Natchez Burning (30 page)

For six weeks they courted disaster, dancing along a precipice that skirted a bottomless void. Thankfully Viola had no one to answer to, since she lived alone, and Peggy assumed that Tom was simply working harder than usual. During the sleepless nights beside his wife’s softly snoring form, Tom would lie stiff and sweating, his mind under assault by dangerous fantasies. But having tasted Viola, who could say what was sane or mad? After discovering portals to new worlds through an almost miraculously feminine woman, what man would not dream of a future with her? Of running off to a place where skin color meant nothing? Viola swore that no such place existed, not even in Paris. That might be, Tom admitted, but the real obstacle to fulfilling that dream was his children. How many times did he rise from bed and pad into the rooms of his son and daughter? Jenny was sixteen then, Penn only eight. To look down at their innocent faces and imagine leaving was impossible. Yet Tom could not stop his mind from fleeing to that fantasy realm where he would awaken to Viola every day, to her liquid eyes, her effortless smile, and the fluid grace of her body.

That dream ended forty-five days after it began.

Nearly seven weeks after they consummated their desire in the X-ray room, Viola suddenly changed. The previous day, Tom had rendezvoused with her as usual, and her eyes had shone with boundless love. The next morning, when he saw her in the clinic, the light had gone out of her eyes, and impassable walls had been raised around her. When he tried to question her, she only shook her head and hurried on to the next patient. Without saying anything, Viola made it clear that Tom Cage was as irrevocably part of her past as her dead husband. At first he thought she must have received some bad news about her brother. But during a tense coffee break she told him that Jimmy was still hiding in Freewoods, though chafing to return to Natchez and “the struggle.” After two hours of dazed disbelief, Tom finally cornered Viola in an examining room and demanded an explanation for the distance between them.

“You have a family,” she said with lacerating formality. “If we’d kept going, we would have destroyed that. We have no right to do that. You can’t build happiness on someone else’s pain.”

Before Tom could answer, she brushed past him and went back to work. As the day wore on, Tom rehearsed a thousand arguments in his mind, but the more he tried to argue with her premise, the more right he realized she was. He’d been in denial from the beginning, and Viola had simply chosen to force him out of it. There were only two possible endings for their relationship: in Scenario One, Tom would keep his family and Viola would be alone, at least until she found someone new; in Scenario Two … well, Scenario Two was unthinkable. If Tom tried to possess Viola, he would destroy his family, his career, Viola, and possibly even himself.

In truth, both scenarios seemed unendurable. To lose Viola would be agony, yet to give up his family would mean betraying his deepest convictions. Then, like an unexpected blow, the full weight of the first possibility struck Tom: to see Viola in love with someone else … that might well shatter him. After this realization, every moment of that day became a struggle to maintain control of himself. He was trying to figure out some Solomonic solution when Dr. Lucas called him into his office and told him that Viola had asked to be assigned to Dr. Ross, a GP Lucas had hired two months earlier. Ross was only two years out of medical school, and Dr. Lucas told Tom that both Ross and the clinic would benefit from Viola’s experience. Tom sat in shock before his senior partner’s desk, unable to find credible words of protest.

“It’s for the best,” Lucas said in a stern voice. “Viola’s close to a nervous breakdown. And you’re not thinking straight, Tom. If you were, you wouldn’t be putting your family at risk. The clinic, too, to be honest, with the way the goddamn Klan has been going at it these past couple of years.”

“The Klan?” Tom said dully.

“Let’s just leave it at that, all right? Viola will be working under Dr. Ross from now on. You’ll get Anna Mae.”

Tom swallowed hard, trying to find his voice.

“That’s all,” Dr. Lucas said. “Go home and see your kids. I saw Penn’s name in the newspaper yesterday, didn’t I?”

“Penn?”

“Your son, goddamn it! He hit a home run at Duncan Park.
Go home!
”

Somehow Tom rose from the chair and found his way down the hall to his office. He buzzed the receptionist and asked to see Viola, but the receptionist told him all the nurses had gone for the day. He was certain he’d heard a note of triumph in the woman’s voice. He waited until everyone had left the clinic, then called Viola’s house. She didn’t answer.

He found a stack of charts and began dictating, but between each record he dialed Viola’s house. She never answered. As the tension in him grew to an unbearable pitch, he swept the files onto the floor, then ran out to his car and drove to the colored side of town. Whenever he’d gone to Viola’s house before, he’d always been in her car, lying on the floor of her backseat. Now he drove right up to her frame house, his eyes scanning the carport, which was empty. He wanted to park out front and wait for her, but even unhinged as he was, he knew that would be crazy.

That night he lay clenching and unclenching his sweaty fists beside his sleeping wife. In the hour before dawn, he felt closer to madness than he ever had in his life—even in Korea. The seed of that madness was the knowledge not only that he had to give up Viola, but that one day—perhaps not long from now—she would be lying in the arms of another man. Nothing could mitigate the horror of this prospect, or assuage the anger he felt—not even the thought of his wife and children, happy and carefree in a bountiful future. For the price of their happiness was Viola.

But even if he were willing to pay that price, how could he work in proximity to a woman he loved but could no longer touch? How could he treat her as merely an employee? How could she ask that of him? And how could she endure it? Unless … no—she loved him still. Of that he was certain. Viola would keep her job because she needed it to eat. Any merciful separation would have to be provided by him. That meant finding a new clinic. Maybe starting his own practice …

By the next morning, Tom had fallen into a state of near catatonia. He didn’t shower before driving to work, and he moved like an automaton when he got out of the car, not speaking to anyone he passed on the sidewalk. He knew no other way to face the lie he would now be living, one that slowly starved the soul rather than nourishing it, one that snuffed out hope rather than kindling it. What Tom did not know was that behind the door of the clinic that morning waited a future of blood and violence that would surpass even the war—

“Dr. Cage?” called a panicked voice. “Dr. Cage, the door’s locked!”

Tom heard a harsh rapping at his office door. How long had it been going on? “Just a damn minute,” he said under his breath. With a last look at the Polaroid of Viola, he slipped the photo back into
The Killer Angels
and reshelved the book.

“Dr. Cage!” Melba cried, her voice insistent. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine! I’m coming!” He took a deep breath, then opened the door and stepped back so that Melba could enter. “I must have locked it by mistake.”

“Don’t do that!” said the nurse. “I didn’t know what might have happened in here.”

“Melba …” He shook his head and opened his palms. “I’m not going to kill myself or anything.”

“Of course not. I just … your
heart
. Anything could happen, and at any time. That’s what your cardiologist said.”

“I locked it by mistake,” Tom said gently. “But listen … if it’s my time, there’s not much we can do.”

Melba gave him a sisterly glare. “Don’t you say that. Don’t talk like that.”

“All right.”

“Well, then. The reason I needed to talk to you is that someone’s been calling on the phone for you. He’s waiting on the line now.”

Tom looked at the phone on his desk. “I didn’t hear it ring.”

Melba squinted in puzzlement. “You didn’t?”

Over the years, so many thousands of patients had called Tom that he’d developed the ability to tune out the telephone altogether. “Lost in thought, I guess. Who is it?”

“He wouldn’t say. The caller ID said ‘pay phone,’ but all the man will say is that he served in Korea with you.”

Tom felt his heartbeat quicken.

“Thanks, Mel. I’ll take it.”

She hesitated, then went out. As soon as the door closed, he picked up the phone. “Walt?”

“You bet,” said a Texas drawl.

“Don’t say anything until my nurse hangs up.”

They waited for the click of the receiver. Tom had e-mailed Walt Garrity a few hours earlier, instructing the old Texas Ranger to call him at home using a pay phone.

There was a clatter in Tom’s left ear, then Melba said, “Dr. Cage? Have you got it?”

“I’ve got it,” he said, waiting for the click.

It was slow in coming, but at last it did. “Okay, Walt.”

“Jeez, pardner. Could you make it any harder on a fella?”

“What do you mean?”

“You just about can’t
find
a pay phone these days.”

“Sorry.”

The old Ranger chuckled. “I finally found one in the lobby of a hotel. I think mostly hookers and drug dealers use it. Anyway, what’s going on? Not your ticker again, is it?”

“No. This is worse.”

“Shit. Fire away.”

“I’m in trouble, buddy. I need help.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The law.”

Garrity took a moment to process this. “That sounds like your son’s line of country.”

“Normally, it would be. But I have to keep Penn out of this. This is … different.”

“Different how?”

“This is like Korea.”

“Which part?”

Tom hesitated, wishing he didn’t have to raise any ghosts for Garrity. “Like the ambulance.”

“Oh, God. How do you mean?”

“Similar situation.”

This time the silence dragged for a long time. “I think I’ve got you. Tell me what you need.”

“I hate to ask this, Walt. I hate to ask you to leave Carmelita.” Garrity had found his true love late in life, a Mexican woman who put up with nothing but took wonderful care of him. “But I need you to come to Natchez.”

“Keep talking.”

“I may be in custody soon. Probably not tonight, but possibly as early as tomorrow. If that happens, I’m going to need you on the outside, doing what I can’t from jail.”

“I hear you.”

“This could be dangerous. I won’t lie to you.”

“Imagine that,” said the Ranger.

“Before you say yes, I want you to know—”

“I’ll tell you what
I
know, Corpsman Cage. Medics stick together. Right? Whatever you need, you’ve got it. You know that.”

Tom felt an unexpected rush of emotion. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Can you be more specific about your situation?”

“Not on the phone. Let’s just say I’ve got a target painted on my back.”

“Just like that ol’ red cross in the snow, huh?”

“Yep. A lot like that.”

“What goes around comes around, I reckon.”

“Walt—”

“Put a sock in it, Corpsman. Remember what we told the wounded. ‘Lie still. Play dead. Help’s a-comin’.’ I’ll be there tomorrow, if not sooner.”

The connection went dead.

Tom raised his arm and wiped tears from his eyes for the second time that day.

MY KNOWLEDGE OF
FERRIDAY, Louisiana, is so limited that I only recently realized that the town lies within Concordia Parish. I always thought the
Concordia
Beacon
was printed in Vidalia, the little town just across the river from Natchez. I’d never confess this to Henry Sexton, of course. The man has done some amazing journalism from this farming village. I won’t be surprised if Henry brings a Pulitzer back to Ferriday someday, if only he lives long enough to accept it.

Dusk is falling as I roll into the town proper, its main drag a hodgepodge of gas stations, convenience stores, and small repair shops. The newest-looking building in sight is a Kentucky Fried Chicken. For most of my life, I thought of Ferriday only as a town I had to pass through to get to Lake St. John. During the
Urban Cowboy
craze, I’d hear it mentioned as the birthplace of Mickey Gilley, and later as that of Jimmy Swaggart. Both men are cultural footnotes now, and favorite son General Claire Chennault is as unfamiliar to anyone under fifty as the crank telephone. It’s local boy Jerry Lee Lewis—the Killer, by his own proclamation—who wrote his name in the brightest lights on the world’s stage. Jerry Lee may have tarnished his legacy by marrying his thirteen-year-old cousin (something that wouldn’t have shocked the homefolks nearly so much as it did the London reporters who first broke the story), but John Lennon kissed his feet twenty years later, and the Killer is still going strong. My clearest memory of Ferriday is driving over to sit in the decaying old Arcade theater in 1978, because unlike Natchez’s conservative theaters, the Arcade was showing Michael Cimino’s
The Deer Hunter
. To this day, I believe the Arcade owners booked the film because they thought it was a movie about deer hunting, not Vietnam.

The
Concordia
Beacon
is housed in a shockingly small building on the north edge of town. No bigger than a successful dentist’s office, it stands at the border of an empty cotton field that stretches off toward a distant tree line. The sickly sweet smell of some chemical poison rides the chilly breeze as I get out and walk to the glass front door.

I hold my breath until I get inside.

A woman of sixty-five stands behind a high receptionist’s desk, her hair done in a style that would have looked fashionable in the late 1950s. She looks as though she’s gathering up her things to leave. I hear a radio playing in the back, but when the woman calls “Henry?” over her shoulder, the music stops.

“Send him on back!” comes the reply. Then the music starts up again.

The woman laughs and shakes her head. “Same old Henry. I worry about that boy.”