Man in the Blue Moon (4 page)

Lanier smoothed out the wrinkles on his shirt. “I’m figuring it was twenty years ago.” Lanier stopped and looked back up at the cobweb. “Yeah, twenty. I was about ten or some’rs around there. But when I got into . . . well, when trouble started brewing for me, I sent him some letters. We corresponded, you might say.”

“What was he like . . . you know, back then?”

Lanier stopped working on the clothes, shook his head, and laughed again. “Your daddy had just gotten back from riding the horse of a rich man from Atlanta. He’d placed in some big horse race, not the Derby but some big one. All us kids crowded around him, even the grown folks. He was carrying on like some banty rooster.”

“Back before he started . . . well, we used to have horses,” Keaton said. “And cows, too. This one time . . . this one time I was riding out with Daddy, and we were rounding up the cows to worm ’em. Daddy saw this big ole rattler way off in the field. The thing was eight feet long, I’m not joking. Boy, Daddy took off on his horse without even holding on to the reins. He held his gun in one hand and a bullwhip in the other.” Keaton stretched his arms up over his head. “Daddy took that whip and popped that snake’s head right in two.” He snapped his fingers and widened his eyes. “I’d show you the head if we still had it. Samuel kept it in a jar of vinegar underneath the bed until Mama found out and made him throw it away.”

Lanier folded his arms and widened his stance, the same way he might if he’d been talking on a street corner to a grown man. “Harlan was the first person we’d heard tell of who left that mountain and didn’t wind up working in the factories.”

“Did you ride horses too?”

Lanier walked over to the empty stall where he would sleep and shut the gate. “No, I whittle here and there. I make things out of wood. When I heard that your daddy had set up this store down in Florida, I sent him a letter asking him to sell my things—dolls, clocks, cabinets, such as that. He sold a fair amount of my work, and then I got on with the Blue Moon Clock Company.” Lanier’s voice trailed off and then he leaned down so that he was eye level with Keaton. “Hey, why don’t you remind your mama of that . . . you know, of me selling my work in the store.”

Just beyond the barn door, light from a gas lantern hung in the night air and moved closer. The shadow of Narsissa’s tall figure soon stretched out across the barn floor. She never had to tell Keaton to leave. She simply motioned with her chin toward the house, and he obliged.

While the crickets chirped in an uneven rhythm, Narsissa and Lanier stood there staring at one another. There was hardness in Narsissa’s black eyes.

Holding the lantern up to her face, Narsissa casually lifted her other hand. The tip of a jagged hunting knife shimmied against the flame.

Lanier stepped backward and felt the stall boards press into his thigh. The mule kicked the stall. Lanier turned to see if he was being ambushed. When he looked back at the door of the barn, the light from Narsissa’s lantern was gone. He edged closer to the door and heard an owl call out. The moon cast a dim light across the patch of sunflowers and the house, but Narsissa was hidden somewhere in the darkness of the woods that bordered the property.

Lanier unfurled the torn quilt that Ella had given him to use, laid it on the ground, and propped his head against the horse blanket that still smelled of the sweaty mule. He looked out into the dark and could feel Narsissa’s eyes out there, searching him, knowing him. She was the guarding, jealous presence that Lanier would never overpower.

The past caught up with Lanier in his sleep. Kicking the quilt until it balled at his feet, he fought the demons that had driven him to extremes.

No longer picturing Narsissa standing outside the barn ready to slice him with the hunting knife, his mind replayed the events of yesterday.

If only in his dreams, Lanier was once again at the Blue Moon Clock Company with his friend Dave Hinshaw. The first person to befriend Lanier when he stepped off the train in Bainbridge, Georgia, Dave had also been the first to warn him against getting involved with the clock company owner’s daughter, Octavia. “She’s mixed up. Not right in the head,” Dave had said as the wood shavings piled at his feet. Smoothing his hand against the shell of wood that was to become a clock, Dave looked up toward the portrait of the factory’s owner, Reynolds Troxler, a sharp-nosed man who owned a textile mill along with the clock company. The painting hung above a window that had been blacked out. “You poke around a hornet’s nest long enough and you’re apt to get stung.”

A month later Dave declined to meet Lanier and Octavia in the neighboring county at the courthouse. He refused to be a witness to the ceremony that would cause Octavia’s oldest brother, J.D., to knock Lanier from the porch with an iron cattle prod after the happy couple returned home with news of their union. Dave had children to feed, and his wife was pregnant again. He couldn’t risk losing his job. It was the first time Dave refused to help Lanier.

Soon it was Lanier who was moving away from Dave. “If my daughter chooses to marry a jackass,” Mr. Troxler told him as he handed him the key to the office with
Superintendent
on the door, “then it’s my job to turn him into a thoroughbred.” The transformation included a home with a new icebox, weekly trips to the barber shop, private lessons from an old-maid schoolteacher who taught him how to lose the choppy sound of his North Georgia roots and to properly loop his cursive writing, and a brand-new Buick Roadster that took him to dinners in fancy homes. Each morning as Lanier shaved, he would look in the mirror and imagine parts of his old self being scraped away as easy as a snake shedding its skin.

Despite his efforts, none of the Troxlers ever recognized the person he tried to become. Least of all Octavia’s brother J.D. or his wife, Camilla, who refused to give up her seat next to Octavia at the weekly family dinners on Sundays.

“I want a baby,” Octavia said one day in the same tone she used when she placed an order at her favorite store in Atlanta. Lanier had smiled and embraced her. Nine months later he stood at the front of the Presbyterian church holding his son, who was dressed in a lace garment that seemed more fitting for a girl.

By then Lanier had not talked to his family in a year. The last time was during Christmas, when he traveled back into the Appalachian Mountains of North Georgia to prove his worth to his mother. He drove his automobile around the mountain and down into the valley that revenuers could never find. He gave his mother a clock with a gold-encrusted sun on the top. But she seemed more interested in the money tucked inside the red velvet sack that he had also given her. She held the crisp bills up toward the sun as if to see whether they were real. “I won’t ask how you come by this money,” she said. “I learnt long ago not to ask questions I don’t want to hear answers to.” Her stooped shoulders carried her burdens and her new money into the kitchen, where she hovered over the gift like a dog hiding a meal from her pack. Dirt from her fingers soiled the crisp bills as she counted them and then stuffed them inside the waist of her skirt.

No one in the community came out to hear him talk about life in the city. No one wanted to hear about a clockmaker. “What was you expecting?” his mother asked. She sat on the porch, rocking in the chair Lanier had made and smoking one of his cigars. “It ain’t like you been off racing horses like your cousin. You happened to get by on your looks long enough for a rich girl to marry you is all. Anybody can get married, don’t you forget it. No telling what curse will come out of this unequal yoke of yours. The Bible says you ain’t supposed to mix tribes. A poor boy ain’t got no business in a rich tribe. No business a’tall.”

Three years later Octavia was dead, and Lanier was carrying the blame. It was then that Lanier stopped cutting his hair in what he saw as a revolt and a demonstration of some sort of Samson-like strength that he hoped would empower him to stand up against the Troxlers.

After Lanier was vindicated in court, one of the less intelligent Troxler brothers, Cecil, had tackled Lanier in broad daylight in front of the post office a block from the courthouse and slashed off a piece of his ear with a switchblade. Later Lanier stood on the back porch of his old friend’s home with a bandage over his left ear. As Lanier pleaded his case with Dave, he could hear his mother’s words of prophecy playing in his head. Dave whispered in the cold night while a dog barked in the distance. “You gotta get out of here. Those Troxler boys killed a colored man one time in Sasser County just to see if his blood was red.” Smoke bellowed from Dave’s mouth and drifted off with the damp February air. “I’m telling you, you’ve got to run. They’re apt to kill you just as soon as they figure out a way to do it without the law pinning it on them.”

Peering through the slits in the crate Dave had built for a custom-made clock, Lanier watched his friend nail the cover. He felt he was being put into a coffin and fought the urge to slam his forearm against the top of the crate. Every time Dave pounded the lid with the hammer, there was a shock to Lanier’s system. Maybe he would have been better off dead.

Lanier thought he had seen a vision of his son standing behind Dave. The boy was three, the same age he was when he died, and was wearing that christening gown. His brown eyes shone through the slits in the crate like some sort of beacon that led the way. Lanier reached his finger through the slit. Dave’s hammer pounded down on him. Pain ran up to his head and a blaring scream jarred his ears. The scream from all those nights long ago when croup had taken hold of his son and Octavia had run around the house holding the baby by the legs, claiming that the croup would leave his body this way. The scream roared in his ears, snatching him back to reality.

Lanier shot up from the hay. The scream was so shrill and anguished that at first he thought it might be a panther. When he heard footsteps, Lanier ran barefoot out of the barn and into the darkness.

Through the mist Ella came running toward him. Her hair was wild and draped down the side of her face. She was carrying Macon. His lips had lost the shine of the salve and were now blue. “Narsissa,” Ella screamed. “Narsissa . . .”

Samuel and Keaton ran shirtless behind Ella. “Mama, is he dead?” Keaton asked. “Is he dead?”

Ella gave no recognition that she saw Lanier standing there as she ran past. He reached out and brushed the edge of Macon’s hair. The boy’s eyes had rolled back into his head and were fluttering.

Narsissa ran out of her cabin. The strap of a thin shift was dangling from one shoulder. She motioned for Ella to bring the boy inside.

“Mama, is he dead?” Keaton’s words could be heard outside.

Inside, Narsissa reached for a tiny bottle above the stove while Ella, Keaton, and Samuel stood over Macon. The boy lay on the bed, where the sheets were still disheveled from Narsissa’s awakening. No one noticed when Lanier walked in.

“God have mercy,” Ella screamed and shook Macon. The springs on the bed screeched from the weight, but Macon didn’t move.

Narsissa shoved Ella out of the way and stuck the bottle she was carrying under Macon’s nose. He gagged, and for a moment the air of tension evaporated. Then Macon rose up in pain and gurgled, clawing Narsissa’s face so hard that she jerked away.

Lanier moved forward and gripped the boy’s hands. Macon arched his back in terror.

“What are you doing?” Ella shouted.

Lanier never looked at any of them. He kept his eyes closed and his hands gripped on Macon’s wrists. He moved his lips as if reciting a silent chant.

“Let go of him,” Samuel yelled.

Then, as if consuming the boy, Lanier leaned down and put his open mouth onto the sore-riddled mouth of Macon. The boy wrenched a hand free and pulled a clump of hair out of Lanier’s scalp. He gripped the strands in the air like a trophy from battle.

Ella pulled at Lanier. “You’re suffocating him!”

Samuel pounded his fist into Lanier’s back. Lanier flinched but never took his mouth away from Macon’s.

A branch screeched against the window of the cabin. Macon quieted and Ella screamed again. She sank down to the floor, catching a piece of her gown on the ends of the bedsprings.

Lanier rose upright, and Macon inhaled loud enough to make his mother look up. At first his breath was shallow and unsteady. Then his eyes opened.

Moving back, Lanier let the family examine Macon. They brushed the boy’s sweaty hair, rubbed his arms, and kissed his forehead. Only Narsissa remained at the foot of the bed. Her mouth was slightly open, and a trickle of blood marked the spot where Macon had clawed her. She studied Lanier in a way that she hadn’t before. When the bottle of smelling salts fell from her hands and hit the floor, she never flinched or even bothered to pick it up.

Walking back toward the house, Ella carried Macon and covered him in kisses, sores and all. “Are you all right, Macon?” Ella asked. “Thank you, Mr. Stillis. Thank you,” she chirped all the way to the barn.

Lanier never asked Ella to call him by his first name or even acknowledged her gratitude. He simply walked into the barn and lay back down against the horse blanket. He could hear them all outside—Narsissa, Ella, and her boys. Words from the conversation on the front porch drifted down to the stall.

“Beyond belief,” Ella proclaimed.

“Lifesaver,” Keaton repeated.

“Voodoo,” Narsissa speculated.

The speculation continued well into the morning as the sores on Macon’s lips began to close and fade.

Narsissa had been by Macon’s side since daybreak and came to the store to give Ella hourly reports. “It’s not natural,” Narsissa said as she stood at the cash register with her wrist against her hip.

Ella smiled when Mr. Purvis, the beekeeper, entered. She nodded like it was an ordinary day. The man pulled out a notepad, flipped to a page that listed needed items, and then walked to the end of the store, where cans of paint were stacked against the wall.

“That man is a witch doctor. You mark my word,” Narsissa whispered.

“Hush,” Ella said.

The beekeeper rolled his eyes toward Narsissa and then returned his focus to his notepad.

“All I know is that my son had sores in his throat so bad that he was choking to death. That man saved his life. That settles it with me,” Ella whispered.

Watching Narsissa march out of the store, Ella did not feel the tightness of fear that usually accompanied Narsissa’s warnings.

By noon, the only sores that remained on Macon’s face were the ones dotting his upper lip. Ella stood in the doorway of the barn and watched as Lanier used a pitchfork with a missing spike to arrange the scattered hay into piles.

He stopped when he saw her. “I hope you don’t mind. . . . I just . . . I saw that the hay . . .” Lanier wiped flecks of hay on the side of his pants. “Just earning my keep, so to speak.”

“I think you’ve more than done that,” Ella said. “Mr. Stillis . . .”

“Lanier,” he said. “If we’re close enough for me to straighten up your barn for you, then you can surely call me by my first name.”

Ella nervously played with the bow of her store apron. “All morning I’ve been thinking about what happened last night. You don’t know how relieved I am.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Lanier said. “Your other boy . . . Keaton . . . he said Macon was healing.”

“Yes,” Ella said. “He does . . . he does seem . . . Listen, how did you do that last night?”

The mule stopped eating and kicked the stall. Neither Ella nor Lanier took their eyes off the other.

“I don’t like to get into it.” Lanier lifted a bale of hay and placed it in the corner with the others.

“Well, I’m sure you can understand my curiosity. . . .”

“You mean Harlan never talked about it? The healings, I’m talking about.”

“Healings?”

“Back home there were a few who could heal. My grandmother was one. She said if you were a fatherless man, then you’d be more likely to heal certain things.”

Ella folded her arms. “You mean like those men who pass through and put on the tent meetings?”

Lanier stopped moving the hay around and stared at her. “Nothing like that. Some people from the mountains where I come from have the gift for healing. They can heal a person after a bad fire has got on them. They can heal a person when there’s a bad bleed. They can even heal a boy from thrush, I reckon.”

The intensity of his green eyes caused Ella to rub the back of her neck. She hoped he wouldn’t see the flush of embarrassment she could feel on her face. “I’m just not familiar with such. Where I come from . . . well . . . let’s just say that people don’t put their mouths on a boy and make him better.”

Lanier walked toward Ella, and she lifted her shoulder to let him pass. She hated the way she felt vulnerable with this man, whose almond-shaped eyes sparkled with either hope or mischief.

He prodded the hay with the pitchfork.

“Will it come back?”

Lanier stopped and turned to her. The sweat from his work clung to his shirt. “Pardon?”

“The condition. Will it come back when you leave?”

“Uh . . . no. If I did my part, then it will stay away.”

“I don’t know if I feel any more comfortable about what went on last night. But I’m appreciative just the same. At this point, any good fortune is welcome.” Ella balled her fists and forced herself not to look away from Lanier. “I wish I could do more to help you, but with things the way they are right now . . .”

If Lanier heard her, he gave no indication. He just continued to stack the hay and wait for the hour of his departure back to Apalachicola to catch the boat.

Before she had made it to the barn door, he called out. “I am a good man, you know.”