the waist of a plump blond little girl with a hand shading her eyes against the sun.
«That’s me,» he said, pointing at himself. «That’s her . . .» he tapped the plump
girl. «And this one over here,» he added, indicating a tow-headed beanpole, «that’s
her brother, Fred.»
I looked at «her» again: and yes, now I can see it, an embryonic resemblance to
Holly in the squinting, fat-cheeked child. At the same moment, I realized who the
man must be.
«You’re Holly’s father.»
He blinked, he frowned. «Her name’s not Holly. She was a Lulamae Barnes. Was,»
he said, shifting the toothpick in his mouth, «till she married me. I’m her husband.
Doc Golightly. I’m a horse doctor, animal man. Do some farming, too. Near Tulip,
Texas. Son, why are you laughin’?»
It wasn’t real laughter: it was nerves. I took a swallow of water and choked; he
pounded me on the back. «This here’s no humorous matter, son. I’m a tired man.
I’ve been five years lookin’ for my woman. Soon as I got that letter from Fred,
saying where she was, I bought myself a ticket on the Greyhound. Lulamae belongs
home with her husband and her churren.»
«Children?»
«Them’s her churren,» he said, almost shouted. He meant the four other young
faces in the picture, two bare-footed girls and a pair of overalled boys. Well, of
course: the man was deranged. «But Holly can’t be the mother of those children.
They’re older than she is. Bigger.»
«Now, son,» he said in a reasoning voice, «I didn’t claim they was her natural-born
churren. Their own precious mother, precious woman, Jesus rest her soul, she
passed away July 4th, Independence Day, 1936. The year of the drought. When I
married Lulamae, that was in December, 1938, she was going on fourteen. Maybe an
ordinary person, being only fourteen, wouldn’t know their right mind. But you take
Lulamae, she was an exceptional woman. She knew good-and-well what she was
doing when she promised to be my wife and the mother of my churren. She plain
broke our hearts when she ran off like she done.» He sipped his cold coffee, and
glanced at me with a searching earnestness. «Now, son, do you doubt me? Do you
believe what I’m saying is so?»
I did. It was too implausible not to be fact; moreover, it dovetailed with O.J.
Berman’s description of the Holly he’d first encountered in California: «You don’t
know whether she’s a hillbilly or an Okie or what.» Berman couldn’t be blamed for
not guessing that she was a child-wife from Tulip, Texas.
«Plain broke our hearts when she ran off like she done,» the horse doctor
repeated. «She had no cause. All the housework was done by her daughters.
Lulamae could just take it easy: fuss in front of mirrors and wash her hair. Our own
cows, our own garden, chickens, pigs: son, that woman got positively fat. While her
brother growed into a giant. Which is a sight different from how they come to us.
‘Twas Nellie, my oldest girl, ’twas Nellie brought ’em into the house. She come to me
one morning, and said: ‘Papa, I got two wild yunguns locked in the kitchen. I caught
’em outside stealing milk and turkey eggs.’ That was Lulamae and Fred. Well, you
never saw a more pitiful something. Ribs sticking out everywhere, legs so puny they
can’t hardly stand, teeth wobbling so bad they can’t chew mush. Story was: their
mother died of the TB, and their papa done the same — and all the churren, a whole
raft of ’em, they been sent off to live with different mean people. Now Lulamae and
her brother, them two been living with some mean, no-count people a hundred miles
east of Tulip. She had good cause to run off from that house. She didn’t have none
to leave mine. Twas her home.» He leaned his elbows on the counter and, pressing
his closed eyes with his fingertips, sighed. «She plumped out to be a real pretty
woman. Lively, too. Talky as a jaybird. With something smart to say on every
subject: better than the radio. First thing you know, I’m out picking flowers. I tamed
her a crow and taught it to say her name. I showed her how to play the guitar. Just
to look at her made the tears spring to my eyes. The night I proposed, I cried like a
baby. She said: ‘What you want to cry for, Doc? ‘Course we’ll be married. I’ve never
been married before.’ Well, I had to laugh, hug and squeeze her: never been
married before!» He chuckled, chewed on his toothpick a moment. «Don’t tell me that
woman wasn’t happy!» he said, challengingly. «We all doted on her. She didn’t have
to lift a finger, ‘cept to eat a piece of pie. ‘Cept to comb her hair and send away for
all the magazines. We must’ve had a hunnerd dollars’ worth of magazines come into
that house. Ask me, that’s what done it. Looking at show-off pictures. Reading
dreams. That’s what started her walking down the road. Every day she’d walk a little
further: a mile, and come home. Two miles, and come home. One day she just kept
on.» He put his hands over his eyes again; his breathing made a ragged noise. «The
crow I give her went wild and flew away. All summer you could hear him. In the
yard. In the garden. In the woods. All summer that damned bird was calling:
Lulamae, Lulamae.»
He stayed hunched over and silent, as though listening to the long-ago summer
sound. I carried our checks to the cashier. While I was paying, he joined me. We left
together and walked over to Park Avenue. It was a cool, blowy evening; swanky
awnings flapped in the breeze. The quietness between us continued until I said: «But
what about her brother? He didn’t leave?»
«No, sir,» he said, clearing his throat. «Fred was with us right till they took him in
the Army. A fine boy. Fine with horses. He didn’t know what got into Lulamae, how
come she left her brother and husband and churren. After he was in the Army,
though, Fred started hearing from her. The other day he wrote me her address. So I
come to get her. I know he’s sorry for what she done. I know she wants to go
home.» He seemed to be asking me to agree with him. I told him that I thought he’d
find Holly, or Lulamae, somewhat changed. «Listen, son,» he said, as we reached the
steps of the brownstone, «I advised you I need a friend. Because I don’t want to
surprise her. Scare her none. That’s why I’ve held off. Be my friend: let her know I’m
here.»
The notion of introducing Mrs. Golightly to her husband had its satisfying aspects;
and, glancing up at her lighted windows, I hoped her friends were there, for the
prospect of watching the Texan shake hands with Mag and Rusty and José was more
satisfying still. But Doc Golightly’s proud earnest eyes and sweat-stained hat made
me ashamed of such anticipations. He followed me into the house and prepared to
wait at the bottom of the stairs. «Do I look nice?» he whispered, brushing his sleeves,
tightening the knot of his tie.
Holly was alone. She answered the door at once; in fact, she was on her way out
— white satin dancing pumps and quantities of perfume announced gala intentions.
«Well, idiot,» she said, and playfully slapped me with her purse. «I’m in too much of a
hurry to make up now. We’ll smoke the pipe tomorrow, okay?»
«Sure, Lulamae. If you’re still around tomorrow.»
She took off her dark glasses and squinted at me. It was as though her eyes were
shattered prisms, the dots of blue and gray and green like broken bits of sparkle.
«He told you that,» she said in a small, shivering voice.
«Oh, please. Where is he?» She ran past me into the hall. «Fred!» she called down
the stairs. «Fred! Where are you, darling?»
I could hear Doc Golightly’s footsteps climbing the stairs. His head appeared
above the banisters, and Holly backed away from him, not as though she were
frightened, but as though she were retreating into a shell of disappointment. Then he
was standing in front of her, hangdog and shy. «Gosh, Lulamae,» he began, and
hesitated, for Holly was gazing at him vacantly, as though she couldn’t place him.
«Gee, honey,» he said, «don’t they feed you up here? You’re so skinny. Like when I
first saw you. All wild around the eye.»
Holly touched his face; her fingers tested the reality of his chin, his beard stubble.
«Hello, Doc,» she said gently, and kissed him on the cheek. «Hello, Doc,» she
repeated happily, as he lifted her off her feet in a rib-crushing grip. Whoops of
relieved laughter shook him. «Gosh, Lulamae. Kingdom come.»
Neither of them noticed me when I squeezed past them and went up to my room.
Nor did they seem aware of Madame Sapphia Spanella, who opened her door and
yelled: «Shut up! It’s a disgrace. Do your whoring elsewhere.»
«Divorce him? Of course I never divorced him. I was only fourteen, for God’s sake.
It couldn’t have been legal.» Holly tapped an empty martini glass. «Two more, my
darling Mr. Bell.»
Joe Bell, in whose bar we were sitting, accepted the order reluctantly. «You’re
rockin’ the boat kinda early,» he complained, crunching on a Tums. It was not yet
noon, according to the black mahogany clock behind the bar, and he’d already
served us three rounds.
«But it’s Sunday, Mr. Bell. Clocks are slow on Sundays. Besides, I haven’t been to
bed yet,» she told him, and confided to me: «Not to sleep.» She blushed, and glanced
away guiltily. For the first time since I’d known her, she seemed to feel a need to
justify herself: «Well, I had to. Doc really loves me, you know. And I love him. He
may have looked old and tacky to you. But you don’t know the sweetness of him, the
confidence he can give to birds and brats and fragile things like that.
