Morgan's Passing (41 page)

“Emily,” he said, “think about my suggestion.”

“I can't,” she said. She lifted the baby's weight. Barefoot, with one hip slung out, she felt countrified and disadvantaged.

“Just think about it. Promise.”

Instead of answering, she went over to the car and bent to kiss Gina through the window. “Honey, be careful,” she said. “Have a good time. Call me if you're homesick; please call.”

“I will.”

“Come back,” she said.

“I
will
, Mama.”

Emily stepped away from the car, and stood in the
crook of Morgan's arm, smiling hard and holding Josh very close.

6

“I
've decided to become a writer,” Bonny said.

“I've always had a bent in that direction. I'm writing a short story composed entirely of thirty years' worth of check stubs and budget-book entries.”

“What kind of story would that make?” Emily wondered. She sat down in the nearest kitchen chair, holding the receiver to her ear.

“You'd be surprised at how a plot emerges. I mean, checks to the diaper service, then to the nursery schools, then to the grade schools … but it's sad to see things were so cheap once. It seems pathetic that I spent ten dollars and sixteen cents on groceries for the second week of August nineteen fifty-one. Did Morgan see my personal?”

“What personal?” Emily asked.

(Of course he'd seen it.)

“My personal in the classified section. Don't tell me he doesn't read the papers any more.”

“Oh, did you put a personal in?”

“It said,
MORGAN G.:
All is known
. Didn't he see it?”

“Morgan can't be bothered reading every notice in the paper.”

“I thought that would really get him,” Bonny said. “How he would hate for all to be known!”

She was right. He'd hated it. He'd said, “What does this mean? Of course I realize it must be Bonny's doing, but … do you think it might be someone else? No, of
course it's Bonny. What does she mean, all is known?
What's
known? What is she talking about?”

“He likes to think he's going through life as a stranger,” Bonny said.

Emily said, “I believe I hear the baby crying.”

“Sometimes,” Bonny said, “I wonder if there's even any point in blaming him. It's the way he
is
, right? It's in his genes, or … None of his family has ever seemed quite normal to me. I didn't know his father, of course, but what kind of man must he have been? Killing himself for no good reason. And his grandfather … and his great-great-uncle? Has he told you the story of his great-great-uncle? Uncle Owen, the black sheep. What would it take to be the black sheep of that family? You wonder. No one ever says, if they know. This was when the family was still in Wales. Uncle Owen was such an embarrassment, they sent him off to America. Sort of a … remittance man, is that what they call them?”

“I'd better hang up,” Emily said.

“When they sailed into New York Harbor, Uncle Owen was so excited he started dancing all over the deck,” Bonny said. “The sight of the Statue of Liberty drove him wild. He started jumping up and down too close to the railing. Then he fell overboard and drowned.” She started laughing. “Do you believe it? This is a documented fact! It really happened!”

“Bonny, I have to go now.”

“Drowned!” said Bonny. “What a man!” And she went on laughing and laughing, no doubt shaking her head and wiping her eyes, for as long as Emily stood listening.

7

O
ne night in August the doorbell rang with a stutter—two quick burrs before it fell silent. Morgan had gone out shopping. Emily thought he might be the one at the door, maybe too burdened to manage his key. But when she answered, she found a young, pale, fat boy, sweating heavily, teetering on dainty feet and holding a bouquet of red carnations. He said, “Mrs. Meredith?”

“Yes.”

“Will the dog bite?”

She didn't want to say he wouldn't, though it should have been obvious. Harry sat beside her, no more interested than was polite, slapping his tail against the floor with a rubbery sound.

“Well, fella. Down, fella,” the boy said, advancing. Emily stepped back. “You don't know me,” he told her. “My name is Durwood Linthicum from Tindell, Maryland.”

The shine on his forehead gave him a desperate, determined look. She thought he couldn't be more than eighteen. She wondered if the flowers were for her. But then he said, “I brought these to give your husband.”

“My husband?”

“Mr. Meredith,” he said, pressing farther inward. She took another step back and bumped into a china barrel. “My father was Reverend R. Jonas Linthicum,” he said. “He's passed now. Passed in June.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,” she said. “Mr. Linthicum, my husband isn't here just now—”

“I see the name don't strike a chord,” he said.

“Um …”

“Never mind, your husband will know it.”

“Well, but, um …”

“My father and Mr. Meredith used to correspond. Or at least, my father corresponded. My father ran the Holy Word Entertainment Troupe.”

“Oh, yes,” Emily said.

“You've heard of it.”

“I remember your father wanted us to come … give Bible shows, wasn't it?”

“Now you got it.”

“Well, you see, Mr. Linthicum—”

“Durwood.”

“See, Durwood …”

Behind him, the door opened wider and Morgan stepped in, carrying a twenty-five-pound keg of powdered skim milk with a water stain at one edge. “Mr. Meredith!” said Durwood. “These are for you.”

“Eh?” said Morgan. He set down the keg and took the carnations. He was wearing his tropical outfit—white Panama hat and white suit. Next to all that white, the carnations were startling, too bright to be real, like a liquor ad in an expensive magazine. Morgan buried his beard in them and took a long, thoughtful sniff.

“I been wanting to meet you since I was thirteen, fourteen years of age,” Durwood said. “Any time we came near Baltimore, I begged and pestered my father to let me see one of your shows. Durwood Linthicum,” he said, producing the name with a flair. He held out a large, soft hand. Emerald and ruby (or colored glass) rings were embedded in his fingers. “I know
you
know me, all those letters you received.”

“Ah. Linthicum,” said Morgan. He shook the hand, looking past Durwood to Emily.

“Holy Word Entertainment Troupe,” Emily said.

“?h, yes.”

“Not to speak ill of the dead,” said Durwood, “but my father didn't always have such very good business
sense. Like, he saw one of your shows and thought right much of it, saw those articles about you in the papers, but all he thought was, ‘That fellow could put on some fine, fine Bible stories. Daniel in the lions' den and Ruth and Naomi.' Right? Why,
I
knew that you would say no! You do other things besides, you do ‘Red Riding Hood' and ‘Beauty and the Beast.'
I'm
aware of that!”

Morgan stroked his beard.

“Could we maybe take a seat?” Durwood asked. “I got something to lay out before you.”

“Why, surely,” said Morgan.

He went down the hall to the living room, and Durwood followed. Emily came last, unwillingly. Some moment had slipped past her, here. She'd intended to clear all this up, but now it seemed too late.

In the living room Louisa was rocking and knitting. She glanced at Durwood and cast her yarn busily over her needle. “Mother,” Morgan said, “this is Durwood Linthicum.”

“It's a pleasure,” said Durwood. He sat down on the couch and leaned toward her, lacing his fingers in front of him. “Ma'am, I guess you know what kind of son you got here.”

Louisa looked over at Morgan, her shaggy black eyebrows like two sharp roofs.

“I been telling my father for years,” Durwood said. “ ‘Daddy, you take that fellow however you can obtain him. We want to branch out, anyhow; nobody cares for this Bible stuff these days. With all our connections—schools, clubs, churches—we got a sure thing!' I said. ‘We got everything we need!' There's this other group I like too—the Glass Accordion. I'm just crazy for their music. But he said no, we're only booking gospel music here. Wouldn't give them the time of day. Wouldn't even come hear them. Well, that's another story. I plan to pay them a visit right after I leave you folks. But it's you I feel this special interest in. Mr. Meredith, sir, you are near about my idol! I been following all the news of you. I think you're wonderful!”

“Why, thank you,” said Morgan, smelling his carnations.

“Only, it's funny: you don't much look like your photos.”

“I grew a beard, you see.”

“Yes, a beard will do it, I guess.” Durwood looked over at Emily. He said, “But I hope it don't mean you've … gone hippie, or some such.”

“No, no,” Morgan said.

“Well, good! Well, good! Because, now, maybe me and my father didn't always see eye to eye on every little thing, but, you know, I still want a Christian outfit, still want a fine, upstanding group we wouldn't be ashamed to take to a school auditorium …” He trailed off, suddenly frowning. He said, “I surely hope those Glass Accordion folks are not on drugs. Do you think?”

“Oh, no, no, I shouldn't imagine they are,” Morgan said soothingly.

“You're going to like it in Tindell, Mr. Meredith.”

“Tindell?”

“Well, you wouldn't want to keep on living in Baltimore, would you? We got connections all over the state of Maryland, and clear through southern Pennsylvania.”

Louisa said, “I've been to Tindell.”

“Well, there now!” said Durwood.

“Hated the place.”

“Hated
Tindell?”

“Didn't seem truly populated.”

“Well, I don't know how you can say that.”

“Empty as a graveyard. Stores all closed.”

“You must have gone on a Sunday.”

“It
was
a Sunday,” she said. “Sunday, March sixth, nineteen twenty-one. Morgan had not been born yet.”

“Who's Morgan?”

“Him,” she said, jabbing her chin at Morgan.

“It's a family nickname,” Morgan said. “A sign of affection. Emily, could you show Mother off to bed now?”

“Bed?” said his mother. “It's not even nine o'clock yet.”

“Well, you've had a hard day. Emily?”

Emily rose and went over to his mother. She set a hand under her wiry arm and helped her gently to her feet. “What's got into him?” Louisa said. “Don't forget my knitting, Emily.”

“I have it.”

She led the old woman down the hall and into her room. Brindle was already there, writing in her diary. She looked up and said, “Bedtime already?”

“Morgan has a guest.”

Louisa said, “I wish we were back at Bonny's house. A person had breathing room at Bonny's house. Here I'm shunted around like an extra piece of furniture.”

“I'm sorry, Mother Gower,” Emily said. She went to the closet for Louisa's nightgown, which hung on a hook. Brindle's and Louisa's silky dresses packed the rod. At the far end were Gina's things: two school jumpers, two white blouses, and a blue quilted bathrobe. It made Emily sad to see them. She removed the nightgown from its hook and closed the door. “Can you help her with her buttons?” she asked Brindle. “I'd better get back to the living room.”

But when she left, she didn't go to the living room after all. She stood in the hall a moment, listening to Durwood's breathy voice—Mr. Meredith this, Mr. Meredith that. “Used to be I didn't even
like
a puppet show, never liked that Punch-and-Judy stuff, but your puppets, Mr. Meredith, they're another matter altogether.”