Chaneysville Incident (36 page)

But that is only an example. The incidents I recorded that afternoon were nothing so recent. They were the details of the lives of people long dead. Later, I would read those cards, looking carefully at the what and the when, and try to figure out the why. And then, if luck was with me, if I had grown at all, if somehow, somewhere—perhaps there and then—I could learn to imagine just a little hit, I could understand. But I had no faith that I would do it; I had never done it before.

I worked away through the afternoon, taking refuge in my incidents, letting my mind bounce around as I wrote down each date, trying to ignore the incident before me and concentrate instead on other things. Never mind that in the year of our Lord 1823 a young man’s mother died of yellow fever, that he must have felt hollow and utterly alone; that was the year Nicholas Biddle was appointed president of the Bank of the United States. And never mind that in the year of our Lord 1832 that young man exercised the franchise, and must have felt elation, since a decade before he had been a slave; that was the year Andrew Jackson vetoed the recharter of the national bank, sending Nicholas Biddle into private business.

It was an amusing way to spend the afternoon, but the evening came on me inevitably, and I was out of time. So I put my cards away and took one last document from the folio. A simple message, dated in the spring of 1958, addressed to me. A message to pass on to Lucian Maccabeus Scott from the man who had been Yvette Stanton Washington’s husband. I read it over. Then I took pen and paper of my own and wrote a message of my own. I made it simple—almost an incident—since an explanation that makes no sense is as useless as none at all. Then I signed it and sealed it and stamped it and put it in the pocket of Bill’s field jacket. I filled my flask and changed into overalls and a flannel shirt. I checked to be sure the fire was dying, and that the flue wasn’t overheating, and then I blew out the lamp and went out into the dusk.

I climbed to the ridge and went quickly down the Hill, across the river and into the Town, stopping from time to time to pull on the flask, trying not to think about anything. The lights of the Town seemed brighter than they ever had, bright and confusing; somehow I found myself sitting in the Square, near the hardy old men who sat there never minding the cold except in the very dead of winter. They chewed and spat and discussed the weather endlessly, and I sat there with them, not listening. Finally one of them leaned over and looked at me, his face close to mine, his breath hot on my face. He sniffed me, like a dog.

“You that Washington boy, ain’tcha?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Thought so.”

After a minute he took his face away, and looked at one of his companions. “Told you he was that Washington boy.”

“Thought he was kilt,” one of the others said.

“That was the other one. There was two.”

“That’s right. There was two.”

“They laid that Jack away today.”

“That right?”

“They say all the big shots went up there to the nigger graveyard to see ’em do it.”

The first one leaned over to me again. “You don’t mind him, he’s ignorant. That Jack was a good boy. Best colored boy I ever knowed.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Weather’s gonna break,” another one said.

“There’s snow left yet,” the first one assured him. After that they had not spoken to me. As night had fallen, one by one they had got up and moved away. If it had been summer they would have stayed, some of them, or gone and come back, but it was cold now, so they went away, nodding to me as they went, leaving me alone in the growing cold.

Eventually the flashing sign on the First National Bank told me that it was thirty-four degrees and seven twenty-two. I got up and stretched and went to see the Judge.

On the Heights it was darker; the streetlights were the old incandescents, and they bathed the street in a golden haze. The third house from the end belonged to the Judge. I mounted the wooden stairs to the porch, and knocked quickly on the big white door. I stood there waiting, the condensation exploding before my face in quick, violent puffs. A car cruised by in the street, went to the end, backed, filled, and came floating back down. It slowed from even its snail’s pace when it came opposite the porch, I caught sight of a white face and peaked cap in the glow from the instruments, and then the light from one of the streetlamps flashed off the fluorescent paint and the bubble dome. The car drifted on down the hill a ways, then came to a stop. I waited, but nothing happened; it just sat there.

I turned back to the door, raising my hand to knock again, but just then it swung open, revealing a round wrinkled face framed by a halo of white hair. Sharp blue eyes. “Good evening, Dr. Washington. He’s been expecting you all day. Won’t you come in?”

I stepped inside.

She stopped me in the wood-paneled vestibule. “Can I take your coat?”

I shrugged out of it, gave it to her. “Thank you,” I said.

She turned away, carrying it carefully, as if it were mink instead of an old field jacket. I followed her, wondering who she was. She paused at a hall closet to hang the coat up, and looked over her shoulder. “He’s in the study.”

“Thank you,” I said again.

“Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry. I forgot you’d never been here. Not very many people come here at all anymore, and those who come are usually old…” She hesitated.

“Cronies?” I said.

She smiled. “ ‘Fogies’ is more like it. They come in here, sitting up till midnight, talking about the old days and smoking cigars, and for a week the whole house smells. I don’t know why he puts up with that; the doctor’s told him it’s bad for his lungs….” She stopped suddenly, peered at me with those bright blue eyes, turned suspicious now. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

“No, ma’am,” I said.

“And if he did, he’s got better sense than to admit it to you.” We both turned to see the Judge standing in a double doorway. Behind him was a crackling fire. “Edna, how many times do I have to tell you? Usher in my guests and make them welcome and spare them your damned lectures.”

“It’s bad for your health.”

“Don’t worry, Edna, you’re provided for in my Will.”

She scowled at him. “You won’t die. You’re too sour to die.”

“I died fifteen years ago,” he said, “but the Devil and the Deity both claimed my soul, and they’re still arguing the case.”

“Humph,” she said, and turned to me. “I’ll bring tea in a moment. If you would like something more, feel free to ask.” She went on down the hallway.

The Judge chuckled and waved me into a large comfortable room furnished in old leather and dark wood. The light came from the fire and two wall fixtures. The ceiling was high, rimmed by a cornice from which hung a few ancient oils. It was impossible to tell what they depicted—there was not enough light, and they were badly in need of cleaning. There were shelves along the walls, loaded with books, and one freestanding case for the overflow. He closed the door and motioned me towards one of three chairs that sat in a semicircle facing the fire. He settled in the next one, separated from me by a low wooden table, and leaned forward, holding his hands out to the flames. The fire was blazing, but he was fully dressed, in a white shirt and a tie and a suit; for the vest he had substituted a handmade cardigan of soft wool. He worked his fingers and sighed. “I’m sorry about the heat, John,” he said. “You get to be my age, though, the sun doesn’t shine like it used to. They tell me I ought to spend the winters in Florida—everybody else does, including our mayor. But I don’t play golf and I never could see the sense of going out in a boat and working all day to catch a fish that all you could do was take a picture of since he wasn’t any good to eat. So I stay here, and sit close to the fire. I guess I ought to get used to that: when they do settle that lawsuit up there, I expect the Devil will win; he has prior claim.”

The door opened and the woman came in, carrying an old but highly polished silver tray on which were placed a silver teapot covered, incongruously, by a hand-knitted cozy, and two thin china cups and saucers. There were silver spoons too, and a silver creamer and sugar bowl, and a butter plate on which were placed wedges of lemon. She brought it over and set it gently on the table. She was wearing an apron now, and she fished in the pocket and brought out a tea ball. “I’m sure you’d prefer to put this in yourself,” she said to the Judge. She looked at me. “He says I can’t brew it to please him.”

“There’s not a lot you can do to please me,” the Judge said.

“There’s not a lot you can do to please anybody,” she snapped. “It’s been nice meeting you, Dr. Washington. I can tell you’re a gentleman, and I’m sure this must be a business call; you could surely pick better company. Good night.”

“Good night,” I said to her back.

“Good night, Edna,” the Judge said mildly.

The door slammed, leaving us in the dimness.

The Judge shook his head, smiling. “That woman. Orneriest bitch in the County. I had a stroke a few years back, and they had private nurses for me; I have it in my mind Randall wanted somebody sitting by the bedside to make sure he didn’t let his greediness get the best of him. She was one of those nurses. When the time came for me to get out of the hospital, Randall started this nonsense about how I was going to go to live with him. I told him I lived with him when he was messing in his pants and had pimples on his face, and I was not about to live with him ever again. So they said I had to have a nurse. So I hired her. Had her move in. Pay her nurse’s wages. It sounds expensive, but anything else would cause talk. And she wouldn’t do it, anyway. I asked her to marry me a year or two back, and she accused me of trying to get out of paying her salary. I told her she could keep her salary. She said that would make her a whore; she wouldn’t have anything to do with it.” He looked at me from under his eyebrows. “Am I shocking you, John?”

“No,” I said.

“The hell I’m not. Anyway, what I was getting at is she’s a funny woman that way. Now, I can’t say we’ve done too much sinning, but she surely did cooperate when we did. But women have funny ideas about such things. Take this tea set.” He waved his hand at it and snorted. “She knows I’m not going to drink any tea, but she won’t just bring me the water and the sugar, she has to set up the tea. If I put bourbon in the water instead of orange pekoe, that’s my account; she doesn’t know anything about it. It’s in that case over there, if you wouldn’t mind.”

I got up and went to the freestanding bookcase. I pulled out a book on each shelf, but they were real enough. I stood there thinking a minute. The Judge didn’t say anything. I reached out then and grasped the shelf that was about chest height and pulled it towards me. One end came free, and I stepped out of the way and swung it open. There was a false back behind the books, and behind it racks of bottles; gin, vodka, Scotch, Irish, and rye, two or three brands of each, the best. But no bourbon. I swung that shelf closed and pulled the next one down. Behind the books was the bourbon, two of the best brands, and two of the best sour mashes, two or three bottles of each. I took out a bottle of Wild Turkey, brought it back, and set it down next to the teapot. “Excellent taste,” he said. “I wish the old biddy would knit a cozy for this.” He uncapped the bottle and poured stiff jolts into the thin china cups, added some sugar each, and then poured in the water. The steam rose, warm and sweet. He set the pot down, stirred, and handed me a cup without the saucer. “I never bother with those silly things. No man in his right mind lets good whiskey drip.” He settled back in his chair and sipped contentedly. “Well, John, I guess you know it all now. If that folio wasn’t enough, you know where I keep my whiskey, and you know about Edna. Anything else you want to know, I might as well tell you, because you already know the worst.”

“Yes,” I said. “I believe I do. And it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with women, or whiskey either.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “When you get to be my age, you find out there’s precious little that isn’t tied up with whiskey or women, and usually both.”

“Don’t joke with me, you hypocritical old bastard,” I said.

He looked at me, shrugged his thin shoulders. “Is that what you came up here for? To call old men names?”

“Is that what you think?” I said.

“Oh, no,” he said. “I know why you’re here. You’re here to tell me what you plan to do with what you know. I figured you were the kind of man who would give fair warning. By the way, I understand you spoke to Randall after the funeral. And I hear the County Commissioners are getting together with the Town Council. Something about paving streets and plowing snow.”

“That’s not why I came,” I said.

“No?”

“No.”

We sat there for a while, watching the logs turning to ash. We sipped our toddies. I finished mine quickly, not feeling the effects of it, or the ones I had had before. The Judge drank more slowly, and so I pretended to drink long after the whiskey was gone, waiting for him to ask something, to give me an opening, for the time to be right. The silence preyed on me, but I waited. And then a log burned through and, spitting sparks, fell off the andirons.

The Judge stirred, leaned forward, set his cup on the table. “I’ve finished mine,” he said. “Finished it a while ago.” He looked at me, with a cold smile. “I won’t say how long ago. You finished yours a while ago too, I expect. And I don’t expect you’ll say, either. Now, either you were being polite, waiting for an old man, or you’re doing what I think they call playing a power game. Well, if it was the last, I better tell you, I’ve been horse-trading over whiskey twice as long as you’ve been alive, and I don’t need these funny new words to tell me what it is, or how it is. And I’ll just tell you: I don’t get all excited about who gets the whiskey, or who makes the drinks, or who finishes first or last. I don’t mind silence, not a bit. So you might as well forget your games, because I don’t play.”

“I don’t play, either,” I said.

“That why they’re paving the Hill?”

“You know why they’re paving the Hill,” I said. “They’re doing it because it’s the right and proper thing to do.”