A Cry of Angels (19 page)

Still Jayell roamed and fretted, touching up here, scraping a fleck of paint there, finding a hundred things wrong, cursing himself for sloppiness. Under that galling pettiness, plus the double pressures I was under at home and at school, I began to lose patience. Em quit outright, and before long even the shop boys began making excuses. Finally Jayell was left alone on the job, fuming, puttering, ranting to himself. The house stood framed among the trees like a three-dimensional painting, bright and strong and beautiful, waiting for its creator to give it up. And he kept trying, and couldn't.

If Gwen was suffering any anxiety about her future home during that time, she didn't have time to show it. She was preoccupied trying to figure out, and explain to the principal, Mr. Guest, why, since the institution of her model court system in civics, our classroom had degenerated into the rowdiest and most undisciplined in the school.

It had started out well enough, an imaginative innovation in the teaching of government, Mr. Guest had said, and praised it highly to the other teachers. In our courtroom Gwen was the judge, with student attorneys and police appointed by her, and the rest of the class filled out the juries and provided the criminal element. A person could be charged with cheating, shooting spitballs, passing notes, talking, or any number of other offenses listed in the Class Statutes on the bulletin board.

She appointed me a lawyer, which scared me to death at first, but after that first halting presentation before a jury, which, to my amazement, returned a verdict in my favor, I quickly began to gain confidence. It turned out there was no real trick to winning cases in our court; it was hard to produce actual witnesses to cheating or spitball shooting, because during tests the "witnesses" were pretty well occupied in concentrating, or cheating, themselves, and a veteran spitball shooter could get off a shot with one hand from under a desk with a fairly high degree of accuracy. Also, after the first week or so in our small democracy it was hard to pick a jury that didn't contain a few grateful criminals I had defended in the past. Our court had a ring of authenticity to it, too, which also worked to the defendant's advantage, in that the most damning evidence never carried as much weight as a good show.

Despite her position on the bench, Gwen could bring charges too, and her cases were the most ticklish to handle, but to our surprise, no one was more delighted than she was when a defendant was acquitted that she knew for a fact was guilty! This was American jurisprudence at its best, she said; it proved that everyone had an equal chance under the law, whether he was guilty or not. To us lawyers and criminals this was only right and proper, but it brought Nancy Buckhorn, the Methodist minister's daughter and our class prosecutor, close to tears. She and Gwen had to have several consultations.

Time after time Gwen demonstrated her complete and absolute faith in the system; she stuck to her guns and left discipline entirely up to the court no matter what, even when it became obvious that things were getting out of hand. As for the class, we were convinced that self-government was a wonderful thing indeed. By the approach of spring we were doing anything we wanted in class; cheating was rampant, spitballs and erasers showered the air, and students wandered in and out of class at will. I enjoyed the respect of my classmates that I had never had before, policemen were getting extra desserts at lunch, and it was virtually impossible to convict anyone on any charge whatsoever: all in all we were enjoying about as corrupt and lawless a society as could be imagined anywhere.

Swish
.

The sound came from somewhere behind me, beyond the hedge. I paid little attention to it, and went back to sipping iced tea and reading my
Captain Marvel
.

It was Saturday, and one of the first days of reliable warmth. Spring in Quarrytown, that high in the foothills, was always an uncertain thing. The sun had been standing out brightly for weeks, and looked inviting enough through the windows, but when school let out, those who broke for the buses with their coats under their arms and sweaters knotted around their waists were likely as not soon wearing them on their shivering backs.

But that day it was warm. Down the road, Wash Fuller's martin gourds hung motionless in the sky, disturbed only by the intermittent landings and departings of martins busily bringing straws for their nests. Wash's dog, Jincey, could sleep quietly at the step without having to move around the corner every time the wind shifted.

It was quiet in the yard. Insects worked in the scuppernong arbor and buzzed among the fruit trees, and beyond, to the left of the house, old Aaron Tim clucked softly to his brown, bony-shouldered mule as they broke ground for Mrs. Bell's garden.

It was decidedly spring.

I began to drowse and the print started running together. Then, from over the hedge there came a light slap, as of someone swatting an insect, followed by another swish of cloth on cloth, and I realized someone was in the hammock. Mr. Woodall often sunned himself there as soon as the weather permitted, but I knew he was inside listening to a ball game. You could hear the radio a block away.

"Damnit!" There was an angrier slap, a rustle of the hammock, and Gwen came around the hedge, dressed in white short shorts and a halter. "Oh . . . well, hello!" She watched me a moment, tucking in the ends of a towel she had wound into a turban. "I didn't know anyone was back here."

"I . . . I was just sitting here, reading." I felt the need to explain somehow, about being there. She had that look in her face.

A slow smile spread over her face. "It's all right," she said. "I'm flattered."

"Huh?"

"Don't be ashamed, Earl, it's perfectly normal at your age." She stepped closer and looked down at my comic book, standing so close I was aware of the tiny beads of perspiration on her long, shapely legs. "Back to your old habits, I see. Doesn't your aunt care about your reading those things?"

"Not when they don't cost anything. I traded this one off Fred Wygart, who gets 'em free at his daddy's drugstore."

She sat down beside me and took a cigarette from a blue case and lit it with a matching lighter. "I don't know why I keep trying, I really don't. I beat my brains out, and I-just-can-not-get-through!"

"I'm sorry."

"Ah, I'm just upset about that civics class thing, I guess. I had another conference with Mr. Guest yesterday, and as of Monday, our court is permanently adjourned and I'm back to teaching the Constitution . . . the Bill of Rights . . . de-dah, de-dah, de-dah . . ."

"Oh, that's too bad."

"Well, school will be out soon. Maybe next year will be better. There's one happy note, at least. Thelma Martin's just discovered she's pregnant and she's arranged for me to take over as drama coach next year. Thank God and George Martin for that!" She turned and looked at me, blinking her eyes slowly, thinking.

"I can't act," I said quickly. "I couldn't even remember the lines! Miss Esther sends me to the store for two things, she's got to write 'em down, and, and clumsy? I can't even walk across a room without knocking things over . . ."

"Oh, stop it, Earl. What's the matter with you anyway? You have got to be the strangest kid I have ever come across. It's like pulling teeth to draw you out of yourself, and yet when I forced you into that lawyer part, you came on like gangbusters! You've got to learn to assert yourself, have a little confidence, or you're never going to have any friends."

"I've got friends," I said.

"Well, I've never seen them. You skulk around that school like you're afraid somebody's going to say 'boo' to you. Don't you have any special friends you hang around with?"

"Sure, there's Em, Tio, the shop boys . . ."

"Not these colored people, for heaven's sake. I mean white friends, outside of this—niggertown. You've gone to school all these years, surely you've developed a few white friends along the way."

"Yeah, but when school let out they went uptown and I came back to the Ape Yard."

"But there must have been class parties, little dances and hayrides and things."

It was hard to explain. "Oh, sure but, well, they all
knew
each other, they went to church together, they invited each other to join clubs, their folks went out together. Nobody knew me, they didn't know my folks, and when I came around it was always said, 'oh.' Not good—not bad, just, 'oh.' I guess I just got tired of that 'oh.'"

"Well, you can't bury yourself down here for the rest of your life, even Jayell has finally realized that. At some time, you've got to come to terms with the real world."

In that moment, for the first time, I think I got an inkling of what was in Gwen's mind, of the way she saw things. "This," I said, waving a hand toward the Ape Yard, "this is not
real
to you?"

She thought about it a moment, and laughed. "You know, now that you mention it, the whole place does have an unreal quality about it: look at your aunt, prodding those old people around like she's going to
make
them live a hundred years; old man Teague and your friend Tio, constantly patching up and slapping paint on that run-down grocery store as though they're going to turn it into a supermarket, and Jayell, creating those splendid little houses—for trash to live in! Even that horrible Indian you tag around after, undoubtedly the most grotesque, worthless caricature of a human being that ever drew breath, and he acts as if he were king of the world! I swear, not one of them has even the faintest grip on reality! Maybe the heat in this depressing hollow and—and the awful fumes from that quarry, do something to the brain after a while. At least there's hope for Jayell, if I can get him out of here in time. And you too, Earl, if you get out of here, and with the right kind of people."

"But I like the people down here. Tio's brighter than I am, at least he makes better grades, and Em—well, he's free and independent, that's his way, but if he liked you, and somebody tried to hurt you, he'd kill 'em, without even thinking about it. Have you got a better friend than that?"

"Earl, you're fantasizing again—and that's exactly what I'm talking about. Listen to me, very shortly you'll be leaving all this. Nature forces change, whether we want it or not. You're growing up now, soon you'll want to move out of this hollow and start a life of your own, meet a girl . . . how about that," she asked, turning to me, "haven't you begun to notice any changes lately?"

I didn't say anything.

She took the towel from her hair and ran it down her legs, wiping off the perspiration. "How about girls, Earl? Surely there's some little girl at school you've taken a shine to by now."

"No."

"Oh, come on, you have begun to notice girls, haven't you? I don't know, you've had such a strange upbringing, it wouldn't surprise me if . . . you do
know
about sex, don't you?"

"Oh, back'ards and forwards!"

"Thank you."

"Huh?"

"My legs," she said, smiling, "you were staring at them."

"Oh, no, ma'am! I . . . I was just . . ."

"And you
were
watching me through the hedge, weren't you?"

I rolled the comic book and set my chin on it.

Her voice was firm. "Now listen to me, Earl, there's nothing wrong with a healthy interest in sex, but there's a great deal wrong with not being honest, with me, and with yourself. Now, you were looking at me, weren't you?"

I closed my eyes and nodded.

"There. And for being honest, and for the compliment to me, I thank you." She looked at me, shaking her head. "Lord, would you be a case study for Dr. Fenworth! He was my professor in Early Childhood Development." Suddenly she stubbed out her cigarette and got to her knees and heed me. "Tell me, what sports do you like. Football? Baseball? Basketball?"

I shook my head to each of them. "Don't you like sports at all?"

"I like swimming—and Tio and I wrestle a lot."

"Oh, reea-ally!" She studied me closely. "Do you ever . . . ah,
dream
about girls?

Not especially."

"Let's analyze some of your dreams. Quick, what did you dream last night?"

"I don't remember."

"Ah, hah. Earl, I can't help you if you won't cooperate. Now, I want you to think carefully before you answer—and trust me. Do you ever dream about boys?"

"Oh, sure, lots of times."

She leaned closely, our noses almost touching. "And what boy do you dream about most?"

"Tio, I guess."

She straightened. "Oh, my God!"

Taking a moment to compose herself, she set her jaw and said. "Earl, look at my breast!" And to my utter disbelief, she yanked down her halter top.

I broke out in a clammy sweat.

She waited.

I checked the clouds.

"Earl, you've got to try! Look at my breast!"

"Uh, which one?"

"My God you can't even—the left one, then, the left one! Look at it!"

I slowly lowered my eyes.

"Quick," she panted, "what are you thinking?

"Miss Esther . . ."

"Ah,
hah
!"

"If she caught me at this she'd skin me alive. I've got to go."

She pulled up her halter and placed her hands on my shoulders. "You've got problems, Earl. I tell you what, why don't you and I go on a picnic."

"Do what?"

"Just the two of us, we'll go down to the lake and just sit under the trees and talk. I've got this book . . ."

As I was debating between faking a stroke and making an all-out break for the hedges, the sweet music of salvation touched my ear, the ragged piston bang of Jayell Crooms's pickup.

Right away I knew something was up. The truck bed was filled with grinning shop boys. Jojohn waved from the cab. Jayell got out and came limping across the lawn in a new sports coat and tie, stitching with nerves. "Come on," he said, "get in the truck."

"What's all this?"

"I'll show you. Come on."

"But shouldn't I at least get dressed first?

Never mind," said Jayell, "get in, get in!"

Em was crawling in the back with the others. They hoisted me over the side.