K. should drive the dirt stretch as well — “so he can get the practice in” — which he did, with great caution, never wanting to be in the position of having to explain some crippling mishap that befell the all-important pickup truck while he was at the wheel. Harold was slightly the better driver of the two, having had more experience, and was ever impatient with C.K.’s prudence.

“Dang it, C.K.,” he whined now, as they crept along in second gear, a plaintive western tune droning over the dashboard radio. “I never seen nobody drive so all-fired dumb in my life. You drive jest like a ole nigger washerwoman!”

But C.K. was not impressed. “Uh-huh, you jest egg me on, that’s what you do — you jest hope ah bust axle on this stretch — then you git to drive it...ah know what you do. So you see, maybe ah ain’t so dumb as you think ah is. Hee-hee.”

Harold’s impatience turned to annoyance. “Are you crazy? You really think I want us to bust the axle? All you got to do is drive
’tween
the ruts — you ain’t gonna bust no axle.”

“Well, when ah finish study this stretch a few more time, ah do that, ah drive it like you, ’tween the rut — right now ah gonna take it easy, ah don’t hit no big rock neither.” He reached over and turned the dial on the radio.

“Hey,” said Harold, “that’s good music.” He started twisting it back the other way.

C.K. grimaced in disgust. “That ole ricky-tick? That ain’t even worth listen to. Ole ricky-tick like that.”

“Are you crazy? That’s Ernest Tubbs!”

C.K. snorted. “Ole tub o’ lard, that’s who that is.”

“Dang, C.K., when it comes to music, you are as dumb as they git.” He found the station again. “Now listen to that — that’s good music.”

C.K. shook his head firmly. “Ah ain’t listen to no ole ricky-tick!” His face contorted in exaggerated pain. “Ah wish ah had somethin’ ah stick in my ear. How come you goin’ in town anyway? Ah thought Big Lawrence an’ you frien’ Tommy done gone to the summer camp.”

Harold looked out the window. “Well, I’m goin’ in to help you load them sacks of feed, what’d you think I was goin’ in for?”

“Oh, ah know why you goin’ in, you don’t shuck me none, you goin’ in ’cause you don’t want to hep you momma churn no butter, that’s why you goin’ in, hee-hee.”

C.K. had started their practice of stopping at certain places in town by saying he “had some business to take care of.”

Harold had snorted. “Sure,” he said, “you gotta pick up eight sacks of feed an’ two rolls of bob-wire — that’s the business you got to take care of.”

C.K. had frowned, shaking his head. “Ah ain’t talk ’bout that business. Ah ain’t study that business right now. Ah talk ’bout some personal business ah got to tend to. You unnerstan’ what ah say?”

“Uh-huh, well I’ll tell you one thing,” Harold had said. “We ain’t gonna take all day doin’ whatever it is you do down in there.”

C.K. had smiled. “Ah nevah said we was, did ah?”

And this had involved their crossing into a section that was known on maps, town records, and the like as “West Central Tracks” but was, in fact, spoken of simply as “Nigger Town” — and then, driving through the outlandishly bumpy labyrinth of dust, and lean-to shacks, beside which great black-charred iron washpots steamed in the Texas sun above raging bramble-fires, and black people sat or squatted in front of these ramshackle front porches, making slow cabalistic marks in the dust with a stick, or gazing trancelike at the road in front of them — driving through, and finally pulling in with the pickup, into the dirt front yard of one of the shacks.

Then at last they would be in the dark interior itself — seemingly windowless, smelling of kerosene and liniment, red beans and rice, cornbread, catfish, and possum stew — and Harold would sit in the corner with a glass of water given him and maybe a piece of hot cornbread, while C.K. sat at the table, in the yellow glow of the oil lamp, eating, always eating, forever dipping the cornbread into a bowl, head lowered in serious eating, but laughing too, and above all, saying things to make the big woman laugh, she who stood, or sat, watching him eat, his aunt, cousin, girlfriend, Harold never knew which, nor cared, until the talk about Cora Lee began. And afterward, on the way out of the section, they would stop again, at the Paradise Bar, so that C.K. could “see a friend,” while Harold, saying, “Goddang it, C.K., we can’t fool around here all day,” waited in the pickup, drinking a Dr Pepper and eating a piece of hot barbecued chicken or spareribs that C.K. had brought out to him. But finally he had started going inside, tentatively at first, either to get C.K. out of there, or to get another Dr Pepper for himself, only then perhaps to linger in watching the crap-game awhile, or listening to Blind Tom sing the blues — so that in the end all pretense of “calling on C.K.’s people” had been discarded, and whenever they were in town now, and had the time, they just drove straight over to the Paradise Bar and went in. And whereas Harold had in the beginning been merely bored by it all, even given a headache by the ceaseless swinging wail of the blues guitar, and blistered lips from the barbecue so dredged in red pepper that it brought both tears and sweat to his face, he had finally come to enjoy these interludes at the Paradise, or rather to take them for granted — sentiments interchangeable in a boy of twelve.

“Well, who is it now? Seth Stevens’s boy?”

Sitting on a stool next to the wall near where Harold stood was a blind black man of seventy or eighty, strumming a guitar in his lap, as he turned his face, smiling, toward Harold at the sound of his voice, asking, “Who is it now? Seth Stevens’s boy?” and in his upturned face there was such a soft unearthly radiance as could have been startling — a wide extraordinarily open face, and the expanse of closed lids made it appear even more so, a face that when singing would sometimes contort as though in pain or anger, and yet when turning to inquire, as in waiting for the word, was lifted, smiling...even in the way an ordinary man may cock his head to one side with a smile, this blind man would, but tilting his chin as well, so that with the light falling directly on his upturned face it seemed almost to be illuminated.

“Who is it then? Hal Stevens?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Tom,” said the boy, laconic and restless — accepting, yet uncertain it wasn’t all a waste of time. He sat down with his Dr Pepper in an old straight chair next to the stool.

“How you doin’, Blind Tom?” Asking this mostly out of politeness, while the old blind man continued to smile upward.

“You voice begin to change, Hal — I weren’t right sure it was you. How’s your gran’daddy?”

“Aw he’s awright. He’s slowed down a lot though, I guess.”

Blind Tom always spoke as though Harold’s grandfather were still running their farm. It was something that Harold had attempted to explain once, and that Tom had seemed to understand, though gradually now the old notion had stolen back into his talk, and Harold no longer tried to dispel it.

“What kinda cotton you all got out there this year, Hal?”

“Aw I reckon it’s pretty good — if the dang boll weevil don’t git at it again.”

“What, he have some trouble with the weevil?”

“Aw, they got into that south quarter. We had to spray it over.”

“Well, you gran’daddy ain’t lose no cotton crop to the boll weevil, I tell you that!”

“Naw, we done sprayed it over now.”

“He git good hands out there now?”

“Aw they say they ain’t as good as they used to be — you know how they always say that.”

“I use to pick-a-bale-a-day. I pick seben-hunnert twenty-three pounds one day, dry-load. He was down to the wagon hisself to see it weighed out. He tell you. They say it ain’t never been beat in the county.”

Harold nodded. “I know it, Tom.”

An hour later, and the place was jumping — funky wailing blues and high wild laughter. Harold saw C.K., head back, eyes half-closed, smiling as he swayed to the music, a bottle of Sweet Lucy in one hand, and two dice in the other.

“Smart nigger double his money
quick,
” he said suddenly, shaking the dice, next to his ear, “if he think ah ain’t comin’ out on...
wham,
” and he threw the dice over the floor and against the bar, “...
SEBEN!
” Then he lay his head back laughing and tilted the bottle of wine.

“Crow suck that Lucy like it a big stick of tea!” said someone with a high-pitched laugh.

“He suck it like somethin’ else ah think of too! Hee-hee. Gimme a taste of that Lucy, boy!”

“You all wise do you celebratin’
’foah
you puts you money down,” said C.K., “’cause you sho’ gonna be cryin’ the blues
after!
Where them dice?”

Old Wesley leaned behind the bar, picking his teeth with a matchstick. “Drink of this establishment not good enough for you, C.K., that you got to bring your own bottle in heah?”

“Never mind that, my man,” said C.K., wiping his mouth. “You establishment don’t carry drink of this particular quality.” He slapped a quarter on the bar. “Gimme a glass.”

Old Wesley put a large water glass on the bar. “And how ’bout you young frien’ over there?” he asked, with a nod of mock severity at Harold.

“An my young frien’ there have a Doctuh Peppah,” said C.K., looking around at Harold as though he might have forgotten about him. “Ain’t that right, Hal?”

“Naw, I still got one,” said Harold sounding sullen and remote.

“Then you be awright,” said C.K., and he tilted the bottle and watched the red wine tumble into his glass, a weary smile on his lips.

“Big Nail back,” said Old Wesley.

“Is
that
a fack?” C.K. exclaimed, with a look of such astonished delight that one would surely know it was false.

“Sho’,” said Wesley, jerking his head toward the end of the bar. “He done ast about you. See wheah he settin’ ovah yondah?”

“Well, so he is,” said C.K., partly turning around. “Ah swear ah never seen him when ah come in.” But he said it in such a laughing way, taking a big drink at the same time, that it was apparent he had. “He lookin’ fit, ain’t he?” He laughed softly. “Ole Big Nail,” he said, shaking his head as he turned back around. He refilled his half-full glass. “Ah likes to keep a full glass before me,” he explained to Wesley, “at all time.” He did a little dance-step then, holding on to the bar and looking down at his feet. “How’s business with you, Mistuh Wesley?” he asked, returning to his drink.

“’Bout the same as usual, ah reckon.”

“Oh? Ah would of said it was pickin’ up a mite,” said C.K. smiling, looking at Big Nail — who glared back unblinking.

“An it remind me of a ver’ funny story. These two boys from down Houston way was ovah in Paris, France, with the army you unnerstan’, an’ one day they was standin’ on the corner without much in partic’lar to do, when a couple of o-fay chicks come strollin’ by, you know what ah mean, a couple of nice li’l French gals — and they was ver’ nice indeed, with the exception that one of them appeared to be considerable
older
than the other one, like she might be the great-granmutha of the other one or somethin’ like that, you see. So these boys was diggin’ these chicks, and one of them say: ‘Man, let’s make a move, ah believe we do awright there!’ And the other one say: ‘Well, now, similar thought occurred to me as well, but...er...uh...how is we goin’ decide who take the
granmutha?
Ah don’t want no old bitch like that!’ So the other one say: ‘How we decide? Why man,
ah
goin’ take the granmutha! Ah the one see these chicks first, and ah gits to take my choice!’ So the other one say: ‘Well, now you talkin’! You gits the granmutha, an’ ah gits the young one —
awright!
But tell me this, my man — how come you wants that old lady, instead of that fine young gal?’ So the other one say: ‘Why, boy, don’t you know? Ain’t you with it? She been white...
lon-guh!
”

Finishing the story, C.K. lowered his head, closed-eyed as though he were going to cry, and stamped his foot, laughing.

Some of the people nearest him laughed too, but Old Wesley just shook his head. “You done tole that story two three time, C.K. Ain’t you got no new story tell?”

C.K. sighed and refilled his glass. He took a big swig, swishing it around before he swallowed it. “Play the blues, Blind Tom,” he said. “Play the blues one time.” But Blind Tom was playing a jump-tune; he was shouting it:

     “My gal don’t go fuh smokin’

     Likker jest make her flinch

     Seem she don’t go fuh nothin’

     Ex-cept my big ten-inch...

     Record of de ban’ dat play de blues.

     Ban’ dat play de blues

     She jest loves

     My big ten-inch

     Record of her favo-rite blues.

     “Las’ night ah try to tease her

     Ah give her a little pinch

     She say, ‘Now stop dat jivin’

     An’ git out yoah big ten-inch...

     Record of de ban’ dat play de blues,

     Ban’ dat play de blues.

     She jest love

     My big ten-inch

     Record of our favo-rite blues...”

“Mind me ah hear a funny story today,” said C.K., somewhat louder than before, and half turning away from the bar; then he stopped to laugh, closing his eyes and lowering his chin down to his chest, shaking his head as though trying not to laugh at all.

“Oh yeah, it were ver’ funny.”

Although his manner was loose and uninhibited, it suggested a certain restraint too, and an almost imperceptible half-smile, as of modesty, even as if he himself were quite objectively aware of how very good a story it was.

“These two boys was talkin’, you see, and one of ’em say, he say: ‘Well, boy, what you gonna do now you is
equal?
’ And the other one say: ‘Well now ah glad you ast me that, ah tell you what ah gonna do now ah’s equal! Ah gonna git me one of them big...white...suits...and white tie, and white shoes and socks, and ah gonna buy me a white Cadillac, and then ah gonna drive down to Houston and git me a white woman!’ And when he say that, the othah one jest laugh! So he say, salty-like, he say: ‘What’s the matter wif you, boy, you laugh like that when ah tell you my plan? You so smart, you tell me what
you
gonna do now you is equal!’ So the second one say: ‘Well, now ah tell you what
ah
gonna do now ah’s equal! Ah gonna git me a black suit, and black shirt and tie, and black shoes and socks, and ah gonna buy me a black Cadillac, and then ah gonna drive down to Houston...and watch dem hang yoah equal black ass.’”