Raney (10 page)

"Ask her," said the nurse.

The doctor looked at me.

"Uncle Nate," I said. "Nate Purvis."

"He's your uncle?"

"Yes sir."

"Let me see that thumb, Nate."

"He's Norris."

"I'm Norris," Norris said, his eyes great big.

"Excuse me, Norris. Let me see that thumb." He held Norris by the wrist and turned his hand around. "Hummm. Let's go get an x-ray.
This
man is your uncle, then," he said to me.

"Yes
sir,
and he's drunk. He shouldn't even be in here. I left him outside."

"Have you got a car?"

"Yes sir."

"I'm Joe Cisco," he said. He smiled and reached out his hand. "Looks like you could use a little help."

I took his hand, tried my best to hold back, but I couldn't help crying. I straightened right back up though.

"I'll be right back and we can get him in your car," he said. Then he took Norris down the hall; Norris looked back over his shoulder
—
still holding that hand up like he was carrying flowers; the nurse asked the orderlies to sit down; and then Dr. Cisco came back while they were taking the x-ray. He helped me roll Uncle Nate to the car, then get him off the table and in the back seat
—
with no trouble, since Uncle Nate had passed out. I saw the empty pint in Uncle Nate's back pocket. I hadn't thought to look before. When a security guard walked up, Dr. Cisco explained that everything was all right. Dr. Cisco was a blessing from heaven.

He told us to wait in the car and that after he took care of Norris he'd bring him out. Sometimes I get to thinking there's not one nice person left in the world and then somebody like Dr. Cisco comes along.

It turned out that Norris's thumb was just out of place. It must have been very out of place. Dr. Cisco taped it up over a piece of metal and told me to bring him back in a week unless a problem came up. He stood there at the car and talked a minute.

Uncle Nate won't so simple. He begged me to take him to the liquor store, saying he just needed one more little drink to hold him over. I did not take him, of course.

When we got home he was asleep or passed out. I left him in the car while I called Mama. She called Juanita Bowles to come sit with Uncle Newton and then came on home. We had a terrible time getting Uncle Nate up the front steps.

Daddy came home right after we got Uncle Nate in the door. "Nate, you're going to get drunk one time too many and get robbed
and
shot instead of just robbed," said Daddy. Uncle Nate's billfold is always empty when he comes home drunk. Uncle Nate started cussing Daddy, which is the first time that's ever happened, as far as I know.

Mama called Dorcus Kerr who came out and arrested Uncle Nate. There was nothing else to do. Uncle Nate spent three days in jail, drying out. That's how long it takes. Mama took him every one of his meals except his last one which was Tuesday lunch. I had to be uptown anyway so I told Mama I could do it and then bring him home when they let him out at three in the afternoon. I'm old enough now.

Dorcus Kerr was at the jail. "I declare, I hate to see this happen, Raney," he said. "When he's sober he's one of the nicest men I know, but I declare, then he has to go and do the way he does; and you all have always been so good to him
—
your daddy giving him work and all."

I didn't see anybody else in any of the jail cells except Uncle Nate. He was sitting in a chair, leaning back against the wall. His hair was combed straight back with Vitalis, like always, and he was wearing a freshly starched white shirt Mama had brought him. Mr. Kerr opened the door with a big set of keys.

"Hey, girl," said Uncle Nate. "Where's Doris?"

"She's at home."

He looked okay except for his eyes which were red and cloudy.

"How do you feel?" I asked.

"I feel pretty good. Raney, I'm sorry. You know I wouldn't do anything in the world to hurt you all."

"I know you wouldn't, Uncle Nate." I started to say, "But you
do
—
over and over and over."
Then I saw his hand shaking while he pulled at his ear.

"I've made a decision this time. I'm quitting. I'm getting the shakes. Look at my hands. I can't get them any stiller than that. I'm just going to have to tell myself to quit and then do it."

"You know you can't take that first drink, Uncle Nate. It's all over when you do that. You've got to have the strength to say no.
There's
plenty of people who do it. And Mama has done everything she can, as you well know."

"She has. She has. She sure has."

"I'm glad you're going to stop, Uncle Nate. You've said that before, though."

"This is the first time I've had the shakes like this. Look at that." He looked at his hands, then at me. "How is Newton? Didn't somebody take him to the hospital Sunday
—
or Saturday?"

"Nobody took him to the hospital, but he's not doing too
good
. That was Norris I took. He knocked his thumb out of joint, but it's doing okay."

"He's a little fighter, ain't he?"

"He sure is. Here, you better eat your dinner. I'll be back at three. I need to do a little shopping. You need anything?"

"Some Scholl's footpads. Size 9-C."

I came back at three and picked up Uncle Nate and took him by home and then on out to the store. He usually works out there in the afternoons. He's never been able to do any more than just help out, of course, but it helps Daddy be able to come and go and oversee instead of being there with Sneeds all the time
—
one of them tending pumps while the other works inside. When Daddy had a chance to get all self-service pumps he turned them down, so he needs Uncle Nate.

PART TWO

A Civil War

I

I finally got Charles to join in on something that will get his head out of a book. Aunt Flossie organizes a Golden Agers' day every fall and for the past two falls I've helped her. I asked Charles if he'd help us this fall and he said he would.

Mrs. Moss, Mrs. Williams, and Mrs. Clements from our neighborhood are in the Golden Agers and I take them to their meeting the first Thursday morning of each month. They live close to our house and when they come over to visit, Charles'll get up, go to the bedroom, sit and read. He'd rather read a book, written by somebody he don't know, than to sit down and talk to a live human being who's his neighbor.

So I brought it up a few days ago. "Charles," I said, "you'd rather sit down back there in the bedroom and read a book than talk to a live human being like Mrs. Moss."

"I'm not so sure I agree with your assessment of Mrs. Moss," he says.

"What do you mean by that?"

"It means I have had one conversation with Mrs. Moss and one conversation with Mrs. Moss is enough. I am not interested in her falling off the commode and having a hairline rib fracture. I am not interested in her cataract operation. Mrs. Moss is unable to comprehend anything beyond her own problems and you know it."

This is one of the areas of life Charles does not understand. Mama and Aunt Flossie have taught me, for as long as I can remember
,
to be good to old people. Charles thinks old people are all supposed to grace him with a long conversation on psychology.

Mrs. Moss does talk about herself right much. She'll come over in her apron to borrow a cup of something. One Sunday she borrowed a cup of flour after I saw a bag of Red Band in her shopping cart
—
on top
—
at the Piggly Wiggly on Saturday. But the way I figure it is this: Mrs. Moss has had a lifetime of things happening to her and all along she's had these other people
—
her husband and children
—
to watch these things happen. So she didn't ever have to
tell
anybody. Then her husband died and her children left and there was nobody around to watch these things happen anymore, so she don't have any way to share
except
to tell. So the thing to do is
listen
. It's easy to cut her off when she goes on and on. You just start talking about something else. She follows right along.

"She's given me several pints of preserves and one quart of chow-chow," I said. "She can comprehend that."

"
Raney, that
has nothing to do with the fact that she is senile and self-centered. There are old people who aren't self-centered, you know."

"Charles, she also showed me how to keep applesauce from turning brown in the jar, and she's going to give me some cactus seeds and she said she'd help me dig up a circle and plant them. And give me some big rocks to go around that. If she's so self-centered, why is she giving me preserves and chow-chow and seeds?"

"Because it's a habit. A life-long habit. If you were Atilla the Hun she'd give you preserves and chow-chow and seeds."

"Charles. Sometimes I wonder about your heart."

"Raney, my heart is all right. What can I do to prove my heart is warm and kind?"

My mind darted around. "Help Aunt Flossie and me with her Golden Agers' day in a couple of weeks. It'll take about an hour next Saturday to ride out to Mr. Earls's to see if he'll shoot his cannon for us. Then the next Saturday help me take some of the Golden Agers out to Mr. Earls's
—
if he agrees
—
to watch him shoot his cannon, and then Saturday afternoon we're going to take them to the bluegrass festival, where me and you are going to play anyway. It'll take from about ten to three. All you have to do is just go along."

"Will you worry about my heart if I do?"

"Never again. And you're reading that book on the Civil War, so you can probably learn something from Mr. Earls."

"Will I have to do something like this every Saturday?"

"No."

Aunt Flossie said she had heard that Mr. Earls didn't have a phone so I might have to ride out to his house to ask him about helping us out. She said he was a Primitive Baptist and shouldn't be any harm, if I wanted to ride out by myself. But Charles rode with me to meet him
—
this past Saturday morning, one of those hot fall days.

We turned into the driveway of a nice looking brick house, ranch style, with trees, except the leaves hadn't been raked. There was a big flagpole at the mailbox flying the Confederate flag. Charles sees that and goes, "Oh, no," like a paint bucket had fell over.

We stopped in the driveway and got out. A dog came out to meet us. He was
a
old dog, and didn't even bark. In the carport was a man sitting beside a cannon, working on it. Then I saw
a cannon
on the front porch and another one out in the back yard. The man got up and walked out to the car. Right off he reminded me of Abraham Lincoln, without a beard. He was over six feet
tall,
and wearing blue and white striped overalls with a belt holding all these tools. His waist looked like it won't no bigger than mine. His ears stuck straight out and his hair was black and short. I thought: that's the skinniest man I've ever seen in my life. When he got up close I saw that his temples and cheeks were sunk in so that he looked like a skeleton almost. And he didn't have much coloring in his face.

"Howdy," he said. "What can I do for you?" He had a deep business voice. Charles reached out and shook his hand and introduced us.

"We wanted to call, but couldn't find a listing," said Charles.

"I don't have a phone. Don't have a television. I wouldn't have lights if they hadn't already been hooked up when we bought the place. Ain't
no
need for none of it except for a electric drill and a table saw. I'll use
a
electric drill and a table saw. But that's it. What can I do for you all?"

I explained about the Golden Agers' Day.

"I'd be happy to help you out. People don't do
nothing
for old people nowadays. I told Birdie, I said 'Birdie, when the man gets here in the ambulance to take me to one of them nursing homes, if you're living and able, put me in the bed, put a sheet over my head, and tell him I'm dead. And if you ain't able to take care of me then stop feeding me, and if the youngin's won't take care of me, then let me die doing the best I can.'" He looked straight at Charles. "Nothing more than the best we can do is required of any of us. My mama is right there in my living room right now. Far as I know she ain't ever heard a one of these cannons go off, and I shoot one about every day. She does the best she can, which ain't nothing but breathe. Birdie and
me
do the rest. And the good Lord provides. What time you all want to come out next Saturday?"

"How about ten o'clock?" I said.

"That'll be fine. I'll build a lean-to, start a campfire, and have a regular little show. If there are any men along we'll let them join in. Come here and let me show you where I blew a hole in my tool shop."

I thought: maybe we better think twice.

Mr. Earls had one of those little sheds out back and one side had a big hole in it which he'd covered with clear plastic. "I don't know how in the world it happened," he said. "I had a box of powder and I guess a spark got to it some way. We'd been firing at a reinactment and maybe a spark got in there somewhere and smoltered. I been in the Civil War business over forty
year
and nothing's blowed up but twice."

"What was the other time?" I asked.

"A cannon. I'd walked about twenty feet from it
—
to get a drill
—
and it blew up. Blew a limb out of the tree it was under. Listen, won't you all come in and look at some of my relics?"

We said we'd like to. We walked through the carport door into the kitchen. Mrs. Earls was cooking dinner. Mr. Earls introduced us then took off his belt of tools and dropped it on the bar and said, "Put those tools in the box, honey. Ya'll come on in the living room and have a seat."

In the living room, propped up in a brass bed that must not have been polished in ten years was Mr. Earls's mother. Mr. Earls introduced us but she kept looking straight ahead. She had a tiny brown face that looked like
a
apple that had been on the window sill for about a year.

"
There's my children's pictures
on the wall," said Mr.

Earls. "Didn't a one go to college, thank the good Lord. They all make a good living and are respectful of the things deserving respect."

I wondered if Mrs. Earls was going to put up his tools
—
why he didn't put up his own tools. Then I heard the tools knocking in a box. She was putting them up.

"What you all want to drink
—
water, milk, or orange juice?"

We both said orange juice.

"Birdie, bring these folks some orange juice. You folks sit down right over there."

Birdie came in with two glasses of orange juice. "He makes me unload his tools," she said, "then load them back up. I told him just to hang up his belt with the tools in it, but he won't do it." She was a tiny woman who looked like one of those migrant worker women in Charles's photography book.

"Stretches the leather," said Mr. Earls.

"He could lay it down somewhere, couldn't he?" I said to Mrs. Earls. I wanted to even things up a little.

"I don't leave things
laying
around," said Mr. Earls. "Against my principles. Let me tell you: I model my life after Stonewall Jackson, one of the greatest generals in the history of war. Birdie knows I do, and abides it. And I'll tell you this: the German panzer divisions had Stonewall Jackson to thank. He'll go down with Napoleon. He was a great general, a great man, a Christian."

Birdie brought some cookies. Chocolate chip. Bought.

"Do you all know anything about the Civil War?" says Mr. Earls. "If you don't, you should."

"I've heard about it off and on all my life," I said, "but I don't know much."

"I'm reading a book right now," said Charles.

"Which one?" said Mr.
Earls.

"Bruce Catton's."

"Which one?"

"The big one."

"Read Shelby Foote's three when you finish that one. They're the best for an overview." He went on to talk about all these books on the Civil War, about Stonewall Jackson getting shot by his own men, and I don't know what all
—
something about a secret message wrapped around cigars. Then he brought out all these bullets and pistols and rifles, and finally Mrs. Earls asked us if we wanted to eat dinner. We politely refused and drove on home.

I thought about what a one-two
—
one on the top, two on the bottom
—
marriage Mr. and Mrs. Earls had. He was one and she was two. And she seemed perfectly happy. Charles wouldn't ever ask me to hang up a tool belt of his. If he did, he'd be more upset about it than me. At home, inside the house, Mama was one and Daddy was two. It seems like Mrs. Earls and Daddy were born number twos, but Charles ... I don't know. He was born one and a half, and that don't leave me but one and a half, whether I like it or not. We've talked about it some. It's fair. No doubt about that, but I don't know if it's natural.

We were riding along and Charles says, "Well ... a real live Rebel."

"What do you mean?"

"That's the mind that ruled the South before the Civil War, I imagine. You heard what he said about blacks being better off before the war than after the war."

"He didn't say 'blacks.'"

"That's what he meant."

"Some of that might be true."

"What do you mean? Are you telling me that slaves were better off than free blacks? Come off it." Charles looked at me. He was holding onto the steering wheel with one hand and his other arm was propped in the window.

"Look at
Mrs.
Earls," I said. "She's a slave if ever I saw one, and she's a lot happier than your normal 'free hippie.'"

"Raney. This theory about the southern black being better off as a slave is a rationalization. If you found one slave saying he'd rather be a slave than free, then you could account for that through some exceptional circumstance
—
or ignorance."

"Well, I don't know. I know you don't know everything about Mr. Earls's 'mind.' You don't know
nothing
about how he took care of his children, about whether he goes to church or not. Aunt Flossie said he was a Primitive Baptist, and they
—
"

"For the sake of argument, let's suppose he does go to church
—
every Sunday, Sunday night, and Wednesday night, and for all the sunrise services and whatever the hell else. I'd like to know what that proves, exactly."

"It proves he's in church like the Bible says he's supposed to be. It proves
—
"