She looked like a kind of wax machine, a life-sized doll, and the concentration of her work was unnatural: she was like a person pretending to read, though the book is upside down. And Randolph, cleaning his nails with a goose-quill, was as stylized in his attitude as she: Joel felt as though they interpreted his presence here as somehow indecent, but it was impossible to withdraw, impossible to advance. On a table by the bed there were two rather arresting objects, an illuminated globe of rose frost glass depicting scenes of Venice: golden gondolas, wicked gondoliers and lovers drifting past glorious palaces on a canal of saccharine blue; and a milk-glass nude suspending a tiny silver mirror. Reflected in this mirror were a pair of eyes: the instant Joel became aware of them his gaze dismissed all else.
The eyes were a teary grey; they watched Joel with a kind of dumb glitter, and soon, as if to acknowledge him, they closed in a solemn double wink, and turned. . . so that he saw them only as part of a head, a shaved head lying with invalid looseness on unsanitary pillows.
“He wants the water,” said Randolph, scraping the quill under his thumb nail. “You’ll have to feed him: poor Eddie, absolutely helpless.”
And Joel said: “Is that him?”
“Mr. Sansom,” said Amy, her lips tight as the rosebud she stitched. “It is Mr. Sansom.”
“But you never told me.”
Randolph, clutching the bedpost, heaved to his feet: the kimono swung out, exposing pink substantial thighs, hairless legs. Like many heavy men he could move with unexpected nimbleness, but he’d had more than enough to drink, and as he came toward Joel, a numb smile bunching his features, he looked as if he were about to fall. He stooped down to Joel’s size, and whispered. “Tell you what, baby?”
The eyes covered the glass again, their image twitching in the tossing light, and a hand trimmed with wedding gold poked out from under quilts to let go a red ball: it was like a cue, a challenge, and Joel, ignoring Randolph, went briskly forward to meet it.
7
She came up the road, kicking stones, whistling. A bamboo pole, balanced on her shoulder, pointed toward the late noon sun. She carried a molasses bucket, and wore a pair of toy-like dark glasses. Henry, the hound, paced beside her, his red tongue dangling hotly. And Joel, who’d been waiting for the mailman, hid behind a pine tree; just wait, this was going to be good; he’d scare the. . . there, she was almost near enough.
Then she stopped, and took off the sun-glasses, and polished them on her khaki shorts. Shielding her eyes, she looked straight at Joel’s tree, and beyond it: there was no one on the Landing’s porch, not a sign of life. She shrugged her shoulders. “Henry,” she said, and his eyes rolled sadly up, “Henry, I leave it to you: do we want him with us or don’t we?” Henry yawned: a fly buzzed inside his mouth and he swallowed it whole. “Henry,” she continued, scrutinizing a certain pine, “did you ever notice what funny shadows some trees have?” A pause. “O.K., my fine dandy, come on out.”
Sheepishly Joel stepped into the daylight. “Hello, Idabel,” he said, and Idabel laughed, and this laugh of hers was rougher than barbed wire. “Look here, son,” she said, “the last boy that tried pulling tricks on Idabel is still picking up the pieces.” She put back on her dark glasses, and gave her shorts a snappy hitch. “Henry and me, we’re going down to catch us a mess of catfish: if you can make yourself helpful you’re welcome to come.”
“How do you mean helpful?”
“Oh, put worms on the hook. . .” tilting up the bucket, she showed him its white, writhing interior.
Joel, disgusted, averted his eyes; but thought: yes, he’d like to go with Idabel, yes, anything not to be alone: hook worms, or kiss her feet, it did not matter.
“You’d better change clothes,” said Idabel. “you’re fixed up like it was Sunday.”
Indeed, he was wearing his finest suit, white flannels bought for Dancing Class; he’d put them on because Randolph had promised to paint his picture. But at dinner Amy had said Randolph was sick. “Poor child, and in all this heat; it does seem to me if he’d lose a little weight he wouldn’t suffer so. Angela Lee was that way, too: the heat just laid her out.” As for Angela Lee, Zoo had told him this queer story: “Honey, a mighty peculiar thing happen to that old lady, happen just before she die: she grew a beard; it just commence pouring out her face, real sure enough hair; a yellow color, it was, and strong as wire. Me, I used to shave her, and her paralyzed from head to toe, her skin like a dead man’s. But it growed so quick, this beard, I couldn’t hardly keep up, and when she died, Miss Amy hired the barber to come out from town. Well, sir, that man took one look, and walked right back down them stairs, and right out the front door. I tell you I mean I had to laugh!”
“It’s just my old suit,” he said, afraid to go back and change, for Amy might say no he could not go, might, instead, make him read to his father. And his father, like Angela Lee, was paralyzed, helpless; he could say a few words (boy, why, kind, bad, ball, ship), move his head a little (yes, no), and one arm (to drop a tennis ball, the signal for attention). All pleasure, all pain, he communicated with his eyes, and his eyes, like windows in summer, were seldom shut, always open and staring, even in sleep.
Idabel gave him the worm bucket to carry. Crossing a cane field, climbing a thread of path, passing a Negro house where in the yard there was a naked child fondling a little black goat, they passed into the woods through an avenue of bitter wild cherry trees. “We get drunk as a coot on those,” she said, meaning cherries. “Greedy old wildcats get so drunk they scream all night: you ought to hear them. . . hollering crazy with the moon and cherry juice.”
Invisible birds prowling in leaves rustled, sang; beneath the still facade of forest restless feet trampled plushlike moss where limelike light sifted to stain the natural dark. Idabel’s bamboo pole scraped low limbs, and the hound, eager and suspicious, careened through nets of blackberry bush. Henry, the sentry; Idabel, the guide; Joel, the captive: three explorers on a solemn trek over earth sloping steadily downward.
Black, orange-trimmed butterflies wheeled over wheel-sized ponds of stagnant rain water, the glide of their wings traced on green reflecting surfaces; a rattlesnake’s cellophane-like sheddings littered the trail, and broken silver spiderweb covered like cauls dead fallen branches. They passed a little human grave: on its splintered head-cross was printed a legend: Toby, Killed by the Cat. Sunken, a stretch of sycamore root growing from its depth, it was, you could tell, an old grave.
“What’s that mean,” said Joel, “killed by the cat?”
“It happened before I was born,” said Idabel, as if this explained everything. She turned off the path into an area deep with last winter’s leaves: a skunk skittered in the distance, and Henry boomed forward. “This Toby, you see, she was a nigger baby, and her mama worked for old Mrs. Skully like Zoo does now. She was Jesus Fever’s wife, and Toby was their baby. Old Mrs Skully had a big fine Persian cat, and one day when Toby was asleep the cat sneaked in and put its mouth against Toby’s mouth and sucked away all her breath.”
Joel said he didn’t believe it; but if it was true, it was certainly the most horrible tale he’d ever heard. “I didn’t know Jesus Fever had ever been married.”
“There’s lots you don’t know. All kinds of strange things. . . mostly they happened before we were born: that makes them seem to me so much more real.”
Before birth; yes, what time was it then? A time like now, and when they were dead, it would be still like now: these trees, that sky, this earth, those acorn seeds, sun and wind, all the same, while they, with dust-turned hearts, change only. Now at thirteen Joel was nearer a knowledge of death than in any year to come: a flower was blooming inside him, and soon, when all tight leaves unfurled, when the noon of youth burned whitest, he would turn and look, as others had, for the opening of another door. In the woods they walked, the tireless singings of larks had sounded a century, and more, and floods of frogs had galloped in moonlight bands; stars had fallen here, and Indian arrows, too; prancing blacks had played guitars, sung ballads of bandit-buried gold, sung songs grieving and ghostly, ballads of long ago: before birth.
“Not for me: that makes it not so real,” said Joel, and stopped, struck still by the truth of this: Amy, Randolph, his father, they were all outside time, all circling the
