Old Powder Man (21 page)

The place from which Poppa had come received him again and Son shuddered, thinking with dread of death; fighting, work, his system wouldn't be any good then. Turning, he walked away over frozen ground to the house, thinking Poppa had come full circle: he was back where he started from, without too much to show for having been away.

Over and over they told Cally Poppa had died and thought she understood; but death seemed to have no more meaning than life. She only went to where he was laid out in the parsonage and held one of his hands a long time. Son said probably the best thing was if she didn't know what was going on; he sure didn't know what was going to become of her now.

In the way of a small country town it made no difference that Poppa, having left over thirty years ago, had hardly been back since. Everyone he had ever known came to the funeral. Afterward even the most remote member of the family gathered for homemade ice cream, cake, and the retelling of humorous incidents about the one who was gone: Remember the time Henry … someone would start, and someone else's old eyes would glint with memory and a soft southern voice would add another bit to what emerged finally as almost Poppa's whole life, because Uncle John went so far back as to when he and Poppa were five and were caught smoking corn silks in the barn. Now, what Poppa's life had been was what people remembered, and Uncle John laughed so hard recalling that day his poor wizened arthritic hands seemed to have life again. Aunt Sally said, Only think, if you had known that day you'd be recalling it when Henry was buried; someone else wondered if you wanted to know how important a day was to you at the time. But Uncle John fell silent, realizing how long ago it all had been. Catching the thought, Aunt Sally said what so many of the old ones in the room were thinking, How time flies! Not even John, in his pain, guessed how short a time it would be before, regathered in this room, the family would talk of him: Remember John telling about him and Henry learning to smoke in the barn? Now, they're both gone. And the day would become part of their legacy, for the youngest in the room, after the first hearing, went straight home and tried out corn silks; in turn, his sons and their children, overhearing the tale, stole matches at an early age and, learning to smoke in some secret place of their own, thought always of the two long ago boys, John and Henry. It was far more than Poppa ever dreamed of, whose fondest wish had been only to be spoken of occasionally after death. It was all he had asked of life, to be remembered.

On Monday, the five returned to Delton and on Tuesday Son took out the grip from which he had removed dirty shirts and underwear, put in clean, and as he always said, lit out again. Cally went home with Cecilia; they would decide later what to do with her. Son could think of nothing but to put her in a home and wondered about the cost: having to pay for Poppa's funeral had eaten into reserve again. Thinking of the money going out and the money coming in, he stepped on the accelerator and sped down the highway as fast as possible, into the sun just rising.

On Friday he found that Cecilia, who was pregnant, had the same idea about Cally. She had located a Catholic home, with nominal fee, and Son had to agree, though it turned his stomach to think of Mammy there with all those women in black, the Sisters; they scared him and he stayed away altogether. Cecilia brought Cally home for Sunday dinner and he and Kate were there; afterward they took Cally for a ride. All she ever wanted to do was ride, not to any place in particular, just ride. All her old restless energy having no other outlet had focused on being in motion. Soon she was not satisfied with once a week and flew into such rages a Sister had to call Cecilia to take her riding often.

Spring was busy. Gone from home, Son thought only of business, something he enjoyed. The first big work in a long time was to be let in Vicksburg, Son's first big letting. Spring was rainy and the roads so bad the railroad put on a special coach to accommodate those going to the letting. Red Johnson announced he was going; it might be his last. But he was going as he always had and invited Son, Will and Buzz to drive with him. Shut-eye put on the floor of the car a tub of crushed ice and set-ups, had plenty of the sandwiches he was famous for: Cannibal, made of raw ham and sliced onion. He went to Arkansas for two five-gallon oak kegs of his own whisky, aged in the woods a long time, drove them to Delton as fast as possible, the theory being that sloshing whisky around aged it even better; all the way to Vicksburg he kept the accelerator to the floor, though the road was like a washboard and several times the younger men, finding it hilarious, had to get out and get the car unstuck. Going on, they downed more whisky and more Cannibal sandwiches and arrived in Vicksburg, as Son said, lit up like Christmas trees.

Lights were on in every room of the hotel; the wide front verandah, the lobby were jammed with people trying to register; because of the crowd, rooms had to be shared. Shut-eye brought the second keg to Will and Red's room, broke it open, siphoned it, and the whisky was there for anyone who wanted a drink. The actual letting of the work would be held in the Army Engineers office; for the two days prior all companies, wooing those who might win work, held open house; people roamed from room to room drinking whisky, eating food provided by the various dynamite, iron, wire rope, equipment, machinery, gravel companies and others Son never even got around to visiting. On the day of the letting, the salesmen would wait in the lobby where a blackboard was set up; as work was let, the information was phoned to the hotel and written on the board; as soon as the winning contractors returned, they would be set upon again.

As Son registered, a man gripped his elbow and said, “Dynamite, remember me? Winston Taylor, Drainage Engineer, Spotsville County.”

“Oh hell yeah,” Son said. “You peckerwoods decided to drain out your ditches using dynamite yet?”

“There's still a lot of opposition to it, but I didn't come up to do no business with you, boy. They got my reservation lost and I'm looking for a room to get a cot set up in.”

“Come on in with Buzz and me then,” Son said; he introduced the two, made arrangements about the cot, said he was about to starve to death, and they started for the dining room. Just outside it, Son recognized young Bull Woods who immediately looked away; but not before Son saw to his surprise and amusement the damage he had done to the boy's nose had been permanent. Jagged as lightning a scar went across its bridge; the nose was not exactly in the center of his face.

At the door of the dining room, they waited, looking into a room which was enormous. Wall sconces with light bulbs shaped like candleflames and glass chandeliers sparkling as truly as crystal imitated the period when the hotel was built. Table linen and waiters' jackets were white and stiffly starched, the latter, cropped, fitted as skin-tight as vests. One mirrored wall reflected the diners who were in odd contrast to the furnishings, seeking to evoke the past. History held little interest for Son or these men; yet, like the rest, Son would feel compelled soon to visit the silent battlefield, study not with wonder but more with a professional interest the fertile hilly contours of land from which all vestiges of battle had disappeared except the flat markers and stripped cannon, greening, pigeon-smeared, pointing aimlessly. Scarcely seeing, Son, the other men, would pass beneath the guard on permanent and silent duty, the once white stone as greyed now as the uniform it had been fashioned to represent; the men would not mention war, would not think of it again until the next time when again instinctive duty would compel them between the iron gates; their already hot blood would be more so, momentarily, as they were forced to think of the enemy whose fault it had been: so that against the enemy's descendants who retained speech, manner, habit different from theirs, Son and his friends harbored suspicion, scorn, pity, said of them, they were such damn fools they weren't even going to tell them, would work with them thirty years or more and still sum them up, reduce them to one phrase which never changed and needed no explanation: somebody-who-thought-they-were-so-damn-smart: in short, a Yankee.

Now, Son, Buzz, Winston followed single file behind the head waiter, thinking only of food. Will and Red joined them and all the time they ate others stopped to shake hands, exchange jokes and job information. Even during prohibition, Vicksburg was a free city; liquor could be bought anywhere but each man had his bottle under the table and intended to empty it before the night was over. Few wives came to lettings but there were plenty of women: local women and those who followed lettings, by prearrangement or to find a good time. Son had paid no attention to any women in the room; later, he said he did not even notice the woman who passed the table and then turned back. First he saw Buzz's surprised look, then the woman who stood over him about to speak. At the moment he recognized her as Bull Woods' wife, she began to call him names he did not expect any woman to use in public, not even Scottie. It was as if he were two people, the one who knew if it had been a man talking to him he already would have killed him and the other who wondered what to do because it was a woman cussing him like he was a nigger fieldhand. Because of what he had done to her husband's face, she said.

Son had a reputation for not taking anything from anyone; men in the room were afraid of what he might do. Those close saw his face flush, fade, and his eyes turn white. He looked at her once and not again. Buzz noticed his hands for the first time and equated them to a bear's paws: clenched, they rested heavily on the table. He was sure Son would swat her, was about to get to his feet to help her, thinking somebody had to. Having finished her tirade, she hushed as abruptly as she had begun and waited for Son's reply. It seemed a long time, the room full of people waiting too. What was happening dawned on them all, and someone snickered. Mrs. Woods' neck slowly turned purple, splotchy with rage; she did not know how to go or stay. Son's grin had slipped to one side; only a line like chalk outlining his lips showed what he felt. He neither looked at her nor spoke. Bending to his plate, he began delicately to eat his apple pie.

A flapping of heelless shoes in the otherwise silent room was her leavetaking. At Son's table they sighed and Red spoke for them all: “I'm proud of you, boy.” Other men leaving the dining room slapped Son on the shoulder, meaning the same. At midnight, Will and Red went to bed. Son, Winston, Buzz put on pajamas and ordered ice. Son felt so good he tipped the boy a dollar and suddenly, with a whoop, fell on the bed and they were all laughing. Winston said he didn't even know what it was all about; he just never would forget it. Buzz told the story and Winston said, Hell, Son couldn't hit anybody that hard.

“Oh yeah,” Son said. “You want to find out?”

“Now wait a minute,” Buzz said.

“Naw,” Winston said, “but I'll wrestle you. I wrestled a bear once and won.”

“Hell you say,” Son said; he bent, hands before him and waited.

Winston, as if from ropes, came forward, pushing his cot aside. “Listen here,” Buzz said.

“Don't worry, old man, it's just a friendly wrestle,” Son said. Clutching one another, they went around, bumping furniture. As if on signal, they stopped, went to separate corners, breathing heavily, sweating. Again, by silent signal they met, locked, went around, grunting. Once they stopped for Son to tie his pajamas and started again. Taking a blanket, Buzz left to make a pallet on the floor in Will's room. Entering, he said, “Them two's crazy as coots,” and needed no other explanation. He slept wondering how long they would go on and found out at breakfast the next morning when a man stopped by the table to ask Son what the hell he was doing shoving the furniture around till three o'clock in the morning.

Son spent the day visiting from room to room, meeting new people, looking at exhibits, talking about dynamite. Dynamite: he guessed he could talk about it all day. With pleasure he discussed jobs he had done and with pleasure almost as equal another fellow's job, the way the dirt had blown and what kind it was, the kind of job a man had afterward, what price he had had to pay. How much dynamite had been used? he would ask. Son had a joking good-natured way among men but was serious saying he could save a man money by shooting dynamite himself, free. Contractors had to listen. Dynamiting, dirt, all their possible conditions were getting to be as familiar to Son as the face he shaved each morning. Just hearing about a job, he could say pretty much how it ought to be done. When he was working, he did not drink but made up for it at night. Late the second afternoon Winston, feeling no pain, insisted on going to a gambling boat tied up at the river. It was an old paddlewheeler strung with colored lights and had a machine gun mounted on the front. “Not for any joke either,” Winston said, stumbling down the gangplank. Below, he went straight to a wheel Son learned was roulette; but he was not interested in any of that fancy stuff. He joined a crap table and every few minutes a waiter at his elbow asked if he wanted a drink and he bought. He got hot on those dice; then the shoe was on the other foot; the house was buying him drinks. Every time he turned around a waiter said, Compliments. It was only later he realized that when the dice got fuzzy was when he began to lose. But for a long while, he could do nothing wrong. His points turned up. The lucky streak went on so long, people came from other tables to watch. Calling his point, he stamped his foot; soon everyone about the table did the same. Six! Fifteen people stamped heavily. Ten! Stamp. His bets became heavier and wilder, the drinks came faster. He lost back all but two hundred dollars of two thousand he won. Hell, he said, he had two thousand dollars' worth of fun; quitting, he called, “Winston, let's go,” and long out of money, Winston came willingly. “Come back again, Dynamite,” people called. When he had been hot, he had told everybody who he was. A waiter helped him steer Winston to dry ground, then driving, Son said, “We got to get something to eat before I starve to death.” He found open only a greasy spoon diner on the edge of town and the waitress said she was fixing to close. Son said, “Not till you rustle me up some ham and eggs,” and Winston ordered half a dozen hard-boiled ones. Son was eating when the waitress brought Winston's eggs, cold, peeled, slithering on the plate. Picking up the nearest container, Winston poured from a great height a long stream of grainy white substance. “What the Sam Hill,” Son said; turning, the waitress said, “Lord help us, he thought it was salt.” A moment, Winston's face was like a child's, tricked; then he said, “I like sugar on my Goddamned eggs,” and ate them every one. The next morning, hearing, he groaned, said it might not be too late to lose them eggs, but Son was still laughing.