Gideon (12 page)

One of those towns was Simms, Mississippi. It was a small town, not rich but surviving in a changing South. Those who didn’t work in the stores along Main Street mostly worked shifts at the battery factory along the river. It was in Simms that Rayette—who was calling herself Leslie Marie now—got pregnant again.

She wasn’t exactly sure who the father was, she told Danny, but she was sure he was a really nice guy. She only went with nice guys, she said. It was important for Danny to understand that. She would only go with nice guys.

Life was lonely for Danny in this latest town. He had long since given up trying to make friends. So he disappeared into a world where he needed no one. He read all day long, magazines about movie stars and car engines and black women in South America who carried around live poultry in baskets on their heads. He read any book he could find. Even those he didn’t completely understand.
Gone with the Wind
, he read. And
Around the World in Eighty Days.
There was a motel maybe five, six miles from the house, and sometimes he would walk out there and scrounge around their trash looking for books that people had thrown away. He found
The Time Machine
there, in the garbage. And a biography of Robert E. Lee. He went for walks by himself and learned to tell the difference between different types of flowers and plants. He carved things, too. Once he made a beautiful walking stick for Rayette, carved a rooster’s head onto the top of it. Rayette had loved it, showered him with kisses when he gave it to her, told him how smart and clever he was. She took it everywhere she went. But two weeks after he gave it to her, she came home late one night without it. And he never saw it again.

He had two favorite retreats. One was the small town square. It was just a patch of cobblestones, really. But growing up out of those stones was a magical oak tree. Magical because it was so bit, its branches so strong and sturdy and so full with leaves. Someone—some little boy, Danny always thought, long before Danny was born—had put a swing there, had hung it from two of the strongest branches. It was just the right height for Danny, and he liked to sit on the small wooden plank held up by the thick rope, and he’d kick his legs off the ground and go higher and higher, higher still, and think about anything but where he was and what he was doing and what his life was turning out to be.

His other special place was the football field. It was about a mile from their house, near the high school. It had rickety bleachers on both sides of the field and chalk lines for yard markers, lines that were bright white and clean and never seemed to fade into the dirt and grass. Almost every afternoon when school was done, he’d walk all the way to that field, stand in one end zone, take a deep breath, and then start running. He’d run a hundred yards until he reached the other end zone, catching his breath, and then run all the way back, a hundred more yards. He would do this sometimes until it got dark, running back and forth, sweating, exhausted, sometimes even just walking because he couldn’t run another step. When he was done, he’d hug one of the goalposts, using it for support, sucking in air, until he had the energy to begin his walk back home. On the goalpost at the north side of the field, someone, years ago, probably long before Danny was born, had carved a small heart. Inside the heart was carved
JD + SE = LOVE
. When Danny was running back and forth, faster and faster, he used to think about the carving on that post and wonder if he’d ever meet JD or SE. He’d also wonder if they were still in love.

The fatter Rayette got, the more moody she became. This was a hard pregnancy. She was sick almost every morning and often at night. The factory was nearby, down by the water, and the smell that floated into the air and seeped into the very ground drove her wild. She complained that it was attaching itself to her body, that it was leaking out of her pores, and sometimes the pain in her belly was so sharp she couldn’t get out of bed. Once Danny didn’t finish his dinner when she told him to and she yelled at him, really screamed, and then she raised her hand to slap him. He didn’t flinch, just stood there waiting to take it, but Rayette didn’t hit him; she slowly lowered her hand and began to cry. Then she took him in her arms and held him for a long, long time, called him baby and honey and sweetie and telling him how much she loved him, how sorry she was for everything. He told her she didn’t have to be sorry. She was his mother and she could do anything she wanted. She hugged him tighter and said the same thing back to him. “Whatever you do, I’ll always love you. Whatever else happens, just know that.”

Danny knew how much she loved him. And he loved her just as much. She was the
only
thing he loved, and he was determined that he would never let that love slip away. It was the one thing in his young life that he was absolutely sure of.

When Danny was nine years old, his baby brother was born.

Rayette had made a list of names that she and Danny had discussed long into many nights. But they couldn’t pick a name until they’d seen the baby, she said. A name had to be exactly right, and the only way to get it right was to hold the child, to feel the person, to understand exactly what kind of human being this was coming forth into the world.

They were too poor to go to a hospital, so Rayette had the baby at home. It was a long and painful labor, but Danny stayed by his mother’s side the whole time. He stood next to the black midwife who had come to help and did whatever she told him to do. He got a cold towel when Rayette’s brow needed to be mopped, and he boiled hot water when something needed to be sterilized. The midwife was wonderful—her hands were magic, moving this way and that, soothing Rayette when she screamed out in pain, gently turning Danny away when she felt there was something he shouldn’t see. Danny liked the midwife very much. He liked her voice, which was soft and gravelly, and he liked how bony she was, so thin she looked as if she might break in two at any moment. He liked everything about her—especially the strange thing on her face.

He couldn’t stop staring at her face.

She had a big circle around her left eye; it almost looked like it was painted on. It was perfectly round and very black, much darker than even her dark brown skin. It started at the top of her nose and went around the eye, onto her cheek, and then back up to the nose. It was so shiny it almost glowed. And it didn’t touch the right side of her face. That side was smooth and unblemished. The mark was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. When he had run to fetch her, to tell her it was time to come, she noticed his stare and she smiled. “It’s all right, ” she said, “It don’t bother me none. It’s just a birthmark. It’s just His way of tellin’ me I’m chosen for somethin’ special” But Danny still couldn’t stop staring. Even while his mother was screaming and moaning in pain, he was gazing at the black woman’s face, at the eye that she said was a gift from God.

The baby was born at ten minutes past midnight.

Within seconds they knew that something was wrong.

When the midwife pulled the child out from between Rayette’s legs, she didn’t say anything, but Danny saw her shudder. The baby was crying, screaming its head off; it was all red and wrinkled. It looked the way a baby was supposed to look, Danny thought, but even he knew that all was not right. It was the look in the baby’s eyes. And the way the baby was crying. Danny thought it sounded like a cry for help.

It was only a matter of days before it was clear that this was not a normal child. He never stopped crying. And he didn’t seem to respond to any of them, not Danny, who tried to pick him up and talk to him, not the black midwife, who came by every day to feed him, and definitely not Rayette, who held the baby moments after he was born, put him down, and then refused to ever look at him again. When Danny asked what they were going to name him, Rayette said that the baby didn’t deserve a name. He was not normal. He scared her. He could not have a name like any other little boy.

It was the devil, the midwife said. It was the devil that had done this to the child. No, Rayette said. It was the smell. The smell from the factory. It had gone from the smokestack into the air, then into her bones. And then into the baby’s blood.

Whatever the reason, devil or man, the baby had caused her great pain. And Rayette knew the pain wasn’t over.

By the time the baby was six months old, Danny hated him.

As soon as Rayette was up and around after the birth, she went back to work at a local bar. She stayed away from the house as much as possible so she wouldn’t have to be near her second son. It became Danny’s job to watch him, to feed him, to care for him. To listen to him cry.

When the child was a year old, Rayette still had not given him a name. He did not seem to hear when anyone talked to him. He showed no signs of intelligence. He had no coordination. And he made no effort to talk or coo. All he did was eat and cry. Eat and cry.

As far as the outside world was concerned, the child didn’t seem to exist. It was 1955, and in the deep South a severely retarded boy was something to be feared and shunned. Rayette was ashamed and humiliated that she had given birth to such a creature. She could not afford to give him proper care, nor could she afford any further social ostracization. So the baby stayed home. During the day, the black midwife would come and look out for him. When school was over, Danny would come home, still alone, and listen to the screams.

By the time the baby was eighteen months, Danny blamed him for the loss of his mother. Oh, she was still there, she still lived in the house. But she rarely came home anymore. She never hugged Danny or kissed him or told him how much she loved him. She drank more than she ever had. And she took more men friends than ever before, although she never brought any of them home.

Three days before Danny’s eleventh birthday, a girl in class had a birthday of her own. As a present for her birthday and to welcome in the new year, her parents gave her tickets to see a new teenage idol who was performing twenty miles away at a local auditorium. The singer’s name was Elvis Presley, and everyone in Danny’s class talked about no one else. They imitated him, dressed like him, combed their hair like him. Danny had never seen or heard Elvis, had vaguely overheard some of his classmates talking about how cool he was. So when the girl announced that she had ten tickets to see the King, it was the biggest news ever to hit Danny’s class. Everyone courted her favor, hoping to be one of the chosen nine. Over the course of the week she chose four boys and four girls. There was one more slot open. No one was more surprised than Danny when she tapped him on the shoulder after class and asked if he’d like to come see Elvis. He stuttered. “Y-y-y-yes, sh-sh-sure,” and then she ran off, giggling.

He raced all the way home and banged through the front door to find Rayette sitting on the living room couch, a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the table next to her. Danny had never been so happy, and he yelled so wildly at her that she had to tell him to calm down and talk slowly. He excitedly told her that he was going to see Elvis Presley that night and he waited for her to ask who Elvis was, hoping to show off his knowledge. She didn’t ask him anything, however; she just looked sadly at him and told him he couldn’t go anywhere. She had a date that night, a date with a very nice guy, and he had to stay home to watch the baby.

Rayette left the house at five o’clock for her date. The children going to the concert were supposed to meet at six in front of the school. At five-thirty the baby was crying, screaming its head off. Danny knew he was hungry, that Rayette wouldn’t have bothered to feed him earlier, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want the baby to eat. He didn’t want the baby to live.

At five-forty-five the baby was screaming louder than before, louder than Danny had ever heard him. He went into the mudroom, which was where Rayette kept him. The baby was all red, waving his hands and feet spastically, screaming and crying, making ugly rasping noises. Danny looked down at his brother, not yet two years old, and knew that he had to stop the crying. Had to stop the noise.

He went back to the living room, picked up a pillow from the couch. When he went back to the baby’s room, he stood frozen for several seconds, then bent down. He put the pillow over the baby’s face, over his whole body really, and began to press down. The crying was muffled but stayed just as fierce as before. Then, gradually, it slowed. It got quieter. Danny pressed harder, then harder still. And soon there was no more crying. Soon the house was quiet.

Danny did not stay in the mudroom long. He went back to the living room and put the pillow back on the couch. Then he ran out the front door, letting the screen door slam against the frame.

He sprinted all the way back to the school, arriving just seconds before the other nine children were about to leave. To the sounds of taunting boys and girls yelling for him to hurry up, he hopped into the station wagon that was waiting to whisk them away.

At seven-thirty that night Danny was laughing and jumping up and down and cheering, just one of fifteen hundred fans lucky enough to be at one of the King’s greatest concerts.

At long last Danny was happy.

And he knew that when she found out, his mother would be happy, too. And she would love him again.

She would love him forever and ever and ever.

* * *

It was three A.M. Almost one full hour since Carl had slid the power button on his computer to the left, had watched the glowing light on the screen fade and the machine go dark.

Wham!

He nodded, pleased. That was a solid left, straight, short, and hard into the meat of his heavy bag. It might not have stopped Holyfield, he told himself, but it would have backed him up. Well, it would have taken the smile off his face, anyway.

He’d been punching away since he’d stopped writing. He didn’t wear gloves. He wanted immediacy of flesh against leather, the strangely pleasurable pain that he knew would soon flow all the way up his arms and to his shoulders. A right hook followed by a left jab, a little dancing, a quick Ali shuffle, then
pop pop
, two quick jabs and a thundering right. His hands were hurting now; he could feel the skin scraped off his knuckles. His chest was starting to burn and his throat was dry. He was exhausted. The book he was writing was starting to drain the very strength right out of him. But he couldn’t quit the workout.