Songs in Ordinary Time (96 page)

“I have to talk to her.” Have to, have to, have to tell her this, this, this. But she would not, could not, would not come to the phone, the boy said, said, said, said the boy, said his son.

But he had to talk to her, had to tell her something before it was too late; something she did not know; something terrible. It was about Duvall. “Tell her that!” he cried, one hand manacling his dry tight throat. But at least he knew by the muffled phone and the background rustle that she was nearby.

“She said for me to take a message,” the boy said. “She’s in the middle of something.”

“Listen!” he said, panicky because he could not think of this youngest child’s name, and then it came to him. “Benjy, listen, now. This is very, very important. Tell her that I just saw Omar Duvall and he threatened me with a knife. He had a knife, Benjy, and he threatened to kill me! Tell her that!

Tell her right now!”

“I will,” said the boy, and then he hung up.

Sam slumped into the chair at the foot of his mother’s crib while he waited for Marie’s call. He opened his bottle and took sips, small ones, the way Litchfield had taught him. From time to time his mother’s eyes widened with sudden gasps of fear or pain. He wasn’t sure which, for by now his bottle was almost empty and he kept drifting in and out of sleep. Marie still hadn’t called. “Imagine that,” he muttered. “She doesn’t even care about a knife. Doesn’t even care.” A man had threatened her husband’s life and she didn’t even care. He put the bottle to his lips and sucked out the last drop, SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 469

warm from his lap, warm like his gut, warm all the way down. His chin on his chest, he sank into a deep safe sleep.

“She cares. She cares very much,” said the voice, the voice in his dream, in his head, the voice in the room, his mother’s clear compelling voice.

“No, she doesn’t, Mother. Not anymore. I messed it all up and now it’s too late.”

“It’s never too late, Sam. There’s always something you can do.”

“No,” he sobbed, heat and booze bleeding from his eyes. “No, it’s too late, and that’s all there is to it. Just too damn late; that’s it and that’s all.

End of story.”

“Be a man, Sam, and do something. For once in your life, do something!”

“What? Tell me what! I don’t know what to do!”

“You know. You know exactly what to do.”

Peering up, all he could see over the roll of sheets was her chest rising and falling. He pulled himself to his feet and staggered to the side of her crib. He reached up and slid back the bolts that locked the side in place. He let it down, then gently slid one of the pillows from under her head.

“I’ll do us both a favor,” he whispered as he covered her face with the damp pillow. But then he lifted it away and bent to kiss her cheek. Her mouth twitched and he listened, the only sound her gurgling lungs. “It’ll finally be over,” he wept as he covered her face. “First you, and then me.”

Her fingers opened and closed as he held the pillow fast against the brief and futile pressure of her rising head. “Don’t,” he sobbed. “Oh please, Mother, don’t hurt me like this. Don’t. Please, don’t. This is my last chance.”

She lay still; then suddenly he fell sideways under the body that lunged at him. He clung to the crib, confused and amazed at the strength and the ferocity of one so old and weak, until he realized it had been Helen. She lifted her mother’s limp head, begging her to breathe, to stay with her.

“Please, please, please,” she cried as he pulled himself to his feet.

“You killed her,” Helen screamed. ‘I’m going to call the police!”

Just then, the tiny body twitched, then jerked up and down as if a jolt were passing through it. The chest rose, then fell against the thin bed jacket, and for a moment the only sound was her gagging.

“Sorry, Mother. I couldn’t even do that right, could I?” he said with a wave of disgust.

“I’ll have you arrested,” Helen cried. “They’ll put you in jail for this.”

Her rage wearied him. He was tired, sick of it all, sick, sick to death.

“Promises, promises, promises,” he muttered, pushing through the swinging door into the kitchen. “Renie! Where are you?” He banged on his brother-in-law’s locked door. “I know you’re in there, Renie, come on out. You can’t hide on me. I know you’re in there, you little cockroach, you good-for-nothing frog, you—”

The door opened and he smiled to see Renie standing there in his brown-and-yellow-striped pajamas. “What do you want, Sam?”

“I want…I just want to die, Renie, that’s what I want.” He burst into tears, bawling, “I just want to fucking die.”

470 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

“Then go do it, Sam,” Renie said, starting to close the door.

“You little asshole, you,” he cried, throwing himself at the door.

He was halfway into the room when Renie brought his fist back and hit him on the chin. His knees buckled with the blow. He drifted in and out of consciousness as Renie dragged him the length of the house to his own room, where he got him onto the bed. Renie was taking his shoes off.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered as Renie covered him with a blanket.

“No, you’re not,” Renie said from the doorway.

“No, I am. I really am.”

“Good night, Sam.”

“Good night, Renie. Renie, wait! Renie, you never hit me before, and I feel really bad that you hit me.”

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

“No, you’re not!”

“Yes, I am, Sam, I really am.”

“Promise you won’t do it again, Renie, okay?”

“Okay, but you gotta promise you won’t keep getting drunk like this, Sam.”

“I promise, Renie. Honest to God, I do. I really mean it, too.”

“You gotta keep trying, Sam.”

“I am, Renie. I’m gonna keep trying. I swear to God.”

“Okay, Sam.”

“Wait, Renie, wait. I just thought of something. I think Helen’s trying to turn us against each other. I think she’s trying to split us up, if you know what I mean. So be careful. Be real careful ’cause I love you, Renie. I love you like a brother. I mean that. I really do.”

T
he door opened and Benjy froze under the sheet. It was his mother.

“What did your father want?” she called in softly from the doorway.

She had just discovered the phone off the hook the way he had left it.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.” He lay on his sticky wet towel, arms folded on his still breathless chest.

She stepped into the tiny room and he drew up his legs and gripped the sheet with damp hands. “How did he sound?” she whispered so Omar wouldn’t hear. “Was he drinking?”

“I think so,” he said, closing his eyes against the lie.

“Oh God,” she sighed, going to the door. “Get back to sleep. You and Norm have to be up early to help Omar.”

He couldn’t tell her what his father had said. He didn’t want to believe that Omar had a knife and had threatened his father with it. He couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be true. His father had lied before and now he was lying about this. But what if he wasn’t? He had sounded upset on the phone, but not drunk. No, the only one who had lied was Benjy, telling her he was drunk when he was sober, telling the black men Earlie was alive when Earlie festered in the woods with Omar’s knife in his chest. But wait, then that SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 471

meant Omar didn’t have a knife, couldn’t have a knife. But he could have gotten a new one. But why would he?

He lay awake for the longest time, as he prayed and pleaded and bar-gained with God to make this right, to set it all straight, to just let her be happy with Omar. And if God would only do this most important thing, then he would never ever touch himself again. He would learn to swim. He would work hard in school. He would be the best son she ever had.

Soothed by the barter, he could finally sleep. When he woke to the smell of coffee from the kitchen and the warmth of Omar’s hearty morning voice against his mother’s bracing laughter, he was relieved. God had been listening. A deal had been struck.

Soon after he came downstairs the phone rang. He knew who it was by his mother’s low muffled voice and the way her whole body hunched to the phone.

“It was Sam,” she said when she finally hung up. “He’s so drunk I could barely understand him.”

“That’s too bad,” Omar said, carrying his cup to the sink.

“I was afraid of this,” she sighed, and Benjy could tell she was fighting tears. “He thinks you want to kill him.” She shook her head and tried to laugh. “Oh God!”

“He’s upset.” Omar put his arm around her. “But we can’t let that get in our way, right, sweetheart?”

“No, I know. I know,” she said, leaning her head against his chest.

Benjy smiled, watching them. So his father had been drunk and it hadn’t been a lie, which meant there hadn’t been a knife and everything was going to be all right.

Omar caught his eye. “Go get your brother,” he said with a wink. “We got ourselves some soap to sell.”

Benjy rode in back while Norm sat up front with Omar. It was three o’clock and they hadn’t eaten lunch. Benjy’s stomach rumbled, but at least he’d had breakfast. Norm had gotten up too late to eat anything. Omar had promised to stop somewhere as soon as they made a sale. Norm was complaining again about the heat and how it didn’t make any sense to drive all this way to try to sell soap to total strangers, who kept closing the door in his face the minute he opened his mouth. At least at home they’d have a better chance with people they knew.

“Look, I didn’t ask for you to come, boy. This was your mother’s idea!”

Omar finally snapped, his voice sharper than Benjy had ever heard it. “So we might as well try and make the best of it.” He glanced at Norm with a forced smile. “Now that we’re stuck with each other.”

Nothing looked familiar. Benjy had no idea where they were, and with the tension so thick in the car right now, he didn’t dare ask.

They pulled down the long, rutted driveway of the next farm, this one even more run-down than the last. The barn roof had caved in. Red and black hens sat clucking on the farmhouse porch railing.

472 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

“Oh this looks like a
real
possibility,” Norm groaned as he reached in back for the samples, which they took turns carrying.

Benjy watched Omar wait for Norm to reach the porch before he knocked on the door. It was opened by a stout woman with long, gray hair. She shook her head and quickly closed the door on them. Norm stormed back to the car. “This is fucking ridiculous!” he said as he got inside.

“Watch your mouth!” Omar warned as he started the car.

“Forget about making a sale, let’s just stop someplace! I gotta eat!” Norm said, slapping the dashboard, his voice high and panicky.

“I told you, we have to make a sale,” Omar said. “I don’t have any money.”

“What?” Norm exploded.

“I always start out with an empty wallet,” Omar said, turning down yet another back road, this one wooded and dense with shade. “There’s no motivation like hunger!”

Benjy’s and Norm’s eyes met in the rearview mirror, Norm’s smoldering with rage. Benjy was glad Norm hadn’t heard Omar telling their mother not to bother making sandwiches because he wanted to treat them to lunch.

“Then let’s go home! I want to go home!” Norm said, folding his arms and jerking himself back against the seat.

“Think of your mother now,” Omar said. “We can’t go back empty-handed. She’ll be too upset.”

Upset, Benjy thought. Upset wasn’t the word for it. When Norm had finally gotten up the nerve to tell her he’d been fired, she told him to go live with his father. They deserved each other. Norm had slept in the garage for two nights while she pretended not to know he was out there. Yesterday the bank had sent a registered letter demanding the two late loan payments.

Her car was finally repaired and waiting to be picked up at Hillman’s garage, but she needed two hundred dollars. Mr. Hillman had called every single day this week. Last night he’d threatened to sell it.

The green-and-white sign at the top of the hill welcomed them to Kirkville.

They drove down into a tiny village square surrounded by six white houses, the Kirkville General Store and Post Office, and a white wooden church with a cupola instead of a steeple. Benjy followed Omar from door to door.

At the last house, the parsonage, just as the woman was about to close the door, Omar spoke up quickly, noting that she bit her nails; would she be interested in a dish detergent that contained a special ingredient so concentrated, so bitter, that she would never bite her nails again because of the terrible taste the powerful but subtle component would eventually, after a week or so of use, build up in her fingernails? The woman said she’d buy a bottle. Only one? Omar said, explaining that it might be months before they’d be by this way again. The woman said she’d like two bottles, and Omar said a check would be fine. No need to take all her pin money, and he could certainly trust the pastor’s wife. Benjy couldn’t believe Omar was refusing cash. How else would they eat? The woman returned with her checkbook. Omar talked her into buying four bottles and insisted she use SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 473

his pen and not waste her own ink. Three dollars, the woman wrote on the check as Benjy’s stomach growled.

After that they made no more sales. Omar was discouraged and Norm was disgusted. Benjy didn’t dare tell him Omar had talked their only sale of the day into paying by check.

Omar and Norm hurried down the steps from a handsome brick house where a woman had threatened to call the police the minute Omar started his pitch. “What is she, nuts?” Norm said, getting into the car. When they were out of sight, Omar pulled to the side of the road. He said he was exhausted and asked Norm if he wanted to drive. No, Norm said, looking out the side window. He didn’t want to drive.

“A whole day and just four bottles of soap. Your poor mother,” Omar sighed. “I’m getting old, I guess. I’m losing my touch.”

Now Norm looked at him. “What do you expect?” he said, with such disgust that Benjy was embarrassed for Omar, who stared glumly over the wheel. “I told you, nobody’s ever heard of Presto Soap. What do they want
that
for?”