Old Powder Man (36 page)

“What do you mean?”

“I'm impatient,” he had said. “I know it and I can't hep it. She was like that too. She was always worrying after something and some of it she didn't really want, but she had to worry. It don't look like I'm ever free of worrying. I worry all the time. I got my money but suppose I don't keep it. That's one thing I worry about.” Then he had stopped. There were more things he worried about he had no name for; nameless, they were in the dark when he closed his eyes.

He said, “Naw, I don't guess I can make it down to the ho-tel tonight, May.”

“Why not?” she said.

“I don't get around anymore,” he said. “I've got wore out.”

“Come on a little while,” she said. “I'll tell you whether you're wore out or not.”

“Naw, you'll have to go peddle your papers someplace else,” he said. “I don't mean that kind of wore out. I mean too wore out to get dressed and drive the car downtown.”

“Well, if you're that wore out, you are too wore out,” she said and slammed down the phone.

“Go——yourself,” he said and slammed down the phone too. For a minute he thought of getting up and going down there and showing her whether he was wore out or not; then he thought, Hell he was wore out; it wasn't worth the drive. He got up and went into the bathroom and seeing the bottle on the floor took another drink. Then he came into the hall and yelled, “Kate, are you ever going to get my supper on the table?”

“It's ready now,” she said from the dining room.

He came to the table, saying, “Buzz's job was a booger,” but no one said anything. He sat down. “What's this?”

“Lima bean casserole,” Kate said.

“Well get it off the table,” he said. “I give you money to buy groceries, not to put scraps on the table. Get me something to eat.”

Kate said, “Just because it's in a casserole, doesn't mean it's leftovers. Sarah just fixed it.”

Laurel said, “Can I be excused?”

“Go on,” Kate said. Sarah had to open a can of hominy for him. Kate told her to pitch the casserole into the back yard. They ate in silence. Finished, he said, “I may have to go down yonder to south Miss'sippi to do some muck shooting can't nobody else do. Whew.” Kate did not say anything. He stood and went away from the table in a slow shuffle, as if he were ready to be an old man, she thought.

That night he slept deeply, then woke. A long part of the night had passed, but there was still a long part to go. He had dreamed he and May and Buzz were on a merry-go-round laughing, whirling about, with colored lights brightly reflecting in mirrors above them. He wanted Kate and got up and went into her room; but she was sleeping slantwise across the bed; her hair was darker though she kept it still blonde and she wore it much as she always had, very short and with the two deep waves coming forward across her cheeks; she had always had very pale skin and would never go in the sun; she looked very tired sleeping; her hands were beneath one cheek and she was snoring lightly. After a moment, he turned around and went into the bathroom and had a drink instead. He sat in the bedroom chair, trying not to think about whether he was going to south Mississippi or not. He said, “Pheww.” He had been sweating, asleep, and now shivered in his damp pajamas, ran his hands through his hair and let them remain pressing the back of his skull, his head down.

When he woke next, it was the middle of the afternoon. Kate brought food on a tray. “Now get dressed,” she said, “and go on down to the office. Holston's called several times. Don't start all this again.”

“Don't start trying to tell me what to do,” he said.

“Well if you don't get something to do,” she said, “I don't know what any of us are going to do.”

He started up, and she went out. Presently, he heard her drive away. He took a hot bath and afterward felt so weak he put on his robe and lay on the bed again. He called May. “I just wanted to see if you were still there?” he said.

“I am,” she said. “But I thought you were too wore out to do anything about it.”

“I was,” he said. “But Old Granddad's got me not so wore out anymore.”

“Oh,” she said. “Is that a fact.”

“Yeah, you want to make something out of it?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“I just wanted to see whether you were still there or not.”

“Well, I am,” she said.

“Well I might be down to see you,” he said.

“Come on then,” she said.

“I don't know whether I can make it or not,” he said and hung up.

In a little while he put his pajamas back on. He went to the kitchen and said, “Sarah, if anybody from my office—if anybody calls me, tell them I'm not home and you don't know where I'm at or when I'll be back.” He read through several detective magazines again and slept fitfully. He was lying in bed, having listened to the ball game and then to the six o'clock news when Laurel passed the door and he said, “Laurel.”

She had been out walking and came to the door wearing a turtleneck sweater, her hair blown about her face, making it appear even smaller; but she was tanned and he noticed for the first time that she had freckles. She said, “Yes?”

“How old are you?” he said.

“Twenty-two,” she said. “Why?”

“Jesus Christ,” he said, then said nothing else and Laurel went on to her room; he heard her close the door. He got up and closed his. That made an old man out of him if he hadn't been one before, he thought. Twenty-two years old. Why the hell didn't she know any more than she did for two thousand dollars a year for four years? Wasn't that the answer either? Mammy had always said everything would be all right if she had gone to school like her sisters did; but school didn't seem to have done Laurel any good and it hadn't done Cecilia any good; she had married Joe, had the four girls, and lived out from a little hole in the road down in Mississippi with just enough to live on, if they had that. What was wrong with Cecilia was, she was too good. She had always just been content with whatever she had.

He guessed they were never going to give him any supper; he never got anything to eat around here without making a big fuss about it. Standing to go to the bathroom, he found he was drunker than he had thought. Opening the door, he heard them eating and closed it again. He came from the bathroom and lay on the bed. He'd starve to death, he thought, and Kate would let him; that was just how grateful she was. He had worked himself to death and was this what it had all been for: not to have the strength to get up and go to the bathroom without thinking about it twice? “Wheww,” he said. Suddenly he threw back the covers and got out of bed and threw open the door so hard the knob chipped paint on the wall. He went into the hall and shouted, “Kate! There's going to be a murder around here!”

Kate and Laurel were just crossing the hall and they stopped and stared. It was dark and Kate turned on the light. “Frank, hush,” she said. “You're drunk. Go back to bed.”

“I'm going to murder somebody around here,” he said again. He turned and went into his room and picked up the telephone.

“Mother, what is he going to do?” Laurel said.

“I don't know, but I can't do anything about it,” she said.

He said to the operator, “You better get the po-lice.”

Laurel began to cry and went into her room and shut the door.

“Po-lice department,” he said. “You better get somebody over here. I'm fixing to kill somebody.” He gave his name and address and hung up. Then he got back in bed. Shortly, they were at the door and he listened to them come down the hall, Kate following, talking in a voice that trailed away as she went into her own room. One policeman, at the door, said, “What's going on? You don't look to me like you're fixing to kill nobody laying up in the bed.”

“Hell,” Son said. “Turn off the light.”

The policeman turned off the ceiling light he had switched on, entering. They saw by the light from the hall. “What are you trying to do? Scare your wife some, cause some excitement?” he said.

“Naw, I just had a drink or two,” he said. “Where'd you boys come from? How'd you get here so quick?”

“We was just cruising around,” the second policeman said.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” the older one said. “Scaring everybody. What are you going to do now?”

“Get me some sleep, I reckon,” he said.

“Well don't bother nobody else,” the policeman said. “We don't want to have to worry about you.”

“Hell, don't anybody have to worry about me. I get along all right.” He sat up.

The policeman said, “You better get back in the bed now.”

He said, “Don't anybody tell me when to get up and when to go to bed in my own house.”

“Oh,” the policeman said. “You going to get tough.”

“Tough,” he said. “You want to talk about tough. You ought to have been around here fifteen-twenty years ago you wanted to see somebody tough.”

“Is that right?” the policeman said.

The doorbell rang. Son said, “Who the hell's that? How many boys you got to send to keep one man from committing a murder?”

“We two are enough to handle you,” the policeman said.

Kate, having answered the bell, passed the door again. Buzz came behind her and stopped. He looked in. “What the hell you doing off the wagon, old man?” he said.

Son, in delight, swung his feet to the floor. “Where'd you come from?” he said.

“I got in today and called you and now next thing I know Miss Kate's calling back saying I got to come over here and calm you down.”

“I reckon he's about calm now,” the policeman said. “We'll leave him to you.” He and the other one started to go.

Son got out of bed. “I better give you something to take along for your trouble,” he said. From his cabinet, he took two fifths of whisky and gave one to each. “Much obliged,” he said.

The policemen touched their hats, thanked him and were gone. Buzz said, “What you want to scare the fire out of Laurel and Kate for?”

“Oh hell,” he said. “You don't know what it's like living in the house with two worthless women.” Son grinned, and Buzz threw back his head and bellowed, shaking all over. “Old man, there's not another woman in the United States would have put up with you as long as Kate has,” he said.

“Well, I've sure put up with a lot,” Son said. “I had a load to carry. I might have to have a drink to all I've put up with.”

“You don't need a drink. Get back in the bed,” Buzz said, holding the covers open.

“Oh are you going to start telling me what to do now?” Son said. “If I want a drink, I'm going to take it.”

“Don't gimme no trouble. I'll get those boys with the billy clubs back to take care of you.”

Son swung his feet under the covers and pulled them up. “There was a time when it would have taken the three of you to do it too,” he said.

“Yeah, but them times are over,” Buzz said. “You've done got to be a old man, like me.” He pulled up a chair and sat beside Son's bed.

The telephone rang, and Laurel opened her door and went down the hall to answer the one there. Light from her room fell across Buzz's face and turning, Son saw him closely and thought: you don't know how old you are until you look at the other fellow. Buzz had paid back some of the money he had borrowed; but he was working like a fool still to get ahead again; he saw how tired Buzz was, for a moment felt glad he never had to get that tired again; in the next moment, he envied Buzz, starting out all over again, as he was finished. He wondered which of them was better off. They had hoed some tough roads together. He said, “Buzz, remember that letting over in Little Rock when we sent the woman up to the room of that little fellow from Magnolia?”

“Yeah!” Buzz said.

“Last I heard, he hadn't stopped running yet!” Son said. They laughed until Son had to blow his nose afterward; then he said, “I got to thinking about all those days here not long ago; looks like I can't stop. That was when you got the big one wasn't it? Who got the bid on the sodding that time?”

“That's going back some,” Buzz said. “Was it that fellow from up in St. Mary's, Missoury.”

“I believe it was,” Son said. “What was that old fellow's name?”

“Squint?” Buzz said. “Wasn't that the one they called Squint McBride.”

“That's him,” Son said. “Whatever happened to that old peckerwood?”

“I haven't heard about him in years,” Buzz said.

“Whatever happened to old J. J. Lawrence from up in Dyersburg way?” Son said. “I got to thinking about him not long ago.”

“I heard he made a lot of money up thataway doing gravel work,” Buzz said. “He was a tough customer.”

“He wasn't no tougher than Dynamite, was he?”

“Naw, he wasn't no tougher than you, old man,” Buzz said. They were laughing when Laurel passed along the hall again; she went into Kate's room and closed the door. Son thought he had a couple of fifty-dollar bills in his wallet; he'd have to give them each one tomorrow. “You want to know somebody else was tough,” he said. “That old fellow that was at all the lettings named Roseamond.”

“Yeah, he was tough too,” Buzz said. He told something he remembered about Roseamond. He was still talking when Laurel opened the door to Kate's room and they heard the last of what she was saying, “—paper.”

Kate said, “Go on to the party. There's not going to be anything in the paper about it. He's nobody.”

When Laurel closed the door they saw each other by the lesser light of the hall. Son said, “'27, '28, '29. I'll never forget those years. I was starting out in my own powder business and everybody said I was crazy to do it. But it turned out all right.” He told Buzz about the first little bungalow he lived in on Oak Street, about his mammy's and pappy's little bungalow, about buying his present house. “This house,” he said, “is right across the street from a house where my mother did some catering for a big fancy society party one time. When she got there, they asked her to go around to the back door. Some of that family still lives over yonder and when I moved in here, it like to tickled me to death.”